Uninvited

by B. G. Thomas

  “Gay?” I asked, wondering if I could even talk, and yet I did. Full and strong.

  She jumped, her large lime-green hat with its wide black band nearly falling off her head. She stood and was at my side instantly. “Taylor. Thank Jesus.”

  “Gay?”

  “I can’t believe it. It… it’s a miracle.”

  I looked up into her big brown eyes, saw the wonder there. And the love. Saw her love of me and immense, immense relief.

  “Gay? What happened?”

  She shook her head, mumbled something under her breath, and reached out and touched my cheek. “A miracle.”

  “Miracle?” I closed my eyes. Miracle?

  When I opened them, Gay was gone, but Myles was there. He had pulled a chair up to the bed, and his head was resting on my pillow, and he was snoring softly, and I saw that one of his arms had a bandage from his right hand all the way to his elbow… but wait…. That was it? Nothing else?

  How could that be?

  “Myles?” I said quietly, remembering the way Gay had jumped, how I had startled her out of her sleep.

  He shifted, and I said his name again, and then he was sitting upright, and there it was.

  That look.

  Just like the one on Gay’s face.

  Wonder.

  “What? What is it?” I asked.

  “Oh, Taylor…,” he whispered. “You still don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  OVER THAT day and the next, the story came out.

  First from Myles.

  Then the articles in the paper. The Chronicle, of course. Eye-witness accounts that the paper gave no credence to because it all sounded crazy.

  From what I heard, from Myles, from the stories, from the whispers, this is what happened….

  One minute, I was me—who else could I be? I remembered. Remembered the roaring of the fire and the smoke filling my lungs, and Myles trying to pull me to the floor so that I could… what? Survive five more minutes and then burn alive? And then the hair on my arms had curled up and burned away, and I felt, I felt, my eyes heating up, boiling….

  I was dying.

  But then I wasn’t.

  I went away—to someplace cool and dark, and yet, so peaceful. I felt arms wrap ’round me and great golden eyes smiling down at me.

  I went to sleep. Went into the rocking arms of a woman with skin like obsidian and eyes like polished tiger’s eye.

  And my body?

  WHY, THE Lwa took it.

  It is impossible. I can hardly believe it. But what else could have happened? Could there be anything less crazy than what those people saw?

  A full twenty people told the story.

  One minute, I was burning. My clothes, my skin, my hair, all ablaze. I was on fire.

  And then, I wasn’t.

  “Like the burning bush,” one of the Reverend Doctor’s followers said. “He was on fire, but he did not burn!”

  I rose up, the accounts read, naked and….

  “He was glorious!” said another follower.

  “Glorious,” Myles agreed.

  …on fire, and yet I did not burn.

  “He had a heart painted on his face,” said someone else.

  “A heart?” I asked Myles.

  “A heart,” he said. “On your face. A big red heart. And there were crows. First one and then another….”

  “Hundreds,” said one witness.

  “Thousands,” said another.

  “He was on fire!”

  “And then the fire, it turned purple.”

  “Blue,” said someone else, but most agree it was purple.

  “Purple,” Myles said.

  “I’ll say this only one time,” Daphne Brookhart told me, standing by the window of my hospital room and looking out at a clear blue sky. There was only one cloud—like a stretched-out cotton ball. A plane contrail crossed the window’s field of view from one side to the other. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. I had never seen Brookhart out of uniform. “I’ll say this once and never again.”

  “Say what?”

  “You came out of that store, and you was—were—on fire. You. Were. On. Fire. Your hair was on fire and your eyes—fuck me, Taylor—they were gone! But you… you weren’t on fire!”

  “Like the burning bush,” one of the Reverend Doctor’s followers said. “He was on fire, but he did not burn!”

  “It was like you were wearing it!” She wasn’t looking at me. I could only see part of her face, not in profile, but not turned away either. “You was—were—naked as the day you were born, my friend, and the only thing you were wearing was fire. Like it was some big old Bob Mackie costume.”

  “Bob Mackie?” I said and then laughed. I didn’t like the sound of my laugh. It sounded crazy.

  She shot a glance over her shoulder. “You think I don’t fucking know who Cher is?” she snapped. “I may not be a gay boy, but I do like women, remember.”

  It was the first time she’d said it that way.

  Brookhart—Daphne—looked back out the window.

  “Then the fire turned blue, and then it turned purple…. And you opened your mouth and your teeth… they was—were­—they were like shark’s teeth. They were huge and they were razor sharp. You laughed.” She shuddered. “Fuck me, Taylor, I don’t ever want to hear a laugh like that again.”

  “Daph?”

  She didn’t seem to notice the name I had used but went on. She had just pulled up, she told me. She and Townsend, and that was when I came out of the remains of Lucky Charms.

  “One second the building was on fire, and the next… it was following you, Taylor! It was… wrapping around you, and it was so bright I couldn’t stand to look at you! I knew you was dead. And that’s when I saw you was wearing it. And it turned purple. You laughed!”

  She shuddered again.

  “That Reverend was there. The fucker was standing there with his mouth hanging open and a Molotov cocktail burning in his hand. I remember his coat catching on fire, and I knew I should do something, but I… I was frozen. I couldn’t move!

  “You were laughing, and it was like… I don’t know. Like crashing cymbals and breaking glass and this… this huge… roar! You… you started… floating up off the ground!”

  I lay there in that bed, listening to all of this. She might as well have been telling me the story of a war, or a school shooting, or who knows what? She was talking crazy. It was crazy. It was impossible.

  But as she spoke, these images flashed through my mind, and it was as if I could see it.

  She started talking again. “And then, Taylor…. You said the preacher’s name. his full name, you said,‘Reverend Doctor Royle Van Young! You liar. You hypocrite. You killer. You murderer. You took out their hearts and you wasted them. You cast them aside. You didn’t even eat them!’ And then…. Taylor… you flew back! Your body hit the ground. But that… that thing. The thing with the teeth? It was still there. It was like it threw you off like an old coat. It rose higher off the ground… oh, fuck me!”

  Brookhart spun around, her eyes wide and crazy, and there were tears running down her face. “It laughed. It laughed! And then it had the pastor, the reverend—whatever the fuck he is—was—and they—that thing…. God…. It… It dug its face right into that man’s chest… and then it pulled back and there was blood. I’ve never seen so much blood! Never.”

  Brookhart staggered to a chair and fell into it. She dropped her face into her palms, and I lay there forever, trying to believe and believing at that same time, and waiting forever for her to finish.

  Brookhart cried. She cried in huge, gulping breaths, and when she finally calmed down… she finished her story without looking up. She said: “There was his heart. It was in the thing’s mouth. It was still beating…and then it was gone. Just… gone.

  “Vanished.

  “And Van Young…. He fell forward like an old doll. And he was dead.”

  THEY KEPT me at the hospital for three days.
They would have kept me longer. They were trying to understand, but hey. Insurance. The insurance people wanted me gone.

  The hospital administration wanted me gone.

  Because everything that happened was impossible, of course.

  GAY KEPT me company. I actually saw her in sweats one day. Sweats! I didn’t know she owned sweats. Of course they were bright pink and had rhinestones all over them. But sweats!

  She would come to my place in the evenings and make martinis, and sometimes I would just take the Tanqueray bottle and upend it in my mouth.

  She let me.

  Myles would call, but I didn’t answer the phone. I didn’t return his calls. I didn’t answer the buzzer when someone called me from the lobby, and I didn’t answer the door when someone knocked.

  Not for two weeks.

  But then she came calling.

  SHE CAME in my dreams, of course.

  Black skin like polished obsidian.

  Great, glowing eyes.

  “He is yours and you are his,” she would tell me.

  Night after night.

  “I don’t want this!” I told her. “I don’t want it!”

  “Too late,” she whispered. “You are mine.”

  Finally, I gave up.

  I called him.

  “Myles,” I said when he answered the phone.

  “Taylor. Oh my God!”

  “I want to try that coffee. The kind from New Orleans?”

  “From Café Du Monde?”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “It’s the best,” he said. “With chicory. And lots of sugar and lots of real cream….”

  “And not that powered nondairy stuff either.”

  “No,” he replied quietly. “Thick and rich. I can be there in an hour.”

  “Okay.”

  I hung up the phone and waited.

  Rest, my child, she said in a voice like music, like gentle falling rain.

  When Myles knocked on the door I called out, told him to let himself in. I’d already unlocked it and now wanted only to lie back on the couch.

  Rest, my Taylor, my son. I will watch over you.

  He came to me and went to his knees and suddenly, looking into his dark eyes, after days of ignoring him, I wanted nothing more than to hold him, and I pulled him into my arms with a strength I didn’t know I had. I kissed him.

  Oh, what a kiss. Those lips on mine. Gentle. Then I demanded more. And I was all but dizzy. I wanted nothing but to take him to my bed.

  “I’ll take care of you,” he whispered. “I love you so much.”

  You are mine now. I will take care of you. All is well.

  But what about Myles? I asked her.

  She answered immediately. He is yours and you are his. You are both mine. And now we are family. Let the Lwa take witness.

  So the coffee had to wait. We went to bed and we made love with a fierceness, a passion, I’d never known before in my life.

  After, I repeated her words. “She says she’s claimed me, and that we both belong to her. That you and I belong to each other. And that we’re family now.”

  It took him only a minute to figure it out.

  His eyes went wide. “Ezili Danto?”

  I nodded.

  Then his eyes filled with tears and he pulled me back into his arms.

  And then?

  Then I waited.

  I waited for my life to begin.

  More from B.G. Thomas

  A Small-Town Dreams Story

  Prince Charming is the man next door.

  Small-town business owner Jason Brewster has big dreams: world travel, adventure, and most of all, a passionate romance worthy of a fairy tale. But he doesn’t believe fantasies can come true….

  Until Adam moves in next door.

  He’s handsome, cultured, European, and best of all, interested in Jason. It’s like something out of the stories Jason loves.

  But Adam—whose real name is Amadeo Montefalcone—has a secret. He’s royalty, prince of the small country of Monterosia. Only he doesn’t want to rule, and especially doesn’t want the loveless marriage waiting for him at home. So he ran away in search of true love. With a man. And with Jason, he finds it.

  But Adam can’t run forever. The truth will come out. If Jason can forgive Adam’s deception, they might find their happily ever after.

  Frank Sinclair believes only in the visceral, the real, what he can touch and taste. After all, his mother left him when he was five years old, so how can love exist? His next sexual conquest is what makes his world go around, not romance and happily ever after. The hot guy he sees working along the highway in an orange jumpsuit fuels his bad-boy fantasies. Coincidentally, the guy shows up at the gas station across the street from his apartment building, and you can bet he’s going to take his shot.

  Roy Ingalls is his bad-boy parolee in orange, and he’s ready and oh-so-willing to be Frank’s next conquest. But Roy isn’t quite the bad boy he seems—deep down he’s sweet, naïve… and the most intoxicating man Frank has ever met.

  The sex is the best of their lives, but can a man who mistrusts love and another who isn’t ready to admit he’s actually gay ever move beyond friends with benefits?

  Ned Balding used to be a decent man—until the stress of seemingly countless responsibilities changes him, and he becomes cold and driven—the kind of man who considers firing an employee days before Christmas. The kind of man who kicks a dog…. But Ned’s transgressions haven’t gone unseen. A Salvation Army Santa witnesses his misdeeds and decides Ned needs to be taught a lesson.

  When Ned wakes up the next morning, he’s stunned to discover he’s been transformed into a dog.

  In the past year, Jake Carrara has lost his mother, a lover… even his dog. His boss came close to firing him just before the holidays. He isn’t sure he’s ready for another pet when he’s asked to foster a dog, but Jake’s good heart won’t let him refuse. Little does he know, this isn’t just any dog.

  Through a twist of fate, two people with little reason to be friends might teach each other to rediscover the good—and the love—in life.

  Getting His Man

  A love story worthy of an old movie… with a new twist.

  Artie needs a hero, a man like those he’s always revered in Golden Age films. His drug-dealing jerk of a roommate got him arrested, and since his savior isn’t likely to sweep in and save the day, Artie calls a bail bondsman.

  August has always imagined himself a hero from a black-and-white movie, but he’s never found a man willing to let him play that role—at least not until he gets the call from Artie.

  Both of their dreams might come true, but not before August must use his skills as a bounty hunter as well as a bondsman. Artie is on the run for his life, and August must protect him and help him clear his name. Only then can they both finally get their man.

  Blue McCoy has lived on the streets for a long time, surviving by his wits and doing what he must, and he’s not above using his youthful appearance and air of innocence to his advantage. It’s not an easy life, but he’s happy. He has everything he really needs: the clothes on his back, a house to squat in, a sweet dog. Everything except that special someone to love him.

  Six months ago, John Williams’s wife left him because she was bored. “Even your name is boring” were her last words to him before she walked out. Now he’s by himself in a big house, trying to figure out what direction his life should take. He’s never been so alone.

  A chance encounter sets John on a new path, a path that becomes clearer when loneliness sends him to a local animal shelter to get a dog—and he finds an angel instead. An angel named Blue. A crisis brings them together, but it is something else that keeps them there. Could it be love? A love that can forever end two men’s deep loneliness and bring them the support and sense of belonging they’ve searched for all their lives?

  B.G. THOMAS lives in Kansas City with his two husbands—which yes, is different, but amazingly
rewarding and wonderfully romantic. They have two sweet rescue dogs named Oliver (who the breed name Dorkie applies perfectly) and Frodo (who is just learning to be a dog). He is missing his soul dog Sarah Jane very much, but she will live on forever in several of his books and in his heart. He is also blessed to have a lovely daughter and they love to hang out.

  B.G. loves to read romance, comedy, fantasy, thrillers, mystery, science fiction, and even horror—as far as he is concerned, as long as the stories are character driven and entertaining, it doesn’t matter the genre. He has gone to literature conventions his entire adult life, where he’s been lucky enough to meet many of his favorite writers. He has made up stories since he was a child; it’s where he finds his joy.

  In the nineties, he wrote for gay adult magazines but stopped because the editors wanted all sex without plot, and edited his setups right out. “The sex is never as important as the characters,” he says. “Who cares what they are doing if we don’t care about them?” Excited about the growing male/male romance market—where setup and cute meets is where it’s at—he began writing again. He submitted a novella and was thrilled when it was accepted in four days. Since then the romantic tales have poured out of him. “It’s like I’m somehow making up for a lifetime’s worth of story-telling!”

  “Leap, and the net will appear” is his personal philosophy and his message. “It is never too late,” he testifies. “Pursue your dreams. They will come true!”

  You can read about whatever he’s working on right now or whatever he’s rambling on about at his website/blog at: bthomaswriter.wordpress.com

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/bgthomaswriter

  Twitter: twitter.com/BGThomasBooks

  He is always happy to hear from his readers!

  By B.G. Thomas

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