Celadon

Celadon by KIL Kenny

Torquere Press www.torquerepress.com

Copyright ©2011 by KIL Kenny First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2011 NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others. This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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Celadon by KIL Kenny

CONTENTS Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter

One Two Three Four Five Six Seven ****

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Celadon by K.I.L. Kenny

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Chapter One "Freddie," he growled, and the eleven-year old stopped mid-whoop to turn innocent blue eyes on him. "Yes, Uncle Bryan?" "It's a pottery studio, Fred. Stuff breaks. Take it down about ten notches or we're going back to the car right now." "But, Unk! It's my badge." Ben, Fred's partner in crime, made a sympathetic face. After that, however, the boys stuck to the sidewalk, mostly, and refrained from overt mayhem. Bryan herded from behind and reflected that Boy Scout uniforms carried the same implicit warning that choir robes did: Demon Within. He realized he was being the grumpy bachelor uncle and muttered. Their destination was a gray clapboard building. It was too dark to see much more than the window frames, golden-lit from inside, but the building was familiar, situated on the pedestrian mall downtown. Approached from the front, where the main foot traffic passed, it had large display windows and a bright red door. From the broad alley at the back, though, the windows were small and high, alternating with ventilation fans, and the door was as gray as the rest of the place. Bryan noted that no light shone around its edges—it might look worn, yet it fit perfectly in its frame. The boys flung the door open and ran in unceremoniously. Bryan was about to rebuke them again when his eye was caught by a spot-lit tile mounted above the doorbell. 5

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"Nilsson," it read simply. "Studio hours: 9 a.m.—1 p.m. Monday through Friday and by appointment." Fired in clay. Affixed to the clapboards with four sturdy fasteners. No ticky-tack plastic sign. No changeable sign. There was... something about the silent assurance of that tile. He stared at it for another moment. A silhouette stepped into the doorway. "Gentlemen, it's September out there. You—" There was a pause as the head turned and whoever it was took in Bryan's presence. "Ah, I see I'm scolding the wrong party. Are you coming in?" "That's the plan," Bryan replied. "Please," said the silhouette, and stepped aside. Bryan crossed the threshold and stopped again. The man holding the door looked at him calmly, as if scrutiny was familiar. Bryan knew this was Nilsson; the potter showed up in the newspaper and on local television often enough for the face to be generally familiar. Still, familiarity wasn't enough to prepare Bryan for the tiny shudder of awareness that Nilsson's presence evoked. Angular, with straight, shaggy, dark hair and an arrogantly long nose, Nilsson had a Scandinavian look that would catch the eye anywhere. Here in the studio, wrapped in a canvas apron that emphasized the muscle in his narrow shoulders and the corded strength of his forearms, there was an irresistibly sexy pull that no camera had captured. The apron's long lines made it paradoxically easier to envision the body underneath. The plane of the chest, the inward slope from ribs to hips, the— 6

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The very amused crinkle at the corners of those graygreen eyes. Bryan checked; no, his own mouth wasn't actually hanging open. It might as well have been. He tried to control the heat he could feel rising in his cheeks. He couldn't have been more obvious if he'd pulled the fire alarm. The question was, had he seen a flicker of returned interest in those eyes? He thought that maybe he had. All Nilsson said was, "Welcome. You brought Fred and Ben?" "Yes. Bryan Fletcher. I'm Fred's uncle and the designated den mother for this bunch tonight." Bryan held out his hand, which was thankfully both dry and steady. Their handshake was businesslike, and then Nilsson was wading into the group of six boys, restoring order with a few brisk words. Bryan was left to settle his buzzing nerves as best he could. A damp-earth smell pervaded the room, and something like the sharp chemical odor of paint. It made Bryan more restless, hankering for fresh air. Eavesdropping on the class did nothing to calm his mind; the instructions Nilsson was issuing were too unintelligible to hold his attention. He strolled instead, looking. The studio was orderly but crowded, and all the nameless objects seemed to be some shade of dun or rust. The front wall framed a couple of large glass panes that revealed a showroom beyond. Nilsson appeared to use these interior windows both to give shop customers a glimpse of "the artist at work" and to display some larger pieces that would have taken up too much of the small retail area—a pair of decorative vases, five feet tall; a complete dinnerware set for 7

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eight. It was handsome stuff, angular and strong like the artist himself. Tucked against the front wall, too, where shoppers couldn't see it, the no-nonsense work space did concede a dilapidated couch. The slipcover might once have been beige-ish, but it was mottled now, permeated with clay dust. That was okay; his khakis were old. Bryan sat, trying not to hunch too conspicuously into his denim jacket. An edge of chill was on the room. He took out his phone to see if Hank had texted him. The deal had closed, and Ivanex Inc. was in the hands of a conglomerate now. Hank was more than an ex-business partner, though, and the silence over the past several days troubled Bryan. It was getting on for three weeks, in fact. A sudden clank off to the side made Bryan twist, involuntarily clutching the phone shut in one hand. "Sorry," Nilsson said. "The plug hit the casing." He bent to push the offending plug into a socket, then paid out some cord until he could set the small space heater not far from Bryan's feet. "We can't keep it too warm back here. Cool is better for the clay, but it can be tough on visitors." Bryan hoped the flush he could feel returning to his cheeks wasn't too visible. "No problem. Please, don't worry about it." "We'll be taking last week's bisque ware out of the kiln in a few minutes. The chaperones generally come along to the kiln shed, if you..." "Oh, yeah, definitely." "I'll give you a heads up when we're ready." 8

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Bryan nodded dumbly, a gesture Nilsson did not wait to see. Sadly, the apron wasn't as flattering for the rear view as it was for the front, obscuring the relevant details, but Bryan watched Nilsson walk away anyhow. The potter slowly made the rounds of each boy's work area, examining, murmuring comments, sometimes taking a tool and demonstrating. Then he clapped his hands. "Brushes in the bucket! Work on the tray! Let's go!" The clatter and clamor rose momentarily as the boys applied last splatters of whatever to their whosamajigs, but in seconds the worktable was clear and Nilsson was signaling to Bryan. They passed through a plain steel doorway at the far end of the studio, which, unlike the rest of the building, had a cement wall. Bryan remembered what this part of the structure looked like from the outside. The steel door led to a rather ugly little addition made out of cinderblocks and a corrugated metal roof. The corrugated metal, as it turned out, was not even sealed down to the cinderblocks. The whole thing was really just a well-ventilated enclosure for three strange, huddled shapes. One was hulking and shadowed even in the glare from the single light fixture. Two others were neat metal beehives set on concrete pedestals. The boys were clustering as best they could around one of those. "Okay!" Nilsson said. "The kiln has been cooling for twenty-four hours. How do we check to see if it's safe to open?" "Gloves first!" the boys chorused. 9

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"That's right. You put on your kiln gloves first." Nilsson pulled a bright blue glove over each hand. "Next?" "Put your hand on top," Ben said. "Be gentle." "Good. A light touch with your gloved hand, making sure your shirtsleeves are rolled up and away from the hot part. Okay. Then..." Bryan listened with half an ear, edging around to inspect the monstrosity in the far corner. It squatted in unlovely intricacies of brick and pipe, with a disproportionate chimney sprouting nearly to the ceiling. Most of the concrete floor in the enclosure was neatly swept, but here, in the crevices among the bricks, he could see crumbs of ruined pottery and a couple blackened areas, as if fire had made a jailbreak. There were several openings visible amid the brick, but the light did not reach the interior. He crouched to peer into what looked like the main hatch. Behind him, he heard the Scout-stampede exit, and all of a sudden Bryan felt exposed. He knew why without turning around, could feel it in the way the air flowed differently around him, as if partially blocked. In fact, he was certain that if he dared to reach back, he would grab a fistful of apron. Nilsson didn't wait for that. The big, pale hands settled on either side of Bryan's waist, helping him stand, continuing to hold on after. "It's an updraft kiln that uses natural gas," Nilsson said. "I built it with a friend of mine. It works better than it looks. But I use the electric kilns with beginner classes; they're easier." 10

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"Jesus," Bryan said, as Nilsson's hands left his waist and slid into the deep front pockets of his khakis. "Don't, I'm already..." Nilsson's fingers extended within the thin fabric to slide down either side of Bryan's swelling shaft. "Yeah, you are." A fleeting touch of wet, sucking heat marked the back of Bryan's neck, and then everything was withdrawn. He heard footsteps moving away. "Come in when you're ready." He put both hands on the bricks to steady himself. Damn. But he smiled, too. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Two "I told you, Pam, he said between seven and eight." "But Jennie Tibbs picked up Zach's project at six!" Which might mean Nilsson would be alone in the studio. Bryan's jeans gave a happy twitch, but he suppressed the hope. "I can't help that. Nilsson said after seven to me. I'm going over there now, and then I'm going down to O'Halloran's for a little while, and then I'll be home. If I come home without Freddie's thingamabob, I'll let you work me over without a fight. Okay?" "Aw." She gave him a quick peck. "I know I'm a nag. It's just that Freddie will be so disappointed if he has to wait longer than everyone else." "I'll make it up to him. If I'm wrong." He pecked back and picked up his car keys. She eyed them. "I don't want you driving if you have more than one pint at O'Halloran's." "Scout's honor—Mom." This time she swatted him. "Get out." He grinned and bowed his way out the door. His sister was putting up with him amazingly well. After the two years he'd spent in Australia, he'd returned to her home, wanting to immerse himself in family again, become a real person to his nephew and niece, go fishing with Keith and antiquing with Pam, and just generally reclaim his place among the people who loved him. If he'd known it would take so long to make and close on the right deal for Ivanex, he'd have left it all to 12

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Hank. Damn Hank, anyway, for basing the company in Australia in the first place. There still had been no text messages. He'd sent six himself; he wasn't going to send any more without some kind of answer from Hank. It was a three-block walk from the nearest parking lot to Nilsson's studio. Bryan forced himself to keep a normal pace, wanting to get there, afraid that he was reading too much into things. Okay, the hands in his pockets, those were... well. Wondering what Nilsson might want, and feeling stupid at the realization that he couldn't remember the last time he'd been sober for a first encounter. Work all morning, surf all afternoon, go to happy hour, and sort of wind up in someone's bed somewhere; that's how things went. In Australia, anyway. Not in Ohio. He couldn't see light in the studio at first. Pam is going to kill me. Then he saw a tiny glow, nearly drowned by the street lights. It could have been the security lighting, but hope twitched in his jeans again. He knocked on the door, then turned the knob and discovered he could walk right in. Nilsson was seated at a computer that Bryan hadn't noticed on the last visit, even though it was near the old couch. Light poured over the desktop from a single halogen lamp, but the rest of the room was dim. Nilsson's back was to the light; it was impossible to make out his features as he stood up. "Bryan," he said. "You've come for Fred's piece?" "Uh..." Well, shoot, it was Bryan's turn to show his hand. "I'll be happy to take it when I go, but it's not why I came." 13

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That chuckle did sound promising. Nilsson walked right past him to the door, turning a deadbolt and putting up a chain. Without further ado, he pressed Bryan's shoulders to the wall and kissed him with a kind of hard focus that left them both gasping. "That's why," Nilsson said, pulling back a fraction. Bryan, dizzy, shut his eyes. "Yes." A growl answered him, and Nilsson took his mouth again. It was good. That tongue was plunging deep, and he opened to it without hesitation. Nilsson's pelvis rubbed up against his in rhythmic thrusts, catching on the hard bulge distending his jeans. He was hot, his bones going molten, and oh, God, he hadn't done this for weeks. If he clutched those muscled shoulders a little tighter and canted his hips just like that, he was going to— "Stop," he gasped, turning his head away from those dizzying lips. Nilsson was breathing unevenly, the bulge at his own groin every bit as hard. Nevertheless, he stopped rubbing, stopped kissing. Dropping his forehead against Bryan's shoulder, he panted. Bryan let himself tease the short, damp hairs on Nilsson's neck until a muffled groan emerged. "Sorry," he murmured. "I don't want to come in my jeans." "What are you doing thinking rationally at a time like this?" Nilsson straightened up. "Come on." Eyes somewhat adjusted now, Bryan saw that the computer was set up on a cleverly recessed shelf. He hadn't noticed it before because the work station was built as a 14

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cabinet—push in the chair, swing the doors shut, and it became one of umpteen other anonymous storage units that lined the studio. Nilsson did exactly that, leaving them only the murk of the security lighting. Bryan tamped down a pang; another time, knock wood, he would be able to linger over the sight of that pale skin, the gleams and shadows of that mussed hair. Nilsson began to strip efficiently, which Bryan enjoyed until Nilsson said, "You're going to come in your jeans anyway if you don't get moving." Then Bryan got busy, sneaking glances between fumbles with the buttons. Naked, he bent to retrieve a strip of condoms from his jacket pocket and was frozen in place by a hand on his lower back. "Top or bottom?" Nilsson asked, beginning to massage in slow circles. "T-top. Usually," Bryan stuttered. Here, now, anything was negotiable. Nilsson's aggressive confidence was lighting a fast-burning fuse in Bryan's spine; his knees were already threatening to give out. "Good," Nilsson purred, hands sliding around Bryan's hips to the achingly hard cock in front. "I can just about handle this, I think." The sensation of calloused palms running the length of his shaft brought Bryan bolt upright. Nilsson chuckled and pushed him toward the couch. He fell onto a sagging cushion. The gritty fabric of the slipcover was cold against his back; he focused on that, taking a deep breath. On the exhale, he caught Nilsson's quizzical look. "Problem?" 15

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"Depends." Bryan smiled ruefully. "On a scale of one to ten, we got lust at ten, which is great, but then we got stamina at one." "No problem, then. Unless you object to repeating yourself?" Nilsson sank between Bryan's outstretched thighs, rolling a condom over the twitching cock and following the latex down with warm, tight lips. All the way down. Bryan's groan was like a cork being slowly drawn from a bottle of old, old wine. It rose from deep inside, stretched for what seemed like forever, and ended with a jerk, sudden release making his rigid muscles snap. He clutched the slipcover in both hands, shuddering with every languorous swipe of Nilsson's tongue. Spasms from the aftershocks rippled convulsively across his belly. He let his head fall back, concentrating on the fluttering bursts of late pleasure. Nilsson slipped the condom off. A scuffling noise came from off to the left, and then a tepid wetness landed on Bryan's lap. With a startled "Ah!" he sat up. Nilsson was wiping him down with water from a small plastic bucket. The cloth looked like a tea towel that had seen better days. "Wet towels are part of the stock in trade," the potter said. "Scouts' motto: Be prepared," Bryan murmured. "Thank you. Sorry, but thank you. That was..." "That was probably too damn fast to be worthwhile," came the tart response. "Wait on the review until we've broken a sweat." Bryan drew back, ready to feel offended. Oblivious, Nilsson was taking another raggedy bit of clean towel and simultaneously drying and teasing him with it. The towel 16

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flicked out, Bryan's cock twitched back, and Nilsson looked up with a hint of a grin. "I think the repeat is on." There was no way to be offended by that. Bryan leaned forward instead, framing the angular jaw with his hands and kissing Nilsson slow and deep. Nilsson maneuvered without breaking the contact, guiding them around to lie full length on the couch. It felt good to have the long, narrow body on his in the chilly studio. It felt even better to have an intriguing guy devouring him like a gourmand at a three-star banquet. He let his hands wander, a little stealthy, a little greedy. Nilsson hadn't given him much chance to explore. He loved to seek out sensitive places—the dimple above the buttocks' crease, the struts of tendon anchoring thigh to torso. He sought the tender flesh between, hidden and warm. Fine hairs stroked his fingers as he touched. Groaning, Nilsson broke the kiss. "Good hands. Right... yeah. Oh, God, yeah." Palming each muscled cheek, Bryan did a slow, deep knead, focusing the pressure toward the hot little aperture. Sweat-beaded, face softened by desire, Nilsson writhed above him like an incubus. The vision went straight to Bryan's cock, which began a slow rise to seek Nilsson's own heavy erection. "That's it," Nilsson whispered, dipping his hips to brush the silken columns together. When he pulled away, a slender, opalescent strand, barely visible in the muted light, kept them connected. Bryan took in a breath, watching the liquid filament spin out between their bodies. Then Nilsson abruptly sat back, patting one hand along the top of the sofa until he came up with a small tube and some 17

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more foil packets. The strand of moisture dropped unacknowledged along Bryan's thigh. "What was it you said?" Nilsson murmured. "'Be prepared'?" "Mmm." Still dazed, Bryan reached out for a condom. "Oh, no. You're in recovery. I'll do the honors." "Bring me a diamond that needs cutting and I'll show you how much I've recovered." "Talk," Nilsson scoffed. A rough fingertip painted Bryan's own fluid over the flaring head, coaxing out more beads to coat the underside of the ridge. Then Nilsson smoothed a rubber down. He didn't take his eyes off the task, but his hint of a smile returned as Bryan shuddered and sighed through it. Nilsson dolloped his fingers with lube and knelt up, giving himself room to work. The smile disappeared as one finger, then two, swiftly pressed into his body. He stared into Bryan's eyes, doing nothing to disguise the growing harshness of his breathing or the steady drip of moisture from his prick. It bobbed between them as Nilsson swayed, the scent and wet invitation of it nearly driving Bryan mad. A stroke of lube over the condom, and Nilsson was moving his hips into position. "Did you... Was that enough?" Bryan stumbled, embarrassed that Nilsson might think he was boasting. "I like to feel it." Nilsson pushed his erection against Bryan's belly, slicking it in the droplets that had pooled there. "Believe me, I'm ready." Bryan didn't whimper. Grown men didn't whimper. Whatever the noise he was making was called, as soon as he made it, Nilsson's tongue darted out to wet deeply red lips. 18

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The breath caught in Bryan's throat. Gripping his cock in one hand and Nilsson's hip in the other, he thrust with blind urgency, wanting to plunge into whatever flame was making those lips burn. Nilsson was holding himself open to capture the wild motion. His guttural cry shivered between them as Bryan breached him, then drove deeper. The twist between his dark brows spoke of pain, but the answering thrust of his hips sent a different message. The lumpy cushions and dead springs in the couch immediately became frustrating. It wasn't enough to be encased in heat, to feel Nilsson squeezing, withdrawing, sliding home again. The urge to move was curling in Bryan like a long spring compressed too tightly. He needed leverage. He grabbed the couch and hauled himself up to a sitting position, his other arm going out to support Nilsson, who nearly toppled. "Sonuvabitch, you asshole—give a guy some warning!" They were chest to chest, sweat-slippery and clinging for mutual balance. The salt taste where Bryan nuzzled Nilsson's shoulder was paradoxically sweet. Oh, he had missed this, missed the rough caress of hair against his nipples and the bump and shift of balls sliding over his groin. He wanted to roll them over, bring their bodies together in new ways, rub and suck and cuddle. Not on a couch. "On your back, yeah?" he said instead. 19

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Nilsson stared at him, panting. Then, after a long moment, "Okay, yeah. Let me get my legs around." A complicated bit of wiggling followed, because Bryan was not about to let their bodies separate. The uncooperative cushions demanded rearrangement as well. At last, Nilsson lay spread, one ankle hooked over the back of the couch, one over Bryan's shoulder. And Bryan could move. It gave him Nilsson's body in a wholly new way—new angles, new pressure, new groans from beneath him. Legs braced, Nilsson could find leverage where Bryan had not, and pushed the pace faster. One clay-stained hand was wrapped around Nilsson's shaft, moving in time with Bryan's thrusts. Bryan longed to slow things down, to take the thick cock in his own grasp, but he needed both hands for balance, and the undulating caress of Nilsson's muscles around his prick left him no time, no time at all. His hips pistoned forward, driven on by the beautiful, deep groans beneath him. Then the ecstasy shot up his spine. The second convulsion wrung Bryan out. Muscles trembling, he sank onto Nilsson, whose slick legs were now gliding limply down along Bryan's. He could feel warm, wet spots where their bellies pressed together. Thank God. It wasn't like Bryan to be so caught up that his partner had to take care of himself, but at least Nilsson hadn't been left in the lurch. It still kind of felt like that, though. Maybe because, after a couple breaths, Nilsson kissed him lingeringly, like a man reluctant to let go, but then quickly slid free. The chilled air pounced on Bryan's bare skin. Nilsson took the condom, too, 20

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and tossed it into a small plastic trash can. All that was left of the moment were the scents of musk and sweat, rapidly dissipating along with their body heat. "Ah. Damn, what a workout. Thank you." The long body stooped over him, and Bryan felt the brush of lips against his damp scalp. Nilsson pulled on some clothes, then opened the computer cabinet again and produced a folded afghan, spreading it over Bryan's prone body. "Don't move until you want to. I'm just going to finish up here. Take a nap." He plugged in the space heater and angled the air flow toward Bryan's midsection. "I can't believe you aren't napping. You worked harder than I did." "Nah. A little exercise is very relaxing, but I always have more energy after, not less." The bright halogen beam of the desk lamp was annoying after the erotic joy of the shadows, but Bryan slept anyway. Nilsson's fingers tapping on the keyboard were soothing, and Bryan really did feel like he'd been wrung out and left flat to dry. Still, the nap didn't last. He woke to the sound of Nilsson's whispered cursing, and a quick squint at his watch told him that it wasn't ten thirty yet. "Everything all right?" he asked. "Yeah. Yeah, it's just... There's a client." "Thank goodness." "True." Amusement colored Nilsson's voice. "He's actually not a bad guy to work for—he's funding the materials up front. But he's doing it because he wants some awfully pain in the ass materials." 21

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"You mean the clay?" "Said with all the surprise of ignorance," Nilsson mocked. "Yes, the clay, and the glaze, and the kiln, and the fuel for the kiln. Everything. It all has to be sourced here in Ohio, wherever possible by the sweat of my brow and not from a convenient supplier. Even the kiln had to be home-made." Vague thoughts of digging thick, red dirt out of a riverbank and pounding it into bowl shapes passed through Bryan's mind. "I guess... that's harder than it sounds?" "Much." Nilsson leaned back, scowling at the monitor. "It's taken nearly two years to develop the right mix for the clay and get enough of it in. The glaze wasn't all that difficult as glazes go, but now the kiln is being a bitch." Bryan didn't know anything to say about kilns. "What do you have to make?" "Dinnerware," Nilsson said absently. "Service for twentyfour in celadon stoneware. For the guy's hunting lodge, somewhere out around Coshocton." "Twenty-four people in a hunting lodge?" "I've heard it has ten bedrooms." "Jeez." Bryan swung his legs around and reached for his clothes. With his other hand, he gestured along the wall. "So are those dishes over there part of it?" Nilsson looked up. "The display set? Sort of. I was experimenting with the clay body and the design, and that's a test batch I fired up. The design is different now, and those dishes aren't celadon, just plain white." "So what's celadon?" 22

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"Pottery magic." Nilsson grinned, really grinned, and Bryan felt his heart give a breath-stopping double beat. "You take a glaze that ought to be brown, and you heat the hell out of it, hot enough to eat up all the oxygen in the air. Then all the oxygen gets sucked out of the glaze chemicals, too, and that turns the glaze green." "All that drama for green?" "That's like saying, 'All that pressure for a crystal?' when you're talking about diamonds. It's a very nice green." "For a very nice hunting lodge," Bryan agreed, and stood to pull his jeans over his hips. Nilsson seemed to take that as a signal of departure. "Let me get Fred's project for you." Bryan stifled another disappointed pang. End of interlude. "That'd be good. My sister will have my balls in a vise if I don't bring home the goods." "Can't have that." Nilsson patted Bryan's fly in passing. He came back with a lumpen something cradled in one palm, and held it out for inspection. Both men regarded it silently for a moment. "Guesses?" Bryan asked. "Uh-uh. I was told. You have to guess." "Whew. Um... toad?" "Impressive," Nilsson assured him gravely. "In fact, it's an iguana. But, you know, lizards, amphibians—pretty close." "Bite me," Bryan said without rancor. "At least I didn't say it was a puppy. Or a piglet. Because, honestly..." "He needs a little work on modeling the details," Nilsson conceded. "Even so, you wouldn't believe how often beginner 23

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work blows up in the kiln. He prepared the clay the right way, and he didn't make anything too thick or too thin. That's merit badge stuff, there." Bryan grinned. "Thank you. I'll let him know you said so." "My pleasure." Nilsson went to the cabinet next to the computer and removed what turned out to be a small box and a bit of tissue. He wrapped the sculpture with neat quickness and presented the box. Once Bryan had it in hand, Nilsson leaned in for a fleeting kiss. "I'm glad you stopped by." Bryan thought about it for a split second, but didn't have the nerve to ask for a second date right then. "Me, too," he said instead, and smiled into Nilsson's eyes before slipping out the door. Fifteen minutes later, he was letting himself in to Pam and Keith's house. The eleven o'clock news was on, and Pam glanced his way only long enough to spot the box in his hand. "Good job. Kitchen table." "Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!" Some local politician appeared to be holding forth. The travails of their obscure corner of Ohio were of no interest to Bryan whatsoever. He went through the dining room and on into the kitchen, where a leaning tower of homemade cookies sat wrapped by his place at the table. Putting the box at Fred's place, he absconded with the goodies. The weather segment was starting when he got back to the living room. Okay, worth it. He plopped down next to Pam on the couch, munching. "Fanks." "Pig." "Shh," from Keith. 24

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The three of them watched in silence until the five-day outlook was done. Then Pam asked, "Did you have a good time?" "Mm." He wished he'd gotten a glass of milk while he was in the kitchen. "Anything on the agenda for tomorrow?" Keith inquired of the room at large. "I think it's time for me to look for a place," Bryan said. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Three Pam had had some pithy things to say about people making sudden announcements right before bedtime, but she wasn't really mad. Not really-really mad, anyway. Fred was eleven and Abigail eight, meaning Pam had adjusted to the idea of zero personal space years ago, but she was still sympathetic to the more delicate sensibilities of a bachelor brother. Keith didn't blame him one bit. "Always a place for you here," his brother-in-law said. "But I'm not surprised, now that you're getting to know a few people..." Keith let it go at that. Married straights had their own delicate sensibilities. Between them, Pam and Keith knew half the people in town, and it wasn't too long after lunch that Bryan was meeting the wife of one of Keith's colleagues to look at a place—well, call it what it was, a butt-ugly, half-fallen-down tenement building—that was on the verge of reclamation. "The structural work is done, all the electrical and plumbing are new," he was assured. "Do you have a certificate of occupancy?" he asked doubtfully. "Well... no." They were at the top of the building, up four flights of concrete stairs that were new and solid. The apartment occupied the entire floor, with views across town on three sides. That was nice. There were no original architectural features to speak of, since the top floor had taken the brunt 26

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of Nature's punishment while the building stood abandoned. On the other hand, the new drywall was well done, the layout open and spacious, and all the necessities seemed functional. He negotiated a little. The lack of a certificate didn't really bother him, since he felt confident in his own judgment of the work, and the owner had no hesitation in showing him everything he asked about. Still, it was good to have a bargaining chip. Just as well she didn't know that he was long since sold on the view. Out the living room windows, two blocks and a hop away, he could see the roof and back wall of Nilsson's studio. **** Bryan entered the studio building by the retail doorway, feeling like a stalker. Through the interior windows, he could see that the studio itself was dark. He browsed the displays quietly, curious. Most of the merchandise wasn't by Nilsson at all. The sign out front read Gaia, so Bryan supposed it might be an independent enterprise. There was work by other potters, and more work in glass and metal and wood and fiber. A few paintings, but not a lot. Each display was arranged to show off a tasteful selection of items, and was well-stocked with business cards and brochures. An older woman with perfect hair and an elegant, light blue twin set was watching him from behind a short counter. Her look was welcoming; she seemed to be waiting for an excuse to get the conversation started. He hoped it wouldn't be all sales patter, and ambled in her direction. 27

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"Is there anything I can help you with, sir?" Her voice was energetic. "You might," he replied. "I'm about to move into a new place not too far from here, and it's bland. I thought I could pick up a couple of things. You know. Add some color. Maybe one of those fountains." "Hmm," she said, and riffled through a binder on the counter. It had more brochures, plus photographs and sketches. "Were we recommended by anyone, sir? Did you have a particular artist in mind?" "Nilsson," he said before he could stop himself. This apparently wasn't unusual, because the woman just nodded and kept turning pages. After a moment, she said, "Please sit down, Mr.—?" "Bryan Fletcher," he said, offering his hand. "Please call me Bryan." "Well, now, you're... Alan Fletcher's boy, aren't you? The one who went to school out in California." "Yes, ma'am." "Don't 'ma'am' me, I'm Louise Grant. I was the school secretary when you were a sprout." Then he remembered. She'd worn eyeglasses the size of cake platters then, but the twin sets hadn't changed in twenty years, nor the no-nonsense tone. "Mrs. Grant," he said warmly, and sat down in the chair on the customer side of the counter. "It's good to see you again. What got you into retail? I'd have thought you'd go into some nice, solitary occupation once you got out of that school." 28

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She chuckled. "Well, I thought about it. But I knew a couple of these young people and thought the co-op would be a good thing for the town, so I offered to handle the public for them." Ah. "A co-op?" "Yes, that's what this started out as—a cooperative studio. The whole building was studio space once upon a time, in the late nineties. They were all fresh out of Ohio State, seven of them, and Nilsson's wife talked her parents into buying this place for them to work in. It was just a big, unheated storage building back then..." Bryan wasn't hearing the information he had angled to get. Bile burned in his throat, and he was having difficulty swallowing it down. His hands accepted the open binder that Mrs. Grant pushed across the counter, but he didn't see the pages, either. Nilsson's wife. God, he hated scumbags who moonlighted. He let her talk a while longer about the history of the coop and references she could provide and blah blah blah, but made good his escape with a fistful of brochures and no commitments. A wife. **** Ponder as he would, Bryan couldn't come up with a way to get out of the lease he'd signed without either calling the town's building inspector or explaining himself to Keith, neither of which he was willing to do. He drew the line at 29

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escorting Fred to pottery class the following Tuesday, however. "No," he said simply. "But you said you would!" Pam sounded aghast. "And now I say I won't." "You can't do that!" "Why not? No one gave me any rule book that says I can't." Yes, he knew he was being a jackass. Bickering with Pam, though, was old hat, infinitely preferable to the alternatives. "Bryan! We made plans. Keith went to that seminar, and I'm going to take Abigail with me to book club. There's a group sitter this week. You were going to take Fred to Scouts." "Get Ben's mother to take him to Scouts. She's the den mother, isn't she?" "Ben's mother is in my book club. I told her you had it covered!" "What's up?" Fred asked, galloping in wearing full uniform. "Ready, Unk?" Pam stared at Bryan, who stared back. Her eyes shifted first. "No, Fred, your uncle can't make it after all." "Oh." Fred stopped, looking from one adult to the other. "Then who's going to take me, Mom? We gotta go, I told Ben we'd be there at seven and it's already ten 'til." "I'll take you, honey." "What about book club? Abigail's got all her Barbie stuff packed." "She can play Barbie with me at the studio." 30

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"Mom..." Fred looked uneasy. "She's gonna cry if she can't play with her friends. You promised." "She can play with her friends another time, Fred. Go brush your teeth." Fred ran up the stairs, and Pam was about to follow when Bryan stopped her. "Sis—is Abigail really going to cry over this?" "Most likely. She's been talking with her friends for a week about what to bring." Pam wasn't looking at him. "Oh, Christ." He thought about the chilly studio, the clutter, the one lumpy couch. That he'd had sex on. And Abigail sniffling and Pam trying to distract her and— "Never mind. I'll go." "Bryan." She was looking at him now. "What?" "Did he turn you down?" "Who?" Although he knew. "Nilsson. Did he turn you down? Is that what the problem is?" "It is not." He fought the urge to shout. She studied him a moment longer. "Okay. I'm sorry. Thank you." Her thanks were what undid him. He slumped against the kitchen cabinets and scrubbed the heels of his palms over his face. "Pam, don't. It was me, my fault. There's no good reason I can't take Fred to class, and I will. I'm sorry." She walked around the butcher block table and pulled his hands away from his eyes. "Stop that, you're going to get all red." She held his wrists. "You're sure?" 31

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"I'm positive." "Okay." She kissed his cheek and said, "I better find Abby before Fred does." **** Bryan decided he wasn't going to think about it. He would walk in, hang out on the couch for an hour or so, and then take the boys home. If the Scouts had to go to the kiln shed, they could go without him. It would be a clean in and out. He held the studio door for Fred and Ben so that they entered right in front of him. Two other boys were already there, and Nilsson was taking items down from some higher shelves. No need even to exchange nods. It couldn't last. He'd once again let himself be distracted by his message-less phone, spinning moodily through lists of apps he wasn't interested in and wondering if there were any honest, communicative guys left in the world, when a familiar clank made him look up. Nilsson was plugging in the space heater. "Not necessary," Bryan said. "Really? I thought it was definitely chilly over here." Nilsson lifted an eyebrow, inviting Bryan to let the ice be broken. Bryan stared back with what he hoped was calm unconcern. Pam generally indicated that such ploys were unsuccessful, but then Pam knew him better than Nilsson did. Nilsson's expression smoothed over, and he added, in a merely civil tone, "The boys will be setting up the kiln for a firing in a little while, if you'd like to join us." "I think you can handle them." 32

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Nilsson gave a slight bow. "Thank you so much for that vote of confidence." When he walked away this time, Bryan did not watch. As promised, Nilsson took the boys out to the kiln shed a few minutes later. They were gone for an inexplicable length of time. The kiln was electric; how difficult could it be to shove a few pots in and flip a switch? He sent some texts (not to Hank), studied the cabinetry and wondered what else the doors hid, retied his shoelaces because one of them seemed loose. He'd finally succumbed and stood up, ready to investigate the kiln shed, when a woman stepped through the back door and glanced over at him. Then she looked at the empty work area. "Don't tell me," she said resignedly. "Nilsson has murdered them all." "I was about to go check on that very point," Bryan replied. "Allegedly, they've been loading a fairly small kiln for the past half hour." "Ah." She nodded. "He takes that very seriously. Probably each of the boys is having to do it. There's no point in playing in the mud if it all gets ruined in the firing." She held out a hand. "Jennie Tibbs." He took it. "Pleased to meet you, Jennie. Um..." He hunted down a vague recollection. "Zach's mother?" he produced hopefully. "Oh, you're good." "Working at it," he assured her. "I'm Bryan Fletcher, Fred Galloway's uncle." 33

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"Bryan! How nice, I've heard a lot about you from Pam. Thank you so much for taking over den duties these past couple weeks. Are you here to stay, or—" The thunder of small feet cut off the rest of her question, and Bryan was just as glad. He had no idea how to answer it; the glib oh-we'll-see response he'd been giving since his arrival in Ohio suddenly refused to pass his lips. Not only Zach, but all six of the boys ran to Jennie, encircling her like a baying pack. "Can we go, Mrs. Tibbs? " "I want McDonald's, Mom!" "No, Friendly's!" "I want—" Bryan tried to shush Fred and haul him out of the melee, but Jennie just laughed. "Don't worry, it's allowed! I'd rather hear what they all want before we get in the van." "In the van? Did you—er, my instructions were to bring him home, make some popcorn, and pick a movie that wouldn't make his mother faint." Jennie grinned. "Not to worry," she said again. "I called their mothers, and no one minds if I take them out for a snack instead. In fact, I have a message for you: you're off duty. I'm bringing Ben and Fred to the book club meeting afterward because we'll be nearer there than Pam's place." That had a ring of authenticity to it. Stripped of his protective shield of Scouts, Bryan smiled weakly and started edging toward the door. "Jennie love!" Nilsson emerged from the kiln shed too damned soon. "I see you've met Bryan." The hard green eyes softened with smile-crinkles while Nilsson allowed Jennie to bestow a hug. "Did I hear you proposing to take charge of this motley crew?" 34

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"You did," she said, "and we're off." "YAAAAY!" came the full-throated chorus, and the stampede poured out of the door, names of fast-food joints still floating back on the crisp breeze. Jennie waved and followed. Bryan was sure he'd made good his escape as well when a hand caught his coat collar at the last second and held him. With a quick twist, he was free, but the door had already swung shut. "The hell?" he sputtered, resettling the denim on his shoulders and glaring. "You," said Nilsson, "have been treating me like day-old fish since you got here. I have no problem with one and done, but I don't expect to see your nose in the air when we get to the 'done.' Capiche?" Bryan said nothing. He wanted to say plenty about moonlighting cheats and being dragged into someone else's lie, but through the steady sizzle of anger, he acknowledged that he was reacting disproportionately. This man's lies, if they'd happened on some Australian or Californian beach, wouldn't have bothered him. There was something about being in Ohio, about home, about Nilsson, that was loading up the emotion in him, and he didn't want to spew it here. So he glared. Nilsson stepped closer. "Tell me," he said dangerously. "Tell you what?" "Tell me you understand what I just told you, and tell me what put a poker up your ass all of a sudden." "I understand," Bryan said, and turned to the door again. 35

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Again he was dragged around, this time by both hands on his shoulders. He tested the grip and discovered that shaking Nilsson off would be more of a battle than he wanted right then. "What is wrong with you?" Nilsson demanded. "Nothing is wrong with me," Bryan said. "I heard about... some circumstances that make me uncomfortable, and I'd rather not pursue things any further." Yeah, there really must be a poker up his ass for him to be talking like that. "Circumstances." Nilsson let him go. "You mean you heard some gossip about me? That makes me curious. I thought I'd been on a virtuous path with the locals for the last few years. What's the story now?" "It wasn't gossip. At least, not that kind of—um." Nilsson's eyes narrowed. "Then what kind of 'um' was it?" "I..." Bryan sighed. "I heard you're married. And I'm not comfortable with that, all right? Especially not in a place like this, where a lot of people know both of us, and a lot of people know I'm gay. Get your closeted little jollies somewhere else." The last came out as more of a snarl than he'd intended, so he clamped his lips tight and made a third attempt for the door. "Married?" Nilsson asked. "Yes," Bryan answered. He turned the knob. "You've met my wife, you know," Nilsson said conversationally. "You asshole, do you think this is social chit-chat? I think you're a jerk to cheat on your wife, and I don't want to talk about it!" "It's Jennie." 36

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Bryan turned around. "Why are you messing with me?" "We divorced nine years ago." Bryan stared. His mind frantically scrabbled after what Mrs. Grant had said. He didn't recall much, but the building... "Your wife's parents bought this place," he said. Nilsson inclined his head. "That tells me you heard it from Louise, because she always goes back to Noah's ark with her sales pitch. I think the rest of town has forgotten by now. Jennie gave me the building in the settlement." Exactly where the rage had been swelling in Bryan's chest, there was now a freefall zone where everything spun and swooped. "She hugged you," he said hoarsely, trying to get his guts re-anchored. Nilsson nodded again. "We had fun during our marriage, and we like each other still. She gave me the building. It was a gift, really, but there had to be a settlement to satisfy the lawyers." Bryan leaned to get some support from the door. "I owe you an apology, then." Another thought struck him. "Is Zach your son? He's—" "Eleven. No, I think Zach is probably Miguel's son, but Jennie won't tell so that's just my guess." Bryan decided he didn't want to have the you've-got-anex-wife conversation any more than he'd wanted to have the you've-got-a-wife conversation. "I see. Well, again, I apologize. I was totally in the wrong on this." He felt behind him for the doorknob. "Pam will pick up Fred's last project, so..." 37

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"How did you get in a position where you had to listen to Louise's sales pitch in the first place?" Damn. "Browsing. Up front." The lifted eyebrow and quirked lips told him what Nilsson thought about that. No doubt Louise left the average tourist to browse in peace. It didn't matter. Bryan's guts were quiet now; they felt rather shriveled, in fact. He turned to the door one more time. It wasn't a hand that stopped him then, but arms. They circled his waist, crossing loosely. He didn't even try to fight. Instead, he let his forehead press against the cool, painted wood. He could feel a prickle behind his eyes, like he wasn't going to let himself cry—which made no sense, because it wasn't a crying situation. It was just really, really awkward. Right? "You were talking to Louise about your new apartment," Nilsson murmured over his shoulder, the capable arms easily containing Bryan's jerk of surprise. "You gave her my name." "I—" He shrugged helplessly. "She told me, of course, because when a potential client comes in with a project description and a name, it's almost always a done deal. Even if 'the boy seemed a little distracted when he left.'" Nilsson's hold tightened. "I didn't know then to tell her it was righteous indignation, not distraction. I'll be sure to let her know how offensive that sales pitch is." Nilsson put one hand on the doorknob when Bryan reached for it. "Wait a minute. Now that we've got that misunderstanding cleared up, are you sure you have to leave right this second?" 38

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"I want to leave," Bryan said, and humiliation flooded him when his voice cracked on the last word. Nilsson swung them both away from the door. "I haven't accepted your apology yet," he pointed out, releasing his hold but propelling Bryan toward the couch with a strong hand to the lumbar region. "Sit." Bryan heard the light switches clicking, and all the overhead fluorescents went dark. Down by the work tables, a couple under-cabinet lights still glowed, and that was all. He didn't sit. It was Nilsson who pulled off his jacket and drew him down, all the way down, supine on the lumpy cushions while Nilsson untied his shoes. The chill of the gritty fabric made him remember the simple fumbling of their first time, the pleasure of it, and a line of tears pressed out from under each closed eyelid. So little moisture, yet an artist's eye could hardly miss the new texture. "Bryan," Nilsson murmured, and there was an ache in the sound. "I was... intrigued by you," Bryan said. "And I still am, or I am again, or whatever you want to say. But I've screwed it up already, and we can't go back..." Nilsson unbuckled, unbuttoned, pulling Bryan's jeans off, leaving the boxers. "I've only been angry for an hour or so," he said, hanging his apron on a hook by the computer cabinet and shucking his own jeans. "And I agree with your opinion of moonlighters. It's not like I have much to get over." Bryan watched Nilsson retrieve the folded afghan from its shelf in the cupboard, and felt the pressure behind his eyes ease. 39

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"So the question is, did you spoil it for yourself? Because you haven't spoiled it for me. Scoot over." Bryan made room along the outer edge of the cushions, and Nilsson lay down, hooking a knee over Bryan in order to fit. He tucked the afghan around their bare legs. Bryan let his own arm slide over the warm bumps of Nilsson's ribs. It was oddly easy to fit together, unencumbered by the denim, unselfconscious about so much touching. Nilsson propped himself on one elbow and looked at Bryan with gentle eyes. "It's kind of nice that you cared that much," he said softly. "I want to do work for your new place. Go for a drink. Make out with you somewhere better than this nasty old sofa. See what happens. Wanna try it?" Bryan didn't trust his voice, just nodded. "Okay." Nilsson began to rub Bryan's back slowly. "Go to sleep. When we're both hard, I'll wake you up again." [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Four Bryan still couldn't figure out how to look Nilsson in the eye three days later. Crying on the man, cuddling him like a teddy bear, rubbing off on him with frenzied abandon—yeah, it was tough to look Nilsson in the eye. Apparently, Bryan's embarrassment was entirely unreciprocated. When he opened the door to the new apartment, Nilsson was standing calmly on the landing, head tilted. "Is someone being scalped?" he inquired. "You have a tin ear," Bryan told him, waving him through to the living room and closing the door. "Those aren't Indians. Those are pirates." "Peter Pan had pirates and Indians in—" Nilsson stopped dead. It was a vision to freeze a brave man in his tracks, Bryan admitted. A bulbous white plastic contraption whirled around, Abigail's shrieks from within creating a kind of passing-siren Doppler effect with every revolution. Ben whooped a counterpoint as he kept the thing turning, and Fred battered them both with a cardboard sword, yelling "Arrrr, matey!" at intervals. A Beanie Baby parrot and a bandana lay discarded a few feet away. The chair was creaking and teetering, but Bryan was past any ability to muster concern—the little thugs had been at it since the deliverymen left, and no one was dead yet. "That's an Eero Aarnio ball chair," Nilsson said. 41

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"Is it? Fred liked it. I thought it looked like something out of The Jetsons, personally." Nilsson looked at him disbelievingly, and Bryan had the feeling he'd been obtuse again. Living with his sister for a few months had made the sensation very familiar. Nilsson glanced at the floor. "Dare I ask, is that... an exparrot?" That one, Bryan got. "Don't even go there," he said. "If Fred starts picking up Monty Python shtick, I'll never live it down with Pam." Nilsson chuckled. "I doubt he'd hear a thing over this racket. Right, so, Aarnio chair in imminent danger of destruction, glossy white with red interior. Sectional with a brown and black animal print, accented with a throw that looks like a black velvet painting of a unicorn. Okay." "The sectional has two built-in recliners," Bryan added helpfully. "That's what makes it cool. Aside from the spots." "Cool. Mm. Next?" Bryan led him to the dining room. He was privately rather smitten with having an orange-striped patio set, complete with a very large umbrella, inside the apartment. Nilsson didn't look quite as enamored. In silence, they moved on to the master bedroom. It was large. That was a good thing. A king-sized four poster made of elaborately-wrought iron required a lot of space. "Anything else?" Nilsson asked faintly. "Two flat-screen televisions and a Wii. Those won't get here 'til tomorrow. Sorry there's no bedding yet. Abigail couldn't find any worthwhile sheets in king size, but the 42

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pillowcases say 'I heart Justin Bieber.' They're waiting to be washed." The struggle appeared to be herculean, but Nilsson finally lost it and staggered to the bed, leaning against a post and laughing until he coughed. "Oh, God," he wheezed. "You're going to get arrested. What the hell were you thinking?" "What makes you think I had anything to do with it?" Bryan retorted, trying to look injured but secretly gloating over the sight of Nilsson actually laughing. "I was in the hands of two expert shoppers." Nilsson eyed him. "Someone had to authorize the credit card." "Well, yes. And put his foot down about the bed with the pink unicorn headboard going in the guest bedroom, not the master bedroom." "Ah." Nilsson straightened up and examined the bed again. "I gain a new appreciation." "I should hope so," Bryan said loftily. "This one would make a nice centerpiece for a bondage theme." "What?" "UNK!" Fred bellowed from the doorway, and they both jumped. "Mom's here!" Indeed, Pam's laughter could be heard spilling down the hallway from the living room. Bryan shot a warning look at Nilsson, then followed his nephew. "I will never doubt my children again," Pam gasped as soon as he came into range. "Never, never, never!" She dug in her purse and pulled out a tissue, mopping her eyes. "I was certain they were exaggerating about that chair. Positive." 43

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The chair was looking a wee bit off center, Bryan thought. The culprits were bashing at each other with the sword, the parrot, and what looked like a plastic strap that had been around one of the furniture boxes. They were well away from the battle-scarred chair. Bryan suspected Pam's arrival had inspired the sudden prudence—if the current level of mayhem could be called prudent. She opened the apartment door and shooed the kids toward the stairs, then turned to Bryan. "You're supposed to blow those stock options on wine, er, men, and song," she told him. "Not on silly furniture." "We never got to pick out silly stuff, Pammie," he said, smiling down at her. "It makes this place a little bit theirs." She smiled back and then looked beyond him. "Good to see you, Nilsson," she said. "Are you going to salvage this place?" "Miracles are beyond me," Nilsson told her. "But the patient might survive if you'll promise to do the next round of shopping." "E-mail me the list," she said, and blew them kisses. Then, the very image of conquering maternity, she swept the juvenile vandals before her and left the men in peace. "I don't think that chair is long for this world," Nilsson said. "It would be a mercy killing, really. All I can think of is 'his boy, Elroy!' when I look at it." Nilsson sniffed. "Philistine. It's an Eero Aarnio!" "Give it one more visit from the pirate horde and it's going to be landfill." 44

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"It's your five grand, buddy. Down to business, shall we?" Nilsson's hands closed over Bryan's shoulders. "Starting with first things first..." The kiss was wonderfully thorough but far too efficient, over before Bryan had wallowed in it half as much as he wanted. "Now, then." "Now, then," Bryan echoed, wondering if a caveman carry to the bedroom was appropriate etiquette for a third date. "Uh, well, the living room is really, um—" "What's gotta get fixed," Nilsson finished. He went to the archway that separated living room from dining room and looked meditatively between the two for a minute. "If you were willing to be flexible with this dining room, er, concept, then..." It took maybe twenty minutes to rearrange the umbrella dining set to make way for the Jetsons chair, allowing enough space for a full range of wobble plus enthusiastic interaction with the Wii. That done, they could tuck the sectional less obtrusively along one wall of the living room, rather than in the middle of the floor. "Coffee table here, a rocker here, and another chair with a side table and a lamp there," said Nilsson, pointing. "Which Pam will buy," he added. "I'll give her the list." "I can do it. Really." "Mmmhmm. Pam knows my palette, however. She'll get colors that will work and chairs you can really sit on. And she'll be willing to wait if something has to be ordered." "It's true, I'm all about the instant gratification." Bryan leered suggestively. Nilsson picked up the unicorn throw. "Is this washable?" 45

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"One hundred percent pure polyester." "Good. Then let's go break in that bed." Nilsson grabbed the waistband of Bryan's jeans, tucked the throw under one arm, and led the way. It was great, amazing even, but not quite what Bryan had envisioned for their first time in an actual bed. Given forty some-odd square feet of perfectly sprung playing field, he had expected... well, something more leisurely, anyway. Not to be gasping for air and limp as a rag within twenty minutes while Nilsson pulled on clothes again. "I've got two pieces waiting to be glazed that will work for the mantelpiece and the coffee table," he said as he buttoned his shirt. "Those can be ready next week. There's a freestanding fountain in the studio that would be nice in here, I think, if you like the sound of running water to help you sleep. You know the one?" "Yeah. I agree." "Then maybe one real standout piece for that recessed niche by the front door. I want to think about that a little. Once I get this damned kiln sorted out." Nilsson stepped into his loafers. "How is that going, anyway?" Bryan asked, trying to prolong the moment. "I'm not having any luck contacting Miguel," Nilsson said, two creases between his brows becoming more pronounced. "If I can't get him to re-check the plans, I'm probably going to have to start over from scratch with someone else's kiln. I'm no engineer." "Miguel. As in, maybe, Zach's father Miguel?" 46

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Nilsson gave a sharp nod. "Miguel was part of the co-op for the first couple years. But he got more interested in the technicalities of kilns than in doing pottery himself, and kilns are what he's known for now. He designs for one of the bigger supply houses, and he travels all over doing custom builds. He did the updraft kiln you saw at my studio, and we worked out a multilevel, wood-burning design that I built at my house." "You think he's traveling now?" "So I hear. I've got some contacts in the university art department, but none of them have expertise with outdoor, wood-burning kilns. So if I go to them for a new design, I'll have to re-negotiate with my client. He's got his mind set on wood fuel right now." Nilsson checked his watch. "Also right now, I gotta go," he said. "I've got a soccer match to referee." "Soccer match?" "Indoor league, over at the arena. Cheaper than a gym membership, and every bit as good exercise. Come see me at the studio on Tuesday night?" "Sure. I thought the badge was all done." "Fred's group is done. There's a million Scouts in this town, my friend, and they've all got to get badges." Nilsson winked, and Bryan laughed. He lay back again and stared at the pristinely white ceiling as he listened to Nilsson's footsteps echo down the concrete stairwell. It was one of those fireproof designs, abutting the still-empty elevator shaft. No doubt when all the apartments were full and the elevator worked, he wouldn't even notice 47

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people coming and going. Now, today, the long fade of departing footsteps was as bleak as hell. **** Bryan waited ten minutes longer than he wanted to before leaving his apartment, and even so he arrived early, lingering at a discreet distance, in the shadows, while a munchkin in a Brownie uniform hurtled out of the studio door in front of a smiling woman. He waited a little more, just to be sure. When he knocked, the voice that beckoned him in was abrupt. No aproned lover met him. Bryan shut the door behind himself and looked across the room to the long worktables. Lined up on a scrubbed surface were half a dozen clay forms: dishes, a teacup, even a covered bowl. The outlines of each were perfect, but color splattered over them in blotches, mostly shades of amber, brown, and green. None of the pieces had the look of control, of intention. Of art. They looked stricken with blight. Bryan thought it would be wise not to comment. He walked to the table and picked up the teacup, running his fingers over the bumps of slagged glaze. Nilsson hadn't yet looked at him. He was staring at the ruined ware. "Six firings. Not a one has gone right. It's reaching the temperature, the reduction is starting to happen, and then..." "Reduction?" Bryan asked quietly. "It's that heat I told you about, the temperature that makes the celadon. You heat the kiln way, way up, and then 48

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starve the fire of the oxygen it needs to burn. The hot air gets full of free carbon atoms, a lot more carbon than in regular air, and it wants to hook up with oxygen to balance itself out. So it takes the oxygen that's part of the chemicals in the glaze. Losing the oxygen makes the glaze change color." Nilsson pointed to the green blotch inside the teacup that Bryan held. The center of it was a lovely, preternatural swirl of color, like sea foam whipped into cream. All around the rim, the cup was a ragged-looking brown dotted with gray. Nilsson said, "When the temperature isn't maintained, the oxygen stays in the glaze, and the color stays brown. It's a very nice brown, if that's what you're after and you fire it properly. But I don't want it." Bryan studied the gray dots. "These?" he asked, pointing. "Ash. I'm using wood to fuel the kiln, and there's ash in the smoke. Sometimes you get fallout on the ware. There's more ash than there should be, too. Something's wrong with the kiln, but Miguel said he double-checked the plans and they're okay. I don't know enough to fix it." The cup felt cool and smooth against Bryan's fingertips despite the flawed glaze. The shape of it fit a man's hand without looking outsized or clunky. It was easy to understand why something so solid, so natural in his grip, would appeal to Nilsson's client. "The brown means parts of the kiln aren't getting hot enough?" "Probably. I've tested the same batch of glaze in the updraft kiln here, and the color goes over without a hitch. Perfect every time. So it's not the glaze that's bad. Miguel 49

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designed both kilns, and allowing for the materials used and the..." Bryan lost the thread of Nilsson's anxious technical rundown as he felt his phone buzz gently in his jacket pocket. Text message. There was no reason to think that now— Still, he had a funny feeling about it. Succumbing to temptation, he pulled out the little rectangle and pressed the touchscreen. "Oh, shit," he said. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Five They walked to O'Halloran's, which was not on the way to Bryan's apartment but not so very far out of it, either. Nilsson waited until they were deep into their respective pints before suggesting, "Want to talk about it?" Bryan thought that over. "It will make me look pretty juvenile," he said at last. "I'm well-versed in listening to juveniles," Nilsson said. "Fred would give me an excellent reference if you asked him." A chuckle was obligatory, so Bryan gave it. He didn't think either of them was convinced. "That was Hank." Nilsson waited a few moments. "And Hank is...?" he prodded. "Hank was my buddy from college who had this idea for a line of whacked-out sportswear for surfers. We both surfed; we did a lot more surfing than studying. Hank's a real intelligent guy, though, so he could get away with it." Bryan stopped again. God, if it was one thing Hank could always do, it was get away with it. Nilsson's gaze was steady. "Smart, athletic, and I bet good-looking, too." "You've got it pegged already, haven't you? And straight. Don't forget the straight." "Ah." Nilsson drained his pint. They sat in silence for a bit, and when the waitress came around, Nilsson ordered two Taliskers. "Beer then whisky, very risky," Bryan recited. 51

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"Just one." The waitress came back with two squat single-malt glasses and a small pitcher of water. "Bill, please," Nilsson told her. "We're taking no chances tonight." When they were alone again, Bryan said abruptly, "He was very honest with me. Always." Nilsson nodded. "We were... really good friends. He thought we could make a go of a business together because I worry about practical things, how to solve problems, and he's the vision guy. Plus he could sell. We brought in another guy, Chao, who got his CPA when we were seniors and agreed to be our financial officer." "And it worked?" "Eventually. Hank is from Australia, so he incorporated there. He knew a guy who knew a guy who had connections with a production facility in Vladivostok, of all places, because Hank didn't want anything to do with Chinese sweatshops, which added at least twelve percent to— Well. Yeah, it worked." "Which is why you can let pirate hordes destroy Eero Aarnio chairs." Bryan smiled. "Totally worth it." Picking up his glass, he waited for the bowl of it to warm in the curve of his fingers. "So why are you here?" "We had a buyout offer from a European firm, and Hank took it. Again, eventually. I spent two years surfing all the beaches north of Sydney while he got the deal done the way he wanted." 52

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Nilsson sipped his whisky, added a drop of water, and sipped some more. "I imagine he did a fair amount of surfing, too. And you did some business." "Yeah, well." Bryan brushed aside the details. "When we got the deal done at last, he went to Vladi to meet with our people there and explain what we'd done, and I came home. I've been waiting to hear from him ever since." "Which you finally did today." "Which I finally did today." The smile was painful, but he had to do it. Otherwise, the way he felt would be just too embarrassing, too ridiculous. "He asked me to be his best man." The babble around them seemed to rise loudly after Bryan's statement. Nilsson sipped. His eyes were hooded, looking away toward the crowd at the bar. Not surprising; Bryan didn't know where to look or what to say, either. "You going to be all right?" Nilsson asked finally. "Sure," Bryan said a bit too heartily. One thin eyebrow rose at him. "Eventually," he added. He took a sip of his own and let it slip down too fast. Coughing was all right. Coughing explained any hitch in his breathing or redness around his eyes. "Nothing is really different," he said when he could. "It's..." He sketched a line in the air. "Done. It's been done ever since I left Australia. Realistically, I might not ever have seen him again. He's already invested in three new companies, travels all the time. I just... I never had to admit it. Any of it. He was never mine, but he could still be mine in a way if I didn't say anything, you know?" 53

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"It's not real until they make you say it," Nilsson murmured. "You only know it when it's put into words." Then Bryan remembered about Jennie, and was paralyzed. Should he say something? Pretend he didn't see the sudden crows' feet at the corners of Nilsson's eyes? Was Nilsson even thinking about Jennie? Maybe the issue was Bryan himself, babbling heartlessly to a new lover about his preoccupation with a lover who never was. But he hadn't meant— It was nothing about Nilsson, or now, it was— Nilsson stood up. "Come on," he said, sliding a couple bills under their check. "We'll go to your place and forget about the words." Right then, it seemed like the perfect solution. **** The problem with having his own space was that it was only his. Now that he had way too many opportunities to think about it, Bryan realized that he'd never been quite this alone before. Hank had started Ivanex from their dorm room, and when senior year was over, they'd rented a loft together and kept going. For the first few years, Hank had stayed with his parents whenever he went back to Australia, and Bryan did, too, when Hank took him along. Then, those last couple years, they'd both more or less lived at the office or on the beach. There'd been an apartment, but most nights neither of them had slept in it. Bryan had longed for a home by the time he returned to Ohio, and Pam's family had welcomed him unreservedly into 54

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theirs. He missed that. He missed the rhythm of a household, the interruptions of youthful enthusiasm, the being bundled into the car for the next expedition like he was a kid himself. Pammie was so good to him. He hadn't forgotten why he'd given it up, but apparently living alone turned a guy into a coward. It was Sunday night; he hadn't seen Nilsson since their uncomfortable conversation on Tuesday, and the almost brutal coupling that had followed. Yes, a nerve had been touched on both sides, and Bryan didn't dare to ask. Hadn't called. Hadn't said, "Please. I am so lonely." He stared at the cell phone lying on his new end table. Damn it, all he had to do was— The sudden jangle from the phone made him flinch. Then he grabbed it without looking at the caller ID. "Fletcher." "You know, Fletcher is not an Irish name," Nilsson's voice said thoughtfully. "Are you an imposter?" "Kevin would never have married Pam if we didn't have the bona fides. What's up? You free tonight?" Was that too eager? "Not tonight, sorry. But I do have some good news. We've tracked Miguel down, and he actually is at the university as we speak. He's promised to come look at the kiln tomorrow night. Do you want to join us? He's expecting to get here about three, and we'll have dinner afterward." "Hmm," Bryan said, pretending like he had to think about it. "What are your bona fides? Can you really cook? What do you Scandinavian types eat, anyway?" 55

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"You'd be surprised at my range. Though I absolutely refuse to have anything to do with fish." "I had my heart set on lutfisk and lingonberry jam." "You," Nilsson observed, "are disgusting. We're having New York strip. If you behave, there will be stuffed mushrooms. Satisfied?" "Only if I can stay over after," Bryan said playfully. Silence. Damn. "Oops, it's a weeknight, isn't it? My bad," he babbled on. "What are we drinking, single malt or red wine? Or shall I bring a bottle of each?" "Miguel won't touch Scotch, so bring a red. Maybe a Tuscan? He's got a thing against the French, but he loves Italian and Portuguese wines." "Can do. What's the address?" "2903 Hollinbeck Drive. It's a ways out, but you can't miss it—it's the A-frame up on the hill." "Oh, is that you? Yeah, I know it. Great. See you at three." Bryan set the phone on the end table again. More appointment sex—if he was lucky. Not for the first time, he cursed Hank and that tangled mess of unrequited feelings. Had one ill-timed text message led him into a really stupid mistake? It seemed like he did nothing but blunder from one callow bit of self-exposure to another with Nilsson. The more he wanted, the worse it got. Now Nilsson was apparently backing off, and who could blame the guy? Bryan wondered whether they'd hear him on the streets below if he screamed all the frustration he wanted to vent at that moment. 56

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Chapter Six The autumn sun was already near the horizon when Bryan pulled into the long, uphill drive that ended at a whimsical chalet. There wouldn't be a lot of time to look at the kiln unless Nilsson had some good outdoor lighting. He could hear voices as he got out of his car, and followed them instead of knocking at the door. There wasn't a true yard; the ground sloped away less than fifteen feet behind the house. He made his way toward the two heads he could see near a stand of trees. The kiln, or what he presumed was the kiln, came into view as soon as he started down the hill. Two hummocks hugged the rising ground, the top of one melding into the bottom of the other. An absurd-looking chimney perched on the upper hummock, and the whole thing gave the impression of having been built with mud and twigs by trolls. A small shed several feet away was open, revealing a substantial pile of wood. The man laughing at Nilsson was stocky and dark. More than that, Bryan couldn't say for sure, since—Miguel, presumably—never stood still. He swung around the moment Nilsson's attention shifted to Bryan. "Aha! The new beau, Jennie says!" He beamed, but swung back to the kiln before Bryan could offer a handshake. "Air flow. It is very clear," Miguel said authoritatively. "Look at the amount of ash. Look how only the most protected parts of the ware undergo the reduction. You do not 58

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only have cool spots, you have whole latitudes of Arctic in there!" He swept his arm exuberantly. "Where are those plans?" "I stuck them in the cabinet," Nilsson said. As they walked over, Bryan could see a shallow metal cabinet nailed to one wall of the shed. A few tools and some gloves were inside, and a roll of paper. Miguel plucked it out and unrolled it with a flourish. "You see!" he exclaimed. "Look at that." He stumped to the kiln and began circling it. Bryan couldn't tell what he was poking at, but whatever it was seemed to confirm Miguel's diagnosis. "Come here, Nils!" Nilsson, Bryan could see, was as rigid as a piece of his own ware. He climbed toward Miguel with the stiffness of an old man. The two artisans bent and looked, discussed, walked out of sight behind the weird chimney, reappeared. The conversation became animated. Bryan could see the redness in Nilsson's normally pale cheeks, and Miguel's gesticulations were more like flailing. He had no desire to join them. Nilsson held up one hand, nodding, and Miguel suddenly stopped. After another brief exchange, they came back toward Bryan. Nilsson continued past, going to the cabinet and pulling out a Sharpie. "There has been a small misunderstanding," Miguel confided to Bryan. "It is all clear now." "That's great," Bryan said. Miguel took the Sharpie from Nilsson and began marking vigorously on the plans, drawing x's and noting dimensions 59

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next to each. "You can put them in tomorrow, easily," he said. "Easily. Then a day to set, or two if it is damp. Then test-fire it and call me." He scribbled a phone number along the bottom of the schematic. "Make sure the kiln is as full as it can be, so we know whether the heat is even all through." "I will," Nilsson said quietly. Like a chastened schoolboy, Bryan thought. The red that was just beginning to fade from those cheeks didn't strike Bryan as a blush of shame, though. Nilsson's eyes were bright but narrowed, the creases in his forehead sharp. That face looked a whole lot like anger. They hiked up to the house and enjoyed a robust meal. The Tuscan red Bryan retrieved from his car went perfectly with the steak. The stuffed mushrooms were sublime. The conversation was pleasantly insubstantial, at least until they were settled in front of the fire with coffee. Miguel became voluble on the subject of a gala being held the next night at the university. From the sound of it, half the legislators in Columbus would be in attendance—a big pro-education photo op during election season, of course. Uninterested, Bryan studied Miguel's profile and tried to trace a resemblance to Zach. When a lull came, finally, Bryan asked, "How does a guy who builds kilns for a living get stuck doing the monkey suit thing with a bunch of politicians?" Miguel waved a hand. "Interest groups. The kiln-builder is an alumnus, an artist, a Latino, or should I say a legal Latino. He has written articles. He has an international reputation, even if it is in a very obscure specialty. He is presentable. He has only a little accent. The people who would appreciate 60

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such things know he is gay. Why not invite the kiln-builder, eh?" "Gay?" Bryan tried not to look startled. "Gay enough." Miguel winked. "Ask our friend here. But labels are so boring." Bryan couldn't help looking at Nilsson, who didn't look back. "Still. Welcome, fellow traveler," Bryan said lightly. "No, no, I went off the rails long ago." Miguel chuckled. "Otherwise you would find me here with Nils and Rachel and Jennie and the rest. Who knew our daring commune would become so middle class?" "Do A-frames come with white picket fences?" Bryan quipped, but Nilsson seemed to pay no attention. "Ah, the Swiss chalet is from after my time. We had fun in our young days, didn't we, Nils?" Miguel stood. "Unfortunately, the joys of reunion are also over, at least for today. I have a meeting in the morning, so I must bid you all good night. Bryan, it was a pleasure." This time, Miguel shook hands. Nilsson looked up. Miguel flicked his cheek with a finger. "Don't worry, my friend. It will work now." With a wave, he was across the room and out the door before Bryan could take half a step to follow. Nilsson didn't move. Bryan set his coffee cup down. "He's something." "That's one way of putting it." "I didn't know that you had— I mean—" "We did. We all did. It was part of what the co-op was about." Nilsson sighed. "Jennie and I didn't split up over 61

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fidelity issues, Bryan. We split up because she wanted that white picket fence, and I didn't want her in bed anymore." "Oh." A pause became a silence. "I guess it's time for me to go, too," Bryan added lamely. Then Nilsson stood. Reaching across the coffee table, he picked up Miguel's empty cup. It was an attractive piece; Bryan was quite sure Nilsson had made it. Larger and thicker than the teacup Bryan had seen in the studio, it nevertheless had familiar lines. Nilsson met Bryan's eyes for a full, deliberate moment. Pivoting away, Nilsson let the cup fly. The ceramic shattered against the stone fireplace, shards ricocheting through the flames and scattering sparks on the hearth. Bryan winced, instinctively grabbing at Nilsson. "Stop! What are you—?" Nilsson grabbed back, the strong fingers digging bruisingly into Bryan's arms. "That bastard gave me the wrong specs for the kiln." "Today?" "Before. I'm sure what he told me today was correct. We had a witness," Nilsson elaborated bitterly. "I asked him at the start. He knew there weren't going to be electric blowers to move the air around; it's obvious. He also knew I'd never worked with an all-natural design like this. He assured me that there was enough air intake. Swore it up and down. I must have asked him three or four times about it!" "I don't understand. What good would it do him to screw things up in the first place?" 62

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"Power. Showing me that I need him and he doesn't need me. It's worth it to him to drive for hours and draw a couple extra intakes just to prove it one more time." Bryan released his hold to stroke Nilsson's rigid back. "That's what he was marking on the plans? More air holes?" "Yeah." Nilsson slumped suddenly, arms sliding around Bryan's waist, head going down to Bryan's shoulder. "Now there will be enough movement in the air, and everything will heat up like it should. I've only lost, what, six weeks? Eight? Of the good weather." Nilsson sighed, making a warm spot through Bryan's shirt. "If I can get twelve place settings and some serving dishes done before the snow flies, the client might forgive me." Bryan held the slack body gently, almost afraid to breathe. Nilsson had turned to him. For comfort. The self-assurance, the confidence—those things weren't a facade, but they were only one aspect of this fascinating man. Here, now, was a bit more, something of what Nilsson kept hidden. Bryan had wanted this so much that he wasn't sure the moment was real. The reality was confirmed by being broken. Nilsson straightened up abruptly. "Well, never mind the emo crap. Miguel is Miguel, and I knew it going in." He rubbed his neck, looking exhausted. Bryan kept one hand on Nilsson's back. "Tired, babe? I should go, let you sleep." Lord knew he didn't want to leave Nilsson alone. They ought to curl up together. Share the hope that night would blot away today and bring a brighter 63

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morning. He didn't quite understand what he'd seen between Miguel and Nilsson, but Nilsson's sense of betrayal was clear. Nilsson smiled at him a little. "You haven't been here before, and I've been the world's lousiest host. Let me at least show you what happens when all this kiln stuff goes right." He slipped away from Bryan's hand and went toward the other end of the big living room, which was deep in shadow. "Stay there for a minute." Standing in front of a panel, Nilsson flicked his fingers quickly over a row of switches. Cones of light sprang to life, and the far wall of the living room was suddenly transformed into a miniature ceramics gallery. There were only fifteen or twenty carefully displayed items, none of them large. Each one gleamed with color, alternately bold and ethereal, in an array of functional, beautiful forms— a teapot, candlesticks, an intricately decorated platter. Walking to a shelf near the center of the wall, Nilsson beckoned Bryan over. The piece on the shelf wasn't remarkable from a distance. As Bryan approached, though, the subtle color gained complexity, washing cleanly over the textured, circular design incised on its surface. The soft green had a depth, a glow, that grew as he came closer. This was nothing like the sad, blotched teacup in Nilsson's studio. It was a sweep of lustrous glory. The vase wasn't perfectly symmetrical, and signs of wear were evident around the gently flared base. The touch of human imperfection added to its beauty, Bryan thought dazedly, as though the mortal hand that had shaped the clay 64

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had acknowledged its limits, yet found the secret to transcendence anyway. Bryan shook his head at the whimsy. Nilsson was smiling at him again, and Bryan felt abashed by his naive gawking. It was only a vase, if beautiful. Still, Nilsson's expression had a touch of reverence in it, too, as the potter took the piece down. "Korean celadon," Nilsson said. "Koryo dynasty, thirteenth century." "It must be priceless." Nilsson shrugged. "Useful objects don't usually command the prices that paintings do. You can get something like this for sixty grand at auction if it's in decent shape. This one..." He turned the vase, exposing a sudden, jagged hole like a raw wound. "That brings it into the price range of an obscure potter in Ohio," Nilsson said. Bryan looked away from the disfigured vase to Nilsson's face. Nilsson was still smiling, maybe a bit self-deprecatingly. As he raised his arms to replace the vase, the spotlight caught the fine hairs on his skin and made them reflect like silver, sparkling over the definition of his muscles, the knob of his wrist. His flesh and bone seemed somehow more vulnerable than the damaged clay, too insubstantial to hold the light the way the celadon did. When the vase was safely set down, flawless side out, Bryan drew one of Nilsson's hands to his lips and kissed it, then held it tightly. Nilsson offered no protest. 65

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The tour was over far too quickly for Bryan's taste. They stood gazing at a lovely red bowl at the end—"They call it oxblood," Nilsson told him, and the color had a disturbing intensity that suited the name—and Bryan could sense from the looseness of Nilsson's hand in his own that no further invitation would be extended that night. "Thank you," he said, pulling on the hand so that Nilsson would come close enough to kiss. "Mmm," Nilsson said, and drew the kiss out for a few seconds. "I'm going to be working flat out for the next few weeks, babe. I've got to try and get a firing in every week between now and mid-November. My client was planning to use the dishes for Thanksgiving, so I've got to get something to him." "How much can you fit in a firing?" "I figure two place settings and two other pieces. One piece, if it's a covered bowl. The kiln looks big, I know, but the interior of that firing chamber is a lot smaller than the outside would lead you to believe." Nilsson sighed. "I've got seven weeks, and most of this one will have to go to installing the new intakes. I'll probably be lucky to get five loads done. Less, if it doesn't go right the very first time or the weather doesn't cooperate." Bryan massaged Nilsson's palm. "I've got no commitments. I can keep you company at the studio, or out here if you want." There was a flash of longing in Nilsson's eyes; Bryan was sure of it. Nilsson wanted the company. But— 66

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"And make me thoroughly distracted. No can do." Nilsson kissed Bryan's hands and freed himself. "I'll call you if I get a break, though." They walked to the door. "Have you given Hank an answer about the wedding?" Nilsson asked. Bryan glanced at him sharply. Was that a non sequitur? Or was it a hint that Nilsson might be claiming a work excuse to give Bryan space? Space he didn't want. Space he loathed. "Not yet," he said as casually as he could. They kissed one more time on the doorstep, and Bryan added firmly, "I'll stop by next week to get an update." That night of cuddling on the couch felt like forever ago. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Seven It was actually Friday when Bryan found himself at the studio—or, rather, in the shop. The "Rachel" that Miguel had spoken of in connection with the co-op turned out to be Rachel Bannon, a fiber artist who wove stunning wall hangings. "You need them to warm up that apartment of yours and make it stop echoing," Pam told him frankly, and sent him to Gaia. So here he was again, purportedly to talk to Louise and set up another appointment. Wall hangings couldn't hold his attention when Nilsson was just beyond a pane of glass, though. While Louise spoke on the phone, Bryan wandered over the window. Nilsson was bent over a potter's wheel on which a graybrown form was whirling, wet and sleek. He was craning his neck around the piece as far as he could, apparently checking its symmetry. As Louise finished the arrangements with Rachel, Nilsson stopped the wheel and sliced free a low, wide bowl. Only when he turned to set it on the workbench did he give any indication of noticing Bryan. Was the smile a little strained? The wave seemed jaunty enough. That was it; another lump of clay was tossed on the wheel, and Nilsson bent to his work again. Louise was waiting patiently when Bryan looked back. "It's kind of fascinating to watch," he excused himself. 68

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"Oh, absolutely," she said. "He's always so generous about setting up so that people can really see what he's doing. There's a touch of the showman in that boy." She winked at Bryan. "Do you know if he got that kiln problem sorted out?" "I believe so. He didn't mention any details, but I know he was up all night on Wednesday doing a test firing, and today he's been throwing that same bowl over and over." "Service for twenty-four," Bryan murmured. "He'll throw a good few more than that in the end," Louise said knowledgeably. "He'll want to choose the best." "I wish he'd take a break and relax. He's working too much." Louise shook her head. "You'd probably have to tie him down to get him to stay put when he's in one of these fits." There were only nine bowls on the bench so far. Bryan sighed, thanked Louise, and went on with some more shopping. He was back the following Tuesday. He had tried, he really had, but no one could humanly expect him to last any longer without meaningful contact. Friday didn't count. He thought it was pretty damned heroic that he'd made it through the weekend. This time, he arrived at the back door right after the studio opened. The clay sign gleamed in the morning sun, affirming Nilsson's unchanging schedule, guaranteeing success for Bryan's quest. He touched it for luck as he passed. It was annoying to see a small group of people there before him, but they left soon after—someone's out-of-state 69

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relatives wanting to meet the artist. Nilsson turned to him after waving the visitors off, and Bryan smiled hesitantly. "Just checking in," he said. "How's it going?" Nilsson didn't smile back. "It goes." He walked to a large wooden bin and hauled out fresh clay. Bryan followed. "What happened with the kiln?" He didn't ask, Why didn't you call me? Nilsson apparently heard it anyway. "It takes days to do a reduction firing in a kiln like that, especially when the weather is this cold. You can't open up the kiln until the interior has cooled to the exterior temperature. Otherwise, the ware cracks. I wasn't really sure until last night, but it's much, much better. There were fifteen pieces in the kiln, and only three of them failed. Miguel gave me more adjustments, and I'll do another firing as soon as I can." "That's great news," Bryan said, sincerely meaning it. "Can you use the pieces from the test?" "Yes, thank God. Next time, I'll do two more place settings plus replacements for the three failed pieces, and by Monday I should have four complete place settings. I hope." Nilsson began cutting the clay with something that looked uncomfortably like a garrote—a length of sturdy wire with wooden pegs at either end. Nilsson drew it through the big, solid lump several times with ease. Bryan looked away. "So, um. You got time for a drink tonight?" Pull the wire, turn the lump. "No, I'm sorry." "Later in the week?" Nilsson put the garrote down, and Bryan let out his breath. "I don't think so, Bryan." 70

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They looked at each other across the table. For the first time, it occurred to Bryan that maybe Hank, and Miguel, and silly misunderstandings about wives were all beside the point. Maybe Nilsson had plain lost interest. He certainly didn't seem to feel any of the hunger for contact that Bryan felt. "Okay. Just, let me ask you—would you rather I not come back?" Bryan's knees went weak at the look of sheer surprise on Nilsson's face. "No! Did I— Well, I guess I did. It's... well, I can't say it's 'not about you,' exactly, but you aren't the reason why I'm too busy to go out." "Do I get to ask what the reason is?" There was a pause as Nilsson began to knead the clay. "I've been focused on work for a long time," he said at last. "It takes a lot to make a living at something impractical like pottery. You've got to keep a pipeline of students coming in, you've got to be out there and be seen to drive commissions. You've got to keep the touristy places stocked with appealing stuff. You've got to find hours to sit and work the clay if you want to grow creatively." His eyes stayed focused on his hands, but for the first time in a couple weeks, Bryan felt like Nilsson's attention was really on him. "And, if you find you like working with kids, as I did when Zach grew older, then you'd best convince their parents that you're a safe person to trust their kids to. With the way I started out here, the kind of lifestyle we lived those first couple years, it's been a hell of an uphill battle. I'm grateful every day for Ron Tibbs." 71

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It was Bryan's turn to be caught off guard. "I met him once at Pam's. He seems like... he just talks about baseball and his kids." Nilsson nodded. "He adores Jennie. Her and Zach both. He never questioned her about anything, and Jennie's the kind of woman who rewards trust like that. He's never limited my access to Zach, even though we both know Zach's not mine. He's always been pleased to have me around, even in public." Nilsson covered the clay with a damp cloth. "That gave me a chance, when I finally had the brains to see it. I get the chance to teach kids and referee soccer games and have feature spots on public television because Ron Tibbs has never turned a hair about having some polyamorous weirdo as part of his extended family. And I am not going to screw that up." Nilsson began taking down what looked like modeling forms from one of the shelves behind the work table. Bryan watched, thinking about what "screw that up" might mean. "So... no relationships?" "I didn't say that." Nilsson set down a long, oval form and sighed. "When I was first out of college, I thought I was An Artist." He hooked air quotes. "I went after every whim, every urge, because that's how artists free their art, right? It was a total disaster. The whole thing blew up in my face, and I didn't believe I could fix it. "I highly doubt Ron Tibbs meant to be a role model, but at some point I realized this boring old fart had everything I'd ever thought I loved. He worked hard, he didn't pretend, and he wasn't afraid of what other people might think. Including 72

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his friends. He was happy, too. I guess I could have hated him for it, but I never did. He's so unselfish with that boring happiness of his, I just... He makes me, the freaky fairy, want to clap my hands to show how much I believe in his humanity, you know? And when my hands are busy clapping—" he gestured to the studio around them, "—other things have to wait. I'm sorry. I'll understand if that's not something you want to do. I know 'I'm busy' is probably the last thing you want to hear, in fact." "Yeah." That brought Nilsson's eyes up to Bryan again, and Bryan had to smile around his disappointment. "If I can't stand it anymore, I'll let you know." Bryan glimpsed surprise, and maybe a hint of respect, in those gray-green eyes. After a moment, Nilsson nodded. "Fair enough." **** The weekend came and went. Nilsson called once to let Bryan know the second firing looked perfect. The again on Friday to say a third firing was a success. Six place settings. One serving dish and cover. Four weeks left. Halloween was a week away and election lawn signs were everywhere. The campaigns had all been vitriolic, so Bryan did his best to block his ears and focus on making the apartment into a lived-in space. He bought three big wall hangings from Rachel, who was such a smiling, earthy woman that he didn't mind listening to her talk about erotic colors to heat up the bedroom. She recommended a painter, the ordinary, wall-painting kind, except the guy got a kick out of 73

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experimenting with stencils and faux techniques, which was fun in the dining room—really the playroom, now—and in the guest room, where the kids' outlandish beds formed the basis of a carnival theme that was downright magical. In his own bedroom, they went with the look of old Italian terra cotta, complementing the wall hanging, the deep blue of Nilsson's fountain, and the black wrought iron of the bed. It made the room dark, but Bryan liked it that way. He had an electrician come in to install some indirect lighting, then bought a big dresser with a mirror and a matching pair of nightstands that didn't look too overwhelmed by the bed. A few tasteful accessories, including one or two very special items, completed the decor. All that was left was waiting for the opportunity to show it off to Nilsson. At length. Indulgently. The opportunity kept not arriving. Again the weekend came and went. In desperation, he called Pam and asked what the schedule was for the indoor soccer league. "Call Jennie," she suggested. "Her daughter plays in that." Bryan wasn't proud. He called Jennie. "A sports fan?" she teased him gently. "Or are you in the mood to take in some local scenery?" "I am... desperate to take in some local scenery," he said, and though he had meant to be arch, the underlying strain was obvious even to his own ears. "Oh, my dear," Jennie said. "There's a game tomorrow afternoon. I'll meet you at the arena. You need someone to hold your hand." 74

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The offer of a hand-hold was almost tempting. Jennie was a cuddly armful, and God knew Bryan was starved for contact. Besides, it turned out to be damned cold in that arena. As he sat with her in the bleachers the next day, however, he was happy enough simply to appreciate her easy acceptance. She was an enthusiastic one-woman cheering squad and actually knew the game, which was more than he could say for himself. Nilsson in the yellow and black referee's uniform was a thing of beauty, despite the unflattering cut of the shorts. Bryan, watching with painful attentiveness, could see Nilsson become looser, easier in his skin, as the game progressed. The teams were made up of seven to nine year olds, so the action wasn't blindingly fast. Nilsson jogged up and down the pitch, only occasionally putting on a burst of speed to catch a better angle on a play. Bryan wondered if it was coincidence that they were sitting rather close to a part of the field where Nilsson paused often. Bless Jennie for picking great seats, anyhow. It struck him that he had never had such an opportunity to look at Nilsson before, really look. He was more familiar with how those long muscles moved under his fingers or over his body than with how they appeared in motion, bunched with effort or stretching with propulsive energy. Nilsson was all angles, which the long, bare legs only emphasized. Bryan thought that all those strong lines just gave a guy—say, Bryan—more ways to get a nice, firm grip when things got fast and sweaty. 75

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"Is the scenery everything you hoped for?" Jennie asked, and Bryan realized he hadn't spoken to her for the last ten minutes or so. He blushed. "I'm sorry, Jennie. I know I'm not very good company." "I'm guessing, from what I've heard through the grapevine, that Nilsson's gone into one of his slave-to-the-kiln phases. True?" "True," he admitted. "Yup." She watched Nilsson for a minute. "He looks like hell." "What?" She cocked an eyebrow at him. "He's too skinny. He's not getting into the game like he usually does. Besides that, he's got bags under his eyes. If he's firing that outdoor kiln Miguel was talking about last time I saw him, he's probably staying up half the night to bring it to temperature. That's fine once or twice, or when you're twenty, but I'll bet he's been doing it for weeks." "I don't know," Bryan said, looking at Nilsson differently now. "He said he'd done a bunch of firings that went wrong before Miguel came, and he's been doing one every five or six days since then." "Way too much." Jennie shook her head. "I wish I could get him to take a break," Bryan muttered. As she'd threatened, she took his hand and held it. "I was never able to get him to do it, m'dear. It's the nature of the beast. Don't be too hard on yourself." Bryan pulled his lower lip between his teeth and worried it. The question on the tip of his tongue was grossly 76

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inappropriate, but Jennie was the only one who knew the answer and was safe to ask. He wavered, until finally, he asked. "Jennie, what was between Nilsson and Miguel? You don't have to tell me if you don't want," he added hastily, "it's just that Nilsson... changed after Miguel was here. He was so angry, and then he completely withdrew. He called it work, like you said, but... I don't believe him." Jennie patted the hand she held. "Poor Bryan." For the length of a held breath, he thought that might be all she would say. At last, she spoke. "Miguel is a dear, sweet, amoral bastard. The only thing Miguel cares about is what he wants. He never means any harm by it, but he's never careful, either. "None of us really noticed it when we were younger. Everyone's like that when they're young, I imagine. And we were all infatuated with the idea of setting up the co-op, making art, sharing... everything." She sighed, and her eyes followed Nilsson down the pitch. "Nilsson and I married because it seemed like the easiest way to make the things we wanted happen. If we married, we'd get a lot of cash as presents. I knew I could get my parents to put a down payment on the studio. Stuff like that. Not very pretty. We loved each other, too, of course, somewhere under all the selfishness. He told me he was bi; I told him I wasn't interested in having a family yet. We both meant what we said, I think, but those things turned out not to be true. "There were seven of us, and we all worked in the studio Nilsson has now and lived in a renovated barn a couple miles 77

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out of town. We did all right with the whole free love and free art thing for about a year. Then I'm fairly sure that Miguel fell in love with Nilsson. Or something like love." "Miguel said they'd had fun," Bryan said. "I think Miguel did. He used to have to get Nilsson stoned before he could drag Nilsson along in his antics, though." "Nilsson doesn't seem like an antics kind of guy." "He's not. You can imagine what it would take to get him to dance in a fountain in his underwear." Bryan's laugh was too sudden to smother. "Him and Miguel?" "Nope." Jennie paused. "Nilsson was the only one in his underwear. Miguel was naked except for some body paint he stole from Rachel." "Oh, I wish I'd seen that!" Jennie's grin flickered briefly. "It was funny, but it wasn't Nilsson. They fought a lot when Nilsson wasn't stoned. Miguel kept tinkering with the kilns and not telling anyone about the new specs, and we lost a lot of work. Nilsson finally blew up over that, but I didn't hear about it right away. So when Miguel—" She stopped. "Don't," he said. She smiled at him gratefully. "Anyway," she continued, "things went on for another six months or so, and then Miguel took the cash from our common fund and went off to be a kiln guy. I'd found out I was pregnant by then, and Nilsson... All of us letting him down like that almost did him in, I think. There weren't... there had never been boundaries between our work and our 78

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personal lives. Nothing was private. When Miguel left, it put a big hole in everything, and the co-op just collapsed. "Nilsson became really self-destructive for awhile, and I moved home with my parents to have the baby. We tried again after Zach was born, the three of us in that chalet, but we knew right away it wasn't happening. So my parents paid for the divorce, and that was that." It was Bryan's turn to pat her hand. She leaned her shoulder against his. "The lesson I learned was to make things special and give them their space. I think the lesson Nilsson learned was that anything other than the work would eventually bite him in the ass, so he should make work the priority." She sighed. "He has ever since, as far as I can tell. Whenever Miguel comes around, multiply that intensity by ten." On the field, the final minutes of the game were ticking down. "I think you should go down to the sidelines," Jennie said. "He's going to have to go take a shower and everything," Bryan said. Jennie's grin returned and stayed this time. "Exactly." **** They walked in silence to the men's locker room. By the far entrance, the one adjoining the arena's outdoor basketball courts, some guys were getting changed, but the end of the room closest to the soccer pitch was empty except for Nilsson and Bryan. Bryan straddled one of the benches and tried not 79

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to be obvious about breathing deeply whenever Nilsson brushed past. Fresh sweat and warmed skin; delicious. Of course, the newly scrubbed and shampooed version was pretty nice, too. Helping Nilsson rub lotion over his shoulders was pure bonus. Nilsson saying, "Back to work for me," though, wasn't so hot. Bryan was tired of that word "work." There had been something other than "work" in Nilsson's expression when those gray-green eyes lighted on Bryan coming down from the stands. It was time for that iron discipline to bend a little. "Let's get a drink before you go back," he coaxed. "Twenty minutes, I swear." "Can't," Nilsson said. "If I drink on an empty stomach when I'm all warmed up like this, it'll give me a buzz and throw my eye out. I won't get anything worthwhile done." "If your stomach's empty, then you need to eat something." "I can get a protein bar—" "Tell you what. You drive your car to my place and park in my lot. I'll stop and pick up some takeout. We'll eat something with real vegetables and meat in it. Then you can walk to work from my place." He could see Nilsson wavering. "China Emperor's Palace," he wheedled. "Moo goo gai pan. Crab rangoons. Won ton soup!" Nilsson held up both hands. "I surrender! Spring rolls. General Tso's chicken." "Done." Bryan tossed his apartment keys over. "Don't peek while you're waiting. I want to give you the tour." 80

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"I'll sit in the middle of the living room with my hands over my eyes," Nilsson promised dryly. Not quite that drastic, perhaps, but Nilsson was perched on one of the living room window sills when Bryan hustled through the apartment door that Nilsson had thoughtfully left open. He nudged it shut with his butt and noticed—not that it had to mean anything—that the window Nilsson had chosen overlooked the parking lot Bryan had just pulled into, not the more picturesque view toward the pedestrian mall and the studio. Bryan plonked the bags on the kitchen counter and started setting out containers, checking each one to make sure it was still hot. He slid a couple things in the microwave for a quick minute, and tossed a wrapper of spring rolls at Nilsson. "Start. It's nearly ready." It was surprising how much Chinese food one could eat, Bryan thought. He wasn't even that hungry, but he didn't want to make Nilsson self-conscious by stopping. No hardship was involved; the Emperor's food was addictively good. By the time things had slowed down to the nibble stage, the half-formed idea lurking in Bryan's mind had become a fixation. It was Nilsson's lazy look of satiation that decided him. Or maybe it was the way Nilsson's arms stretched wide across the back of the sectional, making his shirt strain over his chest and his biceps hump up. Or it could have been— It was everything. Nilsson, the last few weeks of loneliness, Miguel and Hank and Scouts and soccer. Everything. He wanted, and he was so, so sick of wanting all alone. 81

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Bryan stood up and offered his hand. "Come on, I'll give you the tour." "The living room is coming together," Nilsson said, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. "Still waiting on the rocker. Pam says she really did buy it, but I'm starting to have doubts." "Instant gratification boy," Nilsson chided. Bryan shrugged and smiled. They wandered through the exuberant playroom and on down the hall to the guest bedroom, where Nilsson applauded the carousel horse painted on the wall between the beds. Outside the master bedroom, though, he tried to hesitate. Pretending not to notice, Bryan spun some twaddle or other about the faux painting and kept right on going, pulling Nilsson along. Inside the door, he pushed Nilsson ahead, then turned on the lights. He heard Nilsson's intake of breath. "Oh, Bryan. It's stunning." "And I picked out the dresser and tables myself, thankyouverymuch." Nilsson laughed. "I never doubted your taste. Only your ability to resist the wiles of your niece and nephew." He walked toward the bed, and Bryan rejoiced. It was going to be easy. Nilsson stroked the sheets. "You need something with a more textured look against a silk comforter like this." "Yeah?" Bryan said, opening a tooled leather box on the dresser. The tinkling fountain provided a tranquil cover for the small sound. 82

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"I think so. The color's good, but a solid is too flat. What happened to 'I heart Justin Bieber'?" "I hearted him into the linen closet, except when Abigail is staying over. Do you like the hanging Rachel put between the windows?" Nilsson looked up and gave the piece a considering look. He didn't react when Bryan took his hand in an unhurried way. When the cuff clicked, though, he glanced down. In the next moment, Bryan had attached the long chain to one of the twisted ribbons of metal that formed the headboard. Wrapped in vinyl, the links had not given a tell-tale rattle. "Bondage bed," Bryan murmured, pulling Nilsson's body against his. "You said so yourself." "Bryan, I don't have time for—" Bryan knew a kiss wouldn't distract Nilsson forever. He knew he couldn't play this scene out if Nilsson didn't go along. All he could hope was that a kiss would forestall resistance long enough for him to make his case. He allowed himself the cheat of cupping Nilsson's face with one hand to keep it in place, and lowered his head to capture Nilsson's lips. Surfing was good. Surfing taught a guy how to ride subtle movements, strengthened his core so he could respond to anything. When Nilsson's body stiffened, Bryan's body gentled, staying close. When Nilsson's feet shifted, Bryan slid one of his own between. When Nilsson's hands came up to Bryan's shoulders, Bryan stayed calm, waiting to see which way the touch would go. They swayed, finely balanced. Nilsson's mouth hadn't said no. If it hadn't exactly welcomed Bryan in, it hadn't shut against him, either. Bryan 83

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could tell that Nilsson was trying to stay passive. That wasn't going to work. Their bodies knew what came next and were showing every eagerness to get there, regardless of how quiet Nilsson's mouth was. The push at Bryan's shoulders was tentative. He could move with it, letting his hips come forward as his upper body shifted back. Oh, God. He undulated again, his prick riding the seam of his jeans, sharing the friction with Nilsson. Like the first night. Only this time, Bryan was the one dominating the kiss, bending Nilsson back, sweeping his tongue insistently along the sensitive roof of Nilsson's mouth. The hands at Bryan's shoulders clutched hard. The strong thighs pressed to his went soft, letting Bryan take the weight as Nilsson yielded. Clung. Moaned low, convulsively. Bryan stopped thinking. His hands slid down to that muscled ass and began kneading in time with the drive of his hips. He'd been thinking too much, waiting for an invitation. That had been the problem from the beginning. Showing Nilsson what he needed felt so much better. Showing meant rough, rhythmic pressure right where Bryan ached for it, humping hard, releasing Nilsson's mouth to gasp for air, to bite at the pale shoulder where Nilsson's shirt had been dragged away. A harsh cry and a bucking jab of the hips was Nilsson's way of showing Bryan an answer. Nilsson needed, too. Too long denied, they were coming in their jeans, the wet heat spreading over Bryan's skin as he shuddered.

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They toppled onto the bed, Nilsson splayed and panting, eyes closed. Bryan didn't hesitate to nudge the long legs farther apart, making Nilsson accommodate him. He unbuttoned Nilsson's sweat-soaked shirt and began to suck at the coppery nipples, keeping Nilsson's breathing rough. The second cuff was loose around Bryan's arm, ready to take its rightful place on Nilsson's wrist. He could just slip it on. Nilsson was pliant, sated; Bryan could do anything. Passivity wasn't enough. He wanted more, and he wasn't going to shy away from asking for what he wanted any longer. "Babe," he said hoarsely, lifting his head. Nilsson's eyes opened. He bit the swollen lips gently, seeking another moan, getting it. Another one. Almost, he was distracted from his original purpose. Eventually, though, he shifted his weight and brought his cuffed arm around to where Nilsson could see it. "I want to put this on you," Bryan said. "May I?" Nilsson's eyes went to the cuff. The orgasmic flush that had been fading from his skin surged back. Bryan felt more than heard the little gasp in Nilsson's next breath. A spiral of giddy exultation began to rise from the pit of Bryan's belly. "Why?" Nilsson challenged. It wasn't a refusal. "So you'll stay put while I touch you as much as I want," Bryan answered baldly. "And maybe listen when I tell you how often I've been alone in this damned bed, wishing we were in it together." 85

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The few waiting seconds were agony. Then Nilsson held out his bare arm. Sighing with relief, Bryan lifted himself clear, leaning down to give Nilsson one more soft, grateful kiss before adjusting the new cuff around the prominent bones of Nilsson's left wrist. He remembered how the light had sparkled there. It was the only point where Nilsson had ever seemed delicate. Bryan encased the wrist carefully, making sure the padding under the wide band was protecting all the skin before he clicked the cuff shut. Then he unhooked the chain, ran it behind more of the headboard's metal rods, and clipped the end to the waiting D-ring on the second cuff. Nilsson's range of motion was restricted now, both arms stretched loosely above his head. His nipples pushed forward, still damp from Bryan's tongue. The look in Nilsson's eyes was feral and knowing at the same time: a man who had gambled everything and was waiting to find out if he'd won. Bryan intended to pay out. First, there were jeans to get rid of. That gave him the opportunity to search out the tender spots behind Nilsson's knees, watching the swelling thigh muscles twitch. He used new washcloths, decadently soft, to wipe the semen and sweat from their bodies, starting fresh. When he was nude, the room felt cool to Bryan's skin, so he turned the thermostat up another ten degrees. Better they should sweat more. Then he stepped back to the bed and finally, finally began to look his fill at the long, lean body there. 86

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He'd never noticed the faint appendectomy scar before. Or the brash little cowlicks in the hair trailing down from Nilsson's navel. Yeah, maybe the skin was stretched a bit too tightly over the ribs and the hipbones, but it was beautiful skin, milky pale and smooth where darks hairs didn't texture its surface. Nilsson's breathing was beginning to calm, his cock heavy but not hard. The wildness was fading from his gaze, and Bryan wanted none of that. Enough of setting the stage. There was a statement to be made about wanting and asking and getting, and it was going to be delivered tonight. He lowered himself to the mattress, propping his head up on one hand and letting the other rest below the jut of Nilsson's ribs. A sensitive spot revealed itself where the tracery of bone gave way to the belly's vulnerability, and he stroked it. Nilsson took a deep breath. After a few moments, he began to move, just a hint of an arch to his back. "Feels good, yeah?" Bryan said. "Yeah." "This is what I've wanted." "A partner who lies there doing nothing?" Nilsson's chuckle was mere bravado. His cock was hard now. "A lover who will give me everything if I will give it back." Bryan leaned in, tonguing one peaking nipple. He heard the noise of the chain as Nilsson tried to bring cuffed hands down, then Nilsson's whispered curse. Bryan lengthened his stroke, letting his fingers slide all the way to the base of Nilsson's cock. Only to tease, only to test how thick and high 87

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the stalk had grown. He liked the guttural sounds that emerged from above his head every time he bumped, every time he withdrew. The room was warm and humid around them, scented with their bodies. The trickle of the fountain and the touch of silk from the comforter made an oasis of the moment; it was entirely theirs. Outside of time. Together. It was what he had dreamed of. Need shuddered through him. He lurched to his knees, reaching blindly for the nightstand drawer. Nilsson watched with heavy-lidded eyes as Bryan rolled on a condom. "Stop," he said when Bryan uncapped the lube. Bryan looked up. Nilsson licked his lips slowly, then parted them in blatant invitation. "Oh, God," Bryan whispered. He eased himself up until he was straddling Nilsson's chest. The lips opened further under the touch of his fingertip. He smoothed the upper, then the lower, before carefully feeding his aching erection between them. The suction was immediate, ferocious, and Bryan cried out with excruciating bliss. Fumbling, he found Nilsson's hands and gripped them, letting the potter's skillful touch balance him as he jerked, helpless in the grip of Nilsson's hunger. Suddenly, the ravishing lips pulled back. Bryan gasped and swayed. "Just like that," Nilsson said hoarsely. "Go in just like that." The latex glistened in the low light. "Babe, babe, it's gonna burn," Bryan groaned. "Show me. Burn me up." 88

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"Okay. Okay." He shifted to one side. "On your knees, babe," he said, helping Nilsson turn. The chain was just long enough to allow it, forcing Nilsson's wrists to cross well above the pillow. Bryan coaxed Nilsson's knees into a more stable, more decadent spread. The dark hair was tousled across the pillow, Nilsson's forehead pressed deep into the foam. Beads of sweat were already beginning to trickle down the slope from the high curve of his ass to the low jut of his shoulder blades. "Now," came the muffled demand. Bryan almost smiled. Stilling the wanton roll of Nilsson's hips, he exposed the puckered hole and thrust his tongue deep. The cry that shook Nilsson's body was exhilarating; the repetition even more so as Bryan continued to thrust, working the opening until it was wet and flexing. Only then did Bryan drive his painfully throbbing cock into that welcoming heat, Nilsson's shout conquered and triumphant as it vibrated through the humid air. **** There was another body in his bed. Not lying down. A body should be lying down. Sleeping. Didn't he remember being exhausted as he fell asleep? Everyone should be asleep now. Bryan opened his eyes. His right arm was crooked over Nilsson's thighs, the hand wrapped around a hipbone. Nilsson himself was sitting up, most of the pillows piled behind him to cushion the bondage headboard. One wrist was directly in Bryan's line of sight, the marks on it clear but not too cufflike, thank God. Bryan hadn't meant to advertise the night's 89

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events, and Nilsson's sleeves were always rolled up in the studio. What Bryan really wanted, though, was to see Nilsson's face. He pushed himself into a sitting position. Nilsson wasn't looking at him; the angular profile was turned quietly toward the windows. They sat like that for a moment. "I've always wondered about your name." Bryan didn't know why it mattered to him right then, but it did. "It's Nilsson," Nilsson replied, smiling the tiniest possible smile. "The rest of it." "Lukas. With a 'k.' It's traditional name in Sweden, but they usually spell it with a 'c.'" "I like it." "Too Biblical," Nilsson said curtly, and flung the bedclothes aside to get up. This was not going well. "How about some breakfast? Eggs Benedict at Annie's?" Bryan said, naming a little diner not far away. Nilsson had pulled on his jeans and was trying to find a way to button his crumpled shirt. He glanced up and abandoned the buttons. Perching on Bryan's side of the bed, he let his hands rest in his lap. He stared down at them as he spoke. Or maybe his eyes were focused on the purple marks on his wrists; Bryan couldn't tell. "Last night... you meant to blow my mind." No way to deny that one. "Yes." "Which you did. I don't like it. I can't afford that feeling right now. I know," he said, holding up a hand to forestall 90

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Bryan's response. "I know what your point was. I think you proved it pretty thoroughly," he added, humor glinting through as he met Bryan's gaze briefly. "But it's one thing to prove your point, and it's something else to change my life because of it." Bryan didn't have an answer for that. He'd never gotten as far as thinking about 'what happened after.' Showing Nilsson the mutuality of their need was supposed to resolve things all by itself. "All right," he responded cautiously, waiting for more. Nilsson stood up. "Okay." "Okay, what?" "Okay, I have three weeks and a bit before my client shows up to get his dishes. I'm going to work. You're going to wait, or decide you can't wait. Just like we agreed before." The last bit of post-coital wonderfulness evaporated. "You're going to pretend it didn't happen? That you didn't—" "I gave you what you wanted. Now I'm telling you what I want," Nilsson overrode him. "That's the bottom line, isn't it?" The green stare was as hard as ice now. Checkmate. "Yes." Nilsson gave one swift nod. "Take care," he said. Just like that, Bryan was once again left with the long echo of footsteps walking away down the concrete stairwell. **** He was angry, he realized. Though he didn't call it anger until he went looking for the apartment keys and couldn't find 91

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them. Half the place was in shambles before he remembered that he'd given them to Nilsson the night before. Damn it. It took two days to get a new set from his landlord. There weren't a lot of places he needed to be, fortunately, and he figured a thief would have to be pretty energetic to climb four flights anyway. He merely closed the door, left the living room television on when he went out, and hoped for the best. There were all kinds of Halloween pageants and parties and yadda yadda scheduled for the week to distract him. It was annoying to discover that Fred was still infatuated with clay, and hanging out with Zach more as a result. He seemed to stumble over the two of them modeling critters at the kitchen table every time he went to Pam's to check out the latest costume (Abigail had three). Friday afternoon, along with most of the adults in town, Bryan was outside the primary school waiting for the grand parade. This was the Big Deal: Abigail was parading as an angel, and getting the iridescent taffeta wings to set exactly so had been the cause of much heartburn that morning. "I just hope she didn't sit on them in class," Pam anguished. "I just hope the rain holds off," Bryan responded, scowling at the lowering sky. Keith joined them late, looking uncharacteristically somber. "Hey." "What's up?" Bryan said amiably. Keith looked at his wife. "I didn't ask you," she snapped. Abashed, Keith said, "Uh, not much." Bryan's attention was caught. "Not much, what?" 92

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Keith sighed. "Nothing. Here come the kids." The parade lasted twenty minutes or so, ending with the announcement of the costume contest winners (honorable mention, Abigail Galloway, Grade Three) and coffee and doughnuts for the chilled adults. As he poured half and half into his cup, Bryan heard, "—policy is clear about it. They're going to have to stop using him." "I don't get it. Nilsson's no Boy Scout." "Doesn't matter. The Scouts can't put him in front of kids as a role model if he's out. Or outed." Bryan swung around. Ron Tibbs, looking flustered, was saying to a guy Bryan didn't know, "Who would have done that? Nilsson's been teaching the kids for years. It's been a perfect opportunity for dozens of boys and girls in this town!" "What happened?" Bryan asked quietly. The stranger tilted a questioning look at Tibbs, who stuck out a hand and said, "Fletcher. Good to see you. This is Pete Jensen, a business associate of mine from Columbus." "Nice to meet you, sir," Bryan said to the older man. "Pete, please. I don't like to be the one to spread the gossip, you understand..." "Bryan's a good friend of Nilsson's," Tibbs interjected. "I see." If anything, Jensen looked even more uncomfortable. "Well, I don't have the details, only the first report on the newspaper's web site. It's just a rewritten press release." He pulled out an iPhone and tapped at it nervously. Then he turned it around to show Bryan. Local Politician Demands BSA Investigation 93

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Mark Randolph, currently locked in a tight re-election battle with challenger Janice Evans for the 76th District House seat, has announced he is seeking an investigation into reports that groups within the Boy Scouts' Crystal Rock Area Council 1238 have been condoning the hire of 'open, practicing homosexuals' for merit badge training of boys as young as eleven. Randolph alleges that three individuals, including Adam Bennett, Lukas Nilsson, and David Friedenthal, are known to local council representatives to be homosexual, which according to BSA policy would bar these individuals from participation in any BSA-sanctioned... Bryan didn't ask to see the rest of it. He looked at Tibbs instead. "Where's Jennie?" **** It was like a council of war with no battle to fight. Jennie and Pam traded cell phones and rumors as calls came pouring in, while Ron, Keith, and Bryan alternately paced the kitchen or tried to keep the kids distracted in the next room. "We can make a statement," Pam was saying. "They might pick it up in Columbus." "I don't think we can get enough parents to sign it," Jennie said. "You'd need a good number, forty or fifty at least, to get the attention of the media in Columbus. I don't think most of them will go for it." "I think you're right." Pam's elbows dropped onto the kitchen table, and Keith stepped over to rub her shoulders. "What's going to happen with the indoor soccer league?" Ron asked his wife. "Is this going to scare them off?" 94

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"God, I hadn't even thought about that," Jennie said. "I better make some calls." She lifted the phone again. "I'm going for a walk," Bryan said to Keith in a low voice. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pam's head turn, but he didn't look at her. "You all right, man?" "Yeah. Don't worry." He had to get some air. Think. Though he wasn't surprised when his feet took him to the studio. It was a fair walk, nearly two miles, but an easy one. The air was crisp and there was no snow on the ground. He could see the lights blazing from every high window as he approached the building. And music. He'd never heard music playing in the studio before, but it was playing now, something loud and very, very angry. Bryan could relate. Under the cover of the sound, he could walk right up to the door. It vibrated under his fingertips. Leaning his ear against it, he heard the slap of clay hitting the wheel—or maybe it had landed on a worktable, where Nilsson would draw the lethal wire through it again and again. He could imagine Nilsson's fury, Nilsson's fear. He'd felt it himself during the early days of Ivanex, when they'd gambled the rent money to pay suppliers who didn't deliver or a major client had canceled an order after the goods were made. The life and death days when every penny counted. Nilsson lived those days every day, and some goon with a campaign machine had just steepened the odds. What would the loss of so many students mean? Would there be a backlash from the private clients? Would squeakyclean public television ever feature the studio again? Bryan 95

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had heard the cliche that there was no such thing as bad publicity, but he didn't believe it. It was too easy for the public to turn away and never look back. Bryan's hand went to the door handle. Nilsson needed to know that Bryan hadn't turned his back. His gaze fell on the clay tile, still there, still spot lit. Still telling Bryan that the unchanging commitment in Nilsson's life was to be at the studio, nine a.m. to one p.m., Monday through Friday and by appointment. I'm telling you what I want. That's the bottom line, isn't it? Believe what he might about what was in Nilsson's heart, that really was the bottom line. When the crisis came down, Nilsson had retreated to the studio. No special pleading from Bryan could change that. He'd exposed their naked, mutual need and let Nilsson choose. Then and now, bottom line, Nilsson had chosen the work. Bryan turned away and began to walk again. **** Sleep had never been difficult for him. Paddling in the surf, catching the big one, and fooling around on the beach encouraged sound snoozing. It was unusual for him to see the wrong side of two a.m., unless it was to wake up for another amorous round with the latest beach bunny. Bryan hadn't tried to sleep tonight, actually, so his antiinsomnia mojo hadn't been tested yet. It didn't feel like time to sleep. He was sitting in the window Nilsson hadn't chosen the other night, the one looking toward the studio. He had been 96

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able to tell when the lights shut off there, somewhere around midnight. Pam had called several times, and Bryan had taken most of them. She never mentioned hearing from Nilsson. Jennie had managed to get in touch with all the leaders of the indoor soccer league, and the verdict there had been universal: everyone wanted Nilsson to stay on. As Pam had feared, however, very few parents had shown willingness to sign their names to anything. At least it worked both ways. Almost none of them were showing any support for Randolph's demands, either. "It's kind of a 'yeah, he's a faggot, but he's our faggot' reaction. They don't like political types from Columbus poking into local business," Pam said. "If they hang on to that mood long enough to get to the ballot box on Tuesday, that's all I ask," Bryan replied. Not that any vote was going to change Boy Scout policy. The phone had finally gone silent an hour or so ago. He was cold and cramped on the sill, but the town was pretty at night, a low panoply of orange and white and yellow lights that was oddly appropriate to the Halloween season. Looking at them, he wasn't conscious of thinking, and that was good. He didn't want to think. There was thinking that needed doing, he admitted. Hank's wedding. Whether to stay in Ohio. Deciding what to do when he grew up, now that he had enough stock options to command his own destiny. Other decisions didn't seem to be his anymore. Those were the ones he really didn't want to think about. He stared down at the empty streets and watched the lights twinkle. 97

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He didn't notice at first because he'd never heard the sound before. Or never, at least, when it was the only sound to be heard. It echoed hollowly, rattling around like it didn't know where to go. After a few seconds, he could tell that it was coming closer, resolving into something sharp and substantial as it came. The sound of footsteps climbing the stairs. Bryan didn't know whether to be terrified or elated. Odds against it being a serial killer were pretty good, on the whole, but he left the locks in place. If it was good news, it could let itself in. He turned up the gas fire and started hoping. The footsteps stopped at his door. A clunk sounded, and a rattle of keys. As he watched, the deadbolt turned, then the knob. Nilsson looked through the doorway. "Babe," he said softly. "I didn't think you'd be awake." "I didn't think you'd come," Bryan responded around the tightness in his throat. "I know." Nilsson ducked out of sight, reappearing with a vase held before him like an offering. It had a long, graceful neck and a perfect oval bowl, like a crane stretched to hide in the swamp reeds. Even in the low light, it gleamed a pale, pale green. "It doesn't go with a single damn room in this place," Nilsson said. "But I think it will work by itself in the niche here." Bryan put out both hands silently, and Nilsson placed the vase lovingly into them. It lay sleek and cold against Bryan's palms. He felt before he saw the fine traceries of dark that 98

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criss-crossed the glaze. "The cracks," he murmured. "I thought that only happened on old things." "Sometimes that's it. It can just be a mistake, if you expose a piece to the cold too soon. Or if you heat it for too long. But it can be done on purpose, too." Nilsson smiled faintly. "It's called crazing." Bryan looked up sharply, but Nilsson wasn't looking back. There was an uneasy set to his shoulders, like a man who was ready to bolt. He'd made no move to shed his leather jacket. "That's all," Nilsson said. "I was just going to leave it as a surprise with the keys. I apologize for walking off with them. I must have put them in my pocket without thinking." "Shh," Bryan whispered. He set the vase on the coffee table. Stepping up, he took hold of the lapels on Nilsson's jacket. They looked at each other for a long moment. Bryan wondered why he'd never thought of it before, but the graygreen of Nilsson's eyes drew him in like the most perfect celadon, capturing the light. He held that uncertain gaze and let himself fall into it, no holds barred. The moment lengthened. Trembled. Nilsson closed his eyes and stretched out his arms. Bryan drew off one sleeve, then the other. He tossed the heavy leather over a chair and gently pressed Nilsson down onto the sofa. He unlaced Nilsson's boots and set them aside. Laying a hand on Nilsson's belt buckle, he waited until Nilsson nodded. The jeans came off. Bryan left the boxers. He shucked his own jeans and picked up the unicorn throw. "Lie down, babe," he said. "It's a lot more comfortable than what you're used to." 99

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Nilsson's laugh had a hint of sob in it, but he lay down and made room for Bryan. The throw was more than big enough to wrap them around. As always, their bodies fit together easily, comfortable in the generous dimensions of the sectional. "It was Miguel," Nilsson said after a silence. "You're kidding." "No. He was in Columbus for ten days and made the rounds of every university event, from what I hear. I don't know how my name came up, but it did, in some obvious context. This guy Randolph needed a local issue. He got some aides to go digging, and of course there was plenty to find." "Any photos of the dancing in the fountain incident? Because if so, I want one." That startled another, better laugh out of Nilsson. "Well, damn Jennie, anyway! Am I never going to be allowed to live that down?" "If you say Pam has never told tales out of school, I'm not going to believe you." Nilsson looked thoughtful. "I seem to recall a milkthrough-the-nose show and tell incident..." "Enough," Bryan commanded. "Do you think Miguel did it on purpose?" "Not if you ask him. He never does these things on purpose." Nilsson sighed. "Who knows? I'd like to be able to live him down, someday." "I'll help."

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Nilsson chuckled. "You cracked me open and made me crazy, you bastard, what kind of help do you think you're going to be?" "Mmm. That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." Nilsson kissed Bryan's collarbone and stayed there, face pressed close. The silence got deep and drowsy, but one question apparently remained. "Hank?" "Depends," Bryan murmured. "How do you feel about wearing a tuxedo during the hottest part of an Australian summer?" "Love to." "Done. You let me worry about Miguel, and I'll let you come up with a good wedding present." Bryan kissed the shaggy hair. "Go to sleep, babe. I'll wake you up when we're both hard." End. **** If you liked this book you might like: "Halfway," a Torquere Press Highball by KIL Kenny, and "Splash," a Torquere Press Everyday Spectre novella by KIL Kenny

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