Out of the Closet

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Out of the Closet ISBN 978-1-60592-157-0 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Out of the Closet Copyright 2010 KevaD Cover Art by Fiona Jayde This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any existing means without written permission from the publisher. Contact Noble Romance Publishing, LLC at PO Box 467423, Atlanta, GA 31146. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

Book Blurb Chaz never once thought the day he came out of the closet no one would be home . . . except the cat. And he was neutered. Chaz is ready for the great reveal. He's carefully prepped himself for his private coming out party with new clothes, a handwritten invitation to a romantic dinner, and a solitary long-stemmed rose. Just one little problem—the object of his affection, the beautiful Karl, isn't home. While the cat that looks like a rat gnaws on his rose, Chaz doesn't hear the rough and tumble Mike, the third member of the trio of apartment-mates, walk in the door. Mike's not the least bit shy . . . about anything, including letting it be known how upset he his Chaz is in love with Karl. Chaz and the cat contemplate the demise of Mike who is on a quest to sacrifice the cannibalistic cat, until Karl comes home and announces he's getting married—to a woman. Could it get any worse for Chaz? Probably.

Chapter One I never once thought the day I came out of the closet no one would be home . . . except the cat. And he was neutered. Karl said he'd be home tonight. I tapped a knuckle on his bedroom door again, this time calling his name. No answer. I'd planned this for days. My throat was so constricted I couldn't swallow the raisins in my cereal this morning. Now the moment was finally here, and Karl . . . my heart splashed into my stomach. Karl epitomized perfection. He was a swimming and fitness instructor, and the profession added a fluid grace to his stride and movements, not bulk to his sinewy and taut body. He didn't walk across the floor; he floated without sound, leaving only a trace of his personal mix of Acqua de Selva and strawberries to hint at the route he traversed. If earthborn gods such as he had a weakness to bear, it was a tenderness of heart. The continued presence of The Cat , also known as "Iron Claws" for the way he can shred hollow core doors, served as evidence of Karl's inability to pass any creature in pain without extending his gentleness and concern to it. I came out of the closet, for what? To watch I Love Lucy reruns? Alone? The only saving grace to this impending disaster so far, the other member of our apartment dwelling trio, Mike, wasn't home to witness it. Man-speak lore dictated if something didn't fit, then get a bigger hammer. Mike was the bigger hammer. A high-rise construction worker, tall, muscled, and lean, he scampered across ten-inch-wide beams thirty stories in the air like they were worn paths to the fridge containing the last beer. He was the hard-hat guy with a half-eaten double bologna sandwich in one hand, the other stuck in his mouth to form some caveman-esque mouth harp so he could whistle at the high-heeled women walking by. He wore the phrase lewd, crude, loud, and proud of it, like a shirt and couldn't comprehend why women didn't flock to him and drop to their nylon-covered knees, begging to take his hard-on between perfectly painted lips.

Still hoping for the unhopeable, I knocked on the door once more. "Karl, are you in there?" I tried the knob, but it only rattled in my hand. Locked. Karl always kept his door locked, whether home or not, so I still had no clue if he might be in there. Yes I did. The empty echo through the hollow core door foretold what I suspected. He wasn't home. An apartment, or any home for that matter, has a feel about it when no one's home, especially if you're the "no one" who's home alone. There's this odd sensation of the walls using a respirator to breathe, recycling boxed air instead of inhaling the essence of the lives that laugh and love within them. The odors are different, too. They layer in the emptiness, settle from the air onto the furniture and floor like particles of dust waiting to be disturbed by movement so they may once again waft throughout the rooms to be inhaled by those who recognize each scent, each memory of those who left the olfactory trail behind. Karl wasn't wafting. Mike either. Mike would never for a moment consider wafting. Ever. Much too macho. Much too butch. Much too . . . Mike. I tried to mimic Karl's effortless strides over the carpet but failed. My tracks were momentary depressions in the plush pile. Karl left no such marks. Mike somehow managed to bruise the flooring when he walked. A visible wound scarred the carpet from the dirt smudges on his end of the sofa to the door of his room. The scent of Acqua de Selva and strawberries danced about me as I sat in Karl's place on the couch. The Cat appeared on my lap and batted at the long-stemmed rose in my hand. He snagged a petal in a claw, and I watched him mince the symbol of my love into tattered shreds. Resigned to the fact I'd taken a leap of faith into emptiness, I dropped the flower to the sofa cushion. "Enjoy. I suppose you want the card too?" He ignored me. Typical. The Cat. His purr, foreplay to cannibalism. The scar on Mike's chest where his right nipple used to be attested to the smoke-gray tom's ability to go from rest to flesh without so much as a flick of his hairless tail. But The Cat loved Karl, and Karl loved The Cat, and the lease was in Karl's and my name. It's the one thing we had in common—the part about how we both loved Karl.

To be honest, I probably had more in common with The Cat than either Karl or Mike. They had clear identities. In a bar, no one could doubt the regal characteristics each carried as visible as their clothing choice. Karl had only to seat himself at a table, and drinks and notes arrived from women as anxious as I to run their fingers through the silky gold of his hair. Hopeful waitresses and waiters brushed their hands along the steel of his forearms and left phone numbers on the fresh coasters they placed under his glass of chardonnay. He spent his evening engaged in conversation with those, both men and women, bold enough to seek his audience. If Karl was the king of us, Mike fulfilled the role of bastard prince. Glass scepter of Bud in one hand, he left grimy handprint seals of approval with the other on the ass of every waitress he encountered. His arrival at the dartboard sparked exaggerated, boisterous revelry and challengers to his boastful claims of superiority. Most fell victim to his unmatched skill before we had to help him—drunk from consuming his winnings—stagger to the cab once he couldn't figure out which of the boards he was supposed to throw at. In our realm, I invisibly sat, the waiting valet occasionally called upon to answer the question inquiring minds wanted to know . . . . "Is he in a relationship?" My reward of loyalty, Karl’s "You want another Heineken, Chaz?" No one wanted to know if the wave in my auburn hair was natural, or if all the men in my family had dimples. However, several did ask if I'd ever considered a tanning booth to put some color on my pasty, five-eight frame. At last count I had thirty-three table-dropped tanning spa business cards in a drawer. Much to my chagrin, Karl was in a relationship. Deborah. When her ballerina body pressed into Karl's swimmer's V-frame, I cringed. Three inches shorter than his five-nine, she flowed next to him, the ebb to his tide. Deborah also reminded me Karl and I had a trait in common. Monogamy. Which meant I went to bed alone every night while he shared his bed with . . . her, when they weren't in her bed. I envied her and her

gravelly moans of orgasm in the darkness. She was vocal in sex. If Karl were in me, I think I would be too. I'd so have liked to find out. Mike's attempts at seduction with, "Oooh, baby, wanna pet my python?" had yet to ensnare any prey either Karl or I were aware of. He came close once. He ripped off his T-shirt in front of a woman one night and displayed the intricacy of the finely chiseled muscles comprising his torso. She was interested. Very interested. Until he pointed at the scar where a nipple should be and shouted, "Bitch got so hot she bit it off. I shrink-wrapped it so she can carry it in her purse. I've got hers in my wallet. Want to see?" As with most urban legends, Mike's contained a grain of truth. He did have a shrink-wrapped nipple in his wallet. One he proudly displayed to his Budweiser buddies. His own, of course—the one he retrieved from the litter box. Blowing a breath up my face, I considered the laughable futility of how I dared to entertain the thought I could be on a plain with either of them. Some were born to rule, others, to serve. New pants, freshly polished Kenneth Coles , gray dress shirt with matching gray and pink-striped tie Karl helped me pick out. He'd asked what the occasion was. I'd tried to flash a sly grin and said he'd find out later. He'd asked if I was okay because I looked riddled in pain. Apparently I didn't have "alluring" fine tuned yet. I'd gotten all dressed up for the great reveal, and here I sat alone with a cat gnawing on my rose. Probably some Jung-Freudian symbolism in there somewhere. I blew my angst out in a long breath and closed my eyes. ***** "Shaken, not stirred," Bond said to the bartender. Wait a minute. I was the one being shaken. "Wake up, lover boy." I knew that deep, imitation-Jersey snarl. Mike. And he held the card in his hands. Shit.

"On a night like tonight when the moon is blue, would you accompany me to Spargo's for dinner for two?" His wrist flicked and the card went airborne. "I figured for a while now you were a member of the up the butt club. But you really think Karl is? You actually got the buff a rose? Well, a stem anyway." A low growl rumbled out of The Cat's throat. Mike took a step back. Apparently he didn't want to lose the other nipple. I appreciated the sentiment from The Cat, but I couldn't feel any lower right at the moment. I hadn't really wanted Mike to know about my coming out until Karl did and I found out how he felt in regards to my feelings for him. And with the scowl on Mike's face so deep a farmer could plant corn in it, I wasn't about to discuss anything with him now. I stood and pushed my way past him. "I'm going to bed." The Cat bounded up and over the back of the couch, leaving another tick tear in the leather, and waited at my door just that quickly. He knew the word "bed." Why he chose my bed as his, none of us could figure out. Now and then he even let me use both pillows. Just not too 'now and then.' "Oh, sure. Run away, Peter Puffer. Don't stand and face a man, whatever you do. Ya friggin' poofta!" Anger burned up my throat from wherever it is anger starts. Mike stood a full head taller than me, possessed more muscles than I could ever imagine, yet my hands balled into fists, I stared him in the eye, and charged with every single ounce of strength and stupidity I could muster. I guess they call it deaf and blind rage because you don't see or hear any of the warnings the logical part of your brain is trying to convey regarding how you are about to get your ass kicked. Chapter Two

"Easy, easy." Mike patted my cheek. "Sorry, Chaz. I didn't mean to hit you so hard. Ya kinda caught me off guard." I tried to ask if I hurt him but it came out: "Nnng gggh oooh?" He displayed a soft and easy smile. Not like any he'd shown me before. Or maybe it was the fact his lips stretched between both images of him. "Come on," he said, and, lickety-split, I was on my feet with his arm around me, and moving, somehow, toward my room. "Let's get you to bed." I opened the door, and Mike gently lowered me to the edge of the mattress. His face was nearly in focus now. His brown eyes welled as he sat down next to me. Sat down. Shit. "Don't sit down, Mike!" Too late. A sound similar to an approaching freight train roared into the room. "Chaz!" Faster than a speeding bullet, able to leap tall homophobes with a single bound, The Cat pounced on to Mike's head. I could see the needle-sharp talons knead into his skull. "Chaz! Get him off me, Chaz. Please. I'll give you money." Tears streamed down his face. Mike's. Not The Cat's. He was . . . smiling. The Cat. Not Mike. I leaned over to help. Bad idea. The Cat's teeth found more than hair. "Shoot it!" "I don't have a gun, Mike." "Borrow one. Please?" "Don't move, okay. I'll get some tuna." The Cat loved tuna more than it loved Karl. Whether it preferred the taste of tuna over the taste of Mike remained to be seen. His hands trembled in his pain and angst. Snot ran down his nose into his open mouth. I felt sorry for him. Unfortunately, I'd never attended a class on how to remain composed when confronting a difficult situation. "If you don't quit laughing, I'm going to kill you, right after I kill The Cat." "You want me to try the tuna or not?" I sat back down. "Please, Chaz. Please. I'll never call you a poofta again."

"Deal." ***** God only knew what must have been going through Karl's mind twenty minutes later when he walked in the door and saw me huddled in a corner, The Cat cradled in my arms, purring, while it lapped at an open can of tuna. Mike sat on the couch, whittling on the end of a wooden spoon, his head dotted with red-stained white flecks of torn tissues. "What the hell is going on?" "The Cat attacked Mike." "Why?" "He sat on my bed." "I told you to stay off The Cat's bed, Mike. It's your own damn fault. What are you doing? You're getting shavings all over the carpet." "It's evil. It must die." His eyes were glazed, and I was surprised he heard Karl at all. Karl quickly closed the distance to the couch and relieved Mike of the knife. "You can't kill The Cat." "But I made a stake and everything." He held up the pointed end of the spoon for Karl to inspect. "A stake?" Bulged eyes refocused on The Cat and me. "You can only kill vampires with a wooden stake." "Oh hell no." Then I noticed what Karl held. My stomach imploded. A pet carrier. There could only be one reason he would have one. "I asked Deborah to marry me. She said yes."

I didn't wait to hear the rest. I bolted for my room and slammed the door behind me. Safety existed under my white chenille spread. Only the world I created existed within my cocoon. There, I could wallow in self-pity and loathing all I wanted to until ready to emerge as a butterfly once again . . . in another life on another planet. Mike now knew I was gay, and all hope of The Cat devouring him digit by digit was about to leave out the door with the man I loved. None of my framed romance novel jacket covers fell off the wall from the rapping on my door, so I knew Karl stood on the other side. I pulled the spread tighter around me. The mattress sagged from his weight on the edge, and I wanted to roll into his arms but didn't. I remained a living mummy instead. "The rose was really sweet of you. I'm sure The Cat enjoyed your gift." I shuddered. Mike had ratted me out. "We've been friends a long time, Chaz. Best friends. I've never had a secret you didn't know." A long, slow, audible heaviness fell out of him. "Except one." For a moment I wished I didn't have a digital clock. The ticking would have told me whether seconds, minutes, or hours passed before he spoke again. "The night I attended the release party with you for your debut novel, I knew who the book was about. You and me." I clamped my eyes closed tighter. I'd tried not to make the fact obvious. A Kiss from the Shadows hit stores three years ago. He'd known the entire time how I felt and never said a word. I sank my teeth into my lip. Pain, I'd heard, could dam tears. Whoever said it, lied. Another breath, this one blown out between his perfect teeth, filled my ears. "I almost came to your bed that night. I got to your door . . . ."

Like a man about to have an amputation without anesthesia, I filled my mouth with chenille and bit down. "But I couldn't bring myself to knock. I wanted to. God knows I did. I wanted you as much as I've ever wanted Deborah." I swallowed hard. For the first time in my life, as many tears flowed inside as outside. "I love you, Chaz. I truly do. But I love my friend more. In one night I'd have gained a lover and lost the best friend I could possibly ever hope to be blessed with. You're important to me. I want you to know." When he stood, the mattress quivered. So did I. "If you don't want to, I'll understand and never hold it against you, but I'd really like you to be the best man at my wedding." My voice betrayed my attempt to remain silent. "What will you do if I refuse?" "I'll stand there alone. For me, the best man is my best friend. I only have one of those. 'A man without a friend resides in a shell constructed of his own excrement.' My favorite author wrote that." I flopped the chenille spread down so I could see his beautiful face. "Out of all the stories and the three books I've had published, of all the lines I've composed, you remember a sentence of pure drivel?" The face of the god of my dreams flushed. The man transformed into an embarrassed boy. His shoulders sank, and the toe of a shoe scraped over the carpet. "Well, yeah. It's how I'd feel if I lost you." His gaze found mine, and I stared into the eyes I dreamed of each night. I loved this man with all my heart. But I loved my friend too. And I wasn't about to watch both of them walk out of my life. "I don't look good in black." "I know. Our tuxedos will be white with carnation-pink ties and handkerchiefs." "Oh great. The tux will match the pallor of my skin." He winked. "Not if you get a tan."

"You're sounding like a wife already." I snorted out my frustration and rolled off the bed. Silently, he crossed the floor and took me into his arms. The embrace should have been the vision I'd dreamed of, the fantasy come true. Instead, pure elation enveloped me. My friend was getting married, and he didn't just want me to be a part of his wedding—he needed me to be a part, to share the experience with him. It was the most joyous yet heart-breaking moment of my life. "I assume you're taking The Cat with you to Deborah's?" "Yeah. He hasn't bitten her yet, so I'd hoped he wouldn't mind. You okay with him leaving?" A wave of relief washed over me. "Are you kidding? You have no idea what it's like waking up in the middle of the night to find his hairless tail stuck under my nose. And he farts too. Nasty damn things. Worse after he's chewed a bit of Mike." I pushed out of his arms. "Come on. I'll help you pack." While we filled and closed boxes, Mike carried them downstairs to Karl's car. Little was said by any of us. But the silence wasn't really a cloud; the scene resembled actors behind a drawn curtain, unsure of the lines they were to speak in the next act of an unscripted play. We'd grown up together. Same neighborhood. Same school. In the same week we all lost our virginity to the same girl on different days, as we discovered when Karl and I compared notes. Never was too sure about Mike, though. He got real quiet when I confirmed for the third time I'd been with her at 8:00 p.m. After college, Karl and I bumped into each other one morning at a coffee shop and discovered we both had jobs in the same section of the city. The two of us didn't take longer than one cup to decide we should move in together. The first building we went to look at apartments in had a high-rise going up next door. A Tarzan yelp caused us to look up. A shirtless man in blue jeans swung out on a steel cable vine from the fourth floor, dropped in midair to a three-story telephone pole,

and shimmied to the ground headfirst. We'd only known one psycho stupid enough and agile enough to perform such a stunt. We decided then and there two bedrooms were one too few. And now, three bedrooms were one too many. Words weren't necessary at the door. Karl and I hugged. Mike offered knocked knuckles and a shoulder bump in farewell. In an odd moment of sentiment, he placed a finger against the pet carrier door. The Cat responded in kind, then licked the blood off the claw he managed to drive into Mike's skin. The metallic click of the closing apartment door resounded like a funeral knell. I saw Mike's hand go to his eyes, but I didn't know if he wiped a tear or not. My vision was blurred. We went our separate ways to our separate rooms. The night moved with the speed of an empty hourglass. Chapter Three Mike was a gourmet chef—if the directions included how long to leave the frozen entrée in the microwave. Which accounted for my surprise when I awakened to the smell of frying eggs and bacon. Then burning bacon and shouts of "Fire!" I sped in my jogging shorts to the kitchen, grabbed a hot pad, slapped a lid on the pan containing the inferno of blazing grease, pulled the smoking mass off the stove and set it in the sink. Above me, the smoke detector, wrapped in gray duct tape, remained silent. Without casting a glance toward Mike, I asked, "New recipe? Locate ingredients, suffocate the fire alarm system, mix in gasoline and ignite?" "I didn't want to wake you," he said in a mumble.

"And you thought burning down the apartment building while running around in your tighty whities screaming 'Fire!' would allow me a few more minutes of unmolested sleep?" Mike burst into tears and ran to his room. Shit. I blinked, then blinked again. What the hell had just happened? Who stole Mike and replaced him with the Weepinator? I opened a window to give the smoke an escape route, poured a glass of orange juice and sat on a stool at the counter. Sure. I'd spent the night awake until the sun came up. I'd exposed myself to Mike and Karl, and Karl was gone. I hadn't seen his departure coming, but should have. I was happy for Karl, and miserable for me. Happy I still had my friend, I actually looked forward to being best man at a wedding I wanted to be the second groom in. The keyword here was "I." I, I, I. What I hadn't considered was how hard any of this might be on Mike. The latest events didn't involve only Karl and me. There were three of us. And Mike had always stood by us, no matter what. Somebody started some crap in a bar, Mike stood as the wall they had to go through to get to me or Karl. I'd never seen him start a fight. In fact, on more than one occasion, I'd seen him buy a table a round of drinks and slip from bastard prince to court jester to calm a situation. But when some fool insisted, Mike transformed into a raging cyclone after the first thrown punch, and you damn sure didn't want to be anywhere close to him until the last fist flew. Still, I only knew him to have two close friends. One was gone, the other, gay. Maybe, in his mind, both his friends were gone. I needed to prove him wrong. I tapped on the door. Nothing. "I know you're there. It's not like we need air traffic control to keep track of each other. Come on. Let me in. I just want to talk to you." "Meow." "What was that?" I put my ear against the door. Crash! "What's going on in there? Mike. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm okay. The Cat Too figured out how to get to my lamp and threw it on the floor." "The Cat the Second? What are talking about? You got a cat? When?" Okay. Sometime during the night I apparently slipped into a parallel universe. "Not 'the Second.' Capital 'T,' small 'o,' small 'o.' Too." "What are you talking about? Why would you get a cat? You don't like cats." The doorknob clicked, and there stood Mike, holding out a hissing tuxedo kitten like it was a baby with a full diaper. "No. I don't like cats. But I thought you might get lonely without The Cat on your bed. I went to the Humane Society first thing this morning. Went around petting the mangy things until one bit me. I figured if it hated me, it would love you. I was gonna make you breakfast in bed and surprise you with the miserable thing." He thrust the kitten against my chest where it snagged his finger with a claw just before a tiny open mouth clamped down on the tip. "Surprise." Note to self: Before you belittle a friend, make sure you deserve to be called a friend first. Mike had always been here for me. I hadn't bothered to ask why he set the kitchen ablaze. I'd assumed the same old "act first, think later" Mike had trashed the place. He'd tried to reach out to a friend who hadn't reached out to him. What an asshole I'd turned out to be. The Cat Too curled up in my hands and purred itself to sleep. "Now. If you'll excuse me, I have to get ready for work." He slammed the door. "Mike. Please. I want to apologize. I had no right to say what I said." Work? "Work? It's Saturday. You're off today." "I called the union shop and they found a high rise short a guy for today. Double overtime." The door opened and he brushed past me without so much as an acknowledgement of my dumbfounded presence.

"Can we talk when you come home? You are coming home, aren't you?" I prayed he'd say yes. I couldn't handle losing both Karl and Mike in twenty-four hours. At the apartment door he hesitated. "You're an accountant. You write books. Damn good books. And you're one of the dumbest smart people I ever met. You really don't get it, do you?" Then he was out the door and gone. I ran into the hall after him. "You read my books?" All three were about gay men in love. Hardly Mike's cuppa tea. No pictures of naked women and not so much as a mention of NASCAR or the New Jersey Nets. "Yeah." He spoke over his shoulder as he threw open the door to the stairway. "Read A Kiss from the Shadows three times." The steel door slammed closed behind him, leaving only the echo as temporary evidence the conversation had taken place. "Well, what do you make of this, The Cat Too? Mike actually read my books. Who'd a thunk such a thing possible?" His little pink tongue swept over my finger as he adjusted himself in my arms and went back to sleep. We hadn't needed all the boxes to move Karl, so I retrieved the one left in his room and made a bed for the kitten to nap in while I scrubbed away the smoke stains in the kitchen. When I finished cleaning, I showered and dressed. Mike had thought to present me with the little black and white fur ball. But his generosity had only gone so far. Or maybe he really didn't know cats required essentials like a litter box and food. Chew toys wouldn't be an issue. The Cat Too had already tasted Mike. ***** It took most of the remainder of the day to purchase the necessary provisions. But The Cat Too now had a cute lavender toity, a catnip mobile of dancing pastel mice to clip on the edge of his box, and plenty of kitty kibbies and canned milk to grow on.

When I opened the door, I dropped every plastic bag on the floor and stared dumbfounded. Mike hadn't just come home early, Mike was absofreaking gorgeous. "I kind of got released unexpectedly, so I thought I'd clean up a little." "A little?" Those words equated to all my numb brain could find to send to my throat. If my publisher had used this visage of beauty standing before me on one of my book covers, I'd have hit the bestseller list just from the sales to men and women wanting to rip off his picture and staple it to their bedroom wall. His hair had gone from brunette to sand brown with windswept spikes along the edges. A pale yellow T-shirt that fit like a second skin allowed for every muscle of his chest and abdomen to be both highlighted and shadowed. A rock climber would have no trouble finding hand and footholds on the carved physique as he scaled to the ever so slightly frosted lips and offered himself in sacrifice to this god of lust and desire. The remainder of the mouthwatering torso was hidden beneath a navy, buttonless sport coat with the sleeves pulled up to the elbows. His forearms were shaved and brush-oiled, providing the appearance of a broken sweat sheen. The denim jeans were strategically worn with only a hint of the sandpaper fray on the thighs. The girl Mike had made this transformation for better be prepared to get naked before the end of the first hour, or watch him served up butt raw on some other woman's sterling silver platter. He pirouetted. "Whadda ya think?" "You look fantastic. Who's the lucky girl?" He pressed his palms together in front of his chest and rubbed the tips of his forefingers under his chin. "Not a girl. I did this for you." "Oh, come on. Who is she? Seriously. Who?" Mike walked into the kitchen. When he returned, he bore a single rose in his left hand, a folded card in his right. "I owe you an apology, Chaz. A major apology. I'm hoping you'll accept." He extended the rose to me.

Whoa! Eye floaters circled like buzzards around my dead brain. I needed to get a grip. Empty hands held high, I headed for the couch and sat down in Karl's seat, but I wasn't inhaling his scent. A new fragrance filled the room. I detected spice, lavender, and possibly a trace of amber. "What are you wearing? I mean for aftershave. Or is it cologne?" "Good Life by Davidoff. The man at the store said it's one of the most requested fragrances." My mouth responded with saliva I had to wipe away before the drool trailed down my chin. "I can see why. Did I hear you right? You did this for me? Why?" I'd have been confused if my mind wasn't so focused on shutting down from the overload to my ocular and olfactory senses. "Chaz, I called you some things I should never have said. They're unforgivable." I could only shake my head, unsure what he was talking about. He sucked in his lower lip before he spoke. "Up the butt club, Peter Puffer, poofta?" Oh. Yeah. I remembered. "I said them. And there is no excusing it. I said them because I was hurt and angry." "About what, Mike? What did I do?" He moved—he glided—to his end of the couch and sat. "I wasn't joking when I said I read A Kiss from the Shadows three times. I read it because I thought you knew. I'd hoped you'd written it for me, for us. But last night . . . . The rose and the card. Huh uh. Not about me. The book was about you and your feelings for Karl." "You thought . . . ." This wasn't strange territory. This was an unaired episode of the Twilight Zone. "Who would you worship from afar, from the shadows?" Mike's head fell back, and he spoke to the ceiling. "Jesus, Chaz. Can you make this any harder? How about we nail our tongues to the floor and recite the alphabet?" He refocused his gaze—on my face.

"You, goddamn it. I'm in love with you and have been for years." My stomach curled and curdled. I really needed to go to the bathroom. But out of nowhere my brain resurfaced, refusing to miss a second of this verbal performance of Cirque de Soleil. My intestines decided to go for a roller coaster ride. " You can't love me. I'm in love with Karl." "Well, there's a news flash. You think I didn't figure it out before last night? You didn't invite me to the party for your first novel, Chaz. You and Karl went without me. The fact you didn't want me there tore me up inside. But then I read the damn book and thought you knew. I thought you were straight and sending me a message you understood my feelings, but we, you and me, could never be.” I stuck my head between my knees and slapped a pillow over the top of it. It didn't help. I could still hear him. "I've done everything I could to act like I don't care about you. I make an ass of myself in the bars so I don't try and hit on you, and then you get Karl a rose and invite him to dinner. Just the two of you. You came out of the closet and knocked my ass inside. Well. I'm out now. Now the question is, what the fuck are you going to do about it?" Somewhere inside me a carnival had come to town. Common sense had jumped on the Tilt-O-Whirl. Logic was stuck at the highest point of the Ferris Wheel, and my heart had an all-day ticket on a trampoline. I surfaced for air and some semblance of sanity. "You said you left work early?" Any distraction until somebody killed the power to the damn amusement park and my brain could get off the carousel trying to attain new levels of g-force. "Yeah. Well. I got booted off the jobsite actually. They didn't find much humor in my tossing a guy off the twentieth story." "What! Holy shit, Mike. Is he . . . . Is he—?" "Dead? Nah. His safety harness broke the fall around sixteen. Turned out he wasn't certified for those heights anyway, and I'm union paid in full, so they couldn't

fire me. The union rep thought it might be best if I left for the day though while they talked him out of calling the cops." At least the next sound at the door wouldn't be the police. I could relax a little. But shit! I closed my eyes, rubbed the back of my hair on the leather of the couch. "Why? Why would you toss a guy off the twentieth floor? Holy crap. Twenty floors, Mike." "They had a new guy there, a swish." His face turned crimson. "I mean a fag. Damn it! A gay. Is that the right word? Is that what I am?" He held his palms out as if to plead to me. "You've been out longer than me. I just came out of the closet twenty minutes ago. Let me know when I'm screwing up, okay?" I let the chuckle out I couldn't stop. "Yeah, no problem. Gay is the current politically correct word. If they change it, I'll let you know." His eyes were so sincere, his gaze so pathetic, I pinched my skin not to laugh out loud. "Thanks, Chaz. I'd really appreciate your help with making sure I don't screw up." He settled back on the couch. "This butthead started calling the gay guy names. I told him to stop. He asked me if I was a Peter Puffer too, and I threw him off the beam. People don't need to talk like that about other people, Chaz. It's not right. The fag hadn't done anything except his job." "You said 'fag,' Mike." "Shoot. I'm sorry. It slipped out." "These things take time. So, what's with the rose?" Curiosity had tripped over the power cord and the carnival went dark. Laughter returned clarity to the forefront. Mike's face became drawn. His lower lip trembled slightly. "You showed me it's okay not to hide my feelings. You've always been stronger than me in those ways. Your quiet strength is one of the things I love about you." He took a deep breath, shook his shoulders, and continued. "You took a risk with Karl. It didn't work out. And I'm sorry it didn't. I really am. I don't like to see you hurt. So, I wanted to invite you to dinner."

He held out the card, an all-too-familiar card, which I accepted and read. "On a night like tonight when the moon is blue, would you accompany me to Spargo's for dinner for two?" I looked up at him. "This is my card, Mike. I wrote this." "I know. I thought it was beautiful and hid it in my pillowcase. Are you mad?" "No." I chuckled softly. "I'm flattered. Really. Because it sucks. It really does." The sparkle of his smile glistened. "Yeah. It does. I liked the sentiment and the guts it took to write something so bad and actually give the darn thing to somebody. You've got balls, Chaz." Flaring a nostril, I growled at him. "It wasn't that bad." "Sure it was. So. What's your answer?" "To what?" He handed me the rose. "Dinner at Spargo's." "I don't think so, Mike. It's going to take some—" "I know that. I'm not asking you on a date. I'm asking you to dinner." "Okay. I'll bite. What's the difference?" His lips tightened. He was getting serious again. "I'm not going anywhere. For as long as you'll let me, I'm going to be right here. I'll wait as long as it takes for you to get over Karl. If it takes forever, then forever is how long I'll wait. I want to take you to dinner to apologize for getting angry, for getting jealous. I need you to forgive me, Chaz." "Nothing to forgive. We'll go to Spargo's on one condition." "What?" "My treat. I owe you. I should have invited you to the book release party. I'm sorry. Not including you was thoughtless. Let me make it up to you over dinner." "Should I change? I mean, if it's not actually a date, this is a little much, don't you think?" "Don't you dare so much as alter a hair. I'm going to dinner with the best-looking man in New Jersey tonight, and I want everyone to see it."

I gripped his hand in mine and we stood up together. His cheeks burned red again when his eyes focused on our clasped hands. "This coming out of the closet thing's not so easy, is it, Chaz?" "No." I sighed. "It's not." "Good thing we have each other then." "Yeah." The thought gave me a smile. "It's good to have someone who cares about you." "Can we go now? I'm really hungry." I gave him a hug. A real hug. He didn't shy away. "Me too." I had to ask the burning question as we walked to the door. "How's it feel to throw a man off a building twenty stories up?" "Good. Kind of liberating, actually. Educational too. I never knew a man could scream so loud. Or so long." Chapter Four Neither of us had given a thought to the fact it was Saturday night until I had to park two blocks away from Spargo's. I held the door for Mike, and we walked into a packed house. "Wow." I muttered just loud enough to be heard. "Doesn't even look like there're any seats in the bar." People yet to be seated occupied the benches along the walls. Mike strode up to the buxom redhead idly tapping a pencil on the edge of a wooden podium. I wondered if a search team had been gathered yet for the last man lost in the depths of her exposed cleavage. The fingers of Mike's left hand traced a line across the back of her pencil-fisted right hand. "You look absolutely stunning." He leaned forward, inhaled deeply, then whispered, "Whatever you're wearing . . . or not"—his gaze floated like a feather from

her face to the rise and fall of her breasts and back again—"smells like an exotic garden. Sadly, I'm afraid I won't be able to fully bathe in your beauty this evening, as it appears I carelessly forgot to make a reservation for my usual table." Apparently more than his exterior had been reinvented. In the twirl of a matador's cape, Tarzan had become Rico Suave. The hostess' green eyes weren't the only pair of features visibly perked. The tip of her tongue slid from one corner of her mouth to the other. "We always have a table reserved for celebrities." Her voice was husky, throaty, inviting. He didn't remove his fingers from her hand, and she didn't seem in any hurry to rectify the situation. "I'm no one famous." Reaching out, she pressed a fingernail against his throat and carved a line to his belt buckle where her focus lingered. "Oooh, honey. You will be when I get through with you." She turned toward a man carrying a tub of dirty dishes. "Jorge! Prepare a table for Mister Hard and his assistant. Mister Rock Hard." Mike kissed her hand. She stuck a card down his pants. I gagged on the ball of laughter I fought back. Two busboys wheeled out the metal coffee cart, while two others carried in a small café table and two chairs. Add a white tablecloth and candle, and an intimate dinner for two was underway, interrupted intermittently by Mike's facial breast massage from the hostess providing the "personal touch" to our dining experience. Three women and one man asked for Mr. Hard's autograph and a photo op, and assured him how much they enjoyed his last film. I drank Zinfandel wine from etched crystal stemware and nervously mentioned how the raspberry, butter, and nutmeg aromas flattened in comparison to the full body flavor of his company. He nodded between gulps from his bottle of Bud.

After a dinner of steak and fries for him, herb crusted tilapia for me, I insisted, at Mr. Hard's suggestion, we pay full fare despite the manager's objections. The hostess reiterated for the whoever knows how manyeth time, she got off work at eleven, and would consent to a three-way if necessary—if I absolutely had to be there. Jorge offered to make the tryst a foursome. We ran all the way to the car. "I'm not really ready to go home." Mike flicked his wrist and started the car. "You up for a walk?" "Yeah." I didn't even think before I answered. Maybe I didn't want the night to end either. We drove over to Lawrence Harbor and strolled along the white sand off Raritan Bay. The reflection of the moon pulsed on the water, a tantalizing fingertip beyond our reach within the ocean's embrace. A gentle breeze encouraged the waves' massage of the sand. Throaty, seductive whispers shared between beguiled lovers passing us served as the night's serenade against the muted backdrop of New York City's electric curtain across the bay. There's an old movie called Thelma & Louise. The final scene is the two women holding hands as they drive off a cliff and splatter on the rocks below. Our walk was kind of like that—without the handholding. A muscle in his jaw twitched when we got back in the car. He kept his focus straight ahead. "Mike, if I did something wrong, tell me." I didn't know what had happened. Everything was good, right, and then we were silent pallbearers to the burial of our almost relationship. He pulled a hand from the steering wheel long enough to display an open palm before gripping the leather wrap and twisting it over and over. The wrap had shredded and fallen off by the time we got home.

Though he still looked like French pastry anyone else would have wanted to take a bite out of, the crème filling had soured. His eyes didn't see me at all when he said, "Thanks for supper. I think I'll go to bed." Sometimes, the barely audible click of a lock can be deafening. I freed TCT—The Cat Too was just too long a name—from his cardboard prison and sat down on Karl's . . . my . . . end of the sofa to try and figure out what happened. TCT left his mark of pinholes in the leather of the couch while he scaled the material to crawl up in my lap and take a nap. Whatever went wrong hadn't happened at the restaurant. The drive to the beach? Pleasurable. We'd laughed all the way there. No. The problem had to have started in the Thelma and Louise moment. Aw, shit. I laid my head back and let a burst of breath scatter in the air. He'd sat down beside me in the sand. The edges of our hands touched. I felt so relaxed, so comfortable with him, I told him about the book I was considering writing. A sequel to A Kiss from the Shadows. An open declaration of my love for Karl. Way to go, stupid. A dinner both of us would never forget and always share in our memories no matter what the future may hold. Follow it with the smell of the sea, a starlit sky, a breeze as gentle as a first kiss, and then hammer a wedge named Karl into the sand between you. The magician waved his wand and Allakhazam! The smell's became rotting fish, the skies filled with mockery, and the breeze is as gentle as hail. Yeah. Real smart. What'd you expect from Mike? A high five and "Thanks for sharing, bro?" Jeeez. Men could be so ignorant. The door to Mike's room opened and he strode over to the couch, duffle bag in hand. This night was just getting better and better . . . not! In his other hand he gripped a piece of paper. "I'm gonna get out of here for a few days. This check will cover my half of the rent for the next two months in case I don't come back." He dropped the check on the couch and headed for the door.

A barbed wire prostrate exam would have been less painful. "In case you don't come back?" "It's different now that you know how I feel about you. I'm not sure I can do this." Without another word, he walked toward the front door. I ran after him. He'd reached the stairway at the end of the hall already. The man could move so damn fast when he wanted to. "You're going to go screw the redhead, aren't you? Take plenty of signal flares so the rescue planes can find you in case you fall in!" I bit my tongue in shock. Where had that come from? Anger plowed furrows across his face. "Yeah. Jorge's pooch and missing front teeth are looking pretty good right now too. Fuck you, Chaz." The door slammed closed behind him. The echo of his departures was really starting to annoy me. I turned and caught a glimpse of TCT scooting into Mike's room through the open door. Frustrated, I stomped to the room and waited for him to finish taking a dump on Mike's pillow. When he was done, I picked him up and hugged him. "Good, kitty." Spotting a small pile of white sand on his dresser, I rubbed a pinch between my fingers. Still damp. He'd walked out because I hurt him, and yet he kept a souvenir of our first evening out of the closet together. This man, so coarse and tender at the same time, was teaching me I didn't know squat about love. I really hated him right now. I looked back to the bed. "TCT, we can't shit on Mike anymore. He deserves better than either of us could ever give him." Chapter Five First thing next morning, Sunday, I checked Mike's room. He hadn't come home.

I put TCT in his box, snapped on some rubber gloves, filled a bucket with water and scouring powder, and went to work. Four hours later I went shopping. When I finished the transformation, I walked to the corner and picked up a takeout order of Cheng Du Chicken. I sat at the kitchen counter and absentmindedly stabbed at the plate of food while I stared at the empty couch. TCT scarfed down the shreds of chicken breast I set on a bread plate for him, then wandered over to my plate, plopped down in the rice, and helped himself to seconds. Around eleven I sent Mike a text to ask if he would be home tonight and waited for the response I knew wouldn't come. The first six attempts had taught me not to expect a reply, and he didn't let me down on the seventh either. The next morning I checked his room for signs he had stopped in. There weren't any. In just two days without Mike, the apartment was starting to feel like a submersible with a leak. A lot like my life. ***** Naturally, the moment I stepped in the apartment after work, I once again checked Mike's room. No change. Supper was one of Mike's frozen "Manly Muncher" dinners with a sugar and cinnamon paste dessert the box purported to be an apple dumpling. I guess nobody had thought to leave instructions with the factory to actually include apples and dumplings. The sugar buzz helped to explain why Mike never seemed to sit still very long. On the couch, I opened my laptop and tried to work on my sequel to A Kiss from the Shadows. But the only word I kept typing was "guilt." Eventually I managed a complete sentence: "You are such an asshole."

I set the computer aside and looked for TCT. Didn't take long to find him. He'd curled up on the floor in front of Mike's door. When I went to bed, I put TCT on the extra pillow beside my head. He stretched out a paw against my cheek. Neither of us changed position the entire night. ***** On Wednesday, I quit leaving Mike text messages. I thought about calling Karl. But this didn't concern him. If Mike had wanted Karl to know he'd come out of the closet, he'd have told him himself. I needed to respect that. On Thursday, I found myself on the computer mapping out all of the high rise buildings under construction within a fifty-mile radius of Jersey. Who knew there could be so much construction during a recession? Friday I called the union shop and discovered Mike was one of the few certified in both Jersey and New York. Some State Department sponsored, cross-cultural, multilingual program was all I could figure. Be that as it may, my list of sites didn't decrease, but increased by another sixty-three locations. Unions only divulge so much information. On Tuesday, I gave up trying to distinguish him from the other yellow-hatted spider monkeys leaping from beam to beam so high up in the air. Once I quit my search for him, I found him. ***** Flaherty's Tap. Best known for its tacos and refried beans. The new owner was an Iraqi with an identity crisis. Constantly referred to himself as a South American Persian. Flaherty's occupied space in the Cliffwood business district, which was undergoing a facelift to restore the original Continental ambiance. A blond-haired lad in a green plaid

kilt with a dot of red kumkum powder on his forehead informed me the special of the day was kosher pork. I asked if international fare was the new owner's intention. "Oh no, sir. The menu prices are all in U.S. dollars." I tried to stop myself, I really did. "The owner like Beefeaters?" He bent at the waist to whisper in my ear. "He's Hindi. Refuses to eat beef. I don't know about his friends." "Gin?" "There's a room in the back. But I think they only play poker." "How about a Heineken and a burger?" "You want fries with that?" He beamed with pride. Obviously a graduate of the Academy of Drive-Thru. "A burger is usually beef." "Not the way we cook it." "Just the beer then." "We don't carry German beer." "It's Dutch. Brewed in the U.S. now." "We invaded Dutchland? Wait til I put this on Twitter!" "How about a Budweiser? Can you handle a bottle of Bud, stud?" "Sure. You want some peanuts? They're on the house." Tempted to ask how one qualified for the job of castrating peas, and why they were stored on the roof, I thought better of it. This future Congressman from New Jersey might have an answer. An explosion of raucous laughter in the rear of the crowded bar drew my and every other patron's attention to the back room, which contained the pool tables and dartboard. The two tables had long, rectangular lights with faux stained glass shades suspended from chains. A ceiling-mounted spotlight illuminated the dartboard. There were no shadows to shade the fact a black-leather-jacketed man had hold of kilt boy's hands on one side of a table while another man clad in a red flannel shirt with the

sleeves cut off held his legs on the other side of the table. Kilt boy was face down on the green felt. Both men had to be in their third trimester of pregnancy. So did the other two, who each grabbed a leg and pulled them apart like a turkey's wishbone. Nothing is more grating to the eardrums than a nasal, Italian Jersey accent spewing Scottish brogue. But, of course, anyone ignorant enough to publicly recreate Mel Gibson's death scene in Braveheart had to be ignorant enough to believe he could be Sean Connery too. "Spread 'um, laddies. Let's fine oud whadda he be a hidin' under thet skirt." A handful of turquoise boxers rose victoriously into the air. Unfortunately, total stupidity being what it is, it became clear the boxers weren't the end prize, the butt of the malicious prank. More amazing was how no one in the place, myself included, stood to stop the assault. The stupidly ignorant had mesmerized the entire crowd. What the man with a freshly chalked cue stick aimed at kilt boy's center ass apparently didn't understand was, when sheep cower, there might be a snarling dog ready to step out of the shadows—or in this case, the restroom—to find out why. Mike materialized over the top of a fistful of my goober entrée. I watched Mike enter the light beyond the far pool table. He snatched a billiard ball off the table, and slung the sphere with the force of a cannon. Before the ball struck the temple of the man holding one of kilt boy's legs, he'd reloaded the hand and fired another round into the face of the one holding the other leg. With the two leg-holders down for the count, Mike flew across the floor to the one in the leather jacket and all hell broke loose. Before leather jacket could react, fists pummeled his face. But with his back turned to flannel shirt and the pool cue, Mike had no way of seeing the blow coming. The thick handle of the stick caught Mike at the base of his skull. Mike stumbled into leather jacket's chest, and they both fell against the wall. As flannel shirt rounded the table, kilt boy jumped to his feet and trumpeted like a baby elephant. Kilt then leapt onto flannel's back and flailed away with whatever strength he had in those skinny arms.

The four Mediterranean Sumo wrestlers at the next pool table stood straight and made their alliance known. Three went to Mike and smacked him with pool cues. When Mike dropped to his knees, they planted boots to his back and sides, driving him to the floor. The fourth grabbed kilt and flung him to the floor, where flannel kicked kilt in the back and ribs. I grabbed my bottle of Bud and charged. The shrill screech of Flaherty's new owner's cry of "Jihaad! Jihaad! Jihaad!" blared like a cavalry bugle. I'm not sure what I expected, but two Japanese cooks bounding out of the kitchen with baseball bat Samurai swords raised over their heads, screaming "Banzai!" weren't on the list. A table flew through the air and two gray-haired men shouted, "Semper Fi!" I slammed the bottle down on the head of a man kicking Mike, which sent glass shards in every direction. From behind me I heard "Airborne Rangers!" and a body sailed over me into another of the men kicking poor Mike. I continued to wail on the head of the man bleeding from the blow I leveled. Mike punched the nearest groin—I could only hope it belonged to a foe—struggled to his feet, flashed a smile at me, and landed a fist so hard into the face of the man I was hitting, I thought the blow might go clean through the back of his head. Mike tilted his head back, let out a roar, and then fists, feet, and bedlam filled the air. The last thing I saw was a chair at eye level before the world went dark. ***** A soft voice spoke while a hand patted my cheek. "Easy. Easy." My eyes fluttered open and I saw Mike. "We've done this scene before I think." "Yeah." He shot me a crooked grin. "You might want to learn to duck. You okay?" A quick mental check for damage listed every part of my body as being in pain. "I'm not sure. Do I look okay?" "No. That's why I asked." "Can I get up now? I mean, is it safe to get up now?"

Mike helped me to sit beside him on the floor and rested his head against the wall. Police were dragging the last of the men who started the fight out of the room. At a table, in the center of the devastation of broken tables and chairs, I saw the Flaherty's new owner finish filling shot glasses from a bottle of Jagermeister. The owner shouted, "Airborne!" The soldier shouted, "Jihaad!" The pair of Japanese men cried, "Semper Fi!" to the gray-haired men's refrain of "Banzai!" "Did we survive?" I mumbled. "Or is this the waiting room for Valhalla?" "Yeah. We survived." Mike sighed slowly. "I think I might have cracked a rib or two though." "You going to see a doctor?" I gingerly touched a finger to the overstuffed creampuff that used to be my right eye. Naturally, he ignored the doctor question. "Probably going to have a shiner, Chaz. The chair caught you pretty hard." "So, where do we go from here?" "Home, I guess. Cops aren't going to charge any of us. Just the dickheads who assaulted the kid." "That's not what I meant." "I know what you meant." "Would you come home with me? Please? I miss you." "I miss you too. But I don't think I'm ready yet." The pain coursing throughout my body wasn't from the fight. "I don't know what I can say, Mike." He used my knee to push himself to his feet. "And that's kind of the whole thing in a nutshell, isn't it?" I took his offered hand, and he pulled me to my feet. I saw the grimace. "You're in pain. You need to see a doctor."

He shrugged off my suggestion again. He could be so darn frustrating. "My ribs. I'll get them checked if they still hurt in the morning. Look. I'm gonna get out of here. You take care of yourself, Chaz. Thanks for coming to my rescue." He was walking away. I had to do something. "I could use your help moving Karl's bed and dresser out." Really? Why? "Really? Why?" "I thought I'd make a den to write in." Okay. Worked for me. "I'll think about it. I'll call you either way." I smiled as he walked away. He'd said he'd call. "You come back soon, Mike!" The owner shouted. "Tuesdays are our slow night!" Mike waved a hand in the air and disappeared out the door. ***** Six weeks passed. Mike hadn't called. I filled my time with a book demanding to be written. Chapter Six A key turned in the door. Excitement flowed through me with the heat and spasmodic pulse of uncontrolled electricity. I set my laptop and TCT to the side and stood from the couch. TCT clawed his way up the back and sat there, a hood ornament on an immobile conveyance. "Mike!" I turned to see his handsome face. The excitement transmuted to perplexity. "Karl? What are you doing here?" "Wow. I know I probably should have called ahead, but I guess I thought you'd at least be a little happy to see me." My body didn't react at all the way I expected. Numbness cloaked me like wool long johns. But then, I hadn't really thought about Karl lately or what this moment

might be like. He'd chosen a future with Deborah, and I hadn't heard from him since he'd left. I was having enough problems keeping Mike from slithering out of my life. Yet, here Karl stood in his full regalia of golden hair, bronze body highlighted against a sun yellow shirt and tan slacks. The shirt lay open to the hairless mid-chest of his perfect V-frame. A piece of succulent, ripened, forbidden fruit. Truth be told, I couldn't keep my eyes off him. Interest salivated in my mouth. Goosebumps popped up and down my arms with the enthusiasm of children in front of their first Christmas tree. Therein lay the problem. There's nothing sexual about children and Christmas, and I felt no wanting desire for this package begging to be unwrapped button by button. What I did feel could be summarized in one word . . . . Confusion. A sting of irritation bore into my skin as well. He'd not only not called, he let himself in without so much as a knock. He didn't live here anymore. Karl crossed the floor. The carpet surrendered under his steps, then resumed its shape. I noticed. My golden god didn't float anymore. His fingers explored the area around my right eye. "What happened? Mike didn't get all stupid on you, did he? He can be such an animal." His voice, a whisper. My irritation, a mental screech. Moist, warm breath painted my skin. He stood nipple-hardening close to me, and moved in closer. This wasn't making sense. I could feel the heat of his body massaging mine, and the sensation felt good. Damn good. "Mike? Oh, no way. Never." I needed to get this situation under control before I lost control. My arms didn't listen to my command to pull away when he lightly slid his hands up and down them. My nipples poked their alertness through the cotton of my gray T-shirt. Christ. What was going on? His fingers laced through mine, and he pulled my arms around his waist. His powerful arms wrapped around me, and I felt his strong fingers knead my ass. He pushed my groin into his. Karl pressed his erection against me, and my own, instantaneous in its response, throbbed inside my flannel shorts.

A shudder rattled every bone in my body from my toes to my skull when his lips rested on my neck. His chest slid back and forth across mine. Breath caught in my throat. I wanted him to stop. I wanted him to take me. I wanted the tip of my cock to get back in my shorts. My head wilted to the side to allow his lips free reign. "Why?" I murmured, mesmerized. "Why now?" At least something in my brain still worked. Yeah. Darn good question. Why now? In another four months, he'd be married. My common sense finally crawled forward, kicked into gear, and wanted the question answered. "Shh." His tongue traced lazy circles toward my ear. "Oh, Gawd." A moan clawed its way out of me. Not to be denied, logic fired up its own engine. "Why, Karl? Why are you here?" Okay. Maybe logic wasn't hitting on all cylinders. It seemed pretty obvious to my hard-on why he was here. And when his fingers outlined my erection through the cloth of my shorts, a few drops of welcome leaked out. "I want you, Chaz." Huh uh. No. It took the full collaboration of all the bits of willpower not yet seduced to push him off me. "I want an answer, Karl." His eyes widened. The resolve in my tone surprised me too. But he regrouped and moved back into me, put his arms around me and pulled me close. I'd gone to halfmast. His flagstaff was ready to unfurl. He tried to get a rise out of me with a groin-togroin massage. Wasn't going to happen. "Answer the damn question, Karl." The anger felt good. Like a colonic irrigation feels good ten minutes after you've embarrassed yourself all over the floor. My brain had cleansed itself and proudly stood ready for battle. I didn't just push him away this time. Clenching my teeth, I thrust my hands against his solid chest in a full shove, which knocked him backwards several steps. "Answer the goddamn question!"

A flash popped in his eyes. He recovered, but I'd seen the anger. I'd known and loved this man for years. Still, something writhed below the surface. Something new, or something I'd chosen to ignore. He came closer. His hands found my arms again. No goose bumps now. My skin crawled in repulsion of his touch. The twist of his lips, more smirk than smile. "You know you want my cock, Chaz. I've decided to let you enjoy yourself. I want you to give me a blowjob." He placed his hands on my shoulders. The pressure to push me down increased against my resistance. He decided to let me enjoy myself? How utterly magnanimous of the prick. He'd come here so I could drop to my knees in gratitude, and his cum down my throat would be my reward? My guts imploded. I'd come out of the closet for him? I'd exposed my love for him, and the end result? He'd decided to allow me to be his whore? I wanted to take his condescending tone and use it as a noose around his throat. "I'm not asking you to do anything you haven't done before. It's just sex. Doesn't mean anything. Suck me, Chaz. You know you want to." "What the hell? You think I go around sucking guys off?" I had loved this man? .How could I? I clearly had no idea who Karl really was. He reached down and unzipped his pants. He pulled out his dick. Then the sonofabitch started to slowly masturbate. "Come on, Chaz." The other hand pressed down on my shoulder again. His eyes closed. The words tumbled out of his throat. "Put me in your mouth. Let me feel your lips on me. Suck me, Chaz." "Go fuck yourself. Oh, wait." I snarled my resentment of him. "You already are. What the fuck is wrong with you? You really think I'd do this? What about Deborah? Huh? What about all your talk about monogamy and how important being faithful is to you?" His eyes focused on my face. I couldn't find any caring or concern in them. "Oh, come on, now, Chaz." His tone, a disdainful snigger. "I'm not cheating on Deborah. It's just a blowjob. Christ, man. It's not like I'm with another woman."

My jaw clenched. My chest rose and fell like a bellows spewing fire. The truth had finally been exposed. To the man of my dreams I was only a fag. A male whore worthy of servicing him and nothing more. "What about the night you said you wanted to come to my bed? What was that all about? Huh? Tell me, Karl." I tried to move from under his hand. He only pressed down harder. "I wanted you. Fact. I wanted to know what a man sucking me would feel like. I did. I'll admit it. I might have even fucked you that night. And I didn't lie. I changed my mind because we're friends. I love you in both ways. But you know? I haven't been able to get you out of my mind since you told me you love me." His voice grew harsh, hard. "Go down on me, Chaz. Show me how much you love me. Nobody will ever know." The rage in me wanted to take his damn head off. It took both my hands, but I threw his hand off my shoulder. "Get out, you asshole. Get out of my house." The white light popped again in his eyes. This time a fist to my jaw followed. I fell against the couch. TCT hissed above me. "Stay down there." His words were a command. "You fucking fags are all the same, aren't you? So righteous. So—" "Tired of listening to your shit."A voice growled behind him. Mike. Karl stuffed his dick in his pants as he wheeled around. "You can't take me, Mike. And since when did you give a damn about faggots? Did he tell you he's queer? Says he's in love with me. Can you imagine?" The sound of his zipper closing signaled round one had started. My fuzzy brain focused in on the fact Mike hadn't outted me to Karl that night like I'd thought. "The little cocksucker almost had me convinced to let him suck me off. But I came to my senses." Mike moved slowly. He circled to Karl's right. They turned together, dancers in a soundless paso doble. I thought I knew what Mike wanted me to do and crawled on my knees behind Karl. Without the couch behind him, nothing would prevent his fall.

Mike lashed out with his right fist; Karl blocked the blow. Under Karl's raised right arm came Mike's left fist, delivering a full blow to Karl's exposed chest. The force wouldn't have been enough to knock him over. My placement behind his knees did the job though. His back hit the floor first. Then his head. TCT growled and leapt through the air onto Karl's face where he bit his nose. Mike snatched the kitten off the man and pressed his foot onto Karl's throat. "Never planned on trying to take you alone." Mike hugged the kitten. "Good kitty." TCT clawed his way up Mike's T-shirt and perched on his shoulder, a fur-laden parrot. "You siding with a queer?" Karl gurgled under the foot. "Nope. With a man. A man I love. You've got ten seconds to get your ass out of here, Karl." Wide, round eyes jerked to me, then back to Mike. When Mike took his foot off the man's throat, Karl jerked to his feet and bolted out the door. I was both elated and crushed. But there weren't any tears, and I found my disappointment with Karl fade as quickly as the concern for his hasty exit. "How could I have been so wrong about Karl? Why didn't I see any of this before now?" Mike stood petting TCT with a finger. The traitorous cat purred. "You were in love. 'Whence the bough of love blossoms, the view of the horizon is obscured.'" A chuckle drizzled out of my lips. "When did you get so philosophical?" "It's from one of your books." "My books? I wrote that? I didn't think even I could write something so pitifully syrupy and morose." "Must have been in a fortune cookie then." He sighed, pulled TCT off of him, and tried to hand me the cat. TCT refused to have any of it, and clawed his way back to Mike's shoulder. "I came by to let you know I'll help you move out the extra bed. But I decided it's best I find another place to live. I just wanted to grab a few things out of my room."

I leaned against the back of the couch and watched him open the door. Defining moments fill people's lives. Moments that foretell whether the turn at the crossroads be destiny, or happenstance. This wasn't one of those. This was a redecorating job run amuck. "What the hell did you do to my room?" "I call the style countrified urbanic." "The walls are gray, Chaz." "To match the steel you work with everyday." "The blue ceiling. The sky?" "Yup." My tone reflected my delight. He didn't need an explanation. My condo art spoke for itself. "Why is there a barn wood door with a crescent moon cut in it where my closet door used to be?" Okay. Maybe the outhouse concept didn't convey the right mood. "What the . . . ? You put Astroturf on the floor? And where's my bed? You expect me to sleep in a hammock built for two? Where in God's name did you find a dresser built like a gas grill?" "Terri Evanne's House of Fantasy and Deck Decor in the Sheridan Mall over on Ali Boulevard. Pretty cool, huh?" My chest swelled with pride. He turned around, crossed his arms, and leaned against the doorjamb. TCT rubbed his cheek. "You're out of your mind." His scowl flipped to a smile. "You really are out of your mind. This is the ugliest and most ridiculous thing I've ever seen." "I know. This is my new inspirational writing room. Why don't you check out your room now?" Oh, yeah. I could barely contain my excitement. "My room? This isn't my room?" "Nope. I moved you to the corner bedroom with two windows." "Karl's room?" "He doesn't live here anymore." I walked over to the bedroom door and turned the knob. "The king is dead. Long live the king."

I don't know if he even noticed the walnut four-poster bed with black silk sheets when he first entered. He went straight to the matching lowboy dresser with the fulllength mirror where he picked up the crystal ball filled with white sand. When he turned around I could see his quivering lower lip. I walked over and stood in front of him. "I've been writing a book." "Yeah." More than a degree of bitterness smacked the air. "The one about Karl." "No. This story's about a man who spends his life loving someone who doesn't deserve him, and how the object of his love spends the rest of his life trying to make it up to him." I placed my hand over his mouth before he could speak. "I can only promise you this, Mike. If you leave us, TCT and I will just follow you. I've never been with a man before. I want you to be my first. We can take it one step at a time . . . one day at a time, after . . . after we wake . . . in the morning." I ran my hands up and down his arms, then snaked them around his waist and pulled him into me. His muscles were as taught and rigid as my cock. But his lips were soft and wanting, and I wanted them more than life itself. I set TCT on the other side of the door then I closed it. I pulled off my T-shirt, and slipped out of my shorts. I turned. My erection pointed the way back to Mike. His face felt heated between my palms. "One way or another, I'm going to give myself to you, Mike. Right here, right now." His hand enveloped my swollen shaft. "Then let me help you." And for the first time, I embraced the fact I'd finally come out of the closet. ~The End~ About the Author

KevaD is the mirror image of DA “Dave” Kentner, whose short stories have appeared in a number of small publications. He also writes a column for the local newspaper, the (Freeport) Journal Standard and a blog: http://dakentner.blogspot.com/