Hanging Loose

Hanging Loose

Lou Harper

www.loose-id.com

Hanging Loose Copyright © June 2011 by Lou Harper All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions. eISBN 978-1-61118-494-5 Editor: Tere Michaels Cover Artist: April Martinez Printed in the United States of America

Published by Loose Id LLC PO Box 425960 San Francisco CA 94142-5960 www.loose-id.com This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author‟s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Warning This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC‟s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

*** DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither Loose Id LLC nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.

Dedication This story is dedicated to Jo Myles, aka Vile Temptress. Jo, without your tempting, prodding, and candid comments this story would have never happened. Also a thousand thanks to my editor, Tere Michaels, for getting this puppy into presentable shape.

Chapter One I woke on a lumpy futon, tangled in my sheets and a dilemma: what was I to do for the next two days? Switching shifts at the restaurant landed me with two consecutive days off, and I was stumped. A lethargic fly was doing figure eights in the limited airspace of my room. It probably wasn‟t looking forward to a couple of humdrum days in North Hollywood any more than I was. Especially when the entire San Fernando Valley was smothered in summer heat like biscuits in gravy. The forecast predicted “highs in the nineties and sunny skies.” Not that they weren‟t always sunny. There were three of us guys sharing the apartment, but the dull silence told me that my roomies were off at their day jobs, acting classes, whatnot. I was on my own. “Seems like a good day to take a trip to the beach,” I proposed to the fly. It did a kamikaze into the windowpane. I took that as tacit agreement. About two hours later, I was at Venice Beach, inhaling cool, briny air. I could have gotten there faster if I had a car, but my wheels had kicked the bucket a few weeks after I‟d arrived in LA. It‟d been a miracle that the old clunker had made it that far at all. Unfortunately for me, LA was the place the word “sprawling” was invented for, and public transportation was nobody‟s friend—a cranky neighbor at best. Venice was nut-fuck crazy. The many beaches strung along the coast of LA have their unique identities, and Venice is the freaky one. It even has an actual freak show for good measure. This place exists to lure in visitors from other parts of

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the city, country, world—solar system?—and show them the wild and zany side of LA-la Land as promised by the shiny brochures. The promenade swarmed with tourists and sightseers. It was like the great tuna migration. To feed on them were the street vendors, performers, and a wide assortment of shops that were not particularly sharklike… I groaned out loud as my simile deteriorated into a stinking mess. I left the whole steaming pile of it on the sidewalk and walked away, pretending I had nothing to do with it. Anyway, it was time to have a proper beach experience. I strolled down to the ocean, where I stripped down to my swimming trunks—conveniently worn under my jeans—and waded into the water. And immediately waded the fuck out of it. It was colder than a penguin‟s ass! Its icy bite was in sharp contrast with the sand, palm trees, and mercilessly bright sun. “You need to jump straight in,” a beach urchin suggested. His lips were blue, teeth chattering even as he demonstrated his own unsolicited advice. I chose to stay at the edge of the water, letting the cold waves lick my calves. Eventually I put my clothes back on and headed back to the promenade to see if I could score some reasonably priced beer. I could spend the day people watching and sketching. It wasn‟t like there was a shortage of subject matter.

*** To say I missed the last bus back would be a fib, since I never actually made an attempt to catch it. I had just let time pass till it was too late. I figured I could spend the night on the beach, then spend another day loafing about before heading back to the Valley. Despite the strangeness of the local scene, it was still far more entertaining than the lone fly of my bedroom. What I forgot was another local peculiarity: the substantial temperature drop from day to night. Being the yokel I was, I didn‟t think of packing a jacket into my backpack along with the sketch pad and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. Consequently, even before the sun

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completely dipped under the horizon, I was shivering on a bench, wondering how I was going to get through the night. When a guy stopped by my bench and said hello, I looked up with a touch of alarm. It evaporated at the first glimpse of him. The setting sun was behind him, and I couldn‟t really see his features, but he looked like someone straight out of one of those surfing documentaries: he wore a black wet suit and had a surfboard tucked under his arm. He was about my height, his body was toned, and his shoulder-length blond hair framed his face in lazy waves. The chilly air didn‟t seem to bother him one bit; anyone who‟d surf in those frigid waters had to be used to it. The sun backlit him so he was surrounded by a numinous glow. The sight took my breath away for a moment. He should have been a painting: Golden-Haired Patron Saint of the Waves. “Are you all right?” the apparition with the shimmering aura asked. “I missed the last bus.” I divulged the half-truth through chattering teeth once I could talk again. It wasn‟t exactly an answer to his question, but he got my meaning. “To where?” “North Hollywood.” He nodded. “Long way. Oh, I‟m Jez, by the way. Well, Jesse, but everyone calls me Jez.” The tail end of the board thudded in the sand as he leaned forward and stretched his hand toward me. I returned the gesture and clasped his hand without thinking. I got a better look at his face. His sun-beaten skin crinkled around his eyes as he smiled. I had read the expression “infectious smile” before, but until then I thought it was just literary confabulation. Not anymore. Catching his friendly grin, I couldn‟t help but return it. “Nathan,” I stammered. “You can call me Nate.” “Do you need a place to crash?” he asked. I blinked at him in surprise. He looked back at me, eyebrows slightly raised, appearing bewilderingly casual. The rational part of my mind told me that the

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sensible thing to do was to stay put and freeze my ass off on the bench. The truth was, I‟d spent the past twenty-three years of my life doing the sensible thing and was getting pretty sick of it. A tingly sort of excitement fluttered in my stomach at the thought of doing something reckless like following a white rabbit down the rabbit hole. I nodded. “C‟mon,” was all he said as he hoisted the board under his arm and began to walk. I grabbed my backpack and rushed after him. The house was a pale blue Craftsman bungalow, sandwiched between two other similar houses, only two short blocks from the beach. He motioned toward the sofa before disappearing into the farther reaches of the place. I cast a curious eye around. It was a style clash; most of the furniture was decidedly retro, except for the colorful throw over the sofa and a few other more contemporary elements. A couple of photographs on the wall, complete with their ornate frames, looked like something you‟d either find at a flea market or inherit from your grandparents. The only really modern elements were the sizable flat-screen TV on one of the walls and the fair collection of DVDs shelved against another. “Are you hungry?” I spun around to see Jez in the doorway. He was sans surfboard and wet suit, redressed in Hawaiian-patterned Bermuda shorts and a faded T-shirt. “I‟m fine. Don‟t worry about me,” I said, despite the distinct rumblings of my stomach. He pursed his lips, silently mocking me. “I‟m not worried about you. I‟ll have dinner, and it‟s as easy to zap two meals as it is one. I got a freezer stuffed full of microwave food.” “Yeah, okay then. If it‟s no trouble.” He did a half eye roll. “Do you like Indian food?” “I think so.”

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“Aight. Feel free to find something on the TV,” he said and disappeared into what I assumed was the kitchen. I was hovering a little stiff and unsure for a moment, but then I kicked off my shoes and slumped into the sofa. There was a remote control on the messy coffee table. I kept clicking through dour-faced anchormen and inane commercials till I got to something without color. I still have no idea what the movie was, but it looked like something Mae West would have felt comfortable in. Jez reappeared with two plastic trays and cast an approving glance toward the TV. “Here you go.” Jez put a plastic tray of food in front of me. It was rice and something that looked like chicken in a reddish sauce. I tried it carefully. It wasn‟t half bad. “I didn‟t know you could get frozen food this good,” I said. “Not in the big grocery stores. You‟re from the Midwest, aren‟t you?” I nodded. “Indiana. How did you guess?” “You have that friendly but buttoned-up thing going on.” Had I? I‟d thought of myself more as awkward. I made an effort at conversation, at least. “You always lived here?” “Born and raised.” I ran out of topics, and he didn‟t press, so we finished our dinner in silence. I threw surreptitious glances at Jez over my grub. He was a complete stranger who invited me into his home. For all I knew, he could have been a serial killer. After all, Ted Bundy was a real charmer. Jez looked a little older than I originally thought—in his late twenties probably, five or six years older than me. His honey brown tan was accentuated with sparse blond hair on his legs and arms. He was good-looking, but not in a movie-star sort of way. His nose was a touch wide with a small bump in the middle. His chin was slightly asymmetrical. Jez‟s eyes, however,

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were striking: bright blue irises with dark rims and flecks. By the time he cleared off the remains and settled back on the sofa, I managed to work up the nerve to ask the one question that was bugging me. “Do you often bring home strangers?” He gave me a rueful smile and didn‟t reply right away. “No, not these days.” I caught something in his eyes, and for no reason, a shiver ran through me. Then he blinked, and it was gone. I might have just imagined it. “You looked lost,” he said. “Still…” “Look, I‟ve spent years driving along the coast, chasing the waves. I hung out with other surfers, drifters—all kinds of people. It was customary to offer help to anyone in need. Occasionally it bit you in the ass, but most of the time you met cool people, and they returned the favor. I keep forgetting how freaked out „normal‟ people get when you do the same.” He shuffled to the farthest end of the sofa as if trying to put maximum distance between us. “I‟m not freaked out!” I protested. “Really?” he asked, clearly not believing me. “Yeah, okay. I was a little, but I‟m getting over it.” I chanced a small smile to convey my honesty. He returned it in the shape of a toothy, wide grin. It suited him extremely well, made him about twice as goodlooking. It was hard for me not to stare. “So what brought you to the beach?” Jez asked. “The bus.” It slipped out. He chuckled. “Just wanted to see the ocean. I‟ve been here for six months and haven‟t seen it yet,” I added, embarrassed about my flippancy, not that he seemed to mind. “What do you do there in the Valley?”

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“Wait tables, stuff.” Jez nodded and didn‟t ask how I liked LA. That was good, because I didn‟t have a short answer. He was quiet for a moment, lost in thought. Next, he stood and left the room without an explanation. He came back with a bong. I did recognize it right off; I‟d seen them earlier in shop windows on the promenade. This was much nicer-looking than those—bright red with yellow swirls. “Do you smoke?” Jez asked. “It‟s okay if you don‟t.” “Sure, I do.” It wasn‟t a complete lie; I‟d smoked weed a grand total of three times before. It tended to mellow me out. Jez filled it with icy water and then stuffed the pungent weed into the appropriate orifice. I watched him as he lit it and drew the smoke into his lungs. He held it there for a moment before letting it slowly out. He offered the bong to me, and I followed his example. I inhaled the smoke deeply and held it as long as I could. It was much smoother than any weed I‟d smoked before; it barely scratched my throat. I exhaled and drew in another lungful. “Careful, there.” He smiled at me. “This is strong stuff.” No kidding. I went beyond mellow. Also strangely chatty. I don‟t remember a whole lot of it, but I clearly recall going on and on about Cary Grant for some reason. There were also bits about my family, art school, and my ex-girlfriend, Jenny, who was now living in Chicago, probably with someone far cooler than me. In time I ran out of words, possibly in the middle of a sentence, and just stared at the TV screen. I tried to make my uncooperative eyes follow the action. There was a platinum blonde in a shimmering dress and a man in a tuxedo. It had to be romantic comedy, because they were arguing a lot. Jez didn‟t move from his end on the sofa, but somehow we ended up sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. I faintly remember Jez‟s fingers over my buzz cut, lazily rubbing my scalp. It felt indescribably good. High as I was, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. I fell asleep right there on the sofa, leaning against him.

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*** I woke up the next morning alone, on the very same sofa, under a warm and fuzzy blanket. The morning light brought with it the familiar unease of the morning after, but at least no hangover. I wondered if I could sneak out and slink back to my North Hollywood hideout before my host woke up. No such luck. The room was suddenly filled with the rich, thick aroma of coffee. There he was, Jez himself, with a large cup in his hand. “I didn‟t know how you like it, so I put in a bit of both sugar and milk.” He thrust the mug at me, and I took it gratefully. It was almost perfect. I looked up at him over the rim of the mug as I took big, gluttonous gulps. Jez looked as nonchalant as I remembered him from the night before. “I‟m making breakfast. I hope you‟re hungry,” he said. I was. Jez put plates of bacon, eggs, and toast on the kitchen table, and public radio droned in the background. I ate quietly, trying to formulate the best sentences to cut short the inevitable awkwardness of my impending departure. “I‟m looking for a roommate,” Jez said. I blinked at him in mute surprise. He went on. “My last one left suddenly. I go off for days and could use somebody to look after the place when I‟m gone. Would you be interested?” I looked up, startled. “I‟m straight,” I blurted out at last. There was a tiny voice deep down telling me I was full of shit. I gagged it. I felt myself blushing in embarrassment as soon as the words left my lips. I didn‟t even know why I just assumed he was gay. Maybe it was the memory of his fingers in my hair the night before or the way he was looking at me. Maybe it was the house—what I‟d seen of it, anyway—that looked somehow feminine, although in an odd retro-meets-the-beach way. Jez didn‟t seem offended, only pursed his lips while his eyes sparkled with amusement.

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“I won‟t hold it against you,” he said, smiling, and I couldn‟t figure out if it was an admission or not. Not that it mattered; it was none of my business. I halfheartedly objected, mumbling something about the restaurant, but he already knew my circumstances and succinctly pointed out that I could wait tables in Venice just the same. It was a bit crazy and impulsive to decide to cohabit with a guy I didn‟t even know, but then, I didn‟t really know the guys I was already living with and definitely hadn‟t when I first moved in with them. I figured I could follow the example of Blanche DuBois and depend on the kindness of strangers for once. I conveniently forgot how much it didn‟t work out for her. It was the Casablanca fridge magnet that sealed the deal; nobody who liked Casablanca could be a psychopathic serial killer, right? I doubted, though, that I could afford the rent. I didn‟t think what I paid for the smallest room in a tatty three-bedroom in the Valley would cover half a house at Venice. He squashed my concerns. “You just have to pay half the utilities. I own the house, free and clear.” I looked at him, a fair bit surprised. Jez couldn‟t be more than a few years my senior, but while I was practically living out of a suitcase, he owned a house in one on the priciest real estate markets in town. He read my thoughts. “I inherited it from Adelle, my grandmother. She‟d lived here since the fifties. She passed away a little over a year ago,” he explained. So that accounted for the odd retro and feminine vibes of the place. I felt embarrassed at how fast I‟d jumped to conclusions. “I‟m sorry I assumed you were gay.” I blushed. “Oh, I am, but don‟t worry; your virtue is safe with me,” Jez said with a big, open smile. I felt my blush deepen. “C‟mon. Check out your room,” he said mercifully.

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Chapter Two “Hello, toots. What‟s a dame like you doing in a dive like this?” I said with my best swagger. “What‟s it to you, flatfoot?” Sandy retorted. She looked me over like she could read the labels in my clothes and wasn‟t impressed. She would have blown a great cloud of cigarette smoke into my face, but neither of us smoked, plus we were at work. “Stop clowning around, you two, and see if the customers need something,” Roger barked. He wasn‟t truly angry, but being the boss, he had an image to maintain. The Beach Café was a run-of-the-mill establishment catering mainly to tourists. I worked the breakfast-lunch shift three days a week, plus the occasional dinner shift when they got exceptionally busy or Sandy had an audition. She and I hit it off right away. We had something in common: movies. I loved them; she wanted to be in them. LA was lousy with struggling actors—like my old roommates—and most of them would never make it. I rooted for her because I liked her; she had zing. My shift was ending, so I filled up those water glasses one last time, tipped my imaginary hat to Sandy, and headed out the back door. I walked past our house but didn‟t see Jez‟s ancient VW minibus parked out front. He hadn‟t gotten back yet, then. Every few weeks, he threw a couple of boards into it and disappeared for several days. He was such a California surfer cliché, although he did it without any conscious effort. I didn‟t think he was even fully aware of it.

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I kept on walking to the apartment building on the corner to check in on Arthur. Arthur was an old geezer, apparently a family friend of Jez‟s, and Jez looked after him since Arthur was a bit frail. When Jez was out of town, I took over the chore. Arthur opened the door, and that old-people smell whacked me in the nose. I asked him if he was okay, if he needed anything, then hightailed it out of there. Senior citizens weirded me out a little. I went around the block and down the alley to our house. I liked taking that route just to go through the garage and graze my eyes on Jez‟s other car: a cherry red ‟68 Chevy Impala. I‟d been told it used to be Adelle‟s. My admiration for her had quadrupled since learning that fact. Back at the house, I considered grabbing my sketchbook and heading down the promenade but was diverted by Jez‟s large DVD collection. I‟d meant to poke around in it for some time, and there was no time like the present. Soon I discovered that it wasn‟t what I‟d expected. I was prepared for surf movies, maybe kung fu or action flicks. Instead I found that half his DVDs were old films. Like, really old—classic Hollywood stuff. I‟d had a fascination with old movies since I was a kid, and it only got stronger in college, where I even took up film studies as a minor. So his collection held a great interest to me. I was startled by the familiar voice behind me. “See anything you like?” I turned around, feeling guilty for some irrational reason. The living room was shared space, and he‟d never told me to stay away from his movies. Plus he was far too laid-back to care about stuff like that. Jez was leaning against the doorjamb, shirtless—not an unusual sight. Sometimes I wondered if it was for my benefit alone that he wore any clothes at all around the house. For some reason, seeing him like that always made me think of foodstuff: his skin of honey, his nipples of caramel. I blinked that thought away. “Yes,” I replied at last, with that flustered brevity I do so well, and held a random DVD case in front of me. Ah, show-and-tell.

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“Singin’ in the Rain. That‟s a good one. Wanna watch it?” “Okay.” I really did have a way with words. “Oh, where is the VW?” I asked as my composure crept out of hiding. “At the shop. Needs a little mending.” “It needs replacing,” I snorted. “Hey, you don‟t throw things away just because they‟re old,” Jez replied, turning toward the kitchen. He grabbed a couple of beers for us, and we settled in front of the TV. We were watching the scene where Debbie Reynolds pops out of a cake and, along with a group of chorus girls, bursts into a catchy song and dance routine, when Jez pointed at the screen and exclaimed, “That‟s her!” “Who?” I asked, nonplussed. “Adelle.” Jez paused the film and pointed out the fetching brunette in the chorus. “I didn‟t know she was an actress.” “Actress, singer, dancer,” he corrected me. He sounded proud. “So that‟s why you have so many old films?” It started to make sense now. “Yeah, we used to watch them together when I was a kid. I got into them.” He restarted the movie. “She‟s in a bunch of them, though you‟d never know. She never made it big, but she always worked. All the way till she got sick.” “Oh,” I said, while onscreen, Debbie and Gene Kelly squabbled. “What was wrong with her?” “Many things. Mostly old age. That‟s when I moved back in. That was two, no…three years ago.” “You took care of her?” “She‟d rather have died than move into a nursing home, but couldn‟t live alone anymore.”

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“That was cool of you.” I wanted to say “noble,” but it would‟ve sounded melodramatic. “Nah. You take care of the people you love, right?” “And now you‟re taking care of Arthur.” “Somebody has to. And you‟re helping too.” Jez said that like I was some damn hero for getting groceries for an old guy or dropping by to make sure he hadn‟t slipped in the shower and broke his hips yet. “She must have been an interesting person,” I said, to steer the conversation away from me. “Oh, that‟s an understatement.” Three beers later, both Donald O‟Connor and I were flat on our backs on a sofa. For him it was a momentary situation—for me it was a matter of comfort. Jez was sitting up, or rather slouching, his bare feet on the coffee table. One of mine had found its way into his lap, where he absently kneaded it. That was nice. I had an unwelcome Pulp Fiction flashback—something about the intimacy of foot rubs. I shoved it to the bottom of the ignore pile and turned my attention back to Donnie.

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Chapter Three Sandy was giddy with excitement. She landed a part in an episode of an HBO series. She was to be naked mostly but also had several lines. I couldn‟t vouch for her talent, but she had a great rack, all natural to boot. They were perfectly round and bouncy, with small nipples that tended to get perky for no discernible reason. I could‟ve traced them through the cotton of her T-shirts when they did. I offered to help her “rehearse” for the role, but she just slapped my arm and laughed. The result of her thespian success was that I was filling in for her on what had to be the busiest Friday night of the summer. It was three or four in the morning by the time I staggered home and fell into bed. I slept late into the morning and was awakened by the tease of sweet smells. Jez had to have returned from his latest jaunt, then. Either that, or somebody broke into our kitchen to bake cookies. I shuffled into the kitchen, still groggy and sleep ruffled. Jez‟s gaze swept over me. He grinned and turned back to the counter. I had to grin too; he looked comical wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and an oven mitt. I watched the soft curves of his back, the flawless skin stretched over lean muscles. The groove of his spine, the two shallow dips of his hips that just barely peeked out of the waistband. I wished I had the guts to ask if he‟d let me draw him. Muscles and skin flexed with subtle nuance as he scooped the cookies out of the baking pan. A couple of them went on the small plate that he put in front of me, along with a cup of coffee. “Could I draw you?” I asked. He looked at me, surprised. “What, now?” “Whenever you have time,” I replied, already regretting my boldness. I was making a nuisance of myself, I was sure.

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Jez glanced at the kitchen clock. “I got half an hour before I need to head out. Is that good?” “Sure.” “How do you want to do this?” “Living room.” It‟s much harder to sit or stand still than most people realize. A seemingly easy pose can become strained after a few minutes. I had Jez lie on the sofa for one pose and stand up for another one. I did quick charcoal sketches. I wished he was nude, but I wasn‟t daring enough to ask. “Okay, you can move,” I said when time was up. “Oh, thank God. My nose itches.” “It always does when you can‟t scratch it.” “So, don‟t you normally draw people nude?” Jez asked, walking toward his room. I made a choking sound that he apparently took for a yes. He came out of his room, shrugging into a T-shirt. “Just ask if you want me to drop trou.” He winked at me, and I felt my face heat up. He headed out the door but yelled back, “Could you take those cookies over to Arthur? I need to drive up to Silver Lake. I‟ll be back in a few hours.” The door slammed closed behind him.

*** Arthur looked unwell, but his watery, pale blue eyes lit up at the sight of the treats. He immediately started chewing on one. He waved me in, and since he didn‟t take the plate, I had no choice but to comply. There was a lingering odor of medicine in the air. I noticed a small oxygen tank in the corner. I took a deep breath and tried to smile. I put the plate on the coffee table while Arthur shuffled out to the kitchen. He came back with two glasses of milk. I don‟t like milk, except in my coffee, but

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didn‟t want to be rude. I took one of the offered cookies when Arthur dismissed my protestations. We sat at the coffee table in silence for a minute. I cast around the room to look for a conversation topic. It was packed full of stuff—the debris of a lifetime crammed into a one-bedroom apartment. Along one whole wall were bookshelves crowded not only with books, but with all sorts of objects. The other walls were covered with photographs, many of them obviously publicity shots, headshots—all signed. I spotted something on a shelf. “Is that the Golden Sphinx of Cairo?” I gasped. A wide grin spread out on Arthur‟s wrinkled face. “Yes, it is! I was the set decorator on The Golden Sphinx.” He puffed his chest out a little. “That‟s so cool,” I gushed. I must have just made Arthur‟s day, because he lit up like Grauman‟s Chinese Theatre on opening night. He walked me to the shelves and let me hold the statuette. It was much lighter than it looked, but of course it wasn‟t really made of solid gold. In the film, it was coveted by homicidal men and the equally murderous femme fatale. She was exposed at the end by the gruff private eye who handed her over to the cops despite the crackling sexual tension between them. I sighed. I loved that movie. Arthur took my sigh of rapture as a prompt to tell me about his other mementos. He prattled on and on, but I didn‟t mind; an inexplicable sense of wellbeing spread through me. He was like an unexpected treasure chest cracked wide open. Arthur‟s sickly look faded, and I bet he enjoyed having an attentive audience. Some of his stories—well, a whole bunch of them—were deliciously gossipy. Evidently there was a great deal of naughty business going on in Old Hollywood. I suppose that had never changed. When there was a lull in his narration, I asked him about the photos.

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“Did you know all these people?” “Oh yes, some more intimately than you‟d expect.” I swear he winked at me lewdly. It was very strange look on that old face. “Being a set designer isn‟t as glamorous as being an actor or director, but I got around,” he went on. “The best thing about not being in the limelight was that people cared far less about your love life, whether you liked men or women. As long as you were discreet enough, they didn‟t pay much attention to you. Not that there weren‟t plenty of homophobes around, mind you, like that dimwit Cotten.” “Joseph Cotten?” I risked the guess, since the costar of Citizen Kane was the only Cotten I could think of. “Yeah, him.” Arthur waved his hand dismissively. “I‟ve always thought idiots like that were protesting too much. They either had a secret taste for cock or were insecure because they had a small one.” I definitely turned red. The last thing I expected from an old geezer like Arthur was to have a dirty mouth. He delighted at my mortification and clasped me on the shoulder. “I wasn‟t always old and decrepit, you know. Well, I am now, and all I got is my memories of them to keep me warm.” He gestured at a particular group of photos on the wall. I took a good look at Arthur. He had to be over eighty, had liver spots, wispy white hair, and faded blue eyes. The skin of his face was like old parchment—wrinkled with fine creases. Still, he had very fine bone structure; he had to have been a good-looking man once. I took a better look at the group of pictures he pointed out. They were photographs of men, young and not so young, in casual poses. In some photos they stood next to the young Arthur, who was indeed quite handsome. Some of the men I recognized; others I didn‟t. My eye snagged on one photo: the man in it was sort of handsome, sort of bland, but something about his face looked eerily familiar. Then it clicked.

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“Is that—” I choked it out in disbelief. I couldn‟t make myself utter the name of that once small-time actor who later became a household name. “It is indeed!” Arthur chortled gleefully. “You didn‟t! He wasn‟t even…” Words abandoned me. Arthur seemed delighted at my incredulity. “I sure did, and he was!” He winked at me. “Well, bi, anyway. Oh, he had such a fine ass,” he waxed, not exactly poetically. “I always knew he wouldn‟t amount to much. He didn‟t have a lick of talent. Comes to show you how little I know.” I think my world tilted just a bit sideways then, and I saw Arthur in a whole new light. His giddiness, too, started to infect me. “You‟re a dirty old coot!” I said. Arthur tittered.

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Chapter Four “Oh, you son of a donkey! Work, you bastard!” I cursed, possibly a bit too loud. Jez poked his head into my room. “You okay?” he asked, concerned. “I‟m fine. Sorry for the noise. My laptop is dying, I think.” “You can use mine if you want. It‟s almost as old as that one, but it was working last time I checked. Was there anything specific you needed it for?” “I was just going to Google the nearest DMV office. My boss seems to think I should have a California driver‟s license. For some paperwork he has to file, or something.” “Why didn‟t you just ask? It‟s not that far. I can drive you over.” “I don‟t want to be a bother. I‟m sure I can manage.” He gave me an exasperated look. “Don‟t be a dumb-ass. You‟re no bother. Wanna go now?” “Okay, sure,” I answered, grateful.

*** The DMV office was alarmingly busy, but for some strange reason, Jez looked pleased. “Good. It‟s pretty light today. We should be done in a couple of hours,” he declared. “Light? This? And what do you mean, „a couple of hours‟?” I sputtered. “You‟re not from around here, are you?” He smirked at me.

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“You don‟t have to wait with me. I can find my way back,” I said, scanning the crowd. “Shut up and take a number.” So I took a number, and we sat down on the uncomfortable plastic chairs. I glanced around and saw a wide variety of people, even a few interesting characters among them. I pulled out my pocket sketchbook and a small pencil I kept in my pocket for just these occasions. Trying to appear inconspicuous, I started to draw the likeness of a Hispanic youth in comically oversize clothes. I did a quick sketch, then turned the page and drew him as a cartoon character, all exaggerated. “You‟re good,” Jez said, peeking over my shoulder. “I‟m decent,” I corrected him. “Look slowly toward the entrance,” he said, nudging my elbow. I casually lifted my gaze and shifted it toward the door. A beauty, indeed: a man with the world‟s worst comb-over had just walked in. I took him in and started to draw, looking up and taking a few “disinterested” glances in his general direction a few more times till I got him right. We whittled the waiting time away in this manner for a good while, Jez scoping out my next subject while I sketched. I finally put the sketch pad away when a middle-aged woman with inches-long purple fingernails gave us the evil eye. As the countdown got closer to my number, I dug up my old driver‟s license. Jez took it from my hand and inspected it curiously. I expected a comment on the picture, but he handed it back without a word. “You went to school for this drawing stuff, right?” he asked. “Yeah, I got a BFA.” “So if you have a college degree, why are you waiting tables?” It was a fair question and easy to answer. “I picked an art major because that was the only thing I was any good at. At first I had a naive idea of becoming a great artist, but then realized I wasn‟t that

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special. I could probably get a job as a designer in an Internet company or some other nine-to-five place, but it‟s not my thing. I tried it once, had an internship one summer. I quit after three weeks and went back to roofing.” “Roofing?” “Yeah. My stepuncle has a roofing business. Back in Indiana. I used to work for him during summer breaks. It‟s hard work, and you sweat like a monkey‟s ass, but I‟d rather do that than sit in a cubicle all day. It pays pretty well too.” Jez nodded in agreement. He clearly wasn‟t the office type either. “Waiting tables is fine,” I went on. “I get to see a lot of different people, and I like to observe. The tips are pretty good too where I work now, much better than at that Mexican place in the Valley from before. I also like working part-time and having extra time to do stuff.” “But there must be something creative out there that you‟d enjoy more.” I thought about that myself now and then, but not very fruitfully. I shrugged. “Maybe. If there is, I haven‟t figured out what.” At last my number was called. In the end, we got out of the DMV office in a little over an hour with my temporary license. It seemed less with Jez there.

*** I‟m not exactly a morning person. Jez was. The scent of freshly brewed coffee nudging me awake with the gentleness of a lover meant Jez was home. Quiet, odorless mornings usually signified that he was gone, and there‟d be a yellow sticky note stuck to the fridge letting me know when to expect him back and giving instructions regarding Arthur. I preferred coffee-scented mornings. There was something very comforting about knowing he was about. I found him in the kitchen, mixing batter. “Good morning,” I said politely. “Mornin‟. You got mail.” I picked up the official-looking envelope from the table and opened it.

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“Oh look, my driver‟s license! And it only took three weeks.” “Perfect timing for your birthday.” “That‟s not till tomorrow… Wait, how did you know?” “It was on your driver‟s license. The old one.” “Oh.” It took me by surprise that he‟d paid attention in the first place and then remembered. Like it mattered to him. “When‟s your birthday?” I asked. “April twenty-second. Long way off. Anyway, I‟m making banana pancakes. What do you want on top? Maple syrup, jam, or whipped cream?” “How about all three?” “Now you‟re talking!” Mondays were to me like Sundays to other people since the restaurant was closed. That Monday, we ate our breakfast in the dining room on account of the “special occasion.” When I stood to clear the empty plates away, Jez stopped me. “Sit down. Stay put. I got something for you.” He left and came back a few seconds later with a flat, rectangular box. “Happy birthday! I figure I might as well give it to you a day early.” He put the box in front of me. Judging from the size, it was probably a large sketchbook. Oversize even. Just in time—the old one was getting full. I opened the box, and my jaw dropped at the sight of the sleek brushed-aluminum case of a laptop. “You‟re crazy!” was my first, uncensored reaction. “You‟re welcome,” Jez said, unruffled. “I can‟t accept it. It‟s too much.” “You won‟t last a day in LA with that attitude.” He harrumphed. “It was an impulse buy, if it makes you feel any better. I was walking down Colorado Avenue

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in Pasadena, and this beauty was sitting in a window. I couldn‟t come up with any good excuse to buy it, since I don‟t need it for much else than to check the surf reports, but then I remembered your birthday and your struggles the other day.” “I still can‟t take it,” I insisted. Jez rolled his eyes and looked unhappy. Then he brightened again. “How about joint custody?” “What?” “We keep it in the common areas and both use it as needed. If one of us needs to take it somewhere, we let the other one know. How does that sound?” I considered it. It sounded very reasonable. “Okay.” Jez shifted the laptop to the other end of the table and poured himself some coffee. I helped myself to more pancakes. “Just remember to label your porn clearly,” he said. “The last thing I need is to innocently click on a video and get an eyeful of lady bits.” I nearly choked on my coffee. Jez patted my back till I stopped coughing. I still needed to get used to this side of Jez. I was all open-minded in theory, but not used to so much openness in practice. There‟d been gay guys in college, at least a couple in the art department, but I hadn‟t known them well. Definitely not well enough to talk porn. I felt vaguely embarrassed for being such a hick. To hide my embarrassment, I started hooking up the laptop. Soon it was ready to go. I fired up the web browser and from memory began to find and bookmark my favorite URLs. “Ooh!” My exclamation got Jez‟s attention. “What is it?” “ArcLight Hollywood is playing The Apartment.” Jez crunched his brows together. “Is that the one with Jack Lemmon?”

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“Yeah. And Shirley MacLaine. It‟s a great old black-and-white movie. It even won the Oscar. That rarely happens with comedies.” “I think I remember. It has a scene where Lemmon drains pasta with a tennis racket.” Jez took a peek at the screen. “It‟s playing tonight. We have to go. I‟ve never seen it on the big screen.” “Me neither.” “That‟s settled, then. We can have dinner afterward. I know a nice little place nearby. You buy the tickets; I‟ll make the reservations.”

*** The restaurant was called the Hungry Cat. It was just a short walk from the movie theater, hidden in an unexpected courtyard. We were seated outside. It was dark with little ambient lighting, but there were lit candles on the tables. “Young Shirley MacLaine was amazingly beautiful,” I gushed. I still had a buzz from having just watched such a classic on the silver screen. The TV screen really didn‟t do it justice. Jez nodded. “She and Jack Lemmon had great comedic timing together. I totally had a crush on him when Adelle made me watch Irma la Douce. It was very disappointing to learn that by then, he was an old man.” “Lemmon? I wouldn‟t call him classically handsome.” “Mmm… Goofy, quirky humor, a touch of vulnerability. Just my type.” Jez flashed his eyes at me, then looked away. “Did you have crushes only on movie stars? When you were young?” I asked, making an effort to be less of a hick. “Oh no. At the very same time I also carried a torch for one of the lifeguards down at the beach. He had a great body. There was a birthmark on his left hip I couldn‟t stop obsessing about.” My ears burned. Fortunately Jez couldn‟t have seen it in the candlelight. Our waiter arrived to take our drink orders and tell us about the specials.

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“One of us needs to be the designated driver. Nate, it‟s your day. You choose,” Jez said. “You mean you‟d let me drive the Chevy?” I asked, disbelieving. “Sure, why not?” He didn‟t look concerned. “I‟ll just have water,” I said eagerly. Jez ordered the drink special of the day at the waiter‟s recommendation. After a few quiet moments spent studying the menu, Jez spoke again. “So how about you? Any infatuations when you were young?” He grinned. “Mmm… Buffy. The vampire slayer. I had a thing for assertive women. Probably that‟s what attracted me to Jenny too.” Jez‟s drink arrived. It was full of tiny citrus fruits. I got a bottle of bubbly water. We ordered our food. The menu scared me a little, so I went with the safest bet: a burger. Even that had avocado and blue cheese. Jez went straight for the jugular and ordered grilled octopus. “Do you miss her?” he asked. “Yes and no,” I said, fidgeting with the napkin. “You can tell me if it‟s none of my business.” “It‟s not like that. We were more like friends than anything else, so there was no bad breakup and stuff. Jenny went off to grad school in Chicago and is doing really well. She‟s smart and knows what she wants. I haven‟t answered her last email from a month ago. I don‟t know what to write.” Jez looked back at me in silence, but it was too dark for me to see his expression properly. The ice clinked in his glass as he lifted it to his lips. “What about you? Are you seeing anyone?” I asked. He shook his head. “Not interested in anything serious?” “I am. Was. Bad breakup. I got trust issues, so I‟ve been told. I date. Sort of.”

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“Sorry, I shouldn‟t have asked.” “I don‟t mind.” “You could, you know, bring someone home. I mean, it‟s your house; you don‟t need my permission. I‟m just saying it wouldn‟t bother me.” I was tripping all over my words like a fool. I certainly felt like one. Truth was, the idea of Jez and another guy going at it like rabbits in the next room freaked the hell out of me, but there was no way in hell I was going to admit that. Especially since I wasn‟t entirely clear about the reason why it freaked me out. It wasn‟t like I was grossed out or something over the idea of two sweaty men going at it—and that was the point where I stopped myself. “Same here,” Jez said. “What?” I jumped a little. Had Jez read my thoughts? “If you want to bring someone back to the house…” “Oh, yeah. Okay.” Our food arrived, and we dug in. My burger was really good, but I kept eyeing Jez‟s octopus. Those tentacles with their suckers looked downright spooky. Finally Jez cut off a piece and placed it on my plate. I cautiously put it in my mouth, ready to spit. I expected it to be rubbery, but it was surprisingly tender and smoky. It was not bad at all, but I still preferred my burger. Eventually the conversation got back around to me somehow. “My father is career military,” I explained. “When I was growing up, we never stayed more than three years in a place. I used to wish he‟d get stationed overseas, but instead we were shuffled from one backwoods post to the other, all over the country.” “That had to be tough.” “After a while, I didn‟t even try to make friends. Of all the places, I probably liked Indiana the least. It was just bad luck we happened to live there when my

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parents divorced. My father got stationed elsewhere soon after, but Mom and I stayed. Then she met Dave.” “Your stepfather?” “Yeah.” “Did you get along?” While we talked, Jez made eye contact with our waiter and signaled for another drink. “He‟s an okay guy, and he was good for Mom—the last years of her marriage to my father were really hard on her—but to me, he was just a guy. He tried, but I was a sullen teenager, and once my sister was born, she became the center of the universe. We got along but weren‟t close.” My burger was gone, blue cheese and all, and I was working on the remainders of my fries. They came with great homemade ketchup. “What made you move to LA?” Jez asked. I took a moment to think about that. “I just wanted to get the hell out of there, and LA sounded good. Mom and Dave never understood it. When I told them, they were stunned. My mother‟s first reaction was, „But there are earthquakes there!‟ Like the lack of earthquakes was a good reason to live in Indiana.” I gestured my incredulity with a piece of fried potato. “Was it that bad?” he asked, smiling. “Depressing, mostly. The land is flat as a pancake. The winters last forever. For months and months, there‟s no sun. Just gray clouds, snow, slush, and freezing rain.” “Sounds awful.” “The summers are all right, if you like rain. Actually, big summer thunderstorms are the only thing I miss.”

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“The first time I experienced one of those was when I was visiting my mother in Ohio. Freaked the hell out of me.” I had to laugh at that. Jez‟s new drink arrived. The waiter was good. Before we knew it, we‟d ordered dessert, despite being stuffed. “What about your parents?” I asked when we were left alone. “Rob—my dad—lives in Hawaii. The waves are better there.” “They are divorced too?” “Never got married. He and my mother were just kids when she got pregnant. The way it was told to me, it was a summer romance that fizzled out before school started up in the fall. Mom finished high school and went off to college. You can figure out the rest.” “You were raised by wild dolphins?” I suppressed a chuckle at the image— cherubic baby Jez and the dolphins. Like that Greek thing with the wolf, but soggier. “Hah! Much crazier than that—Adelle. She was my mom‟s mother. Rob was around, but he was more like an older brother than a father. He taught me surfing, loving the waves. He still calls, and we have long conversations about nothing. We‟re friends. His one true love is the waves.” “And your mom?” “Married to a dentist, living in Duluth. They have three kids, a minivan, and a big house in the suburbs.” “Ouch.” “Yeah, I think she rebelled against Adelle by going conventional.” Jez leaned back in his chair, his whole body a picture of relaxation. “You didn‟t.” “It skips a generation.” He grinned.

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“So how are you getting along?” I probed, not knowing if he wanted to talk about it. For some reason, I wanted to know. He didn‟t seem to be bothered. His voice was as calm and even as ever. “Me and my mother? We‟re cool now. There was a time, back when I was a kid, when I was angry with her for abandoning me. She went off to college right out of high school and never moved back.” “That must have been hard for you.” Jez drew up a shoulder and let it drop. “A little. Maybe more. Eventually I understood how hard it must have been for her too. She was way too young to have a kid, and she was scared by all this stuff that just got dropped on her. Running away was the only way she could deal with it. She had a lot of guilt about it later. But we worked it all out in the end. I‟ve been up there to visit them. They are good people, really. Just sorta boring. She likes it that way, though. She and Adelle had always been like oil and water.” “So did you learn all the baking from Adelle?” I switched the subject. Jez snorted like I said something funny. “Adelle? I don‟t think I ever saw her turn on the oven. Nah, it was a guy in San Francisco. I learned the art of mixing drinks from Adelle, though.” “Really?” My eyebrows must have hit my hairline. “Yeah, she used to have all these parties with the other old-timers, back when they were still around, and I was always in charge of the cocktails. By the time I was fifteen, I knew as much as your average bartender, and more. It came in very handy later.” “Jeez. Good thing Child Protective Services didn‟t know about it,” I said half seriously. A shadow passed over his face. “Maybe it was the wrong thing for her to do. I don‟t think it harmed me, though. There are much worse things people do to their kids.”

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I quietly nodded, but I could tell something bothered him. After staring at the ice cubes in his glass for a moment, he started to talk again. For the first time since I‟d known him, there was a tightness in his voice. “I saw a protest the other day. Well, it wasn‟t much of a protest—only three people. A man and a woman holding the usual placards about „God hates fags‟ and how 9/11 was God‟s punishment for the country not being homophobic enough.” The ice cubes in his glass made an angry rattle as he downed the last of his drink. “I‟m so sorry,” I said, and I really was. I‟d seen those zealots myself before. That kind of bloodthirsty extremism always filled me with dread, but for the first time, I realized what it had to be like for someone like Jez. “I‟ll never understand why my sex life matters so much to them, but I don‟t expect them to change. What got to me was that they had this little girl with them, six or seven years old, holding one of the signs. She was cute as a button. The sign was almost as big as her and full of that hateful drivel. There‟s no way in hell she knows what any of it means, but by the time she grows up, she‟ll be up to her neck in hatred. I call that child abuse. Adelle had her faults, but she never taught me to hate.” For a moment there was a bleak look on his face, and I just wanted to give him a hug, say something to make it better. Instead I sat there like a big, useless lump. He shook himself, and his usual good cheer was back. “I‟m sorry. I didn‟t mean to ruin your birthday.” “You didn‟t.” “People would spend less time obsessing about the lives of others if they took the time to enjoy what they had. Like this—having a nice meal and talking. You know, I‟m really glad you moved in. It‟s nice to have a friend close by.” He gave me a smile that was almost shy. I think I blushed, but fortunately it was too dark out there to show.

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“I‟m sure you have a lot of friends.” “I know a lot of people, but only a handful are real friends, and they‟re scattered all over.” Our dessert arrived, and we left the serious talk behind.

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Chapter Five On Friday at noon, Sandy skipped into the restaurant in an especially good mood. She had gotten a call from the casting director of that HBO show: they were thinking of bringing her character back for a few more episodes in the next season. She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed me hard. I didn‟t protest, but pulled away before she could ask if that was a dinner roll in my pocket. “I‟m going to a party tomorrow. You must come with me!” she gushed. I assumed it would be an industry party, which in this town meant movie industry. Her invitation was a little out of left field. We were friends. Sort of. Was Sandy asking me out on a date? It sounded like it, but not exactly. Whatever. I‟d take what I got, I decided. “Wear something tight.” She winked before sashaying to table five. The next evening I squeezed myself into the pair of jeans I‟d had since high school and the black T-shirt I accidentally bought a couple of sizes too small and was too lazy to exchange. I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror with embarrassment. I looked so…dunno. Generally I look all right, nothing special. Having spent every school break working for my step uncle, the roofer, left me wiry, but not in a showy way. I also had perfectly average features. My hair was getting too long, though. I had worn it short since I was five. My father thought long hair was too “sissy” for boys, so I got the military cut, and it became a habit. Every six weeks or so I shaved my head. But I hadn‟t done it since I moved to Venice, and it was growing out in unruly dark curls. I huffed at my reflection and headed out. Sandy pulled up in her mint green Beetle, soft top rolled down. She looked me over, grinning.

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“You look good enough to eat,” she said. I ignored that. Sandy looked fantastic. Her blonde hair, which she had always worn in a ponytail at work, was down, and she wore a slip of a dress that showed plenty of skin. Her nips poked through the thin fabric. I shifted in the seat and stared out the window instead—my jeans were tight enough as it was. We took the freeway through the city, Sandy chattering the whole way about her time on the HBO set and the people she had met. Eventually we got off the freeway and wound our way into the hills on narrow roads. From the look of things, we were somewhere you couldn‟t even buy a doghouse for under a million. Our destination turned out to be high on a hill. A couple of very large guys in black at the entrance checked if we were on the list. Sandy was. I was “plus one.” I was moving up in the world. The house was grand in a too-much-money-not-enough-taste fashion. The architecture was fine by itself, but it was furnished in an expensively gaudy style. Fortunately the lights were low, and most of the furnishing was obscured by the gaggle of beautiful people. I felt painfully out of place, but Sandy looped her arm around mine and dragged me into the thick of it with the confidence of someone who knew what they wanted out of life. She introduced me to some people whose names and faces I forgot the moment they turned their backs. I‟m sure it was mutual. I drank something reddish and deceptively sweet, and after only two, my face started to feel numb. I lost Sandy somewhere in the multitude. The last time I saw her, she‟d been charming someone not quite so beautiful. He had to be someone important, then. I drifted from room to room. Music played. I snagged another drink—different color this time, less sweet, just as potent. I stood at the edge of small groups, pretending I was somehow part of their conversations. I moved on. At the edge of the swimming pool, someone offered me a joint. I accepted it and took deep, greedy drags. I started to relax, convinced that at least I was blending in. As the effects of the weed sneaked up on me, sights and sounds fused into a nebulous whole. The

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floor to ceiling fish tank beckoned me. All those colorful tropical fish were having their own little party in there. All they were missing were tiny cocktail glasses. I was mesmerized. “There you are!” Someone grabbed my elbow and spun me around. It was Sandy. She was with a guy so good-looking, he had to be an actor. “I want you to meet my friend, Mark. Mark Stevens, Nathan West.” Sandy introduced us. We shook. I muttered the usual “call me Nate.” Mark smiled and nodded. “Mark and I were together in that CSI episode. Remember it?” Sandy twittered on. Of course I remembered. Sandy was in it for five seconds total—playing a corpse—but I watched the whole episode in a show of support, and the repeat too. “Mark played that beat cop. Wasn‟t he fantastic?” She squeezed my arm in warning, and I bobbed my head, doing my best to concur. I didn‟t recall him at all. Not that I recalled much beyond my own name at that moment. I did my best to contribute to the conversation, though, especially since Sandy was making an effort to draw me in, and I didn‟t want to disappoint. In the end I managed to ask a few well-aimed questions that steered Mark to the subject of the pilot he was shooting for one of the alphabet-soup networks. He was anxious whether it would get picked up. I hung on his every word with all the air of rapt attention. Luckily it was something I did well even when I was three sheets to the wind. We moved around the room in search of more booze, and somehow in the process we lost Sandy again. I was in no state to keep track of her. The buzz of the crowd melded with the one in my head. When I found myself pushed into a dark corner, I had only enough presence of mind to set my glass on the nearest horizontal surface. I found fingers scrabbling at the front of my jeans and a warm, alcoholsoaked tongue tackling mine. I went rigid for a second, but my initial shock was washed away by a surge of desire. I grabbed his ass with both hands, fingers

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digging in and pulled our hips together. He groaned into my mouth. Wherever he touched me, my skin tingled. He nipped along my neck, and he slipped his hands under my T-shirt. I rubbed my crotch against his and quietly moaned into his neck. “Who‟s Jez?” Mark asked, leaning back a fraction. “What?” I said dizzily. “You were saying his name. Never mind. I‟ll be him for you.” I pulled back, finally able to focus a little. I looked at Mark‟s perfect teeth, perfect eyebrows, perfect cheekbones, and lust-filled eyes—that were just the wrong shade of blue. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit. He looked great, and he looked all wrong. “I‟m sorry.” I mumbled apologies and clumsily disentangled our limbs. “I can‟t… Just can‟t. Sorry.” Mark looked put out and baffled, and even through the haze of my considerable buzz, I felt like an ass. “The pilot will be a hit,” I blurted out. I didn‟t know where that had come from, just that I wanted to say something to make it up to him, and at the moment I said it, I even believed it. I beat a hasty retreat out of the house.

*** The fresh air sobered me a little, but not nearly enough. When I moved my head, the lights left cool trails. I amused myself with that for a little while, till I realized I really couldn‟t go back inside to find Sandy and pressure her to get me home. After some deliberation, I decided I could just wait for her in the car, but I couldn‟t find it. Not only could I not find anything mint green anywhere, but the spot where I remembered we‟d parked—as much as I could remember anything— was conspicuously empty. I commanded my two conscious brain cells to come up with a plan. Aha! The gorillas at the gate! With alarm, I realized that said brain cells were attempting to channel Sam Spade.

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I ambled down to the gate to question the “gorillas” about Sandy. The errant brain cells assured me that I looked and sounded just like Bogie in The Maltese Falcon. “Now listen up”—I tilted up my imaginary hat—“because I won‟t repeat myself. Did you see a dame in a small green convertible leave?” The two guys, each as big as a door, exchanged a grin. “Hot blonde in a Bug?” one of them asked. “Yeah, that‟s the one, buster. So where is she?” “I don‟t think I have to tell you anything,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. Judging from the snickering of the other gorilla, they were both having a good time at my expense. “Now think again, and think fast!” I said at my menacing best. My delivery was slightly undermined by my slurring. The heavy I‟d been conversing with was having a hard time staying in character too. “She left hot on the tails of a Jag. Your girlfriend?” I shook my head. “That‟s just swell. She was my ride home.” The spirit of Bogie abandoned me. I was screwed. Maybe I could sleep under the azaleas and figure out how to get home once I had more functioning brain matter. Did azaleas even grow in California? “Tough break, kid. Why don‟t you call someone to pick you up?” My brain cells had a conference. I dug out my phone and dialed Sandy. No answer. A third brain cell regained consciousness and had a brilliant idea. I dialed Jez. He answered at the second ring. I began to explain my predicament, but halfway through, I realized I had no idea where I was, geographically speaking. I was describing the view when the more charitable of the heavies took the phone away from me and gave Jez the address. The conversation went on a little longer,

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and I had the distinct impression it was about me—especially the “completely wasted” part. “Yeah, we‟ll look after him. See you soon, Jez.” He hung up and tossed the phone back to me. I fumbled. They parked me against a palm tree and told me to stay put. I was bored. I remembered the sole joint I‟d tucked into my pocket before leaving home, and dug it out. It was battered, but still in one piece. I had no light. I detached myself from the tree to ask one of my minders. By the time Jez arrived, the three of us were best pals. Joe and Mike were really nice guys once you got to know them.

*** Jez pulled up in the Impala, top down, and nodded to the guys, who nodded back like they knew him. Jez knew how to arrive in style. I just swayed in place, returning his scowl with a grin. I couldn‟t help it; he was an Edward Hopper painting come alive. I climbed into the car, still grinning. Jez‟s scowl softened, and then he just shook his head. We snaked down to a road that wound its way across the hills. We had glimpses of the Valley and the coastal side at alternate turns. We were up high, and LA lay below us like a shimmering alien landscape. “Where are we?” I asked. “Mulholland Drive.” We descended into the lights. Most of the alcohol had burned out of my system, but the weed was still going strong. We took the surface streets—Jez avoided the freeways whenever he could. He had told me they were a perfect way to get from point A to point B without seeing anything in between. Jez preferred the sights. The lights, the people, even the sounds gave me a dizzy sense of déjà vu. I felt like we were inside a movie, something foreign, European—French New Wave, most likely. But we didn‟t look the part. For one thing, Jez was too blond. “What?” he asked. “You‟re staring at me funny.”

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“We‟re in the wrong movie,” I confessed. “You‟re a nut, you know,” Jez said with warmth in his voice. Hmm. Maybe we were in a Fellini movie… That could totally work. Anything could happen in a Fellini film. It wouldn‟t hurt to be dressed a bit swankier, though. “You‟d look good in a white suit, maybe with a fedora,” I declared. Jez cast a searching look in my direction. “You live a lot in your head, don‟t you? It must be interesting in there.” “Nah, mostly just lonely.” Damn it. I tended to be too honest when high. He looked at me again but said nothing. At the next red light, I reached out to tuck his blond tresses behind his ear. I ran my thumb along its perfect shell. I couldn‟t help myself; its fine curve compelled me. Jez tilted his head into my palm for a moment. Then he sighed and turned away. The light changed, we were moving, and the wind kicked his locks free. I fell asleep.

*** I saw Sandy the next day as my shift ended. I accosted her. “You left me stranded there alone!” “What are you talking about? You were tonsils deep in Mark last time I saw you.” “That‟s not the point!” I retorted, feeling the heat rise in my face at the recall. “He‟s a nice guy and just broke up with his boyfriend. After you two hit it off, I was sure you‟d go home with him.” I was flabbergasted. “You…you took me there to fix me up?” “Why not? You just mope around all the time. What was the harm?” “I‟m not…” “You‟re not what?” Sandy put her hands on her hips and stared me down.

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I was stumped for a moment, because I wasn‟t sure where I was going with that sentence either. “I‟m not moping!” I stormed off rather than admit defeat.

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Chapter Six It was weeks after the party fiasco. I was at work when the ringing of my phone startled me. Not many people ever called. Roger on occasion, or Sandy, but they were both there; no reason to call. Jez sometimes called me from his trips, but he wasn‟t on the road at the moment. The screen displayed unknown number. I answered with a cautious “hello.” “Nate, honey!” “Mom?” I didn‟t expect my family to call. My father and I communicated through polite Christmas cards since he‟d been stationed in Germany. I gave them my number, but only my mother ever called, and our conversations were so full of awkward, unfillable silences that we‟d both given up on them after a while. Neither of us had picked up the phone for months, and I wasn‟t expecting a call before Christmas. Even now she called only because she had to. “Honey, your dad passed away. I‟m sorry.” “Oh,” I uttered, because I simply didn‟t know what to say. “How?” “It was a heart attack. They told me it was very quick.” Didn‟t you have to have a heart for that? No, that was a spiteful thing to think, I chided myself. “What about the funeral?” “Ah, that‟s just it; he‟s already buried. Helga saw to it.”

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Not long after my father had been stationed in Germany, he‟d married a local woman. We knew the bare minimum of her, only what he let us in on in his infrequent and brief letters. “One less thing to worry about, then, right?” “Oh, Nate…” She sniffled. “It‟s all right, Mom. How‟s Ellie?” I asked, not because I cared much how my stepsister—the little princess—was doing, but to steer her away from a conversation I wasn‟t ready to have. It worked. Mom babbled for a little while, finishing off with hints of how my job with “Uncle” Albert would be waiting if I decided to return to Indiana. I told her I‟d think about it. We both knew I was lying. Roger let me cut out early when I told him about the news. I didn‟t go home. I needed time to think. I needed a drink. I found one of those bars off the beaten track where the locals hang out. It was still a colorful crowd, but blissfully tourist free. There were no TVs hanging from the wall either, but there was a jukebox in the corner. I got change for a five and shoved it all into the machine till I lined up every last classic rock song I could find plus a few country western ones for good measure. They made me think of my childhood and, inevitably, my father.

*** It was hours later when I stumbled home. The house was dark and quiet, but Jez‟s door was open; an inviting yellow glow spilled out into the hallway. I wandered in and found him propped up on the bed, reading. I hovered at the foot of the bed. Either me or the room was lightly swaying. He laid the book on his chest and surveyed my unstable condition with amused curiosity. The neediness I felt must have shown through my drunken daze, because he wordlessly scooted to one side of the bed, leaving the other side temptingly open. I crawled up next to him and flopped onto my back. I was in that state when your brain‟s still minding the HQ, but the lines of communication to the various body parts are compromised. “You‟re drunk,” he said.

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I grunted in agreement; long explanations weren‟t necessary. He sighed and put the book facedown on the night table. I shuffled a little closer. He was warm, and it so felt good. My head sort of rolled onto his shoulder—it needed support. I closed my eyes but snapped them open again when the room tilted and started to slowly spin, nauseating me. I fixed my stare at the ceiling instead. “My father died,” I confided to the ceiling fan. It was indifferent. “I‟m sorry,” Jez said, his voice full of misplaced compassion. “I‟m not,” I confessed, to the still-unconcerned fan. I had spent an increasingly maudlin evening trying to sort out how I felt, and sorry or sad wasn‟t it. I was quiet for a while. Not sure how long—time felt stretchy, like melted cheese. Eventually the words bubbled out of me of their own accord. “I never called him „Dad.‟ It was always „sir.‟ „Yes, sir.‟ „No sir.‟ That‟s how he liked it.” The ceiling fan mocked me. Big sissy, it seemed to say. I stared it down. Jez was quiet. That was good. I hate it when people spout banal bullshit at you. Jez wasn‟t like that. He was real. And warm. Hot. He put an arm around me and pulled me closer. Like my father never had. “I hate him. I don‟t care if he‟s dead. I still hate him.” My tongue was sluggish; my mouth had apparently gone renegade, spilling my secrets. A long moment passed before Jez spoke. “You shouldn‟t hang on to those feelings. They‟ll just make you bitter. You have to let them go.” I clumsily rolled my head around to look up into his face. “That‟s very New Agey from you,” I slurred. “No, it‟s just common sense, stupid.” With my head on his chest, my only view was up his nostrils, but I could still make out his eyes twinkling at me from above. It dawned on me through my fuddled haze that he probably had some authority on not holding grudges, after all. Darn.

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“You‟re too damn perfect,” I pointed out. “What? Trust me, I‟m not. Not even close.” “Whatever,” I said, because he was clearly lying. There was something I‟d wanted to ask him for some time but never had the courage. Now I had the liquid kind. “When did you know?” “What?” “That you were…you know…gay?” He pursed his lips, and his eyes glinted some more. “There wasn‟t a specific moment. I think I always knew.” “Was it hard to come out?” I asked, squinting up at him. It wasn‟t easy to convey honest curiosity from that awkward angle, but I tried. “Nah, not really. Adelle figured it out long before I knew what was different about me. She was very supportive. And there was Arthur, of course.” I wiggled around to get more comfortable. Jez‟s arms were still around me. He kept talking. “Adelle was scary as hell, though, when it came to protection. When I was twelve, she sat me down and gave me The Big Lecture on STDs. She made me swear on my favorite surfboard that I‟d never have unprotected sex.” “She sounds kick-ass,” I murmured, half on top of him. “She was pretty liberal. It was downright embarrassing sometimes. Boxes of condoms used to mysteriously appear in my room. She always made sure I had some on me when I went out, years before I had actual sex. Hey, stop that!” That was in response to my hand searching for a way into his shorts. He smelled so good, like summer—salty with sweat and the ocean, and I swear I could smell the sun on him. Beneath it all was something musky and sweet. He was warm and not soft, but pliant. Smooth. I had such an urge to get lost in him, to be

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surrounded by him, by his smell, his warm skin. My fingers were scrabbling for the spot I knew would be his warmest, but he patted them away. “What happened to being straight?” “I‟m reconsidering.” He snorted. “You‟re too far gone to get it up.” “I could give you a blowjob.” “Thanks, but I‟ll take a pass on you drunkenly slobbering over my cock.” Jez sat to get up, but I got a hold of his arm. He looked down at me with a guarded expression. “It doesn‟t have to mean anything. Just sex,” I pleaded. He let out a great big shuddering sigh. “It always means something. In the morning you‟ll hate yourself, and you‟ll hate me.” “I don‟t want to be alone.” The corner of Jez‟s mouth crooked up, and he reached out to brush a lock of hair from my forehead. It was a strangely gentle gesture after turning me down. “You don‟t have to be. Stay here tonight.” Jez rolled out of bed, and I kept watching him as he moved around the room. He put a wastepaper basket by my side of the bed, then pulled an extra comforter out of the closet and threw it over me. He turned out the lights and climbed back into bed. “If you need to throw up, try to remember to roll to your left first.” I rolled to lie on my left. The room spun less that way. It started moving again the moment the lights went out. Also, this way I was closer to the edge of the bed and the wastebasket. I thrust one leg back to hook it around his. Jez let out a deep sigh, but then he rolled over too, and a second later, his fingers threaded into my too-long hair. “I like your hair this way,” he whispered into my nape.

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I fell asleep with his fingertips gently rubbing my scalp. It was becoming a pattern.

*** I didn‟t throw up, but I woke the next morning with a monster headache and a bladder ready to burst. I made my way to the bathroom. After that, I took the opportunity to brush my teeth and find some aspirin in the medicine cabinet. My reflection in the mirror looked the way I felt. In the kitchen, the coffeemaker was emitting wondrous gurgling sounds. I poked my head in, wondering how big a fool I had made of myself the night before and how pissed Jez was about it. He smiled without a hint of annoyance. Damn. I was a lousy roommate and a lousy friend; I didn‟t deserve him. “How are you doing?” he asked. “Like crap,” I confessed. Jez put coffee in front of me, with milk and too much sugar, just the way I liked it. I really didn‟t deserve him. “About last night… I‟m sorry,” I mumbled. “Don‟t worry about it. If I had a penny for every time a drunk hit on me…” “You‟d be rich.” “Yeah, something like that.” “But I‟m still very, very sorry.” “I said forget it. It‟s fine.” I nodded, shamefaced. There was silence. While I sipped my coffee, Jez mixed up an ominous-looking concoction over by the kitchen counter. He finally held it out to me. “Drink this. It‟ll help.” “What is it?” I asked with suspicion. “Hangover remedy. Adelle‟s secret recipe. She was quite a party girl back in the day.”

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I sniffed it and scrunched up my face. It smelled vile. There was no way in hell I was going to drink it. “Oh, I forgot to tell you: don‟t smell it. Just take a deep breath and chug it down.” I looked at him warily. “Trust me?” Jez asked, and I knew I was fucked. I would be the biggest asshole in the universe if I refused now, especially with the way he looked at me, his face so earnest and caring. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and downed as much of the foul liquid as I could before running out of air. The texture was unpleasant, but it didn‟t taste half as revolting as it smelled. As matter of fact, it was quite inoffensive, a little bitter. I washed it down with coffee, just to be safe. Jez‟s phone chirped. He looked at the text and thumbed in a quick reply. “I‟ll be out for a few hours. Try to eat something light, okay?” He had done that a lot—disappear after a mysterious text. It wasn‟t my business to pry into his affairs, but it often made me wonder. This time I felt relieved to see him go; the combination of awkwardness and hangover made me unsociable.

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Chapter Seven I forced down some toast, took a shower, and headed out to the beach. The water was as fucking cold as ever, but it actually made me feel better. Or it shocked my system so bad, it forgot about the hangover. It was early enough in the day that the sun was still blotted out by the marine layer, so I lay down on my beach towel and tried to sort out my thoughts. They were in a clusterfuck, as my father used to say. Bitter bile rose in my throat at that. Oh God, Jez was right. This was no good; I needed to let it go. My father and I never managed to connect, and there was no point in hashing it up anymore. I didn‟t want to think about it. It was ironic that I had fled from all that dreary crap I grew up with, but still managed to smuggle an unhealthy portion of it with me. At least I didn‟t have to fret about disappointing my father anymore, I told myself. I might as well admit I‟d never be the duly dutiful son my mother wished for and that I‟d already disappointed my college professors. I had spent so much energy trying to conform to the expectations of everyone around me that I forgot to be me. Even drifting aimlessly felt like an improvement. And there was that other thing… If I was honest, I‟d always been attracted to guys too. I knew that from the day Billy Foster showed up in the sixth grade with his curvy lips and long eyelashes. I didn‟t watch Baywatch only for Pam Anderson either. I‟d just never put a name to it or looked at it directly, because it was far easier to get by that way. Imagine my father getting the slightest scent of it! I shuddered at the thought. I‟d become very good at ignoring the obvious when it was inconvenient. That was a trait of my mother‟s I recognized in myself. It was wearing thin though; these

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days all you had to do was pour a few drinks in me, and the illusion evaporated like morning mist. Like with Mark at the party… The reason for that not going any further wasn‟t some sudden sexual anxiety. Not in the state I had been in. The truth was—if I dared accept it—I had it bad for Jez. I wanted him so much, it hurt. I wanted to touch him, taste him, fuck him stupid. Or have him fuck me—I didn‟t care. Hell, just thinking about it made me hard. I turned to lie on my stomach so as not to make a spectacle of myself, and resisted the urge to rut against the warm sand. Unfortunately I‟d painted myself into the corner with him—assuming he could be attracted to me at all. It would be mighty arrogant to presume he‟d be interested just because I was suddenly available. He was drop-dead sexy, the California dream embodied, and I was just a plain, skinny guy from Bumfuck, Nowhere. I fell asleep with unhappy thoughts swishing around in my achy head. I woke a couple of hours later, hungry and without a headache. Adelle‟s miracle medicine worked after all. I went home, took another shower, and contemplated my options with Jez. I could be a big wuss and do nothing. Or, I could ask advice from an expert.

*** Arthur was happy to see me. It was almost lunchtime, so we ordered Chinese. I couldn‟t just come out with my question—needed to warm up first—so I asked how he started out in Hollywood. “Did you always know you wanted to be a set designer?” I prodded. “Oh hell, no. I sort of fell into it.” “How?” “Well, I was just a stupid nineteen-year-old kid when I got off the bus from St. Louis, like a bunch of others. I had no idea what I wanted to do, but I knew spending the rest of my life in Missouri wasn‟t it. I got a job on the RKO lot as a

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carpenter building sets. It just went from there. It was some luck and a lot of hard work.” I slurped my chow mein thoughtfully. “Did you make any plans?” “Nah. I tried once or twice, but they always went to hell. Eventually I just learned to let life take me where it wanted; it was easier that way. If you leave yourself open to possibilities, a lot might happen that you couldn‟t have planned for.” “Being openly gay, that couldn‟t have been easy.” “The fifties were a bitch, but you are who you are. Hell, I look at some of these big Hollywood stars who twist themselves into pretzels to look straight. And for what? Fame and money? It‟s not fucking worth it, if you ask me.” That reminded me: “Have you ever been with a woman?” “What is this? Twenty questions?” he grumbled but went on. “No, not me. But plenty of the guys I knew went both ways.” He stopped for a moment, blinking into a distance only he could see. “There was this writer I met a long time ago. He‟s dead now. He‟d been with women, but he considered himself gay anyway. He told me once that it‟s not who you slept with that mattered, but whom you fell in love with.” That made me pause. I‟d never thought of it that way. We finished our meal in silence while I chewed on this new notion. I cleared off the containers and took Arthur‟s shopping list. I turned back from the door. “Do you have any regrets?” I asked him. “A bunch. That‟s life.” “Any big ones?” “Just one.” He cast a pensive glance toward the “Wall of Lovers,” but I couldn‟t tell which photo his gaze landed on. “If you want the advice of an old man, don‟t be afraid of making mistakes. That‟s life. Just be sure you‟re making them for the right reason.”

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It was now or never. “Do you think Jez likes me?” He stared at me as if I‟d announced that I‟d joined the Church of Scientology. “Aren‟t you two together already?” “No, we‟re just roomies. I sort of told him I was straight, except I‟m not really…” Arthur laughed so hard that tears ran down his crumpled cheeks. I was miffed. He laughed till he started to cough and had to scramble for his water. He put the glass down and wiped his eyes. “I‟m sorry, kid. I wasn‟t laughing at you,” he said, wheezing. “I was just thinking how youth is wasted on the young.” I gave him a dirty look. “Of course he likes you. The way he looks at you, that‟s not constipation in his eyes. Trust me, I‟m old enough to know.” “What should I do?” “Tackle him and screw his brains out. There‟s nothing like the direct approach.” Dirty old coot.

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Chapter Eight When I got home, the house was empty. I was puttering around restlessly when Roger called. One of the waitresses was out, and he wanted me to come in for a few hours. I almost said no, but agreed in the end. It was good; being busy, not having time to think, eased my mind. It was dusk by the time I got home again. I found Jez in the kitchen, fiddling with something at the counter. I stopped in the doorway to study him. He was all warm tones, from his tanned skin to his brown shorts and golden hair. It was very silly, I know, but those colors made me think of an ice-cream sundae. I wondered: if I licked him, would he taste sweet? Suddenly there was too much saliva in my mouth, and my heart beat like it was trying to escape. I was rooted to the spot, in danger of spending eternity in the doorway. He glanced at me over his shoulder with a casual smile. “Feeling better?” “Much,” was all I could croak out before my voice would betray me. He turned his attention back to the counter. The spell broke, and my feet moved again. I stole up behind him, and after a moment of hesitation, put my palm at his nape. Something clunked to the cutting board, and he stilled, even stopped breathing. I slowly slid my hand down along the groove of his spine, with every pore of my being focused on the sensation. I felt every smooth inch with a rare intensity. I reached the waistband of the shorts and kept going. He spun around and planted his hands on either side of my head. I realized just then how big his hands were. All this time I‟d never noticed. For some reason, thinking about them made me even

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more aroused. He gripped my head and stared warily into my eyes. He even sniffed me. “Did you take something?” There was a hint of concern in his voice. “Like what?” I gulped like a fish out of water. “Pills?” “Aspirin this morning. Why?” “Because I don‟t smell alcohol or pot on you, and you only hit on me when you‟re buzzed.” He had a point. I wasn‟t buzzed, but I felt like it. Maybe because my heart was beating too fast to get oxygen to my brain. I was full of a dizzy, jittery energy. “There was probably a fair amount of MSG in my lunch, but otherwise, stonecold sober.” He looked at me even more suspiciously. He kissed me. I shuddered and welcomed him in. His tongue brusquely probed mine, searching for evidence. There was nothing; I was innocent. I brazenly slipped my hands around him and returned to the smooth planes of his back. I might have moaned into his mouth a little. He pulled back and looked at me with furrowed brows. “Who are you, and what did you do to the real Nate?” “Alien sex gas.” My oxygen-starved mind improvised. “I‟m here to screw your brains out and consume your life force.” He squinted. God, he had the most adorable squint. He turned serious. I didn‟t like that quite as much. “Is this what you really want?” “Yes!” “Are you sure?” he asked with two scoops of emphasis. “More than anything. If you want it too…” For a flash, doubt and fear surged through me, because if I was wrong…

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“You have no idea,” he growled and slammed into me. We staggered till my back hit the fridge. Magnets flew in all directions. He attacked my lips like he was starving and I was an all-you-can-eat buffet. Or was it the other way around? His hands raked up my sides and pushed my T-shirt along. I took a leave from exploring his inviting flesh long enough to wiggle out of my shirt. He methodically nipped a line from my jaw to my shoulder. Some were soft, barely there. Others were sharper, carrying a tinge of pain that sent tiny shivers through me. My willful hands found their way to the small of his back and kept going downward. I was determined to succeed this time. My fingers wormed their way under the waistband of his shorts, where I could finally rub and squeeze his perfect ass. His cheeks were flawlessly round and firm under my hands. He sank his teeth into my neck hard enough to make my fingers clamp down, and we moaned in a two-part harmony. Funny, I thought, how all these body parts worked together. In the end, Jez foiled me again. Before I knew what was happening, he was on his knees, shoving my jeans and briefs down around my ankles. He licked warm, wet swaths along the length of my cock. He flitted his tongue around the head, then pushed into the slit. My hips twitched impatiently, but he held me firm. I grasped his head, fingers digging into the mess of his hair. He looked up at me before wrapping his lips around the head of my cock. He swallowed it down inch by inch and began to suck. I couldn‟t take my eyes off him. He was obscenely beautiful—my gorgeous surf god sucking my cock, his head bobbing up and down. My fingers convulsively clenched in his hair as I yearned to thrust. My skin buzzed with the promise of release. The sensation spread from my groin to my belly and down to my knees. I tried to warn Jez, but my throat was only able to produce a garble. I clutched his hair and tugged, but he just sucked harder. Then I was falling like Alice down the rabbit hole, tumbling blind with pleasure. I came, hips stuttering, into his beautiful, greedy mouth. My legs went rubbery, and only his firm hands kept me from sinking to the floor. He slipped up along my body,

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keeping me pressed against the fridge, and kissed me deep and slow. The taste of myself on him—in him—felt so dirty and so hot. I tugged at his shorts, pushed them past the curve of his ass, and they dropped to the floor. He took my hand and wrapped it around his cock. It was slender and smooth, as I expected it to be. It felt solid and heavy in my hand, which rose and fell around it. He dug his fingers into my hips, and he moaned into my mouth, my skin, as I stroked him. He was on the brink. I squeezed a little harder and did that swipe of the thumb that always got me. He shuddered and moaned as his jizz splattered over my fist. I made a few more lazy strokes, milking him to the last drop. He slumped against me with a satisfied sigh. His forehead thumped on the fridge door. We stood there, holding each other, till our breathing steadied. At last we reluctantly untangled. Jez grabbed a clean kitchen towel and wet it at the sink before cleaning us up. I detached myself from the fridge and pulled my jeans back on. I stepped on something. I picked it up: good ol‟ Casablanca. I stuck it back on the fridge. “Are you hungry?” Jez asked. “Ravenous.” I reached for him. “I meant food.” He chuckled but didn‟t pull back. “That too.” Now that we “did it,” it was like the dam broke; I wanted more. I had an overwhelming urge to just touch him, taste him. Jez laughed and called me a big doof, but he was as caught up as I was. We acted like a couple of teenagers high on hormones. At least we managed to make some sandwiches without destroying the kitchen. “Tell me something,” he said over ham and cheese. “Where did this sudden change of heart come from?” “Sudden?” I retorted, because Jez wasn‟t stupid; he must have seen the edge I‟d been teetering on.

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“Mmm…” “I had some help to sort things out.” “Ah. So we‟re cool? You‟re not freaking out?” “I‟m cool,” I assured him. “I‟d like to do it some more, actually.” “Oh yeah?” His eyes glinted excitement. “Yeah.” “I want to taste every inch of you.” “What‟s stopping you?”

*** He didn‟t, though; not right away. He went to the bathroom, and I had the sudden compulsion to straighten up the kitchen. Okay, maybe I was losing my nerve a little. I heard the splashing of water, the opening and closing of doors. I waited for him to finish before going myself. I brushed my teeth, then stared into the mirror. I looked the same as always. Jez was already in bed. I slipped out of my clothes and under the covers. Curling into Jez, I couldn‟t help but compare; everything about him was different. Jez was hard where Jenny was soft; firm for pliant; his face scratchy with stubble, not smooth. He even smelled completely different. I was attracted to it—it turned me on like nothing else—but it was still strange and new. It was one thing getting blown in the kitchen and another to be in bed with a man. Like a couple. Jez stroked my temple, his strong hand unexpectedly gentle. “Are you all right?” he asked in a hushed tone. I nodded. My hands continued their clumsy exploration of Jez‟s body. He seemed tense. At last Jez pulled away from me and sat up. I looked at him, confused. He tucked the sheets around himself in uncharacteristically demure fashion. “This was a bad idea,” he said. “What?”

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“Look, let‟s forget anything happened. We can go back to the way we were.” I looked at Jez, puzzled. “You‟re still emotional; you don‟t know what you‟re doing,” he said. I sat up too. “Are you still worried I‟ll freak out?” I asked. “I‟m worried that you‟ll realize this isn‟t really what you want. We‟ll get all awkward and end up not talking to each other, and you‟ll move out. You‟re uncertain. I can tell.” “Idiot,” I said and began to peel the sheets away from him. He huffed but didn‟t resist. When he didn‟t say anything, I spoke. “I‟m not uncertain, just nervous. You‟d think you‟ve never been with a virgin.” “Only once, and it didn‟t turn out well.” “Well, this‟ll be different. I promise.” I finally managed to tug all the sheets off him to reveal an expanse of smooth skin. That urge to touch him, feel him under my hand, that I had since I first saw him overwhelmed me. I ran my finger down his chest, tracing the contours of muscles. “You‟re so beautiful,” I murmured. Jez‟s breathing quickened. I felt his gaze burning into my skin. I followed the thin gold trail of hair from his navel to his groin. His soft cock was flopped on his thigh. I put my palm over it and felt it jump. We locked eyes. “I‟m nervous as hell,” I said. “But I really want you, and not just tonight. But I don‟t know what the hell I‟m doing. I need you to show me. Please?” I watched the doubt and hesitation in Jez‟s eyes turn into naked hunger. He pulled me to him and kissed me hard. Lust surged in my veins as we rolled around in the bed. When Jez took my cock, I realized how hard I was. “Nate, damn,” he growled.

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Jez, confident and sexy, was back. He slid his expert hands over my skin, leaving tingling trails in their wake. Still, I froze when his fingers swept along my ass. “Shh, we won‟t do anything you don‟t want.” “I‟m sorry,” I said, feeling contrite. “I want to. I just don‟t think I‟m ready.” “I‟m not expecting you to be.” “You don‟t mind?” Jez pushed himself up on one elbow. “Some gay men never do it.” “Really? I thought—” He rolled his eyes. “Only straight people think that all gays ever do is anal sex. There are so many other ways to have fun.” “Hey, who are you calling straight?” “My apologies. You‟re decidedly bent,” he said, laughing. “Thank you. That‟s better.” “You‟re a nut.” That must have given him an idea, because he disappeared under the blanket, and a second later, my nut sac was enveloped in the wet warmth of his mouth. I threw off the blanket. I didn‟t want him to suffocate, but most of all, I wanted to see him. He looked up at me with eyes full of filthy promises. “I wasn‟t kidding,” Jez murmured in a husky voice I hadn‟t known he had. “Huh?” “About tasting every inch of you.” And he wasn‟t. He had this easy, unselfconscious way of doing things to me that made my toes curl. No doubt, he had far more experience than I did. Jez was simply shameless about enjoying himself, enjoying me. He seemed to have a knack for finding every sensitive spot I had, even—especially—the ones I didn‟t know

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about, from my toes to the tips of my ears. He was utterly unabashed working his way up and down my body. I tried to reciprocate, but he swept my attempts aside. “Just lie back and enjoy yourself,” he said. So I did. Maybe for the first time in my life, I really let go, focusing only on the physical sensations his touches induced. I was taut like a rubber band, ready to snap, and he barely even touched my cock. His own rubbed and rutted against me here and there, but almost like an afterthought. I wanted to touch myself, touch him, but he batted my hands away. I gripped the sheets in frustration. “Please,” I whimpered when I couldn‟t take it anymore. “Please what?” “Anything, please.” He could‟ve fucked me then and there, rammed his cock up my ass, and I wouldn‟t have done a thing to stop him. But he didn‟t. Jez moved, the bed dipped to one side, and he positioned us till we were on our sides, face-to-face, cock-to-cock, legs tangled. I finally understood why Jez always kept hand lotion on his night table. He slathered it liberally on our shafts, sliding his hand on each with a teasing touch while I looked on, entranced. Once they were well lubricated, he held our cocks together in a firm but not too tight grip. Instinctively I curled my hand around from the other side and followed his lead as he began to stroke up and down. The lotion turned the already delicious friction into something bordering obscene. We kissed, and our hands moved slow and sexy, but then the strokes got faster, our breathing laborious. “Jez, I‟m…” I panted. “Yes, baby. Come for me,” Jez urged, and from the tightness of his tone, I knew he was right on the edge too. Not able to hold back any longer, I came, spilling between us, Jez only moments behind.

***

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I woke the next morning in Jez‟s bed, spooning, and I was the little spoon. There was a first time for everything. I didn‟t mind in the least. Jez‟s legs lay heavily over mine, arm cast around my chest. His weight on me was solid and reaffirming; I liked the way it held me in place. I would have been content to lie there like that forever. Well, except that I had to pee. I moved to slide out of bed without waking him, but his arm tightened, pulling me back. Jez was mumbling something incoherent, still asleep. “Shh… I‟ll be right back.” I peeled his arm off, and he rolled away. I stretched, and a pleasant soreness washed over me. My muscles pretended to complain but couldn‟t quite hide their smug contentment. I ambled off to the bathroom without bothering to dress. On my way back, I picked up my sketchbook. I crouched on the foot of the bed, taking the opportunity to just look at Jez undisturbed. He was so beautiful that my heart did a little flip-flop. Sprawled on his back, one hand resting on his pillow, the other cast to the side, he projected the lazy self-confidence of a cat in repose. His tanned body, with its sleek curves, lay in sharp contrast against the crumpled mess of white sheets. The comforter had slipped to his waist. I carefully tugged it a little lower and began to draw. I sat there, putting on the finishing strokes, when his eyes blinked open, and he stretched. My features warped themselves into an involuntary grin. I couldn‟t help it; he just had that effect on me. He returned it. “Morning, sunshine,” he said groggily. I crawled over him and kissed him. He kicked the comforter all the way off and locked his legs around mine while he pulled me down on him. “How are you doing?” he asked. I rolled my eyes. “I‟m fine. Idiot.” Jez grinned, relieved, and pulled me closer. “Let‟s spend the day in bed,” he whispered into my neck between small nips.

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He was hard, and I was rapidly getting there myself. “I have to go to work in a little while,” I groaned unhappily. “Call in sick.” “I can‟t. It‟ll be a busy day.” “Damn your work ethic.” Jez canted his hip, and his cock pressed harder into the hollow of my stomach, making my skin prickle with anticipation. “Can I introduce you to shower sex at least?” he pleaded. “I‟d love that.”

*** The next Thursday morning, I found him in front of the laptop. “Hey,” Jez said, giving me a heedful look. I thought sometimes he still expected me to change my mind about us and bolt. “Hey.” I smiled back to reassure him. He visibly relaxed. “I got an idea. Let‟s go up to Zuma Beach.” “The waves are good?” “The waves are dead, baby. No, I was thinking just you and me and the beach. We could pack a picnic.” “Sounds fun. Let‟s do it.”

*** We parked along the highway where the beach was narrowest instead of paying a fee to park fifty feet closer. Jez carried an ancient beach bag with the food and stuff. I hefted the towels and a big blanket. We settled on a sand ridge close to the water. It being a weekday, the beach was pretty deserted; there was a gaggle of girls off to the distance in one direction and a couple off to the other. I stripped off my shirt but left my denim cutoffs on and sat down on the blanket. Jez, shirtless as usual, strolled down to the water. He waded in just far enough that the bigger waves licked the hem of his shorts. He turned around and

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jerked his head, beckoning. I shook mine. I preferred to stay on dry land and drink him in with my eyes. I leaned back on my elbows and let the mood of the place take me. Here the world was made of unrestrained splashes of color: pale sand; endless ocean trimmed with sharp white froth; cloudless, vivid blue sky. Against that giant canvas stood Jez, umber and blond, in turquoise shorts, his smile a dash of white. On the halfdeserted beach, everything seemed so recklessly simple. It made me believe that life could be like that—uncomplicated. I liked Jez, and Jez liked me. I could let myself enjoy it. All the other stuff—all the worries and doubts—I could let go, let the tide wash them out. I watched Jez stroll up to me in that loose-limbed way that was so him. “You‟re thinking. I can tell,” he said. “Nuh-uh.” “Liar!” Jez dropped down on the blanket next to me. I gave in to the urge to touch him. I ran my hand over his abs; they were both smooth and hard. “I was thinking about colors.” I let my hand fell to the waistband of his shorts. “Blue-green goes well with your skin tone.” Jez pushed me down and threw a leg across me. The weight of his thigh woke up my cock. It didn‟t help that Jez had a hand on my chest, thumb absently teasing the edge of my nipple. He gave me a look that I couldn‟t categorize; it seemed to be hungry and fearful at once. Like he was fighting himself. He closed his eyes and kissed the soft skin under my ear. “You‟re making me horny,” I grumbled. “There is one way to take care of that,” Jez said, standing up. “That won‟t get us arrested,” he added, seeing the look I gave him. “But the water‟s so cold,” I protested. “You‟ll get used to it. Now stop being such a baby.”

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With a dramatic sigh, I stripped down to my swim shorts. Jez dropped his shorts too. The little red swim briefs he wore underneath left little to the imagination. I gasped. “Those are downright un-American. Only hairy German tourists are allowed to wear them.” He just grinned. “I guess they‟re more practical under a wet suit,” I admitted. “I don‟t wear anything under a wet suit. Now c‟mon, already.” I followed him, running into the water then throwing myself into it. He‟d been right. After the first cold shock, I got used to it. Later, as we dried off and soaked up the sun‟s heat, he turned to me and asked a question. “I‟m driving up north on Monday. Do you think you could get three days free and come with me?” Monday the restaurant was closed; Tuesday was my day off. I could ask Sandy to cover for me on Wednesday. She owed me one. “Yeah, I can do that,” I replied.

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Chapter Nine California State Route 1, aka Pacific Coast Highway, runs right along the coast, and parts of it are officially designated as “scenic highway,” I was told. Jez also informed me that the really spectacular parts were farther north, but I thought it was pretty damn picturesque already. Once we passed Malibu, with its expensive homes overlooking the ocean and the rest of the hubbub that went with them, there were just long stretches of shoreline and public beaches to the left and hills to the right. We were somewhere in Santa Barbara County when we took an exit and got on a narrow two-lane road that meandered among orchards, hills, woods, and fields of tall grass turned yellow and brittle. We had been reluctant to leave Arthur alone, but Mrs. Gonzalez promised to look in on him. She lived in the same building and was a nurse, plus her husband worked night shift, so he would be home during the day. Not that Arthur needed looking after—not according to him. He had been vehement about that point, shooing us out of the apartment and telling us to get lost. So we went. Jez hadn‟t volunteered any information about our destination, and I hadn‟t pried. I think he enjoyed being mysterious and watching me fill to the brim with curiosity. I was holding back heroically. After all, we had to be headed to a beach somewhere, right? But the new turn made me spill. “Okay, I give,” I said. “Where are we going?” I had to give it to Jez: even smug like that, he was as lovable as a bucket of puppies. “Doug and Loreen are old friends. Rob first brought me up here when I was five.”

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“All this time I thought you were going surfing.” “The beach is just a few miles to the west. I‟m taking you on the scenic route.” “So you come up here for the change of scenery?” He kept his eyes on the road. “Yeah. To be honest, I‟m not that keen on Venice Beach. I grew up there, but I always liked it better here. Less craziness.” He flashed his teeth at me. “Jasper should be there too. And Ginger.” “Jasper and Ginger? I don‟t think I‟ve ever met anyone named Jasper or Ginger.” “Doug and Loreen are a bit hippie. You‟ll see. They were even worse back in the day. They could have given their kids much worse names.” “Like Moon Unit?” “Or Dweezil.” Jez grinned back. Every once in a while we passed a lonesome mailbox on our lonesome highway. At one such box, we slowed and turned off to an undistinguished dirt road disappearing into the trees. After a minute or so of bumping around, we reached a clearing. A funky little house sat in the middle of it. Not too little, actually. Definitely funky though; it showed signs of having gone through a number of growth spurts over the years. I discerned the stone building that had to be the starting point. From there it grew in zigs and zags, sideways and upward, mostly in uneven green-painted wood. The main door stood wide open. Jez strolled right in, so I followed. Doug and Loreen Williams weren‟t hippie in the conventional tie-dyed sense, but they radiated an undeniably bohemian vibe. He looked like a skinny, wiry version of Jerry Garcia, and she complemented him well. He wore faded jeans and a T-shirt, she a long, flowing skirt with a colorful blouse and beaded necklace. They were both barefoot. We found them in the large sunshine yellow kitchen. There were herb pots in the windows, prints and photos on the walls, colorful bottles, and all kinds of odds

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and ends on the shelves. And books everywhere—on the table, in the windows, on top of the fridge. The kitchen—and the rest of the house, I was to find out—was chaotic and well used. Loreen greeted us with exuberant cheerfulness. She hugged first Jez, then me. “So you‟re the famous Nate. Nice to meet you at last.” Her arms were strong enough to squeeze the stuffing out of me. Once free again, I shot a sharp glance at Jez, but he gave me a wide-eyed, innocent look that I was so not buying. Mercifully, Doug was content with a handshake and a slap on the back. “Right on time! Lunch is almost ready. The kids should be back any minute.” As on cue, a car engine sounded outside, and a second later, a freckle-faced whirlwind of about seventeen or eighteen threw herself at Jez. “It‟s nice to see you too, Gin,” he said. A guy about Jez‟s age appeared in the doorway, carrying a very large watermelon. He had to be Jasper. The Williams family resemblance was obvious, but he looked so solemn compared to the others. Maybe solemn wasn‟t the right word for it, but with his short-cut hair and serious expression, he stood out among our scruffy crew. “Jasper, right?” I held my hand out, bracing for more friendly physical abuse, but he just shuffled the melon to one side and took my hand. “Call me Scoot. Everyone does.” “I‟m Nate.” “Nice to finally meet you, Nate.” There it was again. When did I become so famous? The whirlwind who had to be Ginger had detached herself from Jez and eyed me with suspicion. “This is my sister. Don‟t worry; she doesn‟t bite. Be nice, Ginny.” Jasper nudged her in my direction.

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“Hi,” she said coolly, staying out of arm‟s reach. I guessed she wasn‟t a member of my fan club. We lugged our stuff into an upstairs bedroom and met back with the family behind the house. Under a large tree sat a big and heavy wooden picnic table flanked on two sides by benches. It was laden with a mishmash of plates and bowls. We took our seats. Doug and Loreen sat at the two ends, Jez and I on one side, Jasper and Ginny on the other. Insects buzzed around us, and the soft breeze rattled the tree limbs, knocking stray bits of tree bark and the occasional dry leaf onto the table. It was all very rustic, and thus thrillingly exotic, standing in stark contrast of the crisp seriousness of the West family outdoor ventures my father had planned out like battle maneuvers. Everyone talked and passed dishes back and forth at the same time. “Joe Delgado bought the Johnson Ranch,” Doug said once we all had piles of food on our plates. “Is that the one that‟s been sitting there unused?” Jasper asked. Several heads nodded. “When old Bill Johnson died without a will, the fourth Mrs. Johnson and all the kids from his previous three marriages started a big legal battle over the estate,” Loreen explained it for my benefit. “I don‟t even think it was worth that much. They just did it out of spite. Anyway, it was all tied up in courts for years while the land was left untouched.” Doug took over next. “It‟s all for the best. As it turns out, it gave enough time for the pesticides and other chemicals to wash out of the soil so it can be qualified as organic. I met Joe at the farmer‟s market. He told me he‟s going to turn it into an organic orchard.” As I eventually figured out, Doug didn‟t talk much, except when it was something he was passionate about. Then he couldn‟t stop. “He‟s a smart young man, and his family‟s been farmers for generations. His great-grandparents came over from Mexico as day laborers, then in time got their

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own land. Joe‟s brother grows organic vegetables and sells them to small grocery store chains. Some of the bigger ones too.” Jasper nodded. “Local and organic is getting more popular. That reminds me, Jez, I want to talk to you about something.” We didn‟t learn what it was, because he was interrupted by Loreen shoving a salad bowl at him. There was a quick exchange of looks I couldn‟t decipher. It was odd, but the whole family was a little odd. Doug cleared his throat and went on talking. “We had Joe and his wife over for dinner. He gave me an interesting idea. He‟ll need bees to pollinate his trees, and that costs money. They need to truck the bees in from God knows where. Commercial beekeeping is very stressful for the bees. No wonder they are having so much trouble with colony collapses lately. So Joe and I made a deal. I‟ll keep my beehives in his orchard, keep the honey, and his trees get pollinated. We‟ll start next spring.” “That‟s exciting, but a little risky, isn‟t it?” I chipped in. “So is everything in life,” Loreen said, smiling. “Do you know anything about beekeeping?” Jez asked. “When I was growing up, we had bees. I know quite enough. The rest I can learn by spring.” “Dad grew up on a farm in Idaho,” Jasper whispered to me. Ginny rolled her eyes but didn‟t say anything. It was all small talk till later, when we sat around among the ruins of our meal, shooting the breeze. At that point, Ginny pulled out a hefty camera and began to click away. Nobody but me seemed to be bothered by it. Noticing my unease, Jasper leaned over and explained. “My parents got her a camera for her thirteenth birthday. She‟s been a nuisance ever since. Even worse since she switched to digital; now there‟s no limit to how much she can shoot. Just ignore her. Eventually you won‟t even notice.”

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*** The whole Williams brood participated in the old-world custom of siesta. I couldn‟t blame them; the hottest part of the day was best spent resting. I, however, wasn‟t sleepy. I opted to stay at the table and sketch: the house with its uneven lines and overflowing window boxes, the yard with its citrus trees, piles of wood, vegetable garden. Jez sauntered out of the house and sat behind me on the bench, his legs framing mine, his shirtless chest pressing to my back. “It‟s hard to draw with you plastered to me,” I grumbled halfheartedly. “Mmm…” Resting his chin on my shoulder, Jez reached around to flick through my sketchbook. He stopped at some semiabstract doodles. They were of waves and sea foam in an Art-Nouveau-meets-tribal style I was playing around with. “These would make nice tattoos,” he mused. “Sort of like tribal, but different.” “Have you ever thought of getting tats?” “I have, but never saw one that was quite right. I think I‟d be okay with something like this. Would you like me inked?” he added teasingly. I had to think about that. I loved his smooth, unblemished skin, but the thought of twisting black lines decorating it was hot. Especially if they came from me—it would be like marking him as mine. That thought tingled its way down from the back of my mind to the pit of my stomach. “I have an idea.” I hopped off the bench and stood to face Jez. “Turn around and lean against the table.” Jez complied. He leaned back and rested his elbows on the table. There was a daring what-are-you-gonna-do-now glint in his eyes. I regarded him squint-eyed. He squinted back. I pulled out my black markers and set to work. They were not designed for drawing on skin but did well regardless. I had to be careful not to smudge the lines, but the ink dried fast. Waves slid from Jez‟s left shoulder to curl, lick around his nipple, following the natural curve of the pectoral muscle, and ended frothing against his flat stomach.

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I leaned back to admire my masterwork. Not bad. All it needed was a signature. I bent down and nipped at the skin below the belly button. Jez‟s breath caught. I clamped my lips on the patch of skin and sucked. He let out a strained little sound and placed his hand on my head. I felt through his touch his yearning to shove my face between his legs. I wanted it too from the second the scent of his arousal filled my nostrils, just not there when anyone could catch us at any second. “Let‟s go upstairs.” Jez stood and pulled me toward the house. “We can‟t. It‟s too quiet. Everyone will hear us.” “We‟ll keep it down.” I rolled my eyes at that. “Okay.” Jez disappeared into the house. I dithered at the door, but he reappeared a few seconds later with a tattered blanket thrown over his shoulder. He took my hand and led me into the woods. We were within shouting distance of the house but hidden by the trees, with nothing but insects and birds keeping us company. The two of us could have been the last humans left on earth. We spread the blanket over some dry grass in the shade. It was hot, and both of us were covered in a sheen of perspiration. A fat little drop of sweat rolled down on Jez‟s sternum; I had to claim it. I pressed my tongue flat on it. The salty tang spread over my taste buds. I dragged my tongue up his chest to the hollow of his neck, tasting him all the way. Everything about Jez was so fucking erotic: his amazing, masculine scent; his solid body; the slight scruffiness of his chin; even the way he looked at me. I couldn‟t believe I‟d ever denied myself this. The desire to possess him, to crawl into his skin, engulfed me; I could hardly breathe. We kissed hungry, wet, and sloppy, our tongues wrestling for dominance. We tumbled over in a jumble of limbs, clawing off the little clothes we wore. I wriggled down his body, buried my face in his crotch, and inhaled openmouthed so I could taste musk on my palate even before my tongue touched his skin. I licked his

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balls, his shaft, the thick, salty juice leaking from the slit. I wrapped my lips around his cock and forced more and more of him into my mouth. Jez‟s thighs flexed as he fought for control not to buck up into my mouth. I tried hard to make it good. The head of his cock hit the back of my throat, and I gagged. Jez gently pulled me by the hair, off his cock. He kissed me. “Go slow, babe,” he said. We kissed and touched some more. I couldn‟t keep my hands off him. When they stole back to his cock, he pushed me down on my side and then lay down the opposite way till we were groin to mouth. He gave me a sly grin and took my cock into his mouth. At first I mirrored what he was doing to me, the way he sucked and hummed, his tongue slithering, but then I relaxed and went with instinct. I felt a sense of victory when I could fit almost all of him into my mouth. The dual sensation of having his cock in my mouth and his lips wrapped around mine was dizzying. Jez slipped a hand between my ass cheeks and rested a finger against my hole—nothing more, just resting it there. It did a hell of a job at chasing all other thoughts out of my head. It was just the two of us—the smell, taste, and sexy sounds of making love. As I got closer, I let go of Jez‟s cock, but he kept working mine. That single finger was pressed harder against my hole, and just the tip of it slipped inside. I came like a fucking fountain. Jez finished himself off with a few frantic strokes while I still tried to get my bearings. I drifted off into a state between sleep and wakefulness. I was roused by a tickly sensation; a long-legged spider was crawling on my arm. I blew on it, and it tumbled back into the dry grass. I sat up and stretched my stiff muscles. The ground was hard; the blanket didn‟t help much. I spotted Jez a few feet away, back turned, still unashamedly naked, whizzing on some shrubbery. I cursed myself for leaving my sketchbook behind. “You have the nicest ass I‟ve ever seen,” I noted. He looked back over his shoulder. “Seen many?”

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“I took my share of figure-drawing classes.” And all those art history books. He returned and sat down next to me. He rested a hand on my shoulder and lazily rubbed the bottom of my earlobe. “Don‟t think I haven‟t noticed your interest in my ass.” I swallowed. “I have thing for round body parts.” “Is that so?” I felt a blush creep over me. “Are you…” I started hesitantly, but he just raised an eyebrow. “Top or bottom?” I rushed out the last few words. I was woefully unprepared. Until a recent and brief Internet search, I didn‟t even know about this top and bottom business. All I was sure of was that while I still felt reluctant to be fucked—though growing less so every day—I‟d really developed an obsession with the idea of doing it to him. “Baby, anything you want me to be. I‟m easy.” “I noticed that.” Jez laughed and pushed me down. “Have you ever done it?” he asked. “Jenny and I tried it once, but she didn‟t like it,” I groaned out. “You probably had no idea what you were doing.” “That‟s a safe assumption,” I agreed. “Well, I can teach you all my secrets when we get home.” He winked. “I can‟t wait.” When we returned, everyone was up and about, and I felt a flush of embarrassment spread over me. It had to be obvious what we had been up to out there. Fortunately nobody paid us any mind. Doug and Jasper played with power tools, building what looked like wooden boxes. Probably beehives. Ginny went bonkers when she spotted Jez‟s temporary tattoo and didn‟t relent till she got him to pose for her with a surfboard. She didn‟t comment on the hickey.

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Chapter Ten The next day, the four of us “youngsters” headed down to the beach. I wore Jez‟s spare wet suit. It didn‟t bode well. Sweeping my objections aside, he‟d taken into his head to teach me to surf. After considerable coaching, I was able to stand up on the board and even glide a short distance. The proud enthusiasm Jez showed was greatly out of proportion to my achievements, yet he looked so sincerely pleased that I had to believe he wasn‟t just humoring me. Still, I think Jasper was the more accurate one when he joked that I looked like Donald Duck on the board. “Don‟t listen to him, Ducky,” Jez teased. “You were magnificent.” I snorted at both the nickname and the outrageousness of that statement and pushed him underwater. Eventually I made my escape to the shore, where I could watch and draw them riding the waves. We didn‟t get back to the house till midafternoon. It was a quiet, lazy time. I took a cold shower to cool down. Upon returning to our room, I found it empty, but through the window I spotted two figures—Jez and Jasper—stroll off into the trees. My heart did a panicky little somersault. I chided myself for it; two guys could take a completely innocent walk into the woods. Jasper had a girlfriend—not that this necessarily meant anything. No, this was getting silly. I told myself to chill. The house was too quiet. I wandered around till I found Ginny on the back deck. She was sitting cross-legged in a wicker chair with my sketchbook in her lap. It was open at one of the Venice Beach Promenade pages. “These are really good,” she said before I could complain about privacy and personal property.

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“Thanks,” I muttered. Ginny fast-forwarded to a page her index finger had bookmarked. It was one of my favorites of Jez. “I really like this one. Can I scan it in?” She hopped off the chair and bounced into the house without waiting for my reply. I remembered that I had some more revealing sketches of Jez there. “Don‟t worry. I already saw the nudie ones!” she shouted back. Great. I lowered myself into a chair and gave myself to the moment, the leaves rustling and crickets chirping. I might have nodded off for a second. Steps thudding on the deck and the scrape of a chair stirred me back to wakefulness. It was Jasper stretching out in a rickety deck chair. “Where‟s Jez?” I asked. “Went with Dad for a drive. They‟ll be back soon.” Ginny waltzed back and thrust my sketchbook in my hands. “Thanks,” she said unexpectedly. I think she might have even smiled. “Be a good sis and get us a couple of beers,” Jasper spoke up. “Please,” he added, seeing her grimace. She trotted away with the minimum amount of enthusiasm. “I think she likes you,” Jasper said once Ginny was out of earshot. He sounded nonplussed. “What did you do to her?” “I‟ve been told I‟m likable. But I really don‟t think she‟s overly fond of me.” “No, she definitely likes you. She was outright civil just now.” “Is that unusual?” Jasper let out a small chuckle. “She‟s had quite a crush on Jez since she was little, so she‟s been hostile toward all his boyfriends—especially since Ronnie.” A loud, derisive snort and clinking of bottles announced Ginny‟s return. “Ginny really hates him,” Jasper narrated.

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She put the bottles on the table, then took a sneaky swig of Jasper‟s first. “He was a drama queen who used Jez and then did a mind fuck on him,” she said. Jasper rolled his eyes in the manner of someone hearing the same tirade for the umpteenth time. “Did you know he‟s a big porn star now?” Ginny went on. “I mean, Jez dragged him out of the closet but surely didn‟t shove him into the smut business. His ass has seen more cock than a poultry farm!” “Ginny!” Jasper and I exclaimed in unison. “I‟m just saying that he‟s a big fat phony.” “How do you even know what he‟s doing?” Jasper asked, exasperated. “Internet! I‟m keeping an eye on him.” She cast meaningful look in my direction before dashing off. “I think I better not piss her off.” “She‟s mostly harmless.” “How about you?” As ridiculous as it was, I still felt a sting of jealousy. However, he took it completely differently. “Don‟t worry. I won‟t ask you your intentions toward Jez,” Jasper said. Somehow it still felt like he was measuring me up. “My parents were good friends with Adelle. Jez is practically a brother.” “He told me Rob used to bring him up here.” “That‟s true, but it was Adelle who brought them both around first.” “So you‟re saying I better not run afoul of the family,” I said half joking, half serious. Jasper‟s normally sober features eased into a friendly smile. “I think you‟re okay. Jez seems happier than he‟s been since—” He was interrupted by the man in question bounding up the stairs.

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“Guess what‟s for dinner?” Jez beamed at us, holding up the lifeless bodies of a couple of long-eared furry critters. “Wabbit?” Jasper took a long gulp from his bottle. “And here I thought it was duck season,” I commented. Seeing Jasper shoot beer through his nose was a reward in itself.

*** Later I helped to clear the table. I spotted some stocky mason jars on the kitchen counter: pickles and jams. With a pang, they summoned up dusty old memories. “Did you make those?” I asked Loreen. “Yeah, it‟s a hobby. I keep telling myself I do it because this way we get canned goods that are not full of all those preservatives and food coloring, but the truth is, I just like doing it.” “It probably tastes better too,” I agreed. “It usually does. I recently made some pickled green tomatoes.” She pointed at a fat little jar. “An old country recipe. It has a very distinct flavor.” I nodded. “My grandma used to make pickled baby watermelons. There‟s nothing else that tastes like that. I used to spend the summer with her. She was really old-school; she canned and pickled and had a real pantry. I haven‟t thought about it for years.” “I take it she‟s not around anymore.” “She died when I was eight.” A shadow of that intense loss I‟d felt at the time crossed over my heart. I shook it off and turned back to Loreen. “You do a lot around here yourself, don‟t you?” “Doug did most of the work on the additions of the house—you can probably tell. He has peculiar ideas about architecture. Don‟t tell him I said that.” “And you do the canning and gardening?”

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“And some writing. Mostly self-published. Although, a real publisher is interested in reprinting one of my canning books, with glossy color photos and everything. There‟s a renewed interest in this stuff these days.” “As it should be! I think making pickles and jams is creative. Like edible art, isn‟t it? I‟d personally take a jar of perfect apricot jam over Jeff Koons.” Loreen let out a hearty laugh and slapped me on the back so hard, I nearly splashed into the sink. “Jez is right about you.” She wiped her eyes. “You‟re funny.” “Oh? What else did he say?” I asked because it‟d been needling me that he spoke about me to people I didn‟t even know about till yesterday, and while they were very nice, it felt weird. “Only good things.” I wondered what that meant.

*** Darkness tiptoed over us on soft-padded feet and found us scattered around the world‟s smallest bonfire. Even so, not one, but two fire extinguishers were within reach. Such was life in the highly flammable Southern California in late summer. The fire was big enough to set a relaxed atmosphere, though. The wine I was sipping lulled me into a mood that was warm and comfortable like a pair of fuzzy slippers. Jez and Scoot scuttered about, dispersing blankets and throw pillows and filling wineglasses. I watched Jez and that easy familiarity with which he interacted with the others—the friendly scuffle and teasing with Scoot and Ginny and the subtle signs of affection with Doug and Loreen. Jez might not have had a conventional family, but he had plenty of people who cared for him. As if he felt my gawking, Jez turned and looked back, his face cast in orange tones by the puny, little flames. He gave me an intimate half smile, and my heart was suddenly as full with sweet sticky goodness as one of Loreen‟s jam jars. At last,

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Jez came and sat down next to me, fussing about with the pillow and blanket for bit. Finally he settled down and pulled me close. I was as content as a cat. I‟d have purred if I could.

*** The morning light peeled off the layers of sleep one by one. It stubbornly tried to pry my eyelids apart, but I resisted. I snuggled closer to Jez, hiding my face under his arm. Click. Click. “What the fuck?” I cracked open one eye. In the next moment, they both popped open in disbelief. I sat bolt upright, clutching the blanket in front of me. Click. Ginny was kneeling on the foot of the bed. She lowered the camera and grinned. “You were adorable.” “Ginny, what the hell are you doing here?” “Taking candid photos,” she replied without any show of shame. Jez stirred. “She has no sense of boundaries. I blame the parents,” he said sleepily yet unperturbed. I was speechless. Jez pushed himself up, pulled me to him, and put his chin on my shoulder. I swear he was posing for her. I shoved him away, but he just dragged me with him, laughing. Click. Click. “Okay, Ginny, you need to go,” said Jez. “Nate and I would like to have morning sex, and you‟re not allowed to take pictures.” “You‟re no fun!” Ginny stomped toward the door. “And no listening through the door!” Jez yelled after her.

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Her footsteps thundered down the stairs. “Seriously…” I grumbled. “C‟mere, Ducky.” Jez tugged me closer. I snatched a pillow and smacked him over the head with it. It all went downhill from there, turning into a naked wrestling match of sorts, with lots of rubbing and heavy breathing. Jez pinned me down and worried one of my nipples with his tongue and teeth. I‟d never thought of my nipples as an erogenous zone before, but what Jez did to them was such sweet torture. By the time he moved on to the other one, my morning wood—effectively terminated by Ginny‟s appearance—was back in full force. I threaded my fingers into Jez‟s hair and pulled his face back up to mine. I had to kiss him, morning breath be damned. Jez‟s lips were like sin—soft and firm, knowing and wanton. They said without words more than spoken language could express. I replied in kind. My hands roamed all over his body, as if I could mark him as mine just by touch. Shivers of desire fluttered through me as we rutted together. There was so much heat and friction between us, I expected the bed to burst into flames. Jez reached in the direction of the night table, and unknown objects tumbled loudly to the floor. He got what he wanted, though. The lotion coated our cocks in slippery goodness. To my surprise, Jez rolled us over till I was on top of him, straddling his hips. “You‟ll like this,” he said, maneuvering my cock between his thighs. I thrust experimentally. The tight, moist heat felt like heaven. Jez let out a pleased little sigh as my cock slid along his perineum. “Yes, like that,” he said, prodding me on. I plunged in and fucked his thighs, amazed at how good it felt. Jez‟s cock was trapped between us. I felt its hard length slipping and sliding, and I didn‟t think the friction would‟ve been enough, but from the noises Jez made, I had to be wrong. I licked his nipples, trying to remember how he‟d done it to me. I must‟ve gotten it right, because he arched into my touch.

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“Oh Nate, baby, yes,” he moaned. It stole my breath away, hearing him so abandoned, so needy for me. It was still so hard for me to believe that someone like him would want me. That note of desire shot straight through my heart and down to my groin. As the tingle of impending release spread through me, I buried my head into Jez‟s neck to muffle the sounds I was about to make. I came, crying out his name. Once I got my breathing back to normal, I took Jez‟s neglected cock in hand. Our fingers entwined over his shaft and pumped till he spurted all over our hands and his stomach.

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Chapter Eleven I had mixed feelings about heading back to Venice. I really liked it out here, but I was keen on getting Jez all to myself, without concerns for noise and nosy teenagers. I was also worried about Arthur. Jez had called him several times a day and was told everything was fine, but I knew he was twice as anxious as me to get assurances in person. I was gathering our stuff when I remembered a beach towel left on the deck‟s railing, and went to get it. I heard Doug and Jez talking down below and almost called out to them, but something in the tone of their voices stopped me. “It doesn‟t make any sense, driving up again tomorrow,” Doug argued. “It‟s not a big deal.” Jez sounded resolute. “I‟m not going to get him involved. With all the precautions you take to keep your family out of it, you should understand.” “They know about it, though. Don‟t you trust him?” “You know it‟s not about that.” “Have you told him?” Jez walked away, and I didn‟t get to learn what he hadn‟t told me. I staggered back to our room with my heart thumping like cornered rabbit. Scenarios, each wilder than the last, chased each other around in my mind. Only one didn‟t look like an escapee from a direct-to-DVD horror flick. It caught the other ones one by one and clubbed them dead. It was so fuckin‟ obvious, I should‟ve figured it out a long time ago. We were in Southern California, where the main forces of the economy were the movie industry, pot, and porn. Suddenly Jez‟s easygoing lifestyle, seeming

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lack of employment, and frequent absences all made sense. By the time I fit all the pieces together, my head was spinning. That‟s how Jez found me: sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching a brightly colored beach towel. He frowned. “You all right?” “I‟m not stupid, you know. You don‟t have to treat me like a child!” Even I was surprised at the edge of anger in my voice. “O-okay…” “I know what you‟re doing.” I threw the fuckin‟ towel across the room. Jez looked at me with alarm. “What are you talking about?” “I ate one of Arthur‟s cookies.” I recalled the sense of elation I‟d felt that day. I should‟ve realized then they weren‟t normal cookies, but I can be exceptionally dense sometimes. “You weren‟t supposed to,” Jez said with a deflated sigh. “He offered.” I launched myself off the bed. I wanted us to be at eye level. “How was I supposed to know there was pot in them?” “He shouldn‟t have done that.” Jez retreated to the window and perched on the sill. “He probably thought I knew. And really, what‟s the big deal? We smoked together before.” “You knew what you were doing then. I wasn‟t going to secretly drug you. I even made separate cookies for you.” “Well, that‟s nice, but why all the secrecy?” I shot a sharp look at him, but then I felt bad about it. I wasn‟t even sure why I felt so irritable, but it filled me with a nervous energy that needed a target. I dumped the contents of our bag back on the bed and started repacking. Jez finally spoke. “Look, I just wanted to keep you out of it. It‟s complicated.” “Not really. Doug grows it. You take it back to LA, right?”

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Jez nodded. “Then what?” “I have a friend in Silver Lake—Rafael; he works in a hospice. He has patients with everything from cancer to HIV.” “Isn‟t medical marijuana legal in California?” I shoved the undies back into the bag. “It has been for years, but it‟s still illegal at the federal level. The feds can bust you anytime for possession. Growing for personal use, selling, and trafficking are still illegal at a state level too.” “Didn‟t a proposition just pass recently that made dispensaries legal?” “Yeah. Again, at state level only. Welcome to our fucked-up legal system.” He threw his arms wide. “So what…? You and Doug are running a big illegal charity?” Jez looked out the window and back. “Not exactly. I pay Doug a fair market value for it. Part of it goes to Rafael in Silver Lake. The other part I sell to cover my costs and pay the bills.” That made me pause and think, so I folded a few T-shirts before looking up again. “I can‟t see you standing on street corner, peddling weed.” Jez laughed, but there was no real cheer in it. “I have an exclusive clientele. Hollywood types mostly.” “So that‟s what the phone calls and the sudden trips are all about?” He nodded. There was something I still didn‟t get. “But why would they come to you? People like that should be able to score easily enough.” “Not necessarily. I have an angle: my weed is organic.” It made perfect, if warped, sense. Jez went on with a bit more urgency. “Some of the pot out there has enough pesticide in it to make you sick. Mine doesn‟t have a drop. I charge a

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premium for that. It‟s not a bad thing either for those who actually use it medically.” “I still don‟t get why you kept it from me.” I knew what had put the bug up my ass. “I know we‟re not…” I made a feeble gesture because I had no idea what we were and were not. “But I tell you everything, and I just thought…” “It‟s not that.” He sounded pained. “I don‟t want you mixed up in this.” “If you‟re hiding bales of pot in the garage, I‟m probably already mixed up.” “It doesn‟t come in bales.” His smile was as weak as a kitten. “Anyway, I never have more than a tiny baggie in the house.” “Then where…” I started, but I knew the answer before I could finish. “It‟s Arthur. He holds your stash.” “Yeah. Who would suspect an old guy, right?” The blanks were filling in on their own. I saw details I didn‟t expect—or want. “And you pay his rent and supply him with magic cookies. He‟s really sick, isn‟t he?” I felt myself deflating. “Lung cancer.” Of course, Arthur was sickly. Half the time he looked like death warmed over, but I had thought that was from old age. I hadn‟t been around old or sick people much before. I wasn‟t expecting anything so…final. It knocked the fight out of me, but I still felt uneasy about Jez using him like that. He read me like a billboard. “I don‟t exactly like the setup myself, but I didn‟t arrange it. I inherited the whole deal.” Jez pushed himself off the windowsill but then just stood there, hesitant, looking like he didn‟t know whether to sit back down or to move. “Inherited? From whom?” “Adelle, of course.” Jez looked at me like I was someone who didn‟t understand the simplest things. Meanwhile, my jaw hit the floor. “Your grandmother was a dope dealer?”

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“Sounds rather sordid, put that way. Adelle knew a lot of people in Hollywood and knew people who grew pot, and somehow gradually became the person to connect the two. Everyone trusted her, and she never had any trouble from the cops. She got into the medical angle of things when an old friend of hers got glaucoma.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, obviously not knowing what to do with them. His discomfort made me feel worse. “You could‟ve quit.” “I couldn‟t leave Rafael in the lurch. And the other part—the dealing—made it easy to care for Adelle.” “What about Arthur?” I asked, and there was no anger anymore, only a desire to understand. “She was looking after him long before he got sick. They go way back. When Adelle herself got too weak about three years ago, I moved back in and took over. Doug doesn‟t trust anyone else, and neither do the Hollywood clients. So for now, I‟m stuck with it.” He shrugged. I rummaged around in my conscience but found no moral outrage, only a murky sense of discomfort. I pulled myself together and covered the distance separating us in three steps. I looked deeply into Jez‟s eyes. “Okay, so now I know all about it. Doug‟s right; there‟s no reason for you to drive up here again tomorrow when we can take it back with us today.” “No,” Jez said simply. A small muscle in the corner of his jaw that I hadn‟t noticed before tensed. I opened my mouth to argue, but the way he looked back at me—serious as a marble statue—shut me up. From somewhere downstairs, Loreen shouted for us to come to lunch. “Look”—Jez‟s expression softened—“this whole situation might change soon. I‟ll tell you about it later.”

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Jez slid his hands up my arms, tentatively, warmly, and held me by the shoulders. “I‟m sorry,” he whispered ruefully. “What for?” “You made me out to be this perfect guy, and I‟m just as fucked-up as anyone else.” “You‟re not fucked-up. Just human,” I replied stubbornly. “Nate, baby,” he said low and quiet, on the margin of a whisper, “are we cool?” We were. Hot, cool, anything but lukewarm. “Yeah,” I said on an exhale. Jez drew me in, and we stood there for a long moment, wound tightly around each other. So it wasn‟t all that simple after all. I was too far gone to care.

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Chapter Twelve The drive back to Venice was subdued. The joy and tranquility of the previous days were seeping away. I tried to hold them back with light chatter, but it wasn‟t working. Tension filled the van like a skunky smell and wouldn‟t go away. Eventually I shut up and stared out the window. I would have been content never to revisit that morning‟s conversation, but obviously Jez was still bothered. “Look,” he started, “I‟m not gonna feel guilty for getting pot to sick people. I know it helps; I‟ve seen it.” “Okay.” I hoped that would be the end of it. Not so. He continued. “In general, I don‟t think it‟s any worse than alcohol. Maybe less. Hell, I think if pot was legal, less people would do meth—and that shit‟s really bad.” I didn‟t comment. It wasn‟t a subject to which I had paid much mind before. “But being drug dealer to the stars is not something I‟m crazy about. It‟s so…” “Pulp Fiction?” I joked lamely. “Pathetic. I‟d known for some time about Adelle doing it. The way she did it had this strange charm. It was absurd, if you think about it, but somehow it worked. She‟d always done everything her own way. For me, it feels like I‟m playing at being someone I‟m not.” I stared out the window at the endless ocean for a while before opening my mouth. “What did you do before?”

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Jez considered my question for a moment. “I moved out when I was eighteen. Went to college for a few years before dropping out. Traveled up and down the coast, stayed in San Francisco for a while. Even spent some time in the desert with a friend. I did odd jobs. I make a pretty good bartender, as you know.” He seemed to relax fractionally. “Have you ever had a dream job?” Jez glanced at me hesitantly. “What?” I prodded. “Tell me.” He groaned. “I can‟t. You already think I‟m some beach cliché.” “I do not!” I protested. Well, maybe a little. “I always thought it would be cool to a run surf shop.” He shot me a quick glance. “Probably only because Rob used to work in one, and I liked hanging out with him.” “That actually sounds pretty cool. Have you thought about really doing it?” “Do you know how to run a business?” he asked. “I don‟t.” “What you do now is sort of a business.” The moment I said it, I wished there was Backspace in real life. Shit. The mood skunked up again. Jez stared out the window, and I kicked myself. “You said you had something to tell me.” I grasped at straws. “That it all might change soon.” For a moment I thought Jez wouldn‟t answer, but then he spoke. “It‟s Scoot. He and his girlfriend, Janelle, are planning to set up a medical marijuana collective.” I turned this news over in my head. “That‟s good, right?” I asked hopefully. “It‟s not so simple. There‟s a lot of work to be done. They‟re still struggling to find financing. I offered to take out a mortgage on the house, but Scoot flat refused.” “So then what are they gonna do?”

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“Scoot will find a way. He‟s smart. I‟ll help with the renovation as much as I can. I‟m handy enough.” “I can help too.” “Someone needs to look after Arthur,” he said. We drove in silence for a long while. Jez kept his eyes on the road. I stared out at the ocean. The vastness of it made me feel insignificant; it was here long before humans learned to use tools, and it would be here long after we polluted ourselves out of existence, bearing impassive witness to all our sound and fury. It was both humbling and reassuring. My thoughts sloshed around randomly, and the words simply rolled out of my mouth. “I didn‟t realize Arthur was doing chemo.” I was still staring at the water. This break in the silence must have startled Jez, because his answer took a while to come. “He isn‟t.” I whipped head around. “What!” “It wasn‟t too advanced when they diagnosed it. If he were young and otherwise healthy… But at his age, it would‟ve just been needless torture.” “But…” “It was his decision, and I support it.” I suspected Jez was right, but I hated feeling so helpless. “He‟s gonna get worse.” “He‟s got prescription painkillers, and I‟ll keep him in weed-laced bliss as long as I can.” “It won‟t be enough forever.” “I know.” Jez sighed. “Eventually he‟ll have to go to the hospital. They‟ll pump him full of the „good drugs‟ there,” he added bitterly. Nothing else was said for the rest of the drive.

***

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Seemingly things were back as before, but not exactly. We shared a bed whether we messed around or not. That closeness of shared body heat and tangled limbs was just as good, if not better, than the sex. However, during the days Jez was tense, on the go, his mind somewhere else. Whenever I asked how things were going, all he said was “fine” and unzipped my jeans. I know it was a distraction, but I preferred it to fighting. Those times we tumbled onto the bed, sofa, and one time even onto the hard floor of the minibus and got each other off with feverish efficiency. Every kiss, every caress, every sweat-slicked plunge into pleasure was an evasion. After, spent and tired, we had the excuse to fall asleep and avert words again. Fucking the tension out of our systems got us through. Jasper must have gotten the money, though, because the plans for the collective went ahead. I saw the place once, early on. It was a gutted former retail space in Hollywood. It needed a lot of work. From then on, Jez spent most of his time helping Scoot and Doug with the renovation. I offered to help, but somebody needed to look after Arthur. Arthur wasn‟t doing well. He was going downhill fast. He was old and frail before—that was nothing new. Maybe it was that the mischievous spark that had left his eyes. Also, he got busy getting rid of stuff. There was no day when I went to see him that he wasn‟t sorting through the closet or the kitchen or who knows what. I had to take several trips to Goodwill with boxes of discarded junk. I knew what he was doing, and I would‟ve done the same in his place, but I didn‟t have to like it. “How‟s Arthur?” Jez asked one night. He‟d just gotten home and looked worn out. “He‟s pretty good,” I lied. “I was just over there. We had dinner.” Arthur had been picking on his food with little interest, but I was going to keep that detail to myself. “I should go over to say hello.” “He‟s probably in bed already. How about tomorrow before you leave?”

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Jez nodded. “Yeah, you‟re right.” “Hey, what do you think of these?” I asked, putting a plate of still-warm cookies in front of him. Between Jez being strained and distant and Arthur preparing to die, I poured all my frustration and anxiety into baking. Yeah, I know. It was so Martha Stewart, but there was a good reason for it—Jez had never mastered more than basic cookies and brownies. Arthur must have gotten pretty bored of them by then, not that he ever complained. I found in me an unexpected knack for making sweet things. Despite what I‟d first naively thought, you didn‟t simply throw pot into the mix. It had to be made into “cannabutter” first. Then you could use it for anything that required butter. Jez took a cautious first bite. “Mmm… I wasn‟t expecting lemon, but it‟s good. What are the lumpy bits?” “Oatmeal. I know it sounds weird, but when I found the recipe online there was a great photo with it. I decided to give it a try.” “I like it.” Jez reached for another one. “Don‟t eat too many. They are for Arthur,” I warned him. Jez put the cookie down and leaned back wearily in the chair. “It sucked watching Adelle fade away. She was always so tough and strong when I was a kid. It felt so wrong seeing her fragile like that. I‟m sorry for dumping Arthur on you.” “That‟s okay. Really. We can‟t always have it easy, right? Anyway, I like spending time with him; he has great stories.” I tried to lighten up the mood. Jez pushed himself up and yawned. “I‟m so damn tired. I‟m off to bed.”

*** One late afternoon, I stood at the door of Arthur‟s apartment with a plate of chocolate macaroons. The bittersweet voice of Billie Holiday singing about the moon and lost love drifted from inside.

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It felt wrong to knock, so I tried the door. It was open. I let myself in to find Arthur in the unlit room, slumped on the sofa with a tattered old photo album in his lap. I sat next to him, wordlessly placing the plate on the coffee table. He gave me a feeble smile. After a moment, I tugged the album away, and he didn‟t object. They were old, yellowed photographs of Arthur and another man. It looked like they were snapped at a camping trip. They were both so impossibly young. Arthur‟s hair was thick and dark, his eyes bright and impish. The other man had tousled light hair and a lean, muscular body. His face was plain, but something about it— probably the way he smiled, the guileless way he gazed into the camera—made him captivating. I traced his features with a light finger. “Who is he?” I asked. “An old ghost. His name was David. I‟ve avoided looking at these pictures for so long, but I can‟t evade any longer.” Arthur looked around like he was surprised to find himself in that crowded little room. “I don‟t know what to do. It feels wrong to throw them away, but once I‟m gone, they won‟t mean anything to anyone.” “I‟ll keep them.” I volunteered without having to think about it. “They are just a bunch of strangers to you.” “I‟ll make up stories about them. Racy ones,” I added, and that at last elicited a small smile. I looked back down at the photos. “Arthur, what happened?” Maybe I shouldn‟t have asked, but I thought he might want to unburden himself. He hesitated for only a second. “We were young and stupid. Well, I was. I wasn‟t ready to settle down, not with one person. There was too much out there. So many things to try, thrills to have. I tried to make him see it my way, but he wouldn‟t. So he left me.” He stopped and stared into the dim light of the room. When I thought that was all to it, he spoke again. “Deep in my heart I always knew we would end up back together again; it was meant to be. But then he died. He was young, not even forty yet. I‟ve never met anyone like him again. It was such a long time ago, but the hole in my life never got any smaller.”

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Somewhere out there, the sun was setting, and the warm light cast striped shadows through the blinds. Arthur sounded distant. “I stopped believing in religion and any higher power a long time ago, but I keep hoping I‟ll see him again soon.” There was nothing to say. I wouldn‟t insult Arthur with some stock banality. So I nudged the plate of macaroons closer. I took one too—I needed a little consciousness altering at that moment too. Arthur took one of my hands in his. We sat in the slowly darkening room in silence for a long, long time, watching ghosts chase each other in the shadows. His breathing slowed, and his head rolled back. I carefully disentangled myself and left him there, sleeping in the dusky room. When I got back a few hours later with dinner, the lights were on, and the old guy was puttering about. He looked a little better, and I knew he was making an effort for me. I set up plates for two on the kitchen table. Jez was out—I barely saw him these days—and I wanted to make sure Arthur ate. His appetite had been flagging. We had our dinner in comfortable silence. There was something I wanted to ask him, but I was worried that poking at old memories might get him back into a funky mood. Then again, he barely had a toehold in the present whether I asked or not. “Arthur, how did you meet Adelle?” His eyes lost focus, searching back through time, but his expression brightened. “I first saw Ada in the RKO Commissary. She was giving hell to some rube who was getting fresh with her. What a firecracker! She had a look and spirit enough for three. Talented too. She could‟ve been famous, but she was too wild, always doing her own thing. I remember, at one time she was up for a screen test for a role that could‟ve made her, but instead she took off to Paris with some guy she‟d fallen in love with. She came back alone six months later, but if you thought she‟d be crushed, you‟d be disappointed. Adelle just laughed and went on. If I were

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into women, I would‟ve asked her to marry me. I think I may have anyway. As is, she was my best friend.” “She sounds like one of a kind.” “Yeah, she was a wild card, but she was no flake. She could keep a secret like nobody.” Arthur chuckled. “To this day, nobody knows who Jesse‟s grandfather is. Oh, there were rumors about a dozen film stars, a few of the studio heads, and a writer or two—all married, of course—but she never told, not even me.” We spent the rest of the night with his reminiscing about his old studio days and my providing the attentive audience, till Arthur tired. It cheered him up.

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Chapter Thirteen Jez was still out when I went to bed that night, but I woke up relieved when he and his cold feet crawled under the covers next to me, sometime in the wee hours. I had uneasy dreams that vanished the moment I opened my eyes. Jez was still fast asleep, so I stole out of bed to put the coffee on. Arthur‟s photos made me think of my own. I had absconded with one small album when I left Indiana. I dug it out and was in the living room, flipping through it, when Jez slipped next to me on the sofa, handing me a cup of coffee. “Who‟s that?” he asked when we got to the last page. “That‟s Jenny.” “You didn‟t tell me she was hot.” “I thought you weren‟t into chicks.” “Well, yeah, but I‟m not blind!” “I got lucky,” I explained. “She had no idea what a knockout she was. Jenny thought she was plain.” “Must be a Midwest thing.” “What?” “Nothing.” There were a couple of brand-new pictures on the coffee table too. They came in the mail from Ginny. I picked them up. One was of Jez with his surfboard and fake tattoo and another of the two of us asleep, arms strewn across each other. Intimate. I had to admit it: Ginny was good. She plucked those moments out of time

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with a deft precision. It made me ache to recapture them. Well, as my grandma used to say, if wishes were horses… I dropped the pictures back on the table, took Jez‟s cup out of his hands, and set it next to them. A wisp of a smile played on his lips as he eyed me, waiting for my next move. I chose to kiss it off. I pressed him into the cushions, leaving no doubt about my intentions. I slid my hand into the seat of his shorts, and he tilted his hips up to give easier access. I cupped his ass and squeezed. The sudden flashback to Professor Henwood and his baritone voice was unexpected but excusable under the circumstances. “Callipygian,” I blurted out. “What?” Jez looked at me with befuddled arousal. “Cal-ee-pidge-ee-an,” I enunciated with care. “Having shapely buttocks. It‟s in the dictionary, if you don‟t believe me.” “Well, as long as you‟re not calling me a pigeon.” He laughed. “My art history professor was very fond of the word. All those Greek statues, you know. I suddenly remembered.” Jez had no chance to respond as I tried to strip him out of his shorts and flip him over at the same time. There were too many limbs. Once all sorted, I had him the way I wanted: naked and prone, stretched out on the sofa. I sat back across his legs to take a good look. Against the easy lines of his back and thighs, the brazen curves of Jez‟s buttocks stood out like a couple of call girls. Unlike the rest of his tanned body, they were white as cream. I gave in to temptation and tasted one. My teeth scraped against the flesh, and I had to fight the urge to bite down hard. Jez twitched. I switched to the other side for symmetry‟s sake. I slipped my fingers into the cleft between, drawn by the heat and a sense of adventure. When the tip of my finger brushed against his hole, I hesitated. “Stop!” came the muffled groan.

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“You promised!” I protested. “Bedroom.” Jez pushed us off the sofa and marched out of the room. I trailed after him, hobbling out of my jeans on the way. Jez set things out—got the lube and condoms from the nightstand. He lay on his back and arranged pillows under his hips while I stood there like the shy kid on the first day of school. At his prompting, I lowered myself next to him. He took my hand. It could‟ve been clinical if not for the feral walloping of my heart, caused by the blend of nerves and excitement. Jez‟s steady fingers guided my slippery ones to that tight, tight heat. So strange and private. Then there was that moment when my fumbling fingers stumbled upon the right spot, and Jez‟s spine curved, breath and words caught in his throat for a second before rushing forth. “Fuck! Baby, yes. Right there!” I would have been happy to give up my original quest and instead just stroke him, lick him to see that wanton look on his face, but Jez stopped me and tossed me a slim package. I rolled the condom on my shaft with shaking fingers. I shuffled myself between his legs and lined myself up, suddenly nervous. “It‟s okay.” He was encouraging. “Just go slow first.” I pushed in, just barely, waiting for a sign, and got it when he canted his pelvis. I moved again. Fully inside, I had to stop to remember how to breathe. Jez rubbed my arm. “It‟s good, baby. It‟s good.” That was an understatement. I choked on a laugh. I moved again, thrust, uncertain, stuttering at first, then finding rhythm. Jez‟s legs wrapped around me; his hands rubbed and teased. Still I wanted more. I lowered myself to capture his lips with mine. Our tempo grew slower and sweeter. Jez‟s cock, trapped between us, was slickened with sweat. We were making sinfully lubricious noises. Jez came with his whole body tensing and face twisting as if in pain. He shouted as he dug his fingers into my back and hot stickiness shot between us. I

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didn‟t realize how close I was until his ass clenching around my cock ripped the orgasm out of me. It took only a few more jerky thrusts before I collapsed on top of him, spent and boneless.

*** “I‟m sorry,” Jez whispered. I rested my head over his heart, and he stroked my scalp, making me too content to be troubled. I gave a noncommittal hum in reply. “I know I‟ve been ignoring you recently,” he went on. “A little,” I agreed. “It‟s just…” “I know. A lot has been going on. It‟s almost over, though, right?” I reluctantly pushed myself up on my elbow. “Yeah, almost there. I won‟t be able to relax completely till it‟s all done. I keep thinking it still may fall through.” “It won‟t,” I said, willing it to be true. “Shouldn‟t you be there now, wielding power tools or something?” “I was told to stay away and spend some time with my…” “Yeah?” Jez cupped my chin and pulled me back down for a kiss. “Thanks for spending so much time with Arthur. It should be me.” “No problem at all. I like the old guy. It can‟t be easy for you so soon after Adelle.” “No,” Jez admitted but didn‟t look like he wanted to delve. Gnarls Barkley started belting out “Gone Daddy Gone” somewhere in the vicinity of the living room. Jez rolled out of bed with a groan and went to answer his phone. At least I got to have another proprietorial look at his ass. He was back at the bedroom door a minute later. “Wanna go out tonight?”

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*** We ended up at the Knitting Factory, a music club at the foot of the Hollywood Hills. Scoot and his girlfriend, Janelle, were already there. Janelle was a fiery-eyed Latina with a curvaceous bod and a bubbly laugh. We eased into a breezy conversation about nothing and everything—mostly music, appropriately. From our table on the balcony we had an odd bird‟s-eye view of the bands playing, but the acoustics were good. At one point Jez and Scoot sauntered off to get more beer, and I was left alone with Janelle. “How long have you known Jez?” I asked her. “Oh, only a couple of years. Since I started seeing Jasper.” She flashed her teeth at me. “It‟s nice to see Jez getting serious about someone again, after…” She attempted to cover her blunder by raising the paper cup to her lips, but it was empty. “After?” I poked. Janelle sized me up before continuing. “He got burned. It didn‟t seem like he‟d get involved again anytime soon.” “What happened?” “I really don‟t know.” She clearly tried to evade my question. A raised eyebrow of mine begged to differ. I hoped the look I gave her was piercing. Janelle rolled her eyes at me. “Jez was getting serious about the guy, but Ronnie was more interested in playing the field.” That fucking name again. She went on. “Somehow he even managed to twist it like it was Jez‟s fault. And you didn‟t hear it from me. Jez would be pissed if he knew I was gossiping.” “No, of course not,” I agreed. Aside from stumbling again into Jez‟s phantom ex, who I was seriously beginning to hate, it was a really good night. Beer came in cups too small, but Jez

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passed his to me. I had a modest buzz by the time we were to take off. I took a last dash to the john first. I was elbowing my way back when things went hinky. From the crowd, a hand reached out and took hold of my arm. I turned toward its source with that edgy neutrality, spring-loaded to swing either cordial or hostile, depending. I wasn‟t prepared for bewilderment. It was Mark Stevens in the destined-to-grace-billboards flesh. “Hey,” he said. “Hey,” I croaked back, face burning. “It‟s nice to see you again.” “You too,” I lied. “I was watching you. So you‟re with blondie?” I swear his eyes twinkled. Maybe it was the lighting. “He‟s hot. At least my ego isn‟t so bruised from being dropped like a bad script.” To my relief, he sounded more self-mocking than resentful. “Look, I‟m sorry. I was pretty whacked out that night.” “No hard feelings. Not like it never happened before.” “That‟s hard to believe,” I said, because even from a purely objective point of view, Mark was smoldering hot. He laughed. “You brought me luck, you know.” “How?” “The pilot got picked up. We start shooting in a week.” “That‟s awesome!” I enthused, mostly because it made me feel less guilty about the whole mess. “Yeah, I play a bad guy—sort of a small role, but I think I can make something interesting with it,” Mark chatted. “You, a bad guy?” I raised my eyebrows. He was too good-looking for it. “You doubt me? I‟ll make a great bad guy!”

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To think of it, he had a point; the best bad guys are always the sexy ones, the ones you know you should hate but can‟t. Like Spike in Buffy. “I think the writers intend to kill me off by the end of the season,” Mark went on, “but I might be able to change their minds. So, you can imagine my surprise to see you here. I wasn‟t even planning to come here tonight. It was a spur-of-themoment thing. It must be serendipity.” “Huh?” I had no clue where he was going with this. “Don‟t you see? You‟re my lucky rabbit‟s foot.” With that, Mark touched my chin with one hand and kissed me right on the lips. It was utterly different than the one at the party—no tongue, no passion, only warm lips. Though they may have lingered longer than necessary. My eyes naturally drifted closed for a second but then snapped back open, and I pulled back. “Thank you,” he said. “I guess I better make myself scarce.” And he was gone. My puzzled eyes followed him as he melted into the throng. When I turned around, I caught Jez staring at me with an unfamiliar intensity. Our gazes held for one solid second; then he looked away. “Fuckity-fuck-fuck,” I cursed. I plowed my way through the mass to him. “It‟s not what you think,” I blurted out in a rush. “It‟s fine,” Jez replied with disturbing calmness. “No, you don‟t understand. I met him at that party where you picked me up.” Oh great, I was digging myself deeper. I changed tack. “He thinks I bring him luck. That‟s all!” Jez rested a hand on my shoulder and rubbed my jaw with his thumb. “It‟s all right,” he said, looking into my eyes. “Let‟s just go, okay?” “Yeah, okay.” But I knew it wasn‟t. An invisible fist clenched around my heart. On the drive home, Jez sank into his thoughts. When we finally got back to the house, he gave me an uncharacteristically uncertain smile. “You‟d tell me if you were unhappy, right?” he asked.

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“What? Yes, of course! Is this about Mark? Because I‟m telling you—” “No, it‟s about you, dumb-ass. Oh c‟mon, let‟s make some popcorn and watch one of Adelle‟s old movies,” he said with one of his familiar wide grins. My heart finally unclenched. “Can we make out in the dark?” “Of course!”

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Chapter Fourteen Once the collective finally got off the ground, the pattern of Jez‟s comings and goings changed, but I still didn‟t see as much of him as I would‟ve liked. Quitting the pot dealing left him in need of a source of a reasonable income. As luck would have it, a bartending job opened up at the Beach Café. It wasn‟t particularly unexpected; waiters, bartenders, cooks, and busboys came and went all the time. Roger was more than happy to hire Jez on my assurances alone or simply because he was immediately available. Ironically it made us see each other less. Jez worked nights, and I worked mornings, but it allowed us to look after Arthur around-theclock. Arthur was perceptibly fading away; he seemed to shrink, lose all his color. Many times I looked desperately for that roguish glint in his eyes, but to no avail. I wasn‟t the only one concerned. Jez spent whole mornings sitting with him while I was at work. The time was quickly approaching when our current arrangement wouldn‟t work anymore. Yet the thought of Arthur being shunted off to some impersonal hospital room was appalling to us both. “We could move Arthur in with us,” I thought out loud one morning. I faltered: “I mean, it‟s your place, but—” “No, I was thinking the same thing,” Jez replied. “I have enough time on my hands now, and I have practice.” “He could have my room. I never sleep there anyway.”

*** The prospect of delaying the inevitable just a bit longer cheered us up enough. We made plans. Some furniture would have to be moved, and Rafael could help us

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find an outpatient nurse to come by regularly. I felt much better when I went over to tell Arthur the news. He made appreciative noises, but I got the impression he wasn‟t really paying attention. It was one of his better days. He looked the liveliest in weeks. “Nate, would you do me a big favor?” he asked. I nodded, wondering what it might be. I wouldn‟t have guessed in a million years: Arthur handed me a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “I quit twenty years ago but never stopped missing it. My lungs can‟t take a direct hit anymore, but secondhand smoke would be heaven.” What an unusual request. I could‟ve refused, but to what end? It was too late for him to worry about secondhand smoke, and I could put up with smelling like an ashtray for a day. I didn‟t smoke, but Marlboro wasn‟t half as abrasive as pot. Arthur reminisced. “Back in the day, everyone smoked. It was manly and sexy.” “Yeah, I saw the movies.” I lit up with the help of Arthur‟s ancient lighter. I took a deep drag and blew it in his face with calculated slowness. He closed his eyes and inhaled with a blissedout expression. “Why ask for the moon when we can have the stars?” I purred. Arthur looked at me, surprised, then let out a wheezing sort of chuckle. “I like your style, kid. It‟s been a long time since anyone quoted Bette Davis at me.” “I wrote a paper on Now, Voyager in college. „Secret Symbols of Desire.‟ It got an A plus.” We gossiped about Bette, Bogie, and Bacall, and other iconic smokers of the day. “How about pipes?” I threw in the question at one point. “It‟s never been my thing. Although…” Arthur paused with confounded expression on his face. “I used to see this guy when I was young, about your age; he

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smoked them. He was older than me—a college professor, British to boot.” He smiled at the recollection. “He could say the filthiest things and still sound sophisticated. Kinky bastard. His accent and that sweet tobacco smell made me hornier than a dog. For years after I last saw him, I got aroused by catching that scent.” Arthur looked at me. “Haven‟t thought of him for at least fifty years, but I remember it all like it was yesterday. Strange.” I blew another lungful in his direction. We sat, I smoked, Arthur inhaled and reminisced about people, some of whom had been dead longer than I‟d been alive. I listened. He rambled a bit, and when he threw out a first name, I had no idea if it was someone famous or a simple stagehand. It didn‟t matter. I smoked almost half a pack by the time he got tired. When we said good night, he patted my cheek. “I had a good time. Thank you, Nate. You‟re a nice kid. Take care of Jesse.”

*** Jez found Arthur the next morning. The coroner later declared the cause of death to be heart failure, but I believe—and will till my own dying day—that Arthur simply decided it was time to go. On his nightstand stood a silver-framed photo of a handsome young man with ruffled blond hair and a fetching smile. I hoped they met up again. It was a confusing mixture of sadness and relief that took possession of me. Jez bottled up his emotions for the time being. There were things to take care of, and he knew what to do. But once Arthur‟s body was taken away and the apartment was locked up, he looked so very tired. That night I fell asleep clinging to him, not wanting to let go. He didn‟t look like he wanted me to either. It was the strangest thing. I‟d known Arthur only for a few months, but his death filled me with a profound sense of loss. Meanwhile, my feelings about my father were still too murky for me to dwell on. There were formalities, of course—the bureaucracy of death, coroner‟s report, and so on—but under the circumstances, there was little fuss. Arthur left

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everything to Jez, which wasn‟t much: just an apartment worth of memories and enough money in his bank account to cover the funeral.

*** It was a welcome diversion when Scoot invited us over to visit the site of the collective he‟d worked so hard to start up. I had only seen the place once before the renovation started, and Jez hadn‟t been back since it was finished, a couple of months prior. I was curious to see what it looked like. A couple of medical pot dispensaries were on the promenade, along with a whole bunch of them all over the city. They generally had garish neon signs and offerings of a dozen or more designer cannabis varieties displayed in glass cases inside. Ever since Prop 215 passed back in 1996, theoretically all you needed was a doctor‟s recommendation to get a cannabis card. The ailments for which pot was beneficial were wide ranging, including anxiety. Who didn‟t have anxiety? Anyone who tried hard enough could get one of those cards. I opined that the dispensaries took California one step closer to legalizing weed. Jez was convinced they‟d cause a blowback. It was possible we were both right. We picked up Scoot at his apartment and drove to the collective. The place was not what I expected. The building innocuously blended with its environment, like a plate of magic brownies at a potluck party. There was no lurid neon. The only sign by the entrance identified it as the FOOTHILLS WELLNESS CENTER. We stepped into a quasi reception area furnished with comfy chairs and a desk, behind which an elderly lady sat, buried in paperwork. A faint scent of pot smoke tickled my nose. “Good morning, Mrs. Klasky,” Scoot greeted her. “How‟s Mr. Klasky doing?” She looked up, smiling. “Much better, thanks for asking. He‟s at the back talking to the kids.” Scoot introduced us before we all headed through a swinging door into the bowels of the building. “Mr. Klasky is a member,” Jez explained on the way. “He has pretty debilitating and painful arthritis. Mrs. Klasky is a volunteer.”

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We reached a lounge area. Despite the quietly humming vents in the ceiling, the characteristically pungent odor of weed was much stronger here. A handful of people were scattered around on armchairs and sofas, smoking, talking, reading, or just staring into space. There was a coffee table, magazines, and ashtrays; bookshelves loaded with paperbacks; potted plants of the decorative variety; a coffeemaker in the corner next to the watercooler; and a corkboard on the wall with pinned-on announcements. There were no windows, but plenty of sunlight entered through the skylight. As we walked on, we passed a closed door with a hand-printed BIG-C SUPPORT GROUP IN SESSION, 11-12 sign on it. “It was Janelle‟s idea to have support groups not just for members, but their families and loved ones too,” Scoot said. I wasn‟t surprised. I had learned she was an experienced social worker last time we met. She sounded pretty passionate about it. The growing room was occupied by a miniature jungle of gleaming green plants in various stages of growth, and an elderly man leaning on a cane bent over a plant and gently petted its leaves. It was very bright in there—and warm, even with the constant breeze created by the fans that made the plants tremble. The odor of the growing plants was like a kick in the chest. “Morning, George!” Scoot shouted at the old guy. George turned around and waved but then focused back on the plant. “George talks to them,” Scoot whispered. “He believes it makes them grow healthier.” “Why are you growing them indoors? The electricity bill must be murder.” I pointed at the grow lights. “We thought about setting them up on the roof, but pollution is so bad, they‟d be covered in muck within days,” he explained. “Oh, I didn‟t think of that.”

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“We could‟ve put the center outside of the city, where the air quality is better, but then it would also be less accessible for our members. So we had to compromise.” He kept talking as he ushered us out, expounding on the variety of cannabis they grew, their pros and cons, the various classes, support groups they had or wanted to start, and their plans going forward. “Janelle and I want to make it more than just a place for sick people to get pot. We‟d like it to be a refuge and a community,” he explained with an earnest look on his face. “The medical conditions of our members cover a wide range. Some will get better, others have chronic conditions, and quite a few are terminal. Ranging from twenty-one to eighty-five in age. Their needs are diverse, from medical to psychological. We shouldn‟t limit ourselves to just one small aspect.” It was obvious it was a speech he‟d practiced in his head before, but it didn‟t make him less sincere. He was nerdy and adorable at once. Nerdorable. Scoot caught himself and flushed. “Sorry. I‟ve been trying to write the mission statement for our Web site for days, and it makes me think in complete sentences.” “Nah, you were always an egghead,” Jez joked affectionately. “We love you anyway.” Scoot grinned back at him, and some of the starch went out of his posture. He turned to me, his eyes having a glint that alarmed me. “Jez tells me you‟re good at baking.” “Adequate is more like it,” I replied with caution. “We are always looking for volunteers. You could hold a class: „Baking with Cannabutter‟ or something like that.” “I‟m hardly the Emeril of Kush!” “Neither are our members. Your favorite recipes, whatever you‟ve learned while experimenting, would suffice.” “Well, I guess there are a few things I could share,” I admitted. “Excellent!” Scoot beamed at me.

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Our visit ended when the support group Janelle was leading let out, and we headed off to lunch. I wondered if Arthur would have liked it at the Foothills Wellness Center. He was such a rabble rouser, and he liked company. He would‟ve enjoyed shocking and entertaining those groups with his bawdy stories. I really, really, really missed the old coot.

*** Arthur was buried in Forest Lawn Cemetery, in a plot already waiting for him. The funeral was held on a cold winter morning. Despite the chill in the air, the sky was as bright and cheerful as ever. California weather had no sense of decorum. The cemetery, with its perfectly maintained lawn and discreet grave markers, looked a lot like a golf course. It sat at the foot of the Griffith Park hills, overlooking the LA River and the Warner Brothers studios. A nice enough place, I guessed. Not that Arthur cared where he slept the big sleep. Saying good-bye to Arthur took more than just a funeral. His apartment had to be cleared out, his things sorted. I boxed the photo albums and the group of personal photos and took them back to our place. The rest of the pictures and the old movie props were donated to the Hollywood Museum—except for the Golden Sphinx of Cairo. That I couldn‟t part with. There were more trips to Goodwill and to a used bookstore. We tried to give a second life to whatever we could; the rest went to the Dumpster. And with that—poof!—the life of Arthur was gone.

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Chapter Fifteen Ever since that night in the Knitting Factory, things were slightly off between us. The worst part was that I couldn‟t put a word to it: we went through the same motions as before, but it wasn‟t the same. Like we were wrapped in fog that muted everything. I nestled against Jez under the blankets. His breathing was slow and shallow, but I knew he was awake. He was curled away from me, so I nuzzled his nape: it was sleepy-warm. I pressed my lips just under his hairline. The stiff length of my cock was pressing against Jez‟s muscular buttocks. I jostled them till my erection snuggled into the crack and rocked my hips. Just for good measure I nipped the flesh on Jez‟s shoulder. Jez gave up all pretense of being asleep and rolled over with an exasperated sigh. “You‟re insatiable, aren‟t you?” “You say it like it was bad thing.” “I just remembered that shy kid who moved in with me a few months ago.” I put a hand on his hard cock. “You seem to be into it too.” “It‟s hard not to.” “You said hard!” I sniggered. To that at last he cracked a smile. I straddled his hips and took our cocks in hand and started stroking them. They looked good together: similar but different. I wondered how many other ones, strange ones, had snuggled up to Jez‟s before me.

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“You must have seen a lot of them,” I said. I wondered if that was the problem; he was getting bored of me. “What?” “Cocks.” “Yes. So?” I couldn‟t ask the question. Not then. I just shook my head and increased my tempo. Jez looked at me like he badly wanted to say something, but he didn‟t. Instead he surged up and pushed me onto my back with unexpected force. He rutted against me almost angrily, and his lips took mine in a forceful kiss and didn‟t let go till we both were nearly out of breath. We were still off-kilter but also swept up in the moment, our breathing ragged, fingers scrambling for purchase. Jez buried his face in my neck and haltingly murmured in my ear. “It‟s okay, babe. It‟s okay.” I wanted to ask what was okay, but the moment came where my synapses fried, and there was nothing but physical sensations. I could‟ve asked after, once we rested boneless on the crumpled sheets, but the quiet was nice. Maybe I was afraid to know.

*** Without Arthur to look after, Jez and I had extra time on our hands. I switched to night shift so we would be on the same schedule. It seemed like a good idea. I liked having him there in the restaurant. It cheered me up. Even when he kept giving me these strange sideways looks, like he was trying to make up his mind about something. After our shift we usually walked home together, taking the side streets to avoid the waves of people on the promenade that only ebbed—never disappeared— after dark. Having spent a whole night of pleasing people in the restaurant, we both could do with a little peace and privacy. Peace wasn‟t always easy to attain. One

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night we had to trail a rowdy group all the way home—drunken frat boys, from their appearance. After having spent half the night humoring a drunk in the restaurant, I was at the end of my rope. “Sometimes I really don‟t like living here,” I grumbled. Jez didn‟t say anything, just gave me one of those funny looks again. He was too quiet even as we got in the door. We were in the kitchen, fussing with dinner, when he finally spoke up. “So you‟re thinking about moving out?” he asked sort of quiet, his voice kept so neutral that I almost missed the meaning of his words. “What?” I gaped when they finally registered. “It could be for the best. You‟d be happier having your own place.” “Why would I be?” I asked with a spike of anxiety. Jez avoided looking at me. “You‟re really sweet and tactful, and I totally understand if you want to see others. I‟m just not very good at handling that stuff.” “What the fuck are you talking about?” He turned to me, looking anywhere but at my eyes. “Look, I get it. I‟m the first guy you‟ve ever been with, and I don‟t think there were that many girls either.” “Are you saying I‟m no good in the sack?” I just wanted him to look at me, to stop stabbing me in the heart with those polite and quiet words. “What I‟m saying is that you must feel like a kid at Ben and Jerry‟s, wanting to try all the flavors. Or maybe you want to go back to girls. I don‟t know.” At last he had the guts to look me in the eye. “How—” I had to find the right words and keep myself from exploding at the same time. It was tough. “Where‟s this coming from?” Jez made an uneasy little shrug. “I guess I‟ve always expected it, but when I saw you with that actor guy, the coin dropped. I‟ve been watching you at work, the way other guys look at you. If you haven‟t yet, you‟ll realize how hot you really are. Tonight, that guy who gave you his number—it was just too much.”

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I had to rack my brain to figure out who the hell Jez was talking about. Ah yeah, the blond who kept ordering those ridiculous gold martinis. Drunk as a skunk after the third or fourth, but a good tipper. They usually were when that sauced. “So, let me get this straight. All this time you‟ve just been waiting for me to start fucking around? Because you just assumed—without asking—that‟s what I want?” The anger boiling up in me must have shown in my voice, because Jez took a step back. “Look, it‟s normal, under the circumstances. Most guys go hog wild when they first come out,” he said almost apologetically. “Did you?” “I‟ve been out since forever, but yes, I did get around.” “Do you still?” “Not really. I grew out of it. Last time I had an open relationship, it turned into an ugly mess. I don‟t want to go there again.” “Was that with Ronnie?” “Yes. How did you know?” “Never mind that. Tell me one thing, and don‟t lie: are you bored with me? Is there somebody else?” “No! It‟s nothing like that. It‟s for you.” The itch to punch him right in his stupid face finally exploded. I had just enough control left not to hit him; I shoved him in the chest two-handed instead. Jez slammed into the kitchen cabinet with a bang, rattling plates and glasses inside. He gasped with shock and confusion. “What the fuck?” If I were a cartoon character, steam would‟ve been whistling out of my ears. “You stupid son of a bitch!” I shouted. “You put me through this crap because of some idiotic assumptions that have nothing to do with me? I‟m not your psychonympho ex, and I don‟t want to lick my way from Ben to Jerry! I only want you, because I love you, you dimwitted jackass! And for the record, that guy gave me a

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recipe for a stupid cocktail! Not that it would make any fucking difference if it was his number!” I pulled the crumpled napkin out of my pocket and slapped it on his chest. I stopped, out of breath, and because I‟d worked myself into such a tizzy, I forgot what I wanted to say next. So I stood there, shaking my finger into his stunned face. “Nate—” I didn‟t let him finish. “Look, I don‟t know where we‟ll end up.” I got myself under control. At least I moved my hand out of his face. “I want to go to bed with you every night and wake up next to you in the morning and do boring, everyday things, cuddle on the sofa and watch old movies, and all that stupid shit couples do. And if you can‟t love me back, I‟ll deal, but if this is all bullshit and you just want to get rid of me, you better come out with it straight, because otherwise, I won‟t let you fuck this up.” Jez stared at me stupefied, flushed, and blinking like a stunned deer in headlights. Then the tension visibly drained from him, and a wide, silly-happy grin spread across his face. He reached out and tugged me close and kissed me, all tongue and teeth. We came up gasping for air like a couple of divers who‟d gone too deep, surfaced too fast, but were finally free of all that crushing pressure. “How could I not love you?” Jez said breathily. “It‟s not like I ever had any choice in the matter.” I wanted to cry from relief, happiness, or just for the sake of it. I leaned my forehead against his. “You bastard.” “I‟m sorry.” Jez sounded regretful. “Don‟t ever make assumptions about me again.” “I wouldn‟t dare. You‟re scary when you‟re angry. And hot.” He wiggled his pelvis against mine. I realized I was hard. I guess all that adrenaline had to go somewhere.

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“I‟m still angry,” I said. “I know how to channel it,” he murmured. It had to be the adrenaline still coursing through me that made me drag Jez into the bedroom, tearing his clothes off. It didn‟t help that he goaded me on with filthy suggestions. Coming from anyone else, it would have sounded like bad porn, but from Jez, it was blood-boiling hot. We thrashed against each other, rubbing, biting, groping. Lube got everywhere, and we didn‟t care. When Jez twisted and wriggled onto his knees, ass in the air like an obscene peace offering, I slammed into him too fast and too rough, but he met me and thrust back for every beat. We came, groaning and crying out, collapsing into a debauched heap. For a long while, neither of us had the strength to speak. We lay there in a sticky, bruised mess like a couple of overripe peaches squeezed one too many times. I had a possessive limb or two across Jez, heedless of the mix of sweat, lube, and cum that glued us together. “Did I hurt you?” I asked at last, feeling faintly abashed now that all the tension was out of my system. “Not in a bad way,” he said and squirmed. “But I‟ll remember this for days.” The bastard sounded positively pleased with himself. “You know, I used to jack off fantasizing about you.” “Oh really?” I perked up. “Oh yeah. Imaginary Joaquin Phoenix is totally upset about it, by the way. You drive me nuts. I‟ve never met anyone with such an impossible combination of sexy and shy, and that wacky brain of yours… I never know what you‟re thinking. You kept me off-balance, hitting on me and then pulling back.” “Sorry about that.” “It‟s okay. I get it. But even after you had your way with me”—I snorted at that—“I‟ve been waiting for you to change your mind. I wouldn‟t blame you if you decided to be straight, since you have a choice.”

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“You‟re a dope.” “Thanks.” “Joaquin Phoenix. Really?” I teased him. “What can I say, I‟m into dark and handsome. Even when I‟m not sure where I stand with them.” He‟d laid it on a little thick with the handsome bit, but he had a point. I couldn‟t really blame him. It had taken me a while to process it—not only to figure out what I wanted, but mostly why it was the right thing to want. I rolled off Jez. Just in time; the sticky stuff between us was beginning to set. I tucked his arm under my head. “I was about six when I first saw The Wizard of Oz,” I said. “It confused the hell out of me.” Jez shook with the laughter he was trying to swallow. He rolled to his side and looked at me. “I know the feeling. This is what I mean about your brain. So what was it? The flying monkeys?” I poked him in the ribs. “Let me finish.” “Please, go on.” He laid his hand on my hip. “As I was saying… I was confused because I couldn‟t understand why Dorothy would want to go back to Kansas.” “I wouldn‟t know, never been there.” “I have. It‟s no Oz.” Jez just stared at me with an intrigued look in his eyes. I continued. “I mean, Oz is all colorful and exciting, and Kansas is drab and gray, and she didn‟t seem to have a particularly good time there. It didn‟t make any sense. I wanted her to stay in Oz. I would have.” Jez squinted at me. “I hate to ask who I am in this story.” “You‟re not in it, and I‟m not Dorothy. Don‟t be silly.” “Sorry, I got lost.” He rolled his eyes.

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“Then when I got older, I found out that the guy who wrote the book wrote more of them, and in them Dorothy keeps going back to Oz and eventually moves there completely. The whole ruby-slipper thing is a red herring.” “So what about the whole „there‟s no place like home‟ thing?” “That‟s exactly it, but they got it all wrong! Once you get going, you can‟t go back.” I took a deep breath. “What I mean to say is that for the first time in my life, I feel at home—not specifically in this house, and not particularly in Venice, but with you. I think that means something.” Jez gave me a big, soppy smile. “I think so too.”

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Epilogue I looked up from my drawing as the shop door opened with a ding. It was Jez, grinning, sexy as ever, and wet as a seal. My heart made a startled thump against my rib cage. Backlit in the doorway, Jez looked so much like he did the first time I met him walking out of the ocean with the sun at his back. I pulled myself together. “How‟s the water?” I asked. “Glassy.” He came around the counter and draped his arms around me. “You‟re getting me all wet,” I complained without conviction. Sea-scented wet hair brushed into my face as he nuzzled my neck. “Your pants are buzzing,” he murmured. Well, of course they were. Oh wait, he meant my phone. “I‟ll go change.” He winked and took off to the employees‟ lounge, the tiny little room off the main storeroom. I savored the lewd innuendo of that wink before pulling out my phone. I squinted at the unfamiliar number. “Hello?” “Hey, Nathan?” Fuck, I knew that voice. “Mark? Mark Stevens?” I sounded about as wary as I felt. It had been a while since I saw Mark in person, but I‟d caught a few glimpses of him on TV since. I didn‟t ever expect to see him again in the flesh or even hear his voice on the phone, however. How did he get my number? Then I remembered: he was friends with Sandy, and I‟d kept in touch with her even after moving away from Venice. The important question was, what did he want?

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“Long time, no see,” he drawled on the other end of the line in a seductive tone that instantly tingled my Spidey senses. “Eh, how are you doing?” I asked cagily. “Very well, actually. My character on the show really took off. Didn‟t you know?” “Sorry, wasn‟t watching.” “You always know how to cut me down to size.” “It‟s been a busy year.” I drummed my fingers impatiently on the counter. “Yeah, I‟ve heard. Sandy told me. Look, I have a favor to ask.” “No.” “You don‟t even know what it is.” “I do, and the answer is no.” I considered hanging up, but ingrained good manners didn‟t let me. Mark went on with more urgency. “Listen, I know exactly how ridiculous it sounds, but you‟ve brought me luck twice already. Actors live and die by superstition. I‟m auditioning for a pretty big movie role. I need my lucky charm.” He laid on his charm pretty thick, but it wasn‟t working on me. “Every time your lips touch mine, I get into trouble.” Maybe that wasn‟t 100 percent true, but close enough. “I‟ll make it worth your while…” “You better not be offering me money!” I growled into the phone. I kept my voice low, even though I was pretty sure Jez was out of earshot. He changed gears. “I‟ll do anything you want. I‟ll be at your mercy!” He was all camp, but I could hear the edge of desperation in his voice. I didn‟t like to be a jerk with someone who didn‟t deserve it, and to be fair, Mark Stevens had never done anything directly and purposely hurtful to me, our last run-in notwithstanding. There had to be a way to solve this conundrum. “Nathan?”

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“Hold on. I‟m thinking.” “I hate to be pushy, but it has to be soon. The audition is next week.” There was only one way to handle this. “Okay, on one condition: you come to dinner with us this Saturday. Bring a friend.” “Thank you!” “I‟ll text you the time and the address. You better not be a vegetarian.” We said our good-byes. I locked the shop door, hung up the BACK IN 20 MINUTES sign, and went after Jez. He was lounging on the beat-up sofa, only halfpeeled out of his wet suit, all honey tan skin from the waist up and black neoprene from the waist down. The bastard knew how damn sexy he looked like that. I knelt in front of him, reached behind and under him, and grabbed a hold of the suit to tug it down. “Up,” I commanded, and he lifted his hips. His cock bounced out, looking perky as one can be. I gave it one leisurely lick from root to tip, but then returned to the matter of the suit. I pulled it off, one leg at a time. Still on my knees, I scooted forward till my face was only inches from Jez‟s crotch. He stared at me, blue eyes growing dark with anticipation. I teased him a little before swallowing him down. He threw his head back, and his fingers got lost in my hair while I licked and sucked his cock to my heart‟s content. When those fingers curled into a tight grip, I let go with a wet pop. “We‟re throwing a dinner party on Saturday,” I said. “Huh?” “Mark Stevens is coming, with a date.” I sucked in two of my fingers. “What?” he growled. But I was back on him before his eyes could properly focus. My fingers invading his ass distracted him completely.

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“Oh, you bastard!” He thrashed between my fingers and mouth. With a smug move, I took him down all the way to the root. My jaw ached, but the desperate whimpers he made as I worked him were worth it. He came sweet and salty, crying my name out. I was so hard for him that a few rough jerks on my cock finished me off.

*** On Saturday evening we set up the table on the deck. Sandy and Janelle hung up a string of lanterns, and Scoot lit citronella torches to keep the mosquitoes away. The new house sat along one of those winding canyon roads north of Malibu, hidden from sight by trees and shrubbery. To get to it, you had to cross a little wooden bridge stretching over a creek. There was barely a trickle of water in it during summer. Jez and I called our new home alternately rustic or run-down, depending on our moods. Like an aging diva through a soft-focus lens, the house looked its charming best in the warm, diffuse light of dusk. “I really love your house,” said Sandy. “Needs a lot of work,” I replied, thinking of the new roof we needed before the winter rains started. At least that could be done relatively cheaply. “Nathan decided to do the whole roof himself,” Jez interjected, reading my mind. “Not by myself; you and Scoot both volunteered to help. And roofing is at least something I‟m good at.” “Not the only thing,” he said with a sly smile. “Oh really? Do tell,” said Sandy. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “There are more lanterns in the living room that need hanging.” The bridge creaked, and the sound of a car engine drew closer. All heads turned to the direction of the road.

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“That must be Mark,” said Janelle, doing a poor job of hiding her excitement. She actually watched the show Mark was on, and like a large part of its female fans, had a crush on Mark‟s alluring villain. It hadn‟t swayed her one bit when I‟d told her that Mark was gay. According to her, hypothetical availability had nothing to do with it. Obviously I still didn‟t get women. “Son of a…” I cursed under my breath as Mark and his company spilled out of the car, because the other guy was no date—not unless Mark Stevens was into incest. Ew. The family resemblance between the two men was unmistakable. I tucked my displeasure away and greeted them as the gracious host I was supposed to be. “This is my brother George,” Mark said, pushing the other guy forward. George was a toned-down version of Mark: handsome, but not quite as outrageously so. Also, he was straight, judging from the way Sandy batted her eyes at him. The girl knew her straights and gays. “Are you also an actor?” Scoot politely inquired. “God no. I‟m a podiatrist.” “Nice, respectable profession,” I commented. I didn‟t mean it as a dig at thespians, but it earned me a couple of dirty looks anyway. After the initial awkwardness washed away with velvety Chilean wine, we all started to have a very good time. Of course, Mark was at the center of attention, but not in bad way. I watched him. He was a real pro and subtly seduced everyone present. Mark was quick-witted, told funny anecdotes, and shared Hollywood insider gossip, but he also prodded the rest of us to talk about ourselves, and when we did, he genuinely listened. He managed to simultaneously flirt with Janelle and have an insightful conversation with Scoot about medical marijuana. He was unmistakably “on,” but it wasn‟t fake. I was impressed. If Mark‟s acting was half as good, he‟d be a star. The only person not paying him any attention was Sandy, who only had eyes and ears for George. I wasn‟t sure if I should be happy or worried for him.

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“This is a nice place. How long have you lived here?” Mark made his move to pull Jez into the conversation. “Only since spring,” Jez said in reply. “It was an impulse buy,” I added. “How did that happen?” “Nate‟s not from around here, so I took him on a drive through the canyons. We saw the FOR SALE sign and decided to check it out. We liked the house a lot but couldn‟t quite decide. Then we called the real estate agent, and she told us the seller was also selling the shop at the beach end of the road. Nate was convinced that was a signal we had to buy both.” “Jez always wanted a surf shop,” I explained. “Well, we‟re too far north of Malibu for it to be a real surf shop, but we sell a bunch of boogie boards, and I give the occasional surf lesson.” “So the shop‟s doing well?” Mark pressed on. “The summer‟s been decent, but it‟s bound to slow down when the weather gets colder. We‟re still trying to figure out what we should stock. The shop‟s right on the PCH, so a bunch of tourists drop by too.” “And bikers,” Janelle chirped in with a conspiratorial wink. “Bikers?” “Nate‟s been selling them tattoo designs.” Jez nudged me, but I remained silent on the matter. In my opinion, he made too big of a fuss of the whole thing. However, Mark wanted to know more, so Jez launched into the explanation. “You know how bikers like these mountain roads, especially on weekends? There‟s a diner about halfway between here and 101 where they stop. So, one Sunday, one of them stopped at the shop to browse. Turns out he‟s an architect during the week, and his daughter was getting interested in surfing. But then he saw the photo of me that Scoot‟s little sister, Ginny, took. We have it there as a decoration. In it I have a tattoo-looking design that Nate drew on my skin with

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permanent marker. The guy wanted to know who did it. Long story short, he ended up paying Nate for a custom design. Next thing we knew, other people started showing up looking for the same.” “What kind of tattoos?” Mark asked. There was a glint of more-than-polite inquiry in his eyes. “Hang on, I‟ll show you.” Jez bounced up from the table and into the house. “Really, it‟s nothing special,” I insisted. Jez came back with the binder in which I kept copies of old designs and ideas for new ones. I tried not to look too embarrassed while it was passed around the table. Mark leafed through them with a peculiar expression. “Can you do something sort of steampunk, but different?” he asked at last. “Mmm…” I dug around in the cargo pockets of my pants and found a pencil. I took the binder and found a blank page. It took me a couple of moments of staring into nothing to gather inspiration. I sketched a gearwheel that was also a cross section of a shell, wires that turned into vines, and machine parts that mutated into feathers and wings. I showed it to Mark. “Something like that?” “Oh hell, yeah!” he said. “It‟s a bit like those Leonardo sketches, but with a twist,” George remarked, pulling the drawing out of Mark‟s hands. I blushed. “Thanks.” Mark cleared his throat. “Could you, um, make me a full design…by Tuesday? I‟ll pay for it, of course,” he added the last part in a rush. “You‟re thinking of getting tats?” I asked skeptically. Permanently marking their skin wasn‟t practical for actors, but then, plenty of them did it anyway. George looked at Mark with one eyebrow cocked too. “M-maybe,” Mark replied.

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“Okay, where on your body?” It was his skin, not mine. “I was thinking half a chest.” “I should take a photo of your chest then, so I can adjust the design for it.” There was a bit of hubbub while Jez went and got his point-and-shoot, and Mark stripped his shirt off. Sandy and Janelle hooted and clapped a little. “You‟re a bit hairy,” I said while Jez snapped the pictures. He was. “I‟ll have to wax if I get this role anyway. That reminds me…” He wiggled one eyebrow suggestively. The gesture was comically exaggerated, evoking the image of a silent movie villain. We all laughed except Jez, who wasn‟t amused. We hadn‟t mentioned it all night, but the point of the whole get-together was that I could serve my role as lucky charm. Maybe Mark wouldn‟t get the role and would leave me alone in the future, I thought to myself. “Fine, let‟s get it over with. Put your shirt back on.” Mark and I stood chest-to-chest and leaned toward each other. All of a sudden, I felt painfully conscious of the audience watching us. Our noses bumped, and I laughed nervously. With an impatient huff, Mark held my head still and pressed his lips on mine. It lasted about two seconds. There was some clapping and cheering. “Aight, that‟s done. Who wants some coffee?” I asked. Jez followed me into the kitchen, seemingly nonchalant, but before I knew what was happening, he pressed me against the fridge door. His lips latched on to mine, tongue insistently pushing forth. It was hard to miss the possessiveness as Jez‟s hips ground into mine. We came up panting and short of breath. “If I didn‟t know better, I‟d say you‟re marking your territory,” I teased. He chuckled. “It‟s your fault. I go all Discovery Channel around you.” “How‟s that my fault?” “It‟s never happened to me before you. Ergo, it‟s your fault.” “Well, I can‟t argue with that logic.”

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Jez nuzzled my neck and growled a little. “As soon as they all leave, I‟ll show you some moves I learned from Animal Planet.” “I can‟t wait.”

Loose Id Titles by Lou Harper Hanging Loose

Lou Harper Under a prickly, cynical surface Lou Harper is an incorrigible romantic. Her love affair with the written word started at a tender age. There was never a time when stories weren't romping around in her head. She is currently embroiled in a ruinous romance with adjectives. In her free time Lou stalks deviant words and feral narratives. Lou's favorite animal is the hedgehog. She likes nature, books, movies, photography, and good food. She has a temper and mood swings. Lou has misspent most of her life in parts of Europe and the US, but is now firmly settled in Los Angeles and worships the sun. However, she thinks the ocean smells funny. Lou is a loner, a misfit, and a happy drunk.