Published by Dreamspinner Press 4760 Preston Road Suite 244-149 Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are 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. To the Max Copyright © 2010 by Julie Lynn Hayes Cover Art by Anne Cain
[email protected] Cover Design by Mara McKennen All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ ISBN: 978-1-61581-417-6 Printed in the United States of America First Edition March, 2010 eBook edition available eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-418-3
To my children—Katie, Michael, Sarah and Chris— Katie and Sarah for their encouragement, and Mike and Chris for putting up with me while I was writing Max. To Kitty, my most vocal cheerleader and Max’s number one fan! To Gail, who always believed in me and kept my faith alive. To Jeia, Carrie, Diane, Kim, James, and Aly, my Internet support team. To Scott & Scott, aka the Romentics, for showing me that true love among men is both erotic and romantic. And to every loving same-sex couple everywhere, may they share in love and happiness for all the days of their lives!
To the Max
1
Chapter 1 To The Max
I
HAVE no proof one way or the other of the existence of a divine
being, but if there is such a person, he or she certainly has a twisted sense of humor. As if I didn’t have enough to contend with being born a member of the lycanthropic order, I am also of the homosexual persuasion. In other words, a gay werewolf! Pretty funny, isn’t it? And sometimes it’s hard to tell where the one leaves off and the other begins. I’m not sure why I said homosexual persuasion. It’s not as if someone persuaded me to be gay. I just am. It’s not exactly a conscious choice. After all, who in their right mind, even in this allegedly enlightened new millennium—no, scratch that, that’s next year, not 2000, technically speaking. But as I was saying, who would deliberately choose to be of a sexual orientation that is not exactly mainstream and often draws the most scathing and condescending of denunciations from the so-called “regular” people? Not I. But as I said, it’s not a choice; it just is. So I live with it, having taken some forty-odd years to become adjusted to the idea. Now it’s just a part of me, a part of who I am, like the werewolf thing. And my innate fashion sense. All right, maybe I’m feeding a stereotype there. Forgive my warped sense of humor. I just realized that I have not even graced these pages with my nomenclature, which sin of omission I shall now remedy, but I warn you, I do not take lightly to random bursts of laughter at my expense, so beware: My name is Maximillian Jean-Baptiste Montague. My mother’s name is Juliet Montague, née Montague. Yes, shades of Romeo and Juliet. And no, she did not marry one of her cousins, nor am I the product of selective inbreeding; I can see your wheels turning now. She was never actually married at all. It’s an old joke with us, one I’ve used
2
Julie Lynn Hayes
many times for her benefit. She merely sticks her tongue out at me and tells me not to be so bloody impertinent. It’s an affectation we both possess—this habit of talking like we are somehow British transplants toying at being Americans, but that’s not the case—we’re Midwesterners through and through; don’t let anybody kid you. No, my mother did not marry my father for the pure and simple reason that she did not know him. Theirs was no case of love-struck teenagers with faulty contraceptive devices and overactive hormones. My mother was impregnated while walking alone through the woods on a night when the Selenic orb was gracing the firmament with her horrible presence (as you can see, I am not a moon worshiper, for obvious reasons) and at the height of her power over the creatures that crawl upon the earth. My mother merely refers to it as her Little Red Riding Hood experience. She was attacked most suddenly and viciously by a man who lurked within this forest primeval—a renegade, we presume, with no pack of his own—just prior to his transfiguration into a creature of the night. The result of that attack was me. I suppose I should be grateful. I’ll get back to you. My mother has always dealt well with my being a werewolf. In fact, she finds it easier to accept than my being gay, which might explain the women she is always pushing on me and the blind dates she attempts to set me up on. Which, of course, are ridiculous, not to mention time-wasting for all parties involved. I have no desire to be set up or offered like the top prize in some sort of romantic meat shoot. It’s not as if she’s looking for grandchildren from me. She has a grandson already, my sister Diana’s son, Jackson, who is six foot two and seventeen and lives for two things: to play games on the Playstation and to natter with his best friend on the phone (they talk more than any ten women I have ever seen). Also, I already have a mate of my own and have had for years, Richard by name; although to be honest, there are times when I think I would have been much better off had we never met. I love him with all my heart, yes I do, but he is the inconstant moon personified: at times both fickle and exceedingly heartless. He treats me like I am his own private public transportation, getting off and on whenever he pleases, both metaphorically and figuratively. He disappears for periods of time, and I won’t hear from him, not a word in any sort of written or oral form whatsoever, as if I have ceased to exist for him the moment he
To the Max
3
walks out the door—and don’t even tell me that he is even remotely faithful to me, that ungrateful cur, for it isn’t part of his nature—and then with no warning I’ll wake up one morning to find him curled up next to me in the bed, his lips filled with soft words and softer kisses, and I melt all over again. God, I can be incredibly stupid at times. Or is that simply naïve? Richard and I met during college—mine, not his. I was a student, part time anyway, at Washington University. I found myself unable to keep up with the demands of a full-time schedule, but with my innate love of learning, I chose to attend a couple of classes. It was in my Greek literature class that I became acquainted with a fellow student, one Nigel Wallace, who invited me to go out with a few friends of his to a local disco that he assured me quietly catered to those of the homosexual persuasion. (There’s that phrase again. Sorry.) Normally I never had anything to do with other people, shunning their society, for the most part. But his invitation came at a particularly vulnerable moment for me when I was still regrouping from the effects of the previous full moon and looking for a legitimate reason to avoid my mother’s latest romantic offering. On a whim, I agreed to go. The disco was located on the East Side—that’s the term St. Louisans use for places that are in Illinois—where we turn up our noses at the residents, and yet we seem drawn to some of the seamier night spots that are located there. Garishly lit with what appeared to be the illegitimate spawn of Ready Kilowatt’s nursery, it boasted a huge glittering disco ball that hung directly over the illuminated dance floor. Nigel’s friends had procured for us a table that was distressingly near it and therefore a bit too well lit for my taste, but it couldn’t be helped, so I accepted the situation with my usual good grace. Which, translated, means I bit my tongue and said nothing. I, although being quite able to dance, chose not to and was content to sit at the table, sipping my mai tai, watching the gyrations of the dancing throng before me. Disco clothes tended to be as distinctive as the music itself, and they could be as colorful as their wearer’s imagination. Sorry, that is my sarcastic side slipping through. To think of the sartorial errors inherent on that dance floor! Makes me cringe even now. Gold chains bouncing off exposed chests, the whole encased in vanilla cloth ala Travolta, pastel skirts with slits up to the navel and
4
Julie Lynn Hayes
makeup laid on with a trowel! I appear to be getting off the subject once again. I was sitting there, minding my own business, watching the dancers swing their hips to the Bee Gees rhythm that throbbed through my head, running over in my mind some thoughts I had on a paper I was writing about Iphigenia in Aulis, oblivious to all else around me, when from the corner of one eye I caught a motion and realized there was someone standing beside me. At first I assumed I was in the way and went to move, an apology spilling from my lips, but a hand on my arm stopped me, and I looked up to behold the most beautiful midnight blue eyes I have ever seen in my life. They were framed by golden lashes, lemon yellow—though I had not thought that particular shade existed in any form on the human anatomy, but there it was—with long flowing tresses of the same rich shade that hung in beautiful waves down to this fantastic creature’s shoulders. He was dressed in black, a direct contrast to the ice cream vendor suits I saw around me, and although he wore no golden chains, his shirt was unbuttoned just enough to give an enticing glimpse of the creamy skin beneath. I blushed when I realized I was indeed staring and quickly turned my head. Reaching out one slender hand, he caught my chin and tilted it toward him. His eyes conveyed an amused expression, and the lights fairly danced in his dark pupils. “You can do better than this,” he said. I didn’t know if he meant the place, the music, or the people, but at that particular moment, I didn’t really care either. I had been with other men before—I was no innocent schoolboy, believe me, even at the tender age of twenty—but I had never experienced anything like what was happening to me at that precise moment in time, although I had eagerly looked for all the signs with every boy I dated. You see, it is a peculiarity of wolves, werewolves being no exception, that when we find that particular someone who is our soulmate, we mate for life and become incapable of loving anyone else ever again. I had always yearned for that, longed for it with all my heart and soul, but so far had always come up wanting in that department. Until now. I looked into Richard’s eyes and I knew—something inside of me was sending out frantic signals, my heart to my brain, that this was him, this was the one—my mouth began to bear a strange resemblance to the Sahara even as my heart was attempting to exit through my rib cage and my ability to speak in meaningful sentences was quickly becoming a thing
To the Max
5
of the past. The only reason I could even hear him over the din of the brothers Gibb was my fantastically sharp lycanthropic hearing. Which he did not possess. And which made my mangled response even more impossible for him to decipher. But Richard Burke was not one to let such a small thing stand in his way when he wanted something. He reached for my hand, motioning with his godlike head toward the exit. I knew at once what he meant, and for a moment I glanced toward my companions, thinking that perhaps a goodnight at least was in order, but a second look at that glorious profile, as my blood pressure went skittering toward critical, convinced me that was not necessary. I gulped down what remained of my drink and followed my unknown prince through the cacophonous crowd and out the front door. Straight into destiny. Well, enough of that. I can pen those details later. First meeting, first kiss, first everything. The point that I was trying to make… what was the point that I was trying to make? Nothing, I guess, just me going on about Richard. Even my fingers blush to admit it. I never did receive a degree. Once Richard came into my life, education took something of a backseat, although I still read voraciously. That is a lifelong habit I shall never lose. My being a werewolf has made steady employment difficult to obtain and retain. How do you tell a prospective employer that you might disappear each month about the time of the full moon—nay, that you will disappear each month? Most people would tell you take a quick hike, don’t darken my doorstep, don’t let the door goose your caboose… you get the idea. Not to mention that I never did exactly settle on any sort of career that was guaranteed to take me anywhere. My interests have always lain with the esoteric. Not much call for experts in Greek lore and literature, is there? Maybe in Greece, but not in St. Louis, anyway. I am exceedingly lucky that my maternal grandfather left his only daughter enough money not only to live on, but to enable me to do the same. My memories of this gentleman are rather vague. I know that he took care of my mother once her enceinte condition became obvious even to him, and never judged her in any way for not giving up the product of her awful encounter. His wife, my mother’s mother, had already been dead for years at that time, and the two of them had developed a close relationship which even my birth could not tear
6
Julie Lynn Hayes
asunder, even when my mother told her father the nature of the beast that resided within me. He accepted me for what I am and never made me feel different or wrong because of it. When he passed on, everything he had went to Juliet. My mother is far from stingy. She is rather generous to a fault, as evidenced by her allowing my sister (actually my half-sister, if you wish to be precise) and my nephew to live with her rent-free all these years. And I have been able to parlay some of that money with a few successful investments into enough of a windfall to enable me to buy my home, a small stone cottage nestled high on the bluffs overlooking the Missouri River in St. Charles County. I have no near neighbors, and that is the way I prefer it, for their sake as well as my own. Being in the country as I am, the sound of an occasional wolf howl does not give rise to cries of terror, nor cause the locals to arm themselves with pitchforks and stakes and flaring torches in their frantic efforts to kill the monster as they storm my humble abode…. Okay, I’m exaggerating there. But I do prefer my solitude, to be honest, and I can more easily ensure that the wolf does not terrorize the countryside as he does not always play nice. My home, my castle, my asylum, is an unpretentious stone cottage in the midst of an incredible sylvan setting that I love for its very simplicity. It sits at the end of a winding road of the bituminous variety that I have tongue-in-cheek designated Lupercalia Lane. My cottage sits alone. Originally two-bedroom, I completely converted one of these into a library, stuffing it with hundreds of books covering a wide range of interests, including a number of volumes of Greek drama as well as Greek myths and legends and history. I have also collected a number of Greek knickknacks, which I have proudly set into a curio cabinet within the library. Many of these knickknacks were bought by me during trips to Greece; I try to go every year or two, more often if I can. I have an affinity for the place that draws me back. I often take Richard with me and have spent many happy hours with him there, reblazing the paths once taken by the ancient Hellenes, whether making love in the shadows of the Parthenon or the steps of the Acropolis or sundry other places, such as the agora where I happily haggled for my purchases. I was apprehensive of being caught by the tourists—a tendency to worry being an intrinsic part of my nature—but Richard merely laughed at my inhibitions, helping me to reach new heights of ecstasy in ancient places.
To the Max
7
In my living room sits a black upright piano, one obtained from an estate sale Juliet and I attended in the upscale neighborhood of Ladue. Just looking at it brings back happy memories of my boyhood, of hours spent at the keyboard meticulously learning the lessons set for me by the stern taskmaster who was my piano teacher. Mrs. Lyndon, I think her name was. While the other boys were busy gaining tans at games of kickball and squareball, baseball and tetherball, I was pallidly learning the intricacies of Chopin and Bach. If I was really good, I would be given the arrangements of one Mr. Percy Grainger with the complex time signatures that would make most people’s heads spin! I had no use for sports or playmates and preferred to spend my time indoors. I had very few companions, as I was homeschooled at a time when it was not the norm, but one doesn’t miss what one doesn’t know. At least I didn’t. My piano has been a source of great joy to Richard and myself. He has a lovely baritone voice, which thrills me to no end, and although I do not consider myself to be a great singer, I am a passable tenor (my sweet boy tells me that I have a sexy werewolf voice, which I simply eat up), and we are often to be found together at the keyboard. Okay, moving on, as I have wandered back to Richard. Again. Undoubtedly by now you are wondering what I do to occupy my time. Do I simply lie about with bated breath, waiting for my errant lover to decide to show up? Am I simply a drain on my mother and society as a whole? A misanthropic lycanthrope who roams the countryside at the full moon, howling about his thwarted love to the unknowing, uncaring world? A useless expert on Hellenic culture who can hold his own at the keyboard? Well, surprisingly enough, I do have an occupation, one which I rather fell into by chance. It provides me with the means to satisfy my own requirements for living without depending upon my mother. It also funds my travels about the globe, with or without Richard (I do prefer the latter). It came about in the most unusual way… but most of my life is unusual, so that in itself is not surprising. I just realized that I have neglected to mention my cousin Sebastian—Sebastian Ares Montague—son of my mother’s twin sister, Ophelia. And you thought Juliet had it bad? Hah! At any rate, my aunt Ophelia was always the wild one in the family, the member most likely
8
Julie Lynn Hayes
to have her picture displayed in the post office. Sebastian was the result of an encounter with a sultry-eyed college professor with a silver tongue who spent his spare time reading bad poetry at open mic nights in dark coffeehouses and who promptly disappeared once the results of the pregnancy test came back, never to be seen or heard from again. The Montague girls just couldn’t catch a break. Personally, I think they were better off for it. Ophelia and Sebastian lived with a succession of men—the first one, I think, was an insurance salesman who maintained a little love nest for his young lover and her child far from the prying eyes of his wife—until the last one, who definitely turned out to be Mr. Wrong. He murdered poor Ophelia one morning when she didn’t make his eggs to his liking—broke her neck in one fell swoop, so they say— and my suddenly orphaned cousin came to live with us. Therefore, Sebastian and I grew up together. And although most people find him a tough nut to crack—he does have an incredibly vicious side to him, I must admit—he has always been rather protective of me, being older than me by some five years and one of only two companions of my youth. The other is my friend Rachel. Rachel Sheldon, to be precise. The girl next door. Every good love story should have a girl or boy next door, don’t you think? Well, Rachel is mine. The only difference is that she isn’t my love interest; Richard is, which gives the story an entirely different twist. But Rachel is my friend, and that counts for a lot. Rachel is a girl with a great passion for life; she doesn’t believe in doing things by half measures, and she doesn’t care what other people think about her. She is refreshingly honest and doesn’t hesitate to give her opinion on anything and everything. She also enjoys playing devil’s advocate, taking the other side just because she can or because she finds it intellectually stimulating. She and Sebastian were ever my staunch defenders against the other children in the neighborhood at a time when my control of my hidden nature wasn’t good enough to allow me to defend myself without risk of great harm to them. The others perceived me as weak, and, in the nature of children, proceeded to attack me. Between Rachel and Sebastian, I was kept from devouring the little bastards, luckily for them. There are days when I wonder if I would have done the world a favor by ridding it of some of them. By nature, Rachel has soft brown hair with reddish highlights, at
To the Max
9
least to the best of my recollection, anyway, as I haven’t seen her natural shade in years. She prefers to cover it with other tints that run the gamut of the colors of the spectrum, some I never knew existed. I am used to it—it is just Rachel—and I have become oblivious to the looks she sometimes draws when we are out together. Her eyes are a gentle green which is almost blue—does that make aqua actually? I’m not sure—and when she is at peace, they give the appearance of peaceful lakes, but when she is disturbed, they are tsunamis in the making. The most noticeable thing about Rachel, once you get to know her, is this fetish she has for a particular English actor. She simply adores him and everything about him and given the opportunity would talk about him nonstop twenty-four hours a day. I indulge her fantasies, of course, but not as much as she would like, and sometimes I simply have to put my foot down and tell her, “Enough Oldman for one day, Rach.” I am a fan of Gary Oldman myself, not to the extreme that she is, but after all, what are friends for? In return, she allows me to go on and on about Richard, even though I know she has her reservations about him and gets very upset at his quirkish comings and goings. So we listen to one other, and life goes on….
RACHEL’S main goal in life, other than attempting to meet and woo Gary Oldman, has always been to be a writer. She is a prolific writer and is never to be found very far from her laptop. After graduating from college in 1979 with her degree in history—what a pair we make, masters of the arcane as well as useless tidbits of miscellaneous knowledge—she found employment with one of the two major local newspapers, the St. Louis Tribune. By dint of hard work and a willingness to take on any task, no matter how large or small, she gradually worked her way up to becoming one of the managing editors. What a proud day that was, and how we celebrated! Rachel and I and Sebastian (Richard being in absentia at the time) borrowed my mother’s vintage Caddy and went cruising up the Great River Road to Pere Marquette Park, sitting together on railroad ties along the banks of the river, watching the sun set across the mighty Mississippi, drinking bottles of Little Kings we had smuggled into the park inside Rachel’s
10
Julie Lynn Hayes
shawl and paying homage to Rachel’s great accomplishment, she, of course, declaiming quite loudly the virtues of her favorite Englishman. It was a particularly spectacular aerial display, as I recall, above and around us golden-pink clouds caressed a wine-stained sky, a rich claret echoed gloriously in the retreating sol. I have always preferred the sun to the moon, for obvious reasons, and sunset is a breathtaking time of day, as is sunrise, when the chariot god chases the envious moon back into its secondary role, eclipsing its pale beauty with his own surging splendor. And for once I wasn’t even thinking about Richard, which was an accomplishment in itself. Rachel giggled happily as she talked about the great things she was going to accomplish, the people whose lives she would influence, as well as the interviews she would be able to obtain (three guesses whose name went at the top of that list). Rachel was put in charge of the People section of the paper, which included anything from entertainment to columns dispensing advice to the romantically challenged. It was the latter that kept her screaming most nights. The woman who wrote the words of wisdom to the lovelorn, who from her picture was a sweet middle-aged lady with a kindly smile and great compassion in her demeanor, was in actuality a chain-smoking sixtyish female of indeterminate sexuality with an attitude that would try even the Pope’s patience. She had held the position for years and had no real interest in assisting any of her readers, having long ago decided that love was so much bullshit, children were for losers, and that most people should never open their mouths, let alone dare to complain. Lovely woman, don’t you think? By the time that Rachel came along, she was ready to give it all up and didn’t care anymore; and her work increasingly showed it… when she chose to do it. There were days when the woman simply did not show up at all or bother to send her column in. My theory was that she had taken a part-time job as a dominatrix, but we never could prove that. Rachel’s natural inclination was to tell her off, but being an adult and being in charge of other employees often dictates that one not follow one’s instincts. Often Rachel would burst into my room, close to tears and ready to tear her hair out—no matter which color it currently was—about the horrible, callous, and indifferent bordering on insulting replies that Auntie Claire was giving to the poor schmucks who thoughtlessly wrote to her in an effort to resolve their various issues. My advice was consistent and simple: “Fire the bitch!” I told her more
To the Max
11
than once. Which she did one day, to everyone’s great relief. Finally deciding that enough was enough (I think it came after Auntie Claire advised a bereaved widow to get laid and shut the hell up), Rachel walked up to her at her desk in the city room and informed her that her services were no longer required and to please take her advice somewhere else. Which, for Rachel, was rather restrained. To her credit, the evil lady did not balk or get nasty, although I understand that she was heard to mutter to herself as she walked out the door to the surreptitious humming of the witch’s theme from The Wizard of Oz. So Auntie Claire became history. Rachel’s joy was short-lived, however, for now the task of answering those letters fell to guess who? Yes, you guessed it, to Rachel herself, and now she had to worry over what to say to her poor readers. Her solution to every problem was to want to take the supplicant home and huggle and shelter them from the vicissitudes of life, an impractical solution at best. Now her appearances in my room were marked by much letter waving and cries of “Poor soul!” and “Lost lamb!”, and I listened to her as patiently as I could as she fretted about them, offering no advice of my own. I felt that she needed a listener, not a critic. But even my patience reached an end one day when she was going on about several particularly hard letters: a teenage boy with a crush on another boy, a woman who thought that her hot flashes were a sign of the devil, and a father who wanted his ex-wife to let him see his kids more. I’d had a particularly stressful day, and coupled with the fact that the full moon was fast approaching, I was not in the most pleasant of moods. After listening to her go on and on about these poor souls, I finally snapped. “Rachel, Rachel, Rachel, it’s really very simple,” I began. “Listen: Dear horny boy, if you don’t share your feelings with the object of your affection, you’ll never know if they are reciprocated; Dear Hot Flash, get thee to a gynecologist; and Dear Single Dad, run to the nearest attorney and get a legal consultation about your parental rights. There. Problems solved.” I knew I was in trouble the minute I looked at Rachel. She had this peculiar smile on her face and an evil gleam in her eyes. “I think I hear my mother calling,” I said, attempting to rise from my bed. “No you don’t.” She held me down with one hand, clambering
12
Julie Lynn Hayes
onto my lap and flashing me her award-winning smile. “You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?” “No, I haven’t a clue,” I lied through my teeth. “Maxie,” she began to coo, even though she knows that I hate being called that, it’s way too cute for my taste, although it’s preferable to the “maxi-pad” I was burdened with during my teen years, “Maxie, you’re just too perfect for words. And you would be so perfect. I just know it. I always told you you had a way with words, didn’t I?” “Yes, and listen to these words now,” I said, not giving in to her feminine wiles (not usually a problem with me, anyway), “I… do… not… want… to… do… it.” “You can use the money; you know you can,” she pointed out in a very pragmatic manner. Dammit, I hate it when she is practical and appeals to my undernourished pocketbook. I kept going, although I knew the argument was now lost and my struggles were only guaranteed to sink me even more quickly. “But Rachel, I can’t have a regular job, and you know it, besides which I don’t want to drive into the paper every day, and you know that I can’t go on certain days. How do I explain that? Not to mention Richard, you know he likes me to be here when he’s here.” Which was the lamest argument I could possibly make, and still I used it. “Easy!” Damned if she didn’t have an answer for everything. “There is no real reason for you to come into the office. You can send your columns through the computer, work at home, and still be available for Mr. Burke’s sexual pleasures”—here she arched a knowing eyebrow at me, which made me blush furiously—“when he deigns to show up, that is. And you can write your columns in advance of the full moon, so you won’t have to worry about that.” I went down then for the third time, Rachel happily clinging about my neck.
AND so my advice to the lovelorn column was born. Although technically speaking, I do solve other types of problems as well. Rachel came up with the name: To The Max. I agreed to it because it was better than some of the other suggestions she had, including variations on
To the Max
13
aunt, uncle, cousin, and/or mother. But what really irked me was a mistake made by an incompetent typesetter on my first column. For some inexplicable reason, he/she spelled my name erroneously, but the error took hold, to my regret, and this is the way it reads to this day: To The Max—(written by) Maxamillion. Is that totally lame or what? I want to find this person and pound their head into the keyboard, screaming, “It’s Maximillian, you moron!” But Rachel keeps restraining me although she is hard put not to snicker while she does it. Since then, if I have heard it once, I have heard it a million times: “Maxamillion, thanks a million,” and I am thoroughly sick of it. So please restrain yourself, if you don’t mind? And pardon me for not chuckling. It does get old. Enough with the preamble already. I think this will serve as a sufficient introduction, at least as far as I am concerned. Moving forward now, to the max. Live with it.
14
Julie Lynn Hayes
Chapter 2 Werewolf in Love
Wednesday, April 8, 1976
WE
EXITED the disco for the parking lot, the receding refrains of
“Stayin’ Alive” soon becoming lost behind us, a completely other world we were no longer a part of. The gravel scrunched beneath our feet, sounding overly loud in my ears as I closely followed this exquisite man. Our hands were still clasped, by mutual consent. We wove our way between rows of silent vehicles, for the most part unoccupied as their owners shook it for all it was worth on the illuminated dance floor within the club, but occasionally we could see entwined silhouettes and a bobbing head or two, and once I caught a glimpse of pale buttocks pumping furiously in an unseen rhythm. I blushed at this even as I wondered to what purpose he had brought me here. Not that it mattered, I realized, my heart thumping so loudly that I was tempted to muffle the sound lest it betray me. He led me to the far corner of the parking lot, away from the other vehicles, where a lone car sat in the darkness. From what I could see, it was some type of muscle car, and he had probably parked it at this safe distance to prevent drunken drivers from carelessly flinging open their car doors and inflicting painful scratches on what was no doubt a highly polished finish. “Yours?” I asked, gazing up in admiration at that splendid profile. “I wish!” he laughed. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, which he held out to me. “Care for one?” “No thanks, it’s bad for my health.” I shook my head. “You have poor health?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. I merely shook my head, not wanting to get into particulars quite so soon, but I knew I couldn’t avoid the question forever. “No, the car belongs to a friend,” he continued, striking a match. The match flared briefly in a
To the Max
15
burst of sulfurous light while he touched it to the end of his smoke; I caught a flickering glimpse of his beautiful face, and God, how I wanted him then. He knew it too; it was something palpable that hung on the air between us. He pursed his lips into an exaggerated bow as he blew out the flame, and I knew it was done for my benefit. “It’s a ’69 Chevelle. A real beauty. Care to see her in action?” “Sure,” I replied with an attempt at being calm, cool, and collected that failed miserably. I was obviously no Sean Connery, and I was definitely a far cry from being James Bond either. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trying to hide what was blatantly and painfully obvious to me. “Then let’s split,” he said decisively, pulling out the keys from a back pocket; they jingled together as he sorted through them for the proper key. He unlocked the passenger door first, looking at me expectantly, draped over the doorframe in such a way that I had to pass beneath his arm to get in. I ducked my head, moving smoothly onto the vinyl bench seat, my eyes never leaving his as he leaned in to me in an unexpected movement, catching my lips in his. Totally surprised, I kissed him back. Surprised, yes, but not exactly unhappy. He tasted surprisingly familiar, yet at the same time exotic; he tasted of smoke and wine and soft summer breezes (don’t laugh; it’s my story) and dizzying promises and adventures waiting to be fulfilled. I tried not to press against his lips too eagerly, tried to retain some semblance of cool. All for naught. He broke the kiss, laughing softly as he walked around the car and climbed in, taking his place behind the wheel. For those of you who have some familiarity with wolves and their lifestyles, it must be obvious by now that I am not the alpha here. ’Nuff said. It wasn’t until he had started the car, pulling out onto the otherwise empty road, that I realized that we had not even exchanged names. This was not typical of me, believe me, to place my life in the hands of a stranger, even a gorgeous one like him, not knowing something as elementary as his praenomen. I was usually more cautious than that. Turning my head toward him, I watched as he took another drag of his cigarette, eyeing intently the sexy way he put it to his lips, inhaling lightly and expelling the smoke from his well-sculpted
16
Julie Lynn Hayes
nostrils, the other hand palming the steering wheel, guiding it easily along the deserted road. I sensed he was observing me as well from the corner of his eye. “Richard,” he said, almost as if he could read my thoughts, “Richard Burke.” “Max,” I replied in turn, “Max Montague.” “Which side of the river you live on?” he asked. “Other side. Webster Groves. You?” “Kirkwood. We’re practically neighbors.” He grinned. If I hadn’t already been in love with him at that point, that smile was the nail in my coffin. It reached from ear to ear and lit up his whole face, mirrored in the starlight reflected in his beautiful blue eyes until he fairly radiated an inner beauty. I felt such a tightness in my chest as I looked at him that, for a moment, I simply could not breathe. “At least for now,” he continued, “staying with some friends.” “You’re not from around here?” I asked, note of disappointment creeping into my voice at the idea that I might soon lose this angel from my life, when he had only just appeared. “Yeah, born and bred here.” He nodded as I breathed a silent sigh of relief. “But right now I don’t have my own place, so I kind of stay wherever. What about you, do you have your own apartment or something?” “No, I live with my mother and my sister. I’m saving up for a house, though.” I’m not sure just why I added that, but at the moment it seemed not only relevant, but important. “Having your own space is good,” he commented briefly. He finished his cigarette, rolled down the driver’s window a few inches and jettisoned it carelessly out onto the macadam. I bit my lip but said nothing; that was a pet peeve of mine, watching tobaccoholics toss the tattered remnants of their nasty habit out onto an unsuspecting world, and I have been known to take umbrage with careless smokers in public places for their sloppiness, but I decided that it would not be a good way to begin a relationship. At least, hopefully we were beginning a relationship. I couldn’t tell what Richard’s thoughts were; he was a puzzle wrapped in an enigma for the moment. He tilted his head and smiled at me again. I was totally undone and had to work hard not to let drool spill over my lips. “Why don’t
To the Max
17
you move a little closer? I don’t bite,” he said softly, “at least not right away….” Until that moment I had been unaware that I had jammed myself up against the passenger door. What the hell was the matter with me, anyway? I relaxed my grip on the door handle and moved over, inching my way, waiting for him to tell me when I had moved far enough— which didn’t happen—and I only stopped because my hip was in such close communication with his hip that if I moved over any more, I’d be sitting in his lap. That thought alone was enough to make my cock twitch in anticipation. “Better?” “Better,” he echoed, taking his right hand and laying it lightly on top of my left leg, his slender fingers softly stroking the material. Knowing what I did about my lupine tendencies and fully understanding my need to permanently mate, I decided that I had to be bolder with this man, if he were indeed to be my one and only, my intended life partner. “Tell me something… Richard,” I began, gathering my courage, which alone was unusual for me. In any given situation, I am usually the one most likely to be found opening his big mouth. “Yes, Max?” he encouraged, his fingertips making delicate patterns on my leg, nearly distracting me from what I was about to say. Hearing his voice say my name didn’t help either. “I was just wondering… why me?” I looked up at his profile, never taking my eyes from him, studying him as if I were memorizing every detail of his features for future identification, although by now I could describe every square inch of his flawless face without looking. “Out of all the guys in that place, why did you choose me?” I had to know the answer, as if something very crucial was hanging on his answer. I didn’t want to be merely a flavor of the night or learn that someone had bet him that he couldn’t bed anyone he chose and that I was merely the random object of a gambling wager. “Honestly?” he said, considering the question for just a second. “Because I think you’re pretty.” I hadn’t expected that, and I felt a hot blush totally suffuse my cheeks. I had never been called that before, not that I was lacking in that department or that I had never been told I was good-looking,
18
Julie Lynn Hayes
’cause I had, but pretty? That was a new one for me. On his tongue, it sounded good. “And,” he continued, “because I see something special in you. You seem different from the others. I don’t know how to explain it any better than that. Is that good?” He raised his eyebrows, his eyes meeting mine inquiringly. I nodded, taking his hand in mine and twining our fingers together. He raised our joined hands to his lips and kissed my fingers softly before placing them back in their original place. Damn, was that the sound of my heart exploding or what? “I forgot to ask, d’joo drive?” he asked in that way Midwesterners have of making “did you” into one word, adding a J for good measure. “Uh huh,” I replied, adding, “I have a ’76 Monte.” “Nice.” “Gift from my mother,” I explained, not wishing to represent myself as something I wasn’t. Namely wealthy. “You gotta love mothers,” he said softly. “They do love to spoil their sons, don’t they? Even the gay ones.” He paused for just a split second. “I’ll make sure you get back to your Monte tomorrow. If that’s okay with you, that is.” It was more of a statement than a question, but I had no difficulty in reading between the lines. Nor in accepting his unspoken offer. “It’s locked,” I stated. “Good.” He glanced toward me, and our eyes locked in mutual admiration. Slowly, deliberately, his hand slid down between my legs, against my crotch… how could he not help but feel how hard I was for him? I caught my breath as another wave of desire radiated through me. Caught up in my own emotions, I hadn’t been paying a great deal of attention to where we actually were, so it was with some surprise that I glanced out the window and realized we were just approaching the outskirts of Granite City, which meant we weren’t all that far from crossing back over into Missouri. I had never actually spent any time in the town, and the only thing I really knew about it was that the biggest employer there was Granite City Steel.
To the Max
19
“Wanna get a nightcap before we go back to my place?” he asked softly. I said yes while my tongue simply melted inside of my mouth. “Let’s find someplace interesting, then,” he said, and I could hear a definite note of amusement in his voice, even as I wondered to myself what he could possibly have in mind. Knowing Richard as I do now, I would have recognized that as his “shit-disturber” voice, and my common sense would have kicked in and told him “no.” But this is hindsight speaking now, as well as experience. Then I was simply naive, and would have gone with him anywhere he wanted to go. Love is truly Cupid painted blind, is it not? I’m not complaining, mind you. Well, not too much. And when all is said and done, life with Richard, although many things, is truly not dull. When he’s around, that is. Okay, back to what I was saying…. He must have spotted this place before he’d even spoken, ’cause suddenly we were turning into the parking lot of a small bar with a brightly lit sign that embraced us with all the warmth of a pair of open arms: Friends Come Inn. “Have you been here before?” I asked. “Nope,” was his laconic reply as he parked well away from the others, squeezing my hand reassuringly and dazzling me with the brilliance of his smile. “Virgin territory. Let’s check it out.” If I had been thinking more clearly, the high ratio of pickup trucks to cars in the parking lot should have been some sort of a sign—one that said abandon all hope and get the hell out of here now—but I wasn’t, and I didn’t notice a thing as we walked together up to the innocuous front entrance. The windows were crowded with neon advertisements for the various breweries, prominent among them being Anheuser-Busch—Busch, Bud, Michelob—as well as Schlitz, Falstaff, Miller, and Stag. A hand-lettered sign announced live music Wednesday through Saturday, as well as dancing. “Our lucky night,” Richard said softly as he held the door for me. That was strictly a matter of opinion. The interior of Friends Come Inn was dimly lit, smoke layering the air in foggy strata that assaulted my sensitive nostrils, but this was to be expected; after all, it seemed to come with the territory. And I knew we didn’t intend to stay long, so I knew I could live with it.
20
Julie Lynn Hayes
Looking around, I decided that the interior decorator had obviously been a Southern émigré, as the main motif appeared to be the Confederate flag, incarnations of which were to be found in the strangest places—I wouldn’t have been surprised to find one adorning the men’s room—along with mounted deer heads and framed pictures of Southern Comfort. And mounted on a wooden plaque was the ugliest fish I think I’ve ever seen, its mouth wired open in a look of permanent surprise. We stood there for a moment, acclimating ourselves to the environment, such as it was, scoping it all out. Apparently the band was on a break, several guitars and a drum set sat abandoned on the small raised area that passed for a stage, meekly waiting for the next set to begin, and in the meantime the jukebox was holding court in their stead. There were a few couples on the dance floor, but most of the tables, with their Confederate-flagged tablecloths, were empty. Two women sat huddled together conspiratorially; they were obviously on the prowl for male meat, judging both by the length of their skirts (or lack thereof) and the way their eyes lit up when anything with a penis came within a one mile radius, while what looked like a committee meeting of the Rednecks of America assembled at two small tables pushed together to make one big table, which was littered with empty pitchers and glasses. It was in close proximity to the pool table, which seemed to be the other major source of entertainment in this place. I was not really interested in these other people, however, and I paid them no real attention. I had my head shoved too far up Richard’s ass to notice much of anything, I’m afraid. We picked out a table away from the others but fairly close to the jukebox, taking seats at adjacent sides of a table for four. “After we order our drinks, we can check out the selection on the juke,” Richard said, leaning in to me intimately. “I’d like to get you out on the dance floor and wrap my arms around you.” I don’t believe any response I had to make would have been considered all that intelligible, but luckily, at that moment, the waitress approached, a peroxide blonde in a faux cowgirl outfit, a garish yellow scarf tied about her neck, and a Western-style shirt unbuttoned far enough to reveal her major assets—both of them—as she leaned over our table, her eyes fastened on Richard’s semi-bared chest. “Evenin’!” she greeted, “How y’all doin’ tonight?”
To the Max
21
“We’re doing very well,” Richard replied, sending a private wink my way that sent shivers through my spine. “How does your wine selection look this evening?” “Wine?” She wrinkled her nose in thought, a difficult feat at best. “I think we have red and white, but we honestly don’t get a lotta call for that. Mostly beer.” Richard and I exchanged glances. I didn’t like the way that sounded, but he merely looked bemused. “Care to try the red?” he asked. I agreed, albeit reluctantly. “Two glasses of red it is, then,” he said. “Your poison,” she said cheerily, leaning over so far I thought she was going to offer to breastfeed Richard with her triple D’s, and my jealous tendencies began to awaken. The wolf inside wanted to put the hussy in her place, but I placated the beast when I realized that Richard was merely being charming, not flirtatious. He paid no attention to her huge mammaries and stood, motioning with his head toward the jukebox. “C’mon. Let’s see what’s hot tonight,” he joked, and I wasted no time in joining him there while the waitress flounced off, unappeased. My attention was diverted to her for a moment; I watched as she sashayed her way to the men’s table. They were all dressed according to some sort of Western type of dress code: red flannel shirts, blue jeans, dark boots, and Stetson hats. That was when I felt my first pang of apprehension. One of the men pulled the girl down on his lap, and she squealed and pretended to be offended, but it was all obviously a well-rehearsed act. She laughed and pummeled him playfully with her balled fists until he grinned and let her up. Leaning over to him, (obviously standing up straight was not her forte, perhaps because of the imbalance inherent in her upper body) she whispered something in his ear, and I thought he glanced our way, but I tried not to be overly paranoid as I turned my attention to the playlist before us. Which did nothing to still my apprehensions. Most of the titles on the antiquated music machine were unrecognizable to me, as were the artists performing them, but Richard found a few that were acceptable, plinking the change into the machine and pushing the letter-number
22
Julie Lynn Hayes
combinations. We returned to our table, waiting for the previous selections to run their course, Still in that getting-to-know-you stage where every sensation was magnified a thousandfold and sweet anticipation was playing havoc with my blood pressure. He scooted his chair closer to mine, leaned over, and whispered in my ear, “I’d like to dance a little bit, drink a little bit; then I’d like to take you back to my place and wrap myself around your sweet little body and tongue you all night long….” even as he laid one hand over my knee. Oh God, that voice was doing things to me, and I wanted nothing more than to make a sandwich of our lips right then and there, but luckily the arrival of the waitress with our wine kept me from making any such public move. I saw with some trepidation that the wine had been decanted into two tumblers, rather than proper wine glasses, and the so-called red wine was more of a sickly pink color, but I forebore from making any snide comments. Yet. When Richard pulled some bills from his pocket to pay for these pale imitations of the vintner’s art, she stopped him. “Naw, that’s okay. The two gals over there done picked up yer tab.” She indicated with a nod of her head the two women in the very short skirts, who at her revelation of their identity nodded at us in a friendly manner and raised their own glasses in a silent toast. “That was very kind of them. Tell them thank you,” Richard said, easily returning his cash to his pocket, not being one to turn down a free drink at any time. “They wanna know if you two wanna join them,” Busty continued, once again leaning over the table so far in Richard’s direction that he had a direct view down into her cleavage. “No thanks,” Richard replied, smiling. “We’re good. But tell them thank you for the offer.” Busty looked around and then leaned in even more confidentially, her bust falling all over Richard’s arm. “Between you and me, I’m sure you can get laid,” she whispered. Richard never batted an eye. “I’m sure I can,” he returned evenly, continuing to smile at her in a friendly manner, even as his gentle hand caressed my knee underneath the table. My God, did the room just get very hot very suddenly? “Okay, your loss,” she said, tossing her peroxide head as she
To the Max
23
walked away shrugging, her hips pistoning as she moved like a hula dancer with the palsy. When she reached the ladies-who-would-be-laid, she turned back and cast an odd look at us, obviously relaying to them the disappointing news. They all looked at us then, and I thought I heard a giggle. The hairs on the back of my neck were beginning to stand up uneasily. I didn’t like the way things were going, not at all. But the rest of me was oblivious. Before I had a chance to say anything, Richard had taken my hand in his and was leading me toward the dance floor. There were only three other couples, close together on the small parquet floor set just in front of the stage. Maybe I should add that they were all three het couples. I think one of the men was dead drunk, and if his partner hadn’t been supporting him, he would have fallen flat onto his inebriated face. Of the others, one pair was seriously involved in playing doctor, giving one another a moving physical there on the dance floor, while the other two were staring star-struck into one another’s eyes. Richard chose a spot apart from them all, more in the safety of the shadows than anything else, just as one of his selections began to play. He took my hand in his, draped his arm about my waist, and everything else receded as we began to move together to the soft refrains of the ballad. He leaned in to me as we danced, as we searched for and found our natural rhythm there on the dance floor. “So, is Max short for Maximillian?” he asked. “Uh huh,” I replied, “but only my mother ever uses my full name, and usually only when she’s mad at me.” “Well, I go by Richard, never Dick, myself,” he said, “although people try to pin that one on me. I just don’t respond.” He pulled me even closer as we talked, our thighs touching one another in mutual accord. He and I are almost the same height—Richard is only an inch or two taller—which meant that other areas were touching as well, and definitely not in an unpleasant manner. I wasn’t complaining, anyway. Without warning, he swooped in and claimed my lips with his, and without hesitation I parted mine, granting him the entrance he sought with his tongue. Looking back, I can’t help but ask myself what the hell we must have been thinking—or not thinking—that night. Here we were, in a
24
Julie Lynn Hayes
small Illinois steel town, in a fucking redneck bar, for crying out loud, surrounded by rednecks, obviously, and we were practically slapping them in the face with our sexuality, playing tonsil hockey right out in the open, at a time when being gay wasn’t exactly acceptable to a lot of people. Not that I ever tried to hide it, but I was generally discreet in front of the flaming straights, at least. Not like this. Richard had seriously messed with my guidance system to the point where I didn’t know if I was coming or going. All I could see, think, or feel was him…. Until I looked up to see one of the rednecks, apparently the leader of the group, the one that had been fooling around with Busty, tapping Richard on the shoulder, a look of utter disgust upon his face. “We all think you two should just leave quietly,” he said with a strong Midwestern twang that verged on being Southern. “We don’t like your kind in here.” From the corner of one eye, I could see the other couples stop dancing to watch, beginning to edge away from us. “Our kind?” Richard echoed his words in a deceptively soft voice, but he never stopped dancing, nor did he remove his arm from my waist, merely rotated our positions so that he could face the intruder. “What do you mean by our kind? Do you mean nonmouthbreathers? Presbyterians, maybe? Or simply members of an order higher than phylum?” Richard’s words were obviously way over this poor schmuck’s head, but he was not about to admit that, naturally. So he struck straight at the heart of the manner, succinctly and tersely. “Queers.” He snorted in derision. “We… don’t… like… fuckin’… queers.” “For the record,” Richard said, his gaze meeting the other man’s without faltering, “we are dancing, not fucking. Fucking involves the insertion of one person’s penis into some portion of another person for the purpose of either procreation or recreation, which is clearly not the case here. At least not here and now. As far as what might happen in another hour or two, that I cannot say.” The other man looked like he’d just had his beloved Confederate flag rammed up his ass, flagpole and all, which if you stop to think about it, is rather amusing as well as ironic. I just love irony, subtle or otherwise. Not to mention watching homophobes get what’s coming to them. But, once again, I digress.
To the Max
25
Billybob was looking at Richard as if he had suddenly grown a second head, or penis, maybe. And the point that my date was trying to make was completely lost on him. “Look, we think that you and your girlfriend here should go quietly,” he continued, “without makin’ a scene. They have places for your kind. Why dontcha go there?” The wolf inside me didn’t care for this man one iota, and neither did I. I began to bristle, and the wolf softly growled. I was not one to cause trouble, by any means, but neither did I shy away from it, especially if it wasn’t of my own making. “Who’s we? You look like only one person to me,” I said, looking at him pointedly. The redneck flushed but didn’t give an inch. “Me and the boys,” he said, jerking backward with one thick thumb toward his compadres, who huddled uneasily about the pool table for moral support. “There are ladies present, you know, and we don’t think it’s right that they have to see your disgustin’ behavior either.” “Why is that?” Richard asked bemused. “’Cause we didn’t want to fuck them? I wasn’t aware that it was mandatory in these parts. Thanks for enlightening us.” He nodded his head genially as he began to back away from the redneck, still dancing and never missing a step as we moved immaculately together in the dance. Billybob seemed somewhat at a loss for words. I don’t think his brain was processing very well at the moment, but of course he wasn’t one to leave things alone, and he was quickly back on the case, dogging our steps. “You two aren’t natural,” he continued, as if we three were in the middle of a very fascinating conversation on the ethics of gay sex, “you’re an abomination—” “Abomination?” Richard repeated, never raising his voice, “can you even spell that?” The frustrated hoosier, who had undoubtedly flunked remedial spelling at some point in his scholastic career, decided to change targets, turning his attention to me. Not a smooth move at all. The wolf inside was already on edge, and I was restraining him with difficulty as it was. “I’m trying to be nice about this, fellas,” he said, “before this gets ugly. Or someone gets hurt. It’s nothing personal, but the Bible makes it clear that you fags ain’t natural, and that’s that. And you know what?”
26
Julie Lynn Hayes
That was it. I stopped moving and gave him a disdainful look. “If the next sentence out of your mouth contains the words ‘steers’ or ‘queers’, so help me I am going to shove my fist down your redneck throat and pull your intestines out,” I growled at him. I risked a glance at Richard, and, to my surprise, he was grinning his approbation. Paying no attention to the intrusive third party, he bent to my ear and whispered warmly, “By God, you are a feisty one. I’m betting you are in bed too!” which earned him a warm blush for his efforts, and a small smile. By the time I pulled my gaze away from Richard’s again, I saw that we were no longer alone but were being circled by the silent friends of Billybob like sharks swimming about a bloody kill. I was not afraid of them, but I saw with some alarm that they carried pool cues in their hands, and I knew that this was not good. Every eye in the place was now riveted on the scene unfolding on the dance floor, and not one person to speak up in our defense. What a damn surprise that was. Not. Billybob, emboldened by the presence of reinforcements, stepped closer to me, throwing out his chest in a peacock strut. “Brave words, little faggot, think you can back them up—” Before he had finished that thought, Richard’s arm closed about his throat in a viselike grip that threatened to squeeze his head off like an overly ripe zit. “You call him that again and I’ll make sure that you don’t play for either team ever again,” Richard said smoothly, never batting an eye, “either pitching or catching, if you catch my drift.” Billybob’s only response was a strangled gargle which sounded none too happy, his eyes darting to his friends for some sort of backup, but one glance from Richard kept them at bay. “Don’t hurt him! Don’t hurt him!” Busty squeaked in alarm, rushing at Richard and clawing at his face frantically in an attempt to get him to loosen his grip. One glare was enough to quell her spirit of rebellion, and she retreated to a safer distance. “I called the police. They’ll be here any minute. Why don’t you two just go?” This seemed a sensible course to take, I had to admit. I had no desire to have our first night together occur under the auspices of the local authorities, under their watchful eye. Richard must have thought so, too, as he began to relax his grip on the plum-faced redneck… when all of a sudden one of his band of merry men did something incredibly
To the Max
27
stupid. He came up behind Richard and struck him hard across the back with a pool cue! Richard doubled over in pain, the other man wriggling out of his grasp. He triumphantly regrouped with his followers, chortling between grateful gasps of oxygen. The wolf had seen enough and could no longer be denied. I lunged across the intervening space, grabbed the offending git by the scruff of his neck (I am far stronger than I look, especially when the wolf is aroused), and slung him as hard as I could against the nearest wall. He hit the wall with a thud, neatly catching one of the framed artist’s renditions of the infamous Southern Comfort bottle in his trajectory, and both picture and redneck collapsed together on the floor with a heavy crash. Instantly I was set upon by two more of the group; one pinned my arms behind my back while the other proceeded to place a few well-aimed blows to my face, busting open my lip, from which blood proceeded to spill into my mouth. Enraged, I reared back, leaning against the man behind me for support, drew up my legs, and kicked out at my attacker in a blind fury. I caught him in the middle of his chest. With an ooompf of surprise, he staggered back, only to be caught by my partner in crime, who had meanwhile regained his equilibrium. He spun my attacker around and delivered a strong right hook that knocked the hick off his feet and straight into a nearby table, which he took out in his fall, the Confederate flag tablecloth blanketing him. While I parlayed the grip on my arms to my advantage to leverage the poor unfortunate over my head in the same direction, where he landed on top of his paisano, and they both grunted. “Good one,” Richard nodded approvingly. This left only Billybob and one of his friends to deal with, but neither looked inclined to continue the fight. I drew nearer to Richard. “You okay?” I asked with concern, gently touching the waitressinflicted scratches on his cheek. “Yeah, you?” “Yeah, fine. Is this what you do on all your first dates?” I couldn’t help grinning at him. “You think this was something, just wait for the second one,” he joked easily.
28
Julie Lynn Hayes
I was about to make a rejoinder to this when my sharp lycanthropic hearing kicked in. Sirens—in the distance, but definitely heading this way. I grabbed Richard’s hand in my own. “Why don’t you tell me about it on the road?” I suggested, and he understood immediately. We wasted no further words on the fools, who made no move to stop us as we headed out the front door and back to Richard’s ride. We were in the car and on the road, heading in the opposite direction, when we saw the revolving lights of the patrol cars behind us, the sirens screaming their warning message as the officers answered the distress call. Too late, we were definitely outta there. Richard looked at me with amusement as he pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator. “You wanted to see her in action? Just watch!” He floored her, the car quickly jumping from thirty to sixty, the needle on the speedometer reaching skyward as we zipped down the open highway. Good thing Illinois highways tend to be exceedingly flat, for the most part; it makes visibility that much better and lessens the risk of topping a hill and meeting someone head-on. Within a very short time we were on the 270 bridge and crossing the mighty Mississippi, back into the Show Me State once more. He was forced to drop his speed as we were now merging with other traffic, but that was good, too, because now we blended in with them, and I knew we were safe from pursuit. Richard turned off one of the first exits, onto a small side road that twisted and turned in a very serpentine fashion through a sparsely populated area. There was still some farmland left in North County at that time, before the developers bought out most of it and replaced the fields with litters of prefabs and custom-built monstrosities before they realized that the population was steadily heading westward into St. Charles. No one was around us now, and there was a dearth of street lights, our headlights being the only illumination. Suddenly, he turned the Chevelle off the road into an abandoned field. We had obviously not been followed, a good thing. He parked the car and without saying a word, got out, me quickly following his lead. We were both in a state of some euphoria after our exertions at the bar. Richard doubled over, his full rich laugh ringing out in the otherwise silent night, while I threw back my head and howled
To the Max
29
exultantly, indulging the victorious wolf within. Richard glanced up at me sideways, a bemused expression on his face, and something else as well. Before I knew what he was about, he had swiftly caught me up in his arms and pressed my body insistently against the door of the Chevelle. I felt the door handle digging into the small of my back, but I barely noticed the pain, too intent on what he was doing. He had my body pinioned while he gripped my hands above my head against the Chevelle’s hardtop, breathing heavily into my face. “So, my little wolf,” he murmured, “there is much about you I need to discover, isn’t there?” “You don’t know the half of it,” I whispered back. His hips were digging into mine, his erection as well, and I became aware all over of how much I wanted him, a feeling with which the wolf heartily concurred. He knew very well what he was doing to me, grinding his pelvis into mine, hard. “Damn, I want you so bad,” he breathed into my lips, his breath ghosting over them as he continued to thrust. “I can’t wait ’til we get back; I’m about ready to come now,” he admitted. “Then you should come,” I gasped, knowing that I was on the verge of doing just that myself. “We can always take a shower and start all over again when we get there,” Richard suggested. “I want to be inside of you, Max. I want to fill you and make you feel goooooooood….” I didn’t answer, but my movements made any reply superfluous as I continued to push back against him. In the back of my mind, I knew that I should probably stop and explain to him the technicalities of mating with a werewolf, but my hard cock told me not to worry about it at the moment, and I have to admit that I listened to my second brain, said nothing, and just enjoyed the feel of him. I wanted it to last longer, to hold this moment forever, but of course this couldn’t be…. “GodohGodohGodohGod,” I moaned, clutching at his hips as my orgasm washed over me, shuddering out of control, my whole body vibrating with the force of my ejaculation, even as I heard him echoing my cry, his coming mirroring mine, his beautiful body trembling against me. He leaned on me heavily when he was done, and I in turn
30
Julie Lynn Hayes
leaned against the car, which held us both up, otherwise I think we’d have found ourselves in the grass at our feet. Had anything ever felt that good? I wondered as I gazed blissfully into those beautiful eyes. “Damn,” was all I managed to say. “Double damn,” he replied with a smile. “I have to tell you I usually last longer than that, but you’re so… damn… hot….” He pulled me closer to him, his arms encircling my waist, his lips warm against my own. I simply melted inside at his touch, utterly lost forever. I knew then there would be no other for me; Richard Burke was it. “You know,” he said as we flew down Highway 270, heading toward his friends’ house and the promises of other joys to come, “I’ll always wonder if that wine was any good or not. Think we should go back sometime and find out?” I turned my head to look at him sharply, saw that he was jesting. “Sure, we can do that. Wearing our best dresses, of course.” “Of course.” He nodded solemnly in reply. We both burst out laughing at that, feeling rather giddy in our happiness. I didn’t need to be invited to take my place beside him this time. We were now sitting so close that it would have been difficult to pass a knife blade between us. I leaned my head against him tenderly while our entwined fingers lay against his right leg. I could feel the muscles ripple each time he moved his foot from the gas pedal to the brake. “Richard, there’s something I think you ought to know,” I blurted out suddenly. “I’m a werewolf.” “Are you, darling?” he asked, a mischievous grin on his handsome face. “I knew you were different, didn’t I say so? Do tell me more….” And as we drove on into the night, heading for Kirkwood, I began to tell him my story. That was when I knew that my life would never be the same again. Nor would I want it any other way… Living life to the max with Richard.
To the Max
31
Chapter 3 Some Stones Should Be Left Unturned
IT’S
NOT that I don’t ever go into the office—don’t get that
impression—’cause I do. Just not any more than I can help. I have my own desk and all that goes with it inside the city room. Well, it was Auntie Claire’s at one time, but I have managed to wipe out every vestige of that awful woman’s existence, with Rachel’s help. And added a few of my own touches: photos of Juliet and Rachel, and Richard and me. I succeed in finding my way there at least once a month, more often if I happen to be meeting Rachel there for lunch. I even attend the occasional staff meeting, which I have to admit I avoid like the proverbial plague. Richard and I try to outdo one another to come up with creative reasons why I can’t be there. Nothing so mundane as a flat tire or a case of the flu for us. Our excuses range from delivering babies for passing motorists to being stricken with rare tropical diseases with unpronounceable names, to emergency flights to third-world nations to help feed the starving children. It works for us. Don’t complain. The Tribune may be relatively small in size, especially compared to the Post-Dispatch, but they do try hard to make their employees feel at ease, I have to admit. The dress code isn’t stringent; the atmosphere is relaxed. Everyone is encouraged to actually have an outside life, as long as they don’t forget what they are there to do as well. Creativity is fostered, and anything less than the truth is not tolerated. Working with my darling Rachel is merely the icing on the cake. Not that she would let me get away with anything or allow me to do less than my best work; it was Rachel who brought my columns to the attention of other people in the publishing world when I first began to write, and lo and behold, before I knew it, I was not only a columnist but a syndicated columnist at that; fifty different newspapers nationwide—a number that is steadily increasing—as well as going global. I do believe that To The Max is also available in the UK and the Netherlands, maybe even in
32
Julie Lynn Hayes
Japan. Quite flattering, really. And not hard on the pocketbook, hence enabling me to travel when I wish and spend my time and energy upon my sexy Richard, in turn enabling him to concentrate on me as well as on his photography. What photography? I can hear you ask now… I’m getting there; don’t worry, all in due time. I told you this tale was not a linear one, by any means. For the moment, suffice it to say Richard Burke is a freelance photographer and be satisfied with that. Anyway, back to what I was saying. At the Tribune, the editors work closely with the staff, as does the owner, a rather jovial fellow who acquired the paper from his father shortly after I began to work there. He isn’t more than a few years older than me, Daniel. Happily married to his childhood sweetheart, he has a very sweet disposition for a businessman and is very easy to talk to. He and Juliet get along like gangbusters, as well, and she has attempted to make him part of her conspiracy-to-see-Max-settle-down-with-the-right-girl. Somehow she thinks that the right woman will encourage me, nay inspire me, even, to forsake my gay ways and become heterosexual, no matter how many times I tell her that it isn’t going to happen and despite Richard’s crude rejoinders about “Well, maybe if the woman has a dick,” which earns him a rap upside his head from me. But luckily, Daniel hasn’t fallen into her trap and accepts Richard and I for the way we are, which is undoubtedly homosexual. As for my co-workers, I consider myself lucky in that they all seem to be nice and we have a great working relationship, which is the way it should be. Ideally. In a perfect world, that is. Is this a perfect world? I don’t think so. Once a month, invariably on a Friday, the Tribune hosts a buffet luncheon for the employees. To promote said working relationships. If I am not busy, and if I am so inclined, (and if Rachel has managed to strong-arm me into attending), I show up for these displays of camaraderie among the working class. And if he hasn’t buggered off in one of his mysterious disappearing acts, Richard accompanies me. The food is always good, catered by one of the local restaurants in the downtown area, and the Tribune doesn’t skimp on anything. They draw the line at providing liquor; after all, for most it is actually a working lunch. And if Richard complains about not having wine with his meal, I roll my eyes at him and offer to drop him off at AA on the way home,
To the Max
33
which usually shuts him up. Today is one of those days. For April, it is unseasonably warm already, a sure sign that summer is almost upon us. I am not complaining, mind you. The warmth of the life-giving sol is most beneficial to these tired old bones, and some days I simply lay outside in the privacy of my yard and bask in Apollo’s rays. Not that I think that I am old, but being a lycanthrope can be terribly hard on one’s body, and some days I feel older than my years. Richard and I have been sunbathing today, stretched out together on a blanket in comfortable nudity, playing silly word association games and generally nattering until it’s time for us to leave. He whines a bit that he doesn’t want to get up, but I remind him that we are going to be fed, and he settles down. And I promise him that we can come home and nap in the sun after we eat, which doesn’t hurt either. The Tribune Building is located in downtown St. Louis, directly on Market Street. I find the building itself to be most fascinating. It was designed by architect Louis Sullivan in the late nineteenth century. He also designed the Wainwright Building, as well as the Stock Exchange Building in Chicago, and at one time he employed up-and-coming architect Frank Lloyd Wright. Sullivan’s buildings are primarily known for their beautiful ornamentation and attention to such artistic details as flowered cornices and the use of terra cotta fascia. It’s like walking into a little piece of history, which alone is enough to stir my interest. The buffet is invariably set up in the staff room, which is located on the sixth floor, but before I go up I decide to pay one of my infrequent visits to my desk, see if there is anything I need to pick up, look at, or discard; usually interoffice memos fall into that last category. Make sure my plant has been watered, and my pens are all in place. Good writing instruments are so hard to come by, after all. As we exit the elephantine elevator onto the third floor, Richard excuses himself for personal reasons, whilst I head into the city room itself. My desk is located near the front of the building with a great view of Market Street. Not that it really matters, as I am seldom there, and I never actually work there. But still, it’s the principle of the thing. Should I choose to sit there, I have a great view. I lazily saunter over. When browsing through a few miscellaneous papers, straightening up the few personal effects that I can claim as my own, and waiting for
34
Julie Lynn Hayes
Richard, my eye is caught by something that looks out of place in the desk closest to mine, one which has heretofore been empty of all occupancy. Now it seems to have a certain lived-in look, and I glance at it curiously, wondering if the paper has acquired a new employee. There is an assortment of potted flowers in bright shades sitting on the desk—roses and carnations mostly—as well as cutesy balloons inscribed with all manner of Welcome. Obviously a new employee, but who? As I decide to be nosy and look for some indication of whose desk this now is, I can hear Rachel’s dulcet tones approaching from behind me, and I turn to her. “Hello, Rach, what’s up?” I greet her with outstretched arms and a warm kiss. “Who’s the newbie?” For some reason, Rachel skirts the question. “Hey, where’s your better half?” she jokes. “In the men’s room.” “Looking for a date?” “No,” I frown, starting to bristle, “he’s taking a piss. What’s the matter with you? You’re acting rather strange.” And I eye her like she is some sort of alien life form that has taken over the body of my friend Rachel. “C’mon, Max.” She takes my hand in hers to lead me in the opposite direction. “Let’s find your young master and get some lunch.” I stand rooted in place, more suspicious now than ever. “Not until you tell me what your problem is and why you’re acting like you’re auditioning for a guest spot on I’ve Got a Secret.” “Max, it’s no big deal. I’ll tell you over lunch.” She pulls at my hand, as I continue to refuse to budge… …and then I hear it. “Well, hello, Maximillian, long time, no see.” And as the first notes of that voice reach my ears, my brain immediately registers who it belongs to, and I stop dumbfounded in my tracks, a shudder coursing through my body, giving Rachel the ohmyGod-tell-me-it’s-not-true look, even though I know it is very true. And the voice belongs to someone I had hoped never to see again. That is my first thought; my second being, wait until Richard sees her, he’ll
To the Max
35
lose his mind. And then finally I turn about to face the source of that voice, and I behold her once more. Amy Rose Banneker. Damn! Damn, damn, and again damn! “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” She fairly purrs, wearing that oh-so-smug smile that I just want to rip off her face. She hasn’t changed a whole hell of a lot, actually. She was always on the thin side, and her cheekbones are perhaps even more sharply defined, her heavily made-up skin pulled taut to the point of being almost gaunt. The honey blonde hair is the same, maybe stringier, and it looks like she wears it in pretty much the same way, though I don’t pretend to be an expert in that area. It’s the eyes, though, that really haven’t changed, the same shitty brown eyes. Or is that just my own innate feelings coming through when I see that same inscrutable expression that makes you wonder if she is sizing you up for the kill? “Not long enough,” I half-mutter to myself, looking to Rachel for some kind of explanation, for God’s sake. Hopefully that the bitch is just passing through town and she felt sorry for her and invited her for a free meal. Hello, how are you, here’s your hat, what’s your hurry? Although somehow I know, judging from Rachel’s cheesy reaction, that it’s more than this. Much more than this. And I am almost afraid to find out just what it is. “I guess Rachel has told you that we are now fellow colleagues here at the Tribune?” she fairly crows. Which is news to me. The look I give Rachel is not a pleasant one. She looks like she wishes she were somewhere else, far, far away. And at just that moment, guess who walks up? I can hear his voice behind me. “Oh dear God, it lives. And here I assumed that it had died out years ago. Or hoped so, anyway. Still fighting anorexia, I see, Amy,” and he circles my waist with his arms, pointedly pulling me close to him as if to demonstrate complete ownership. Which I can’t quite blame him for, considering…. “Richard, you’re still here?” she purrs maliciously. “I would have thought that AIDS would have killed you off years ago. Or that Max might have gotten the good taste to tell you to go fuck yourself….”
36
Julie Lynn Hayes
March 4, 1977
GOD, how that voice takes me back, and not in any pleasant sort of way. The first time I ever heard it was back in about 1977. I think it was springtime; that sounds about right. Maybe March. Richard disappeared sometime in February, not for the first time, but it was his longest absence to date, and I was being rather sullen and uncommunicative on the whole. I wasn’t in school, I wasn’t working, and altogether I was a major mess. Adding to my anxiety, my mother was bombarding me with more dopey females than I knew what to do with—not that I wanted to do anything with them, mind you. But she never seemed to get the message. I knew that Rachel was concerned about me. She was juggling a full course load at Wash U herself, as well as a part-time job at Steak ’n Shake. But still she found time to drop by at odd hours of the day or night, trying to lighten my mood with tidbits of gossip and silly jokes, as well as the occasional bottle of wine. All to no avail. I clung to my moroseness with a vengeance, moaning about my lost mate and sobbing over his possible and probable infidelities. It was during this time that she began to talk about a classmate of hers, some girl who was studying to be an actress, by the name of Amy Rose Banneker. If I said that the wolf didn’t like her from the beginning, suspecting her inner nature and warning me not to trust her, well, I would plain be lying, ’cause that just wasn’t the case. Not even when I first met her face-to-face. Rachel and my mother must have been in some sort of cahoots, and Rachel must have mentioned bringing Amy over to meet me, because my mother jumped at the chance that I might be interested in someone of the female persuasion, so naturally Juliet said yes. She discreetly left the house, taking my thirteen-year-old half-sister Diana with her. I was in my room, lying on the bed, in my usual Rimbaudish posture, listening to some of my Johnny Lee Hooker albums and rereading for the hundredth time A Season in Hell. To make the picture complete, I had even gone so far as to don my angsty poet costume; I looked like a young Lord Byron with the open-throated white shirt, full-sleeved, soft fawn trousers, and half-boots, feeling quite sorry for myself and trying not to think of my fickle Richard.
To the Max
37
Suddenly, in walked Rachel and this strange girl. Right into my room. No knocking. No warning. No preliminary pleasantries. Just wham, bam, thank you, ma’am, as Mr. Bowie might say. Which did nothing to improve my mood. Rachel, I wouldn’t have minded so much. Her I was used to. But I wasn’t in the mood for a stranger. Rachel flopped down on top of me, straddling me without so much as a by-your-leave. I simply ignored her. She then proceeded to tickle me ruthlessly until I acknowledged her presence, glancing up from my volume. “Oh, when did you get here?” I asked with just the proper tone of disinterest. “Maxie, I want you to meet Amy,” she cooed, bending over me and staring intently into my eyes, crushing poor Rimbaud in the process. I clucked at her as I set the poor French poet to rights again, turning my eyes toward her companion. “Hello.” I remembered my manners. “Nice to meet you,” I greeted her in a deliberately deadpan voice. My first impression of Amy Banneker, once I had deigned to notice her, that is, was of a shy little blonde with a warm smile and a hesitant laugh. “Amy is an actress,” Rachel said, running her fingers lightly up and down my half-exposed chest, mostly to irritate me as well as to tickle me. She removed my book from my hands, glancing at the title and groaning softly. “You have a comment to make?” I asked snidely. “Yeah, but I’ll hold on to it for later,” she said. “You’re obviously holding a funeral service here, judging by the sounds I hear coming from your hi-fi.” Disdainful sniff. “You don’t know good music when you hear it.” “Haven’t heard it yet.” Obnoxious grin. “I like the blues, myself,” Amy interjected quietly, as if afraid that her opinion might offend one of us. I flashed a triumphant grin at Rachel. “I see you actually know someone else with taste,” I couldn’t resist saying. “More than I can say for you,” she added with a grin, which merely earned her a scowl at the unspoken reference to Richard.
38
Julie Lynn Hayes
I saw Rachel glance at Amy, and before I knew what the girl was about, she had reached out her hand and pulled Amy down on top of me as well. Damn, I swore as I felt the breath leaving my body in one fell swoop. The two girls merely giggled, despite my protestations that their combined weight was killing me. “We’re not getting off ’til you smile,” Rachel threatened, very knowing and very supercilious. That girl is nothing if not stubborn. And apparently so was her friend. And although I cursed Rachel a blue streak for ten full minutes, telling her what I intended to do to her and to any and all future progeny, they never budged an inch between them until I finally gave in, albeit ungraciously, allowing them to pull me from my prone position on the bed. And back to life. Thus ending my blue spell, at least temporarily. Rachel and Amy became my constant visitors. Not a day went by without either one or both of them making their way into my room to ensure I wasn’t sinking back into my old ways, my sullen behavior. If Rachel was otherwise occupied, Amy came, which I didn’t mind, as we had become fast friends. Which totally thrilled Juliet. She wore this amused smile when she passed me in our various wanderings about the house, even though I merely shook my head at her and said, “Still gay.” She didn’t want to hear it and greeted Amy’s arrival as if she were some sort of long-lost savior twice removed. Not having any sort of instinct where women were concerned, it therefore took me quite by surprise when Rachel took me aside one day—on a day when Amy didn’t accompany her—and told me with some concern that she thought that Amy was suffering from an impossibly unrequitable love. When I asked her for whom, she looked at me most gravely and said, “You.” “Me?” I fairly squeaked, looking at her as if she was daft. “You’re crazy!” “I wish I were,” Rachel sighed. “Has she told you so?” “No, she denies it, of course. But she talks about you all the time, and she has these weird dreams about you….” “No, tell me you’re kidding.” I looked at her in growing consternation. “She knows I’m gay, for Christ’s sake, and she knows
To the Max
39
that I’m… not available…?” “Yes, of course, but she has this idea.” Rachel took a deep breath. “That she is the one woman who is destined to turn you straight.” I yelped at that! Like I hadn’t heard that one before. Some women seem to think that their vaginas contain some sort of magical restorative power with the ability to change sexual preferences with a single fuck. I just hadn’t realized that Amy was one of these or that I was the object of her fantasy. “I like her as a friend,” I groaned, “but that’s it. End of story. This is the part where the hero rides off with the knight in shining armor, not with the fairy princess. She’s living in the wrong fairy tale.” Rachel just shook her head, tsk tsking. The first time that Amy tried to kiss me, I passed it off as a lark. After all, I kissed Rachel and never thought anything of it. Even Richard didn’t object to that, and he was known to be a bit of a jealous git. But Amy’s kiss was different; it hinted at other things to come, and it made me distinctly uncomfortable. I pushed her away, but as gently as I could. But it only got worse. Including the day she told me that she loved me. What does anybody say to a woman when they spill their heart and soul to you? Thank you sounds so cold, but anything more sounds like encouragement. Luckily I am not often faced with this situation, but even once is bad enough. The look in Amy’s eyes, though, when I had to explain that my heart belonged to someone else, even though he wasn’t around and might never be, was… well, it was chilling, to be honest. It actually set off alarms rather than arousing my sympathies. Like that feeling you get when you’re watching a horror movie and you know that the bad guy has just decided to do something particularly horrible to the hero. Not that I consider myself the hero or anything, this just happens to be my story, and not that I necessarily see Amy as a villainess, life isn’t necessarily as cut and dried as all that. I don’t know if I am making any sense or not right now, but she did set my teeth on edge with the look in her eyes. And maybe I should have been warier…. After that, I tried to avoid being alone with Amy, but it wasn’t easy. My mother had given her free run of the house, so she came and
40
Julie Lynn Hayes
went however she pleased, which meant I never knew when she would pop into my room. And I began to find strange messages in odd places, little scraps of paper with hearts drawn on them. Once there was a little picture of a wolf. I began to seriously worry. I hadn’t said anything to her; what did she know, or think that she knew? It was a lazy May evening, early in the month I think, a Saturday night. The weather was balmy and most pleasant. I spent the evening with Rachel, with no sign of Amy anywhere. We went to the movies to see the newest James Bond film: The Spy Who Loved Me. I have to admit that great moments in cinema it wasn’t, but Bond films are always enjoyable, and this one was no exception. There are those who argue that the only real James Bond is Sean Connery, and I admit that he was great, but I also happen to like Roger Moore, and so does Rachel, so that’s that. At any rate, we watched the movie, went out for ice cream afterward and then returned to our separate houses for the night. The weather was so nice that I opened my window, letting the breeze blow over my naked body as I lay alone in my bed. I was having trouble sleeping. I couldn’t get Richard out of my head. I missed him, and I wanted him. Even though I was hurt and angry, I still loved him and always would. Not a word had I heard from him, and he hadn’t left a note behind. He never did. But he was often the star attraction of my dreams each night, and most of them were of the erotic variety, where I would awaken to find myself in the midst of suddenly sticky sheets, to my chagrin. Rachel tried to interest me in other boys; I talked to them, occasionally went for coffee or something, but it just wasn’t the same. I loved Richard. He was my mate, my one true love. End of story. As a last resort, I decided to take a sleeping pill. They were my mother’s, actually, but she didn’t use them often herself, and I used them even less. I hated having to use artificial means to attain respite, but sometimes I just felt the need. After tossing and turning a bit longer, I fell into a troubled slumber at last. And then the dreams began. Richard, Richard, and again, Richard. One dream melding into the next, his handsome image always before me. Those beautiful, dark blue eyes that smoldered with such a fierce intensity whenever we made love, which was quite frequently. Those lush tresses I loved to touch, to grip, to caress. The most beautiful lips
To the Max
41
in the world, all mine—well, they should be all mine, God knew who was kissing them, who he was kissing, or worse…. Energetically bouncing about the bed, I kicked my sheet off, relegating it to the floor, but I never noticed. Richard was there. Richard was mine; he was murmuring words of love, eternal vows he swore he would never break. Passionate kisses fell on my love-fevered lips. He said he wanted to show me how much he loved me. Those talented lips began to travel south, down, down, down until they reached my nether regions, and I felt him take my erection—oh so anxiously awaiting his touch—into his mouth. How good he felt, how very much I had missed this. I moaned softly as he began to gently fellate me. How very, very real it seemed, almost intensely surreal…. A sudden flash of light seemed to fill my room. Confused, half asleep and groggy from the sleeping pill I had taken, I opened one eye, looking toward the door. There, to my utter amazement, stood none other than my Richard, my heart, my soul, my life! My sleepy brain registered his presence, although my sluggish body didn’t seem to understand or move. My heart filled to overflowing at the sight of him, even as I prepared to yell at him for his prolonged absence. But his attention seemed centered on something other than me, and following his line of sight, I glanced toward the foot of my bed, only to discover why my dream had seemed so very real. There, kneeling between my legs, with my hard cock in her mouth, was none other than Amy Rose Banneker herself. Do you remember that scene in The Rocky Horror Picture Show where they discover Janet and Rocky doing it in the tank? All right, technically, they did it in the tank, past tense, before they were discovered. And then everybody looks at everybody else, and they do the infamous Rocky Horror roll call (okay, shoot me, I’ve gone to see it live one too many times). Well, that’s what this reminded me of. I looked at Richard, he looked at Amy, she looked at me, and back and forth and back and forth, and for a few minutes we were a dumbfounded tableau set in stone, before I had the presence of mind to remove myself from her maw and back away from her, and my frozen tongue managed to thaw. “What the fuck?” (Yeah, I know, very articulate on my part). Amy was looking between me and Richard, and it occurred to me
42
Julie Lynn Hayes
that she had never even met him. “Who the fuck is this, Max, your new boyfriend?” she snarled in an uncharacteristically unpleasant manner. At least I thought it was uncharacteristic, but I turned out to be mistaken on that score. “No!” Richard responded before I had a chance to speak, “I’m his one and only boyfriend. Who the fuck are you, and why do you have his dick in your mouth?” Amy rose from her unflattering position, as if she wanted to launch herself at him, while I stared between the two of them in disbelief, not knowing whether I wanted to hit Richard, kiss Richard, hit Amy, yell at Amy, or run off and leave the two of them to deal with the situation themselves. First things first, though, and as they faced off, I quickly found my clothes and pulled them on, at least attaining a small measure of dignity for myself. “Oh ho,” Amy said, “so you are the bastard that left Max high and dry and wandered off to God knows where, are you? The infamous Richard Burke? Dick Burke? Your name is very fitting I see.” She moved closer and closer to him the whole time she ranted at him, while he on his part refused to back down, until they stood toe-to-toe, which was rather comical, as Richard stands some six foot plus, while Amy is about five foot nothing. “Don’t ever… call… me… that,” he warned her in a belligerent tone. “And you still haven’t explained your little cocksucking act or who the hell you are—” “I’m Max’s friend,” Amy replied, “my name is Amy Banneker, which you would know if you hadn’t taken your pathetic little show on the road and broken Max’s heart!” “I’m sorry, just how does that concern you?” Richard snarled at her. “And why exactly should I give a shit about what you think? And once again, just why were you sucking his cock?” My head was beginning to spin from all their fighting. And I hadn’t even gotten a proper kiss from Richard. Not that I should want one; I should have been angry with him. And I was definitely angry at Amy for what she had been doing. And dammit, I was sleepy and out of sorts and I didn’t particularly want to listen to this shit! “Can you two carry this on some other time?” I whined. “I’m
To the Max
43
tired and I want to go back to sleep!” Richard, my ever-solicitous lover, was instantly at my side. Which is where Amy tried to be, but he quickly elbowed her aside, hissing, “Back off, bitch!” “I missed you, Max,” Richard murmured as his lips brushed over mine ever-so-gently, his hands gripping mine tightly as if he intended never to let go of me again. I heard myself moan at his touch, whimpering in my neediness as my desire for sleep began to fall away. “I love you so much, Max,” he whispered against my cheek, his tongue licking at the corner of my mouth. I had damn near forgotten that anyone else was there, my eyes closing in utter bliss at Richard’s touch, his tender ministrations, until a sudden commotion caused me to open them, and I was just in time to see Richard elbow Amy as she apparently tried to draw too close to me. Just what I needed. A catfight. I groaned. I looked from one to the other. “Richard, Amy is a friend of Rachel’s,” I explained succinctly. “They go to the same school. Amy is studying to be an actress. Amy, Richard is my mate, my one true love. Yes, even now!” I held up one hand, cutting off what I knew was about to spill from her lips. Didn’t stop her. “But Max, he left you! He deserted you. What kind of love is that?” she asked, fixing me with the most soulful of looks as she tried to muscle her way to my bedside. But I knew that wasn’t going to happen, not with Richard there, guarding me like a mongrel with a bone. Not that I’m calling Richard a mongrel, mind you. Just an expression. I knew that I should be angry. I knew that I should be hurt, that I should be questioning him as to why, where, who, and what, how often, how much, in what positions—all the jealous questions that had been pounding in my brain ever since he left without so much as a by-yourleave. And now that he had returned in pretty much the same manner, I knew that I should turn him out of my bed, make him find someplace else to sleep until he had managed to beg my forgiveness in the most abjectly humble manner he could muster together. Make him grin and bear it. Suffer, bitch, suffer. But did I do it? Could I do it? Hell no.
44
Julie Lynn Hayes
From that point on, I’m not sure just exactly what happened to Amy. She apparently left while I wasn’t looking, or should I say that I wasn’t looking at anything but Richard. He reached for me, his lips becoming enmeshed with mine, and I clung to him with all my passion, leeching onto him like a medieval cure for the pox looking for a home to call its own. It had been far too long, and I had missed him far too much, and this was one damn horny werewolf. The rest of it sorta fell by the wayside as I let my second brain do the talking. I pulled him down on top of me, never releasing his lips, my hands grabbing the back of his head tightly, my fingers winding their way into his blond tresses in the tightest of grips, and I began to rub against him needily, noting with some satisfaction that his need for me equaled mine for him. Later on there would be recriminations, arguments, accusations, condemnations, and questions. Maybe. Or maybe I would just roll over and play dead like I always did. But for right then there was only Richard and me, and that’s the way it was meant to be. Making love—to the max—together again.
To the Max
45
Chapter 4 Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Fire?
RICHARD stands by the window of our bedroom, looking out into the backyard, which also just happens to contain the Missouri River, though from this level you can’t see it. He is nude and sweaty, drops of his sweat glisten on his bare chest, darkening the blond hair there, which even close up is barely visible and from a distance is nonexistent. I often tell him he has the body of a pre-pubescent boy. He invariably smiles at that. As I recline on our bed, equally nude, I unabashedly stare in admiration at his profile. Middle-age—if that is what we have come to, although I am not sure, for the definition of that word seems to change with the passing years, and what at one time was perceived as old and decrepit is now merely young and lovely—middle-age agrees with him. His abs are still well-defined, his stomach flat, and his gluteus maximus is superb; I can tell you that from personal experience, believe you me. He is just as beautiful now as he was the day I met him. Even more so, actually. He turns to me, pensive, thoughtful as he makes his way back to me. He stretches out beside me, propping up on one elbow to face me. “It looks like you’re stuck with the bitch for now, doesn’t it?” “Looks that way,” I agree, sighing heavily for the thousandth time. “God!” I groan, plopping myself on top of him, draping myself over his lovely body. “Maybe we should take a trip, go somewhere, do something?” “Let her scare us off? I don’t think so.” I roll him onto his back like a human Lincoln log, laying the brunt of my upper body against his chest, which earns me an exaggerated oompf, but he makes no move to chase me off, so I know he’s just playing. “Max….” He begins in that little boy tone of voice I know so well, and I can hear it coming, the continuation of what we started
46
Julie Lynn Hayes
before we started making love. My eyes turn inadvertently to my dresser where the culprit still lies: the note, the reading of which has so exasperated my lover. “You’re not going, are you?” “No, of course not,” I respond. “You know the last thing I want is to see her in any way, shape, or form. Okay?” “Okay.” He seems mollified as he reaches up and licks my chin. “You know she still wants you, don’t you?” I roll my eyes. “No, I don’t know that, and even if it’s true, that makes just one of us. You know better, don’t you? At least I should hope you do.” “I know that you don’t,” he admits as he rolls me back over so he can claim the upper position for himself. Always has to be the top dog, Richard does. “But her? Her I don’t trust any more now than I did then. I just find it hard to believe she’s really changed, no matter what Rachel says.” “I know, I know.” I attempt to assuage his tender feelings, but I don’t know what to think myself. It would be nice if things could be the way they were before, but that entails going back to the time before Richard’s reappearance, and I don’t want that, and anything after that is just… too… tangled…. May 8, 1977
I
WAS peacefully asleep, nay, blissfully asleep the morning after he
returned, content, sated, satisfied, filled, peaceful, and utterly happy— not to mention worn out, exhausted, and done in by the night’s events—which lasted all through the night and into the wee hours of the morning, if you catch my drift, and I think you do. Therefore I did not take kindly to having my slumber interrupted by a voice in my ear, a female voice at that, urgently whispering my name. “Max. Max!” Damnation. I stretched out one arm and was alarmed to feel nothing beside me. Shit, don’t tell me… but upon cracking open my eyes, I saw my lover’s clothes were still on top of the dresser where he had carelessly slung them the night before, so I knew he was still there. I breathed a quick sigh of relief before addressing my immediate problem. Rachel.
To the Max
47
“Rachel, what the hell’s wrong?” I mumbled sleepily, pulling my sheet closer to me, just in case she decided we needed to go somewhere and tried to pull it from my still nude body. “Max, wake up.” She shook my shoulder in a very persistent manner. I looked at her grumpily between slitted lids. “This better be damn good,” I warned her. “Max, I’ve just left Amy at my house. She’s crying her eyes out and will barely talk to me. All she told me is that you and her were… well, you were doing something I can’t believe you were doing, when some guy barged in and threatened to hurt you both unless she left. It’s taken me all day to get that much out of her, between her sobbing and telling me she should kill herself. Are you okay? What the hell is going on? And where’s this guy?” She had my attention now. I sat up in the bed, trying to gather my sleepy wits about me, as well as the rumpled still-sticky sheet. “She said what?” My brain was clearly not processing information correctly. “Slow down, slow down.” I heard the sound of a toilet flushing down the hall and water running, and seconds later my wayward lover himself stood in the doorway in all his glory, eyebrows raised curiously at us, and not even embarrassed in the slightest that Rachel was getting an eyeful of a sight that should be reserved for me and me alone. “What’s up?” he asked, posing like some sort of damn Playgirl centerfold. “Get over here under this sheet,” I directed him, “and quit trying to sell your wares, you little whore.” He only laughed and did as he was told, a first for him. “I should have guessed,” Rachel said, beginning to smile at both of us, watching as I curled around my lover and covered us both with the sheet. “Hello, Richard.” He only grinned at her. “Rachel said that Amy said that you were molesting me or something.” I deliberately left out the rest of it, knowing what his reaction to that would be. “Well, naturally, what red-blooded male wouldn’t?” He grinned, his arms going about me protectively. “Not just that,” Rachel insisted on continuing, “she also said that
48
Julie Lynn Hayes
she and Max were in the middle of a sex act? What’s up with that?” I blushed down to my very roots as Richard snorted indelicately. “Is that what she’s calling it? The truth of the matter is that she had his cock in her mouth and she was sucking him off when I came in!” “Max!” she stared at me in utter amazement. “No, no, no, don’t look at me like that!” I turned to Richard and punched him squarely in the shoulder. “You make it sound like it was consensual, you git; it’s not like I had any say-so in the matter, if you’ll recall.” I turned back to Rachel. “I woke up to find her… well….” I was trying to be delicate about the matter. After all, she was Rachel’s friend. “Are you telling me that Amy attacked you in your sleep?” she asked with a modicum of disbelief. “Exactly,” I responded, glad that I didn’t have to spell it out. It was embarrassing enough as it was, to be in such a compromising position, but with a girl, of all people? Sheesh! “Max, didn’t I tell you she’s in love with you?” she asked. “I know, I know,” I groaned, not wanting to hear it, but knowing it was true. And wondering just what the hell I was supposed to do about it….
NOW here it is, more than twenty years later, and she’s back to haunt our lives. But why? And why did that supposedly omnipotent creator with the warped sense of humor decide that it would be amusing to have her work with me, in the one job I have managed to hold and to enjoy for any length of time, I ask you? I wrap my legs about Richard’s, holding him as close to me as I can manage without occupying his skin. Not because I want to make love again, at least not right away, anyway, but because I feel the need to clamp onto him so tightly that he can’t get away from me ever again. Even after twenty years, his nomadic comings and goings cut through me like a damned knife in my heart. I never know when I’ll wake up some morning to find him gone, and it still hurts.
To the Max
49
He buries his head in the hollow at the base of my neck, his tongue laving the area almost roughly, his beautiful blond hair, still a rich lemon shade and still flowing down to his shoulders, falls about his face, and I run my fingers through the hirsute veil it presents. Why do I love him so fucking much when I can’t even count on him to be here for me, when I know for a fact that when he’s gone he’s fucking other guys? The fact that he doesn’t love them, he loves me, is totally immaterial when I’m lying alone in our bed, crying for him, my heart attempting to self-destruct to escape the complete and utter pain he brings upon it. Much less during the night of the full moon, although to give the devil his due, he does make more of an effort to be with me at those times, for the wolf without his mate is not a pleasant sight, let me tell you. And yet, even after all these years, I love Richard with a love which if anything has simply grown stronger. I know I’ll never give him up. Why kid myself? He knows it too; that’s why he feels free to play his stupid little games, for whatever reason, because he knows I’ll always take him back. Okay kids, how do we spell stupid? M-A-X! Let’s say it all together now! “Richard,” I begin, but just then the phone rings, breaking into my thoughts. He reaches for the cordless on the bedside table, looks at the caller ID and hands it to me without answering it, returning to his former position licking at my skin. I glance at the ID and press PHONE. “Hello, Rachel.” “Max, are you going to lunch with her?” That girl just does not beat around the bush. “No, I don’t think so,” I reply, looking at Richard as I do so, trying to keep my tone casual. “Max, she just wants to be friends. She isn’t still carrying the torch for you.” I can hear it in her voice. It is that persuasive, sensible Rachel, the one who knows more about the real world than simple little gay werewolf Max and he should listen to her advice. “Uh huh,” I respond noncommittally. “I just don’t see that as an option.” “’Cause of Richard?” she asks knowingly. “Yes, that is correct.”
50
Julie Lynn Hayes
“Bring him with you. In fact, I’ll come too. We’ll make it a foursome.” “My, doesn’t that sound lovely,” I respond in a toneless voice, as if I were some sort of human Dalek. Richard looks at me, gives me his I-know-what-you’re-up-to look. “She wants you to meet with the bitch, doesn’t she?” Thinking quickly, I open and close my mouth a few times, which only makes me look stupid and doesn’t fool Richard one bit. So finally I nod my head like a good boy. “You too,” I mouth, “and her too.” “Oh boy, sounds like fun,” he says sarcastically. All of a sudden, I feel him nipping at my skin, damn near biting me. “Hey!” I yelp in surprise. He only looks at me and grins. “Okay, tell Rachel we’ll come,” he announces, apparently spur of the moment. “What the fuck?” I ask him. “Why?” I can hear Rachel’s happy voice on the other end of the line: “Tell Richard thanks.” “Well, darling, I decided that if you’re going to have to see her at some point anyway, I’d rather have it happen while I’m around to make sure her lips don’t end up wrapped around your pretty little cock again,” he says with a smirk. “Very funny!” I make a small moue at him, which he quickly licks, and all my resolve begins to crumble under his wet assault. “Damn you, Richard,” I moan into his touch as he begins to kiss me in greater earnest. I forget everything but him as I fall under his magic spell once more. Do I never learn? Apparently not. “Who do you love?” he whispers to me, his lips warm upon mine, his hands running lightly up and down my spine and creating the most delicious electric sensations that course through me. “Tell me who you love.” “Richard,” I respond without hesitation, feeling the abovementioned prick beginning to rise to the occasion once again. “God, you drive me crazy.” “Short trip,” he automatically replies. I think this is where he takes the phone from my unresisting hand, whispers, “Bye, Rachel,” and clicks if off, tossing it carelessly onto the table once more.
To the Max
51
“Hey!” I protest. “That isn’t good for it.” But his lips still my words, and he makes me forget what I was going to say or what I might have been thinking, and it isn’t long before the old familiar tunnel vision is back, and all I see hear or feel is Richard Burke. I’m drowning in my desire for him, going down for the third time without even putting up a fight. Once more into the breach, my friends—to the max—and loving every minute of it.
52
Julie Lynn Hayes
Chapter 5 An Exercise in Optical Illusions
“I’M VERY glad that you’re seeing Amy again,” Juliet fairly purrs as she sets our mimosas on the breakfast table. She wears some weird kind of burgundy hostess gown which could double for one of the costumes from an off-off-off Broadway production of Romeo and Juliet, with long trailing sleeves and a train you could trip over: enter Lady Capulet, perhaps with Mercutio dancing attendance. Or a trained chimp, take your pick. Richard and I are merely there for breakfast, though occasionally we do spend the night. Juliet stopped trying to put Richard in a separate room years ago after I reminded her that he and I had been sharing a room under her roof almost from the time we met until we bought the cottage. Mothers and their malleable memories, the older they get, the more revisionist their history becomes. Mother has also given up on getting us to be discreet in front of the B-O-Y, as she so delicately spells it out to us, ever since Diana told her to step into the twenty-first century, please, the B-O-Y probably knows more about sex than the lot of us put together. Richard snickers, while I try not to laugh, but it isn’t easy. Leave it to my mother to get to the heart of any matter, never mind his knowing that I’m a werewolf, but heaven forbid he find out I’m gay. I haven’t said a word about Amy to her. Why would I? So I can only infer that the lovely Rachel has been talking to her. Is that some big surprise? No, not really. “Mother, I am not seeing Amy, and you know it. Never was.” I give her one of my looks: the reality check glare. “Hello? Remember Richard? That bloke sitting next to me? The man I wake up with every morning? News alert: gay werewolf here, not het.” Juliet merely laughs at this. She ruffles Richard’s hair as she passes by him, and he pinches her ass, which makes her squeal while I
To the Max
53
roll my eyes at them both. It’s not that Juliet doesn’t like Richard; she adores him, actually, and thinks he’s a lot of fun. But he’s just not acceptable as my life partner. Maybe temporarily, but not permanently. Like he is a phase I’m going through, one that I’ll get over, especially if she pretends the bond between us doesn’t exist. Well, this temporary bond is more than twenty years old and shows no sign of breaking, but then, neither does my mother. What can I say? I attempt to change the subject, sipping at my mimosa before I attack the delicious-looking French toast she has placed on the table. That woman is a good cook; I’ll give her that. I like to think I inherited her ability. I get no complaints from Richard, anyway. “Are you seeing anyone lately?” I know the answer to that, but at least it might distract her from her matchmaking efforts. No sense in having a preliminary bout before the main event, after all. “Maybe.” She smirks mysteriously, taking her place across from me. It’s just the three of us, Jackson long ago having gone to school and Diana doing God knows what in another room. I look at her piercingly, not having expected more than a perfunctory “no.” “Good for you, Juliet,” I hear Richard say, “you should go out more, show the world what a sexy beast you are.” I can only glare at him, but that doesn’t work as he isn’t looking at me. Damn, mothers aren’t supposed to be sexy, they’re… well, they’re mothers. I aim a swift kick at him, but he’s too fast for me, anticipating my movement and moving his endangered limb first. “Grow up, Max,” he chides me, showing off for my mother’s benefit. “Calm down, Max. You’ll be the first to know if and when there’s something to tell, I promise. Now, about Amy.” Damn, she’s a persistent little bulldog, isn’t she? I try not to groan too loudly but only manage to sound like I’m whimpering instead. Much better. “Don’t give me that look, Maximillian, and quit whining!” Jeez, am I forty or fourteen?
BY THE time Richard and I arrive, they are there already, waiting for us in a booth set back in the corner, which suits me just fine, I guess. Richard keeps a possessive hand on me at all times as we squeeze into
54
Julie Lynn Hayes
our side of the padded booth, and then proceeds to completely squash me by sitting almost on top of me. But his point is made, and I let it lie. In fact I rather enjoy it; it makes me feel very much wanted, and for a change, he is the jealous one. There is already a bottle of wine on the table, and I notice Amy has chosen a vintage I am particularly fond of, a blush Zinfandel from one of the Hermann wineries. As if she is atoning for something or apologizing in advance. Or just wanting to get us drunk. Which shouldn’t take too long, after having the mimosas at breakfast, I have to admit that Richard and I are feeling no pain and are almost giddy, having driven all the way down Highway 70 blasting the Starland Vocal Band over the speakers of my Monte—yes, I still have my ’76 Monte Carlo, and it is in mint condition—singing together about the wonders of afternoon delight. As if we were trying not to think about the coming ordeal. Or perhaps making plans for afterward. Rachel wastes no time in pouring some of the pretty pink liquid into our glasses, and I am not slow about drinking it down. At first there is a bit of an awkward silence. You know the kind: where everyone is waiting for someone else to say something inflammatory or stupid. Rachel’s eyes are keeping busy, ping-ponging back and forth among the three of us as if she is afraid that World War III is about to break out. Amy’s own eyes are cast down toward the table, but I can see her watching everything surreptitiously, stealing glances from the corner of her eyes, and Richard is amusing himself with the salt shaker, making rather a mess so that I am forced to slap his hand and give him one of my “looks” while I try not to giggle at the same time. (That would tend to dilute the message.) Amy breaks the silence, her voice soft and tremulous as she begins to speak, her brown eyes fixed soulfully on me, to my intense discomfort. “It’s really good to see you again, Max.” There is a small cough beside me. “You, too, Richard, of course,” she adds, but is it sincerity or an afterthought? “How is your photography going?” “Going well,” he says shortly, my man of few words. “How’s your acting career?” I feel the breeze from Rachel’s leg as she reaches out and kicks
To the Max
55
him. He acts as if he doesn’t feel a thing while I attempt to move on. “So, how did you come to be a writer?” I have such a way with words sometimes, it boggles the mind. I think so quickly on my feet— not! Amy ignores my pathetic attempt at whatever it is I am trying to do and delves into the heart of the matter with her usual tact and grace. “Before we go any farther,” she begins in her soft-spoken voice, “I want to apologize for the way I acted at the Tribune the other day. That was very rude of me and very uncalled for, and I’m sorry. To both of you.” She makes a point of including Richard in her apology, and Rachel beams at us both like a poster child for global harmony. I can’t fathom why she likes Amy so much, but this isn’t the time to dwell on that. Amy reaches out one hand, lays it gently atop one of mine, which I have heretofore been using to drum “Afternoon Delight” on the tabletop, before Richard territorially snatches it from her grasp. “Sorry,” she mumbles as her cheeks rival the wine for its rosy shade, and Rachel glares indignantly at my lover. I don’t remonstrate with him, though; I merely squeeze his hand and allow him to retain mine. We are in this together, and I feel the need to show him that I am on his side. “Thank you, Amy.” I try to be gracious and forgiving, ’cause I honestly have no wish to fight with her. The wolf is the aggressive one, not me, and I try not to give him free rein if I can help it. I have enough to do to keep Richard in check at times; I don’t need the added stress. “I guess you know that things didn’t work out for me, acting-wise that is. The soap and everything,” she continues, haltingly, as she reaches for her wine, downs what is left in her glass, then takes the bottle, and replenishes her courage. She looks so delicate and fragile that I am brought to mind of a baby chick I saw when I was just a young impressionable boy. It had been accidentally flung from the safety of its nest, perhaps by an overly rough wind, before it was ready to face the world, the poor bird’s skin so thin that I could trace the lines of its veins just beneath the surface, little protection from the harsh realities of life. Despite the best combined efforts of Juliet and myself, the poor chick didn’t make it, and its poor lifeless body haunted my dreams for months.
56
Julie Lynn Hayes
“I’m glad, though, in a way, ’cause it’s given me the chance to come home. Home to the people I care about. Home to start a new life.” Rachel smiles into the breach. “We’re glad you did, Amy. It’s good to see you again.” I wonder to myself if Rachel is really that naïve. Or am I just being cynical? Should I bury the past and move on? It’s not like Amy possibly really wants me still, regardless of what Richard thinks. I am just not that memorable. I know better, and I am not egotistical enough to think that I can inspire that sort of devotion, especially as I have never encouraged it. “It’s good to be back.” She half-smiles in return. “And it’s good to see that some things never change. There are things that you can actually count on.” I swear she is talking about Richard and me, but I can’t be sure, and I half-expect her to follow that up with a snide comment or question, something to the effect of “Richard, are you still fucking around on Max?” or “Nice hair, Richard. Live in the ’70s much?” Or something similar. Which doesn’t happen, of course. Mr. Paranoid, I am. I tell myself I should stop drinking as I pour myself and Richard another glass. Richard leans in to me, his breath warm against my ear. “Wanna dance?” he murmurs. I smell the sweetness of his exhalation in the air between us. I give him a sidelong glance. “This, my dear sir, is a restaurant, not a dancehall.” For some inexplicable reason that strikes me as incredibly funny, and I begin to giggle like a love-struck adolescent girl, which sets Richard to giggling as well, and we sit there and giggle at one another. Which sets Rachel off into gales of giggles. And then Amy. And before we know it, we are a table full of giggling fools. A mind is a terrible thing to waste, isn’t it? But faster than you can say Titanic, the ice is broken, for better or for worse. Another bottle of wine and no lunch later, you would think it’s a meeting of the sentimental claptrap society as we relax and exchange life experiences. Rachel, of course, is chock full of Gary Oldman stories; she keeps us up to date on everything we can possibly want to know about the actor, and maybe a few things we aren’t even wondering about, including but not limited to what films he is working on, his current marital status, and the beauty of his dreamy blue eyes as
To the Max
57
well as his incredible smile. Richard is not shy about bringing up guess-what-Max-did tales: some of which I have to admit are funny, all of them are true, and nothing I can’t live with, but I don’t care, and I let him rattle on to his heart’s content. Amy talks less than the rest of us, probably because Rachel and Richard between them tend to dominate the conversation. At some point I see that she grabs her cell phone and disappears for a few minutes, returning with a self-satisfied grin on her face, which I simply ignore, although I do notice her whispering into Rachel’s ear. I’m far too wrapped up in Richard to pay any real attention, to be honest. He is being so utterly attentive, and I am just eating it up. It’s as if he is determined to stake his claim before Amy and Rachel and the rest of the world. Not that he really needs to, for I am his in every sense of the word. Isn’t love grand? Every so often he simply leans over and kisses my ear, or my cheek, or pats my leg, smiling into my eyes. I bask in the glow of his love and become so wrapped up in him that I forget at times that we are not alone, much less whom we are sitting at the table with, until Rachel’s imitation of a whooping crane calls me back to reality once more, and I blush, and she laughs at me. Again. “Hey, there, you two, knock that off and c’mon, we have a surprise for you,” she giggles after a little bit as she and Amy begin to rise, a little unsteadily, from their side of the table. Richard and I exchange glances, not sure if this is a good or bad thing, but we shrug and obediently squirm out of the booth. Am I mistaken, or do I see smiles on the faces of some of the patrons as we pass by? Everybody loves a lover, don’t they? We squeeze between the tables and make our way out of the restaurant… …to find ourselves standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, face-to-face with a man in full livery, respectfully touching his cap. Behind him, gleaming as immaculately as a young girl’s first communion dress, is a huge white limousine. “Holy shit!” I swear inelegantly. “Surprise!” Rachel and Amy exclaim together, both of them pointing dramatically at the limo like they are auditioning to be showcase models on The Price is Right. The next thing I remember is the four of us sitting in the back of this limo as it tools around the streets of downtown St. Louis, drinking
58
Julie Lynn Hayes
expensive champagne and singing old Billy Joel songs at the top of our lungs. How do I know it’s expensive? ’Cause the label on the bottle screams pricy, that’s how I know. Mouton Rothschild, I think, although by now I would be more than happy with domestic. The vehicle’s tinted windows allow us to look out, but not others to see in, and we are like voyeurs on a voyage of discovery as we spy upon the local populace. Not that they are really doing anything all that interesting, but I guess when you are blasted, most everything is amusing. We crawl along Memorial Drive, caught up in the early rush hour traffic, past the infamous Gateway Arch, which draws our attention. How could it not? That thing is huge. “I need to go up in the Arch again. It’s been too long!” Amy exclaims. “What about you, Rachel, how long since you been up?” Rachel considers her words. “It’s been ages,” she agrees, “probably a few years, at least. What about you, Max? Richard?” He and I exchange glances. “Have you ever been?” I ask him, and he shakes his head. “Me either.” “What?” The girls seem outraged by our responses. “You’ve never been up in the Arch? You’re kidding, right?” “No, why should I? I live here.” The idea strikes me as absurd, Richard also apparently. After all, we’re not bloody tourists. We’re St. Louisans. The Arch is for visitors, not locals. “You should go,” Rachel says, and Amy reinforces her words with enthusiastic head-bobbing. “Sure, if you say so, maybe someday.” I try to placate her. “How about the art museum? Isn’t that a lovely place?” But they won’t allow the change of subject, to my chagrin. Dammit! “No, we have to take you up now!” Rachel insists. “Right now!” Amy seconds her, naturally. And they both look at Richard. I don’t need to look at him myself to know that he has a shit-eating grin on his face and why. “I don’t think you’re going to be able to talk Max into doing that,” he says with amusement. Amy, who is in the act of giving the driver instructions to pull into the Arch parking lot, stops and looks at him. “Why not?” She looks at me, confusion obvious in her eyes,
To the Max
59
which is mirrored in Rachel’s. Damn, he has a big mouth sometimes! “I am not a tourist, that’s why. Why don’t we do something else?” No use, they won’t give up. I sigh and give Richard a dark look, which he is far too oblivious and far too full of liquor to notice. He puts an arm about me, moving even closer to me on our seat, at the same time leaning confidentially toward the girls. “My poor little lamb doesn’t like heights,” he whispers quite loudly. At least I think it’s very loud, and I groan and look anywhere but at them. God, what next? The Max-is-a-bloody-werewolf talk? I look out the window, notice that we have stopped for a traffic light, and without thinking it through (a common failing of mine, in case you haven’t noticed), I open the door and hop out, feeling the need for some air. Okay, I’m feeling sorry for myself as well: poor little Max, picked on, as usual. I somehow manage to negotiate Memorial Drive without being killed, and I suddenly know where I am headed: to the river. I walk, albeit a bit shakily, across the Arch grounds in that general direction. Once I reach Wharf Street—sorry, Leonor K. Sullivan Boulevard now, isn’t it? Sometimes it is hard to teach an old wolf new street names—I weave my way in between the moving vehicles, dodging them (or are they dodging me?) until I reach the cobblestoned riverfront that is my destination, and I pause to glance into the less than clean waters of the mighty Mississippi, not knowing or caring what those I have left behind are doing or thinking. And as I stand there, watching the barges on their slow journeys down the river, my mind begins to drift…. Saturday evening, July 1976
SUMMERS in St. Louis can go one of two ways, either the weather can be incredibly balmy and pleasant, a joy to get out and about in, or it can be like living in a damn jungle, with killer humidity and vicious mosquitoes, some of which have been known to carry off small children. And you can get both types of weather in a single week, a single day, even. One of the more common sayings around here is that if you don’t like the weather in St. Louis, just wait a few minutes, it’ll
60
Julie Lynn Hayes
change. For all intents and purposes, Richard moved into my room at my mother’s house within a few days of our meeting. April 12, 1976, if you need the exact date. And yes, I know how anal that is of me to remember the precise day, but I don’t care. And yes, I know that it was very impetuous of me, but that is youth for you. It knows what it wants and goes after it. We thought we were being rather clever, too, in not informing my mother right away. Not that I thought she would mind, but it was more like a challenge to see how long we could keep his presence as a member of the household concealed from her. And the answer was not too damn long. She caught me sneaking his laundry in with mine one day (because, of course, I assumed she wouldn’t remember what my clothes looked like and would just accept his as mine) and, taking it from my hand, gave me one of those wise mother looks, you know the kind, the I-am-so-wise-you-are-so-lowly-I-am-such-a-martyr-why-do-Ieven-bother looks. But instead of lecturing me, she only said five words. “Max, do you love him?” “Yes, Mom, I do,” was my earnest reply. “Then let me do the laundry,” and that was all that was said at that point. The next day we went downstairs to find a place set for Richard for breakfast and my sister grinning at us in the most annoying way. At that time she was about thirteen and thought she was above using any sort of manners or decorum. “Maxie’s got a boyfriend!” she taunted me, sticking out her tongue all the way to the root. I started to push back my chair, intent on bare minimum pulling her hair—merely to get her attention, mind you—when my mother’s entrance put a stop to all that. She brought in whatever she had made for breakfast, told Diana to behave, and made a point of hugging Richard and giving him an extra large portion. If you’re baffled by this inexplicable behavior on the part of a woman who is in constant denial of my sexuality, then you are not alone. She adored Richard from the moment she met him. Everybody generally does, Amy being the exception, for obvious reasons. And yet she wishes I weren’t gay. Go figure. Anyway, once again I digress.
To the Max
61
This had been a particularly pleasant Saturday, and Richard and I had spent quite a bit of time adrift together on an inflated rubber raft in my mother’s amply proportioned in-ground swimming pool. I think that Johnny Weissmuller would have been at home in that pool. Juliet liked to refer to it as her “cement pond.” I told her she wasn’t funny. There was a soft comfortable breeze blowing across our bodies, clad as we were only in our manly swimming shorts and the sunscreen which we had slathered over one another. Richard, being a blond, is prone to burning, while I, being me, suffer from the same affliction. So we make sure we are well-protected before we venture out of doors for long periods. My mother not being home, I took the opportunity to crank up Tchaikovsky on her Kenwood stereo and open the doors. The hauntingly romantic “Romeo and Juliet” was playing, and I remember lying there in a half-dream state, one hand lightly resting on Richard’s chest, feeling the rising and falling of his even breathing, so completely enamored of him, and so completely content. For some reason, we wore sliced fruit over our closed eyes (no comments from the peanut gallery, please); I think it was something we had read in a magazine, but I have long since forgotten which one or what it was supposed to do for us, other than leave us smelling like British seamen. Normally Saturday night was our night to go dancing, to stretch our legs and show the world, well, part of it anyway, what we were made of. We made a good team, actually, and we had been working on several routines that never failed to impress people when we took them onto the dance floor. A regular Fred and Ginger we were—still are, if you want to know the truth—although the disco moves have had to be shelved for newer steps. Still, it’s all good. That day, though, we had decided we really didn’t want to do that, and we were satisfied to just float together in a blissful halfsomnolence, a pitcher of margaritas beside us to quench our thirst, too lazy to talk, too lazy even to make love, happy just to be with one another. Until, that is, Diana and her gang of adolescent cutthroat ninjas appeared on the scene, wearing their pink- and yellow-flowered bikinis, clutching their cheery beach towels, their portable radios tuned to the worst music they could possibly find, and all screeching like Valley girls on steroids. Not that they intended to actually swim, mind you. Heaven forbid that they should get wet. No, they wanted to lie about and chatter and gossip. I opened one eye, watching the invading horde
62
Julie Lynn Hayes
as it arrived. Richard paid them no attention, even when they clustered at the side of the pool and goggled at him openly, admiring his very nice physique. I could hear Diana in the background: “Don’t waste your time, they’re gay,” and the disappointed clucking of the hens around her. “Richard.” I rose up on one elbow, my fruit falling off onto the raft. “I think a road trip is in order.” “Why?” he asked lazily, rolling onto his side toward me, managing to never dislodge his limes. The man is the epitome of grace. I could just hear the sighs of the prepubescent bimbos as they watched his firm muscles ripple, and I suspected he would form the subject of more than a few romantic dreams that night. He moved closer to me, throwing one leg over mine, his lips brushing across mine. “You think of someplace new to make love in, sweet thing?” I swear he must have realized we weren’t alone and was showing off for my sister and her friends’ benefit. That man was and continues to be a major exhibitionist. It took all of my self-control to not respond to his touch, but I was too well aware of the proximity of all those voyeuristic female hormones, and I especially didn’t want to hear about it from Juliet when she found out that we had put on some sort of sexual display for their edification and enlightenment. I could hear her sarcastic voice: “What did you think you were doing, teaching Gay Sex 101 for Prepubescent Teens?” I didn’t think I really wanted to listen to that particular lecture, thank you. I removed the limes and tossed them aside—they were dried out anyway—and said simply, “Look around you, my love.” He obediently did as I asked and flashed the giggling girls a brilliant smile, which only set them off all the more. His whole divine Buddha inner serenity thing made me suspect that he was well aware of what he was doing, the ham. Diana took this moment to enlighten those who might still be oblivious to just who we were. “That’s my brother Max and his boyfriend Richard,” she said in the manner of a tour guide, offering us up as some sort of special exhibit. You know those kind of tours, where you endure the humdrum and the mundane just to get to the sight you’ve been promised will amaze and astound you. I think that was meant to be us.
To the Max
63
I do believe that under other circumstances, Richard would have taken a bow. As it was, he fluttered his fingers gaily at the teenyboppers, and they all heaved a collective sigh. That was when I decided that enough was enough. “Want to drive along the river?” I asked, knowing that he would say, “Yes, of course.” “Can we stop and get a bottle of wine for the trip?” he wanted to know, and without hesitation I said “yes.” “Well, then, shiver me timbers! Let’s scuttle this dingy and set sail in the SS Monte Carlo instead, shall we?” And he winked at me as he assumed his best piratic demeanor. I couldn’t keep from laughing at him as we paddled the raft to the side of the pool, salvaging both the pitcher and the vessel. We cut a swath through the scurvy knaves who, although obviously disappointed at our defection, quickly got over our departure and resumed their enthusiastic cackling. Safe at last in the privacy of our room, having disposed of the empty pitcher along the way, we donned our casual summer wear—cutoff shorts and T-shirts—and repaired to my beloved automobile. That car was, and still is, my pride and joy. I had fallen in love with her the first time I saw her on the car lot, and when my mother agreed to buy her for me, I was in heaven. I’m not sure why it is that I have designated her as female, considering my sexual assignment, it would seem logical to view the car as a male, as an extension of myself, but I have always thought of her that way. She is my Queen. Not a play on words, don’t laugh. She has a gleaming black body that, in the proper light, almost appears blue. Her hood sweeps up impressively in the most beautiful curved lines, with maroon accent stripes. She has square double headlights, which I prefer to the single round ones, and my mother graciously allowed me to have a state-ofthe-art Pioneer car stereo installed, with multiple speakers and a tape deck, which over the years has been replaced with a combination tape deck/CD player. I am fussier about her interior than I am about my own bedroom, and I even carry a waste container, although eating is normally verboten, and even Richard knows to be careful when I do allow him to eat inside of her. On the other hand, I trust him enough to allow him to drive when he wishes to, and tonight was one of those nights. He reached down and kissed me while taking the key ring from
64
Julie Lynn Hayes
my hand. “My tour,” was all he said in his oh-so-mysterious Richard manner. It was not unusual for the two of us to simply get in the car and drive—back then the price of gasoline was much more reasonable— and one of our favorite drives was along Highway 94, which winds through several Missouri counties, following the route of the Missouri River. This is the trail originally blazed by renowned explorers Meriwether Lewis and William Clark as they pushed westward into previously unexplored territory—unexplored by Europeans, that is— heading toward the Pacific Ocean. It isn’t surprising that I ended up buying a home along that same highway. For some reason I assumed that was where we were headed this lovely summer evening, but I soon found out that I was mistaken. Our first stop was at a local liquor store, a franchise which is now long dead but which at one time had stores all over the metropolitan area. Instead of wine, we opted for a bottle of apricot brandy instead. God, I loved the sweetness of that liqueur, especially on Richard’s lips and tongue, loved licking it from his bellybutton, off of his hard cock…. Okay, you see where I’m going with that. Anyway…. The summer sun was already low upon the horizon as we floated down Highway 270 to the sounds of Linda Ronstadt singing her greatest hits. I assumed that we would exit at Lindbergh and make our way toward the Great River Road, the scenic highway that paralleled the river on the Illinois side, along which the famous Piasa Bird could be found. I handed him the bottle of brandy to sip from, taking it back when he had gotten his drink, being careful not to make it too obvious, but perhaps not as cautious as we should have been, for we were reckless with the spirit of youth which believes itself to be invincible and above the mundane laws of common man. But I was mistaken as we passed the exit and continued northward. Feeling very affectionate, I rubbed my cheek up against Richard’s shoulder, almost purring. “Where we going, loverboy?” I cooed at him. He returned my look with one of bemusement, brushing his right hand across my left leg. “You’ll see,” was all he said Other than “more brandy, please,” which I gave to him via the bottle, though it crossed my mind that I would prefer to do it mouth-to-mouth, but that since he was driving at top speed down the highway, it was perhaps not the best
To the Max
65
nor safest idea at the moment. “You know it’s too late to see the Piasa Bird, it’s already dark?” “Yes, I noticed. My, you’re a quick one.” He grinned at me, and I rolled my eyes at him, flushing. “Quick enough to catch you, Mr. Burke!” I rejoined. “And here I thought that I was the one that picked you, Mr. Montague?” he teased, stroking my leg softly. I swallowed hard, reminding myself that there would be time for that later. A lot of time. My attention was diverted as he exited the highway onto Riverview Boulevard. Now I was really confused as to where he was going. We never drove in that particular area. Said confusion only got worse when he pulled off the road and away from the line of sight of any passing vehicles. He turned to me, placing his finger against his lips. “Be vewwy vewwwy qwiet,” he breathed in a loud stage whisper, “we’re hunting wabbit.” I stifled a giggle at his semi-serious demeanor. “Before we go,” he said in a more normal tone of voice, reaching for the bottle and taking a good drink, then handing it to me. I followed suit, letting the sweet liqueur flow down my throat before capping the bottle and setting it out of sight, under the seat. “Now what?” I asked. “Now follow me,” he said, opening the car door and sliding out, clutching my hand so that I had no choice but to follow him or risk being dragged out, careful not to get caught on the steering wheel. “Careful there, you’re bruising the merchandise,” I muttered under my breath. Once I exited the vehicle, I found myself ankle deep in dirty weeds and undergrowth. What the hell? I wondered as I looked around me. For just a second, as he started to pull me determinedly in one direction. “Richard, where are we going?” “I wanted to show you the river from a different angle,” he said vaguely. I didn’t like the sound of that, somehow. But my mind was a little befuddled by alcohol, so I just clutched Richard’s hand and followed him, although I didn’t like the way that the plants we passed attempted to make a play for my bare legs. I wondered if maybe we shouldn’t have brought some mosquito repellant, convinced that before we left this place I would be a mass of welts. Not a pleasant thought.
66
Julie Lynn Hayes
It wasn’t until we approached the rusty-looking chain-link fence that it all started to fall into place, and I was taken aback for a moment. “Richard?” I said uncertainly. He never slowed his steady pace even as he replied, “Yes, Max?” as we picked our way through the weeds. “Is this what I think it is?” “That depends. What do you think it is?” “The old Chain of Rocks Bridge.” “You are quite correct,” he confirmed my suspicions, “the one and only.” I instantly went on the defensive, beginning to pull back against his insistent pulling. “Richard,” I said in an unsure voice. He never slowed down, speaking to me as if I were a small child, “It’s okay, Max,” although he could not possibly have any inkling of what my concerns were, what was making my blood freeze even as I followed him rather unwillingly toward that old, dilapidated, ramshackle bridge. For those who are not familiar with this particular bridge, which I assume to be most of you, it stands at the confluence of the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers. At one time it was a part of Route 66 and tolls were collected on it. But as often happens in this world, it was replaced by something newer and more modern, the new 270 bridge, and the old bridge was closed and allowed to fall into disrepair. Which should have meant the end of the story, right? Left alone to moulder, abandoned, unnoticed. But for some reason, certain people have decided that it is a place to hang out or climb up on and do God knows what, and apparently my new lover was one of these thrill-seekers. While I, on the other hand—cautious, staid, sensible Max—well, let’s just say that I have no love for heights, none whatsoever. Add to that an irrational fear of old bridges and then tie on a phobia regarding drowning… well, you see my dilemma, surely? But how to explain that to Richard without coming off as some sort of a crybaby? I couldn’t, and I knew I couldn’t, so I reluctantly followed my lover and shivered internally. And prayed that this wasn’t going to really happen. (Well, obviously it did, or I wouldn’t be talking about it now,
To the Max
67
would I? My three worst nightmares rolled into one. Gawd!) The bridge was closed off with an old fence, overgrown with all manner of ugly-looking vines. “Well, that’s that, we can’t get in,” I said brightly, prepared to turn about. And run. Premature, I was. Unfortunately. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” he assured me, and I should have known better. That if there was a way to get around something, Richard Burke would know what it was. He certainly knows how to get around me, that’s for damn sure. He walked me directly to a portion of the fence I hadn’t noticed before, mainly ’cause I didn’t give a big damn, where someone had apparently used something to cut through the rusty metal, leaving a bit of a gap, obviously what was being used as an entrance. I looked at the fence, looked at Richard, looked back at the fence. “You’re kidding, right?” I asked hopefully. He shook his head, holding back the chain-link for me. I sighed. And I squeezed myself through the opening, swearing as I cut my leg on one of the links. “You okay?” he asked. “Peachy,” I said stubbornly, refusing to limp, although it did hurt. He came through the gap as well and put an arm around my waist, hugging me to him. “I bet you’ve never been up here, have you?” “No,” I said succinctly, leaving it at that. And thought to myself that left to my own devices, I never would. As soon as we set foot on the bridge itself, I felt stronger misgivings. My instincts told me to just walk off, get away from there. But my heart led me to follow Richard. I could tell, even in the starlight that was our only source of illumination, that the bridge wasn’t in good shape, but I had known that already, no big surprise there. The road bed was disheveled and torn, crumbled and decayed, and chunks were missing. Big chunks. It wasn’t until I accidentally kicked a piece of it with my foot, which sent it skittering, that I realized just how bad it was. The piece of concrete disappeared from view and after a few seconds, I heard a disturbing splash. Uh oh, I knew that wasn’t good. I kept a firm grip on Richard’s arm, and he laid a reassuring hand on mine as he guided me toward the railing of the bridge, skirting
68
Julie Lynn Hayes
another gaping hole. I was between a rock and a hard place now. As much as I wanted to stay away from those holes that provided a direct route to the Mississippi, that much did I want to stay away from the edge of the bridge where I could look straight down into those terrible dark waters beneath us. Damned if I did and damned if I didn’t. So I compromised and held onto Richard for dear life. He stood fearlessly by the bridge railing, gazing out at the river. At least, I assumed that was what he was doing, as I kept my attention focused on his arm and very little else. So I guess I missed the little gleam in his eyes that would have told me what he was up to when he drew me into his arms and began to kiss my neck, running his lips along it in the most tantalizing manner. Of all the places to make out, this had to be the worst. Not that I didn’t appreciate his touch, mind you, and under other circumstances, I would have responded enthusiastically. And returned his attentions with passionate fervor. But considering where we were and my intense fear of falling through one of those gaping holes in the roadbed into the river below, I think it not unreasonable to say that I was not my most responsive. To be even more honest, I was scared out of my mind, which managed to clear my head of the alcohol I had consumed, so that I was stone sober and too well aware of where I was. But Richard seemed to have other ideas. Of all the places to choose to be amorous! I groaned to myself as he continued his exploration of my neck with his tongue, his hands beginning to roam into places best left unexplored under the circumstances. “Richard,” I began, “maybe we can do this in the car….” Hoping that he would take me up on my offer. Or anywhere, actually, but here. At that time I would have done anything to get me off that bridge and back onto blessed land once more. I tried to edge in that direction, but since that entailed me actually moving and since walking backward was definitely not an option, I quickly gave that up. “You’re so sexy, my little wolf,” he murmured against my neck, and damned if I didn’t obligingly move my head to give him even better access when what I really wanted to do was to stop the madness, right now. But when his fingers began tugging at the waistband of my shorts, I knew I had to speak up.
To the Max
69
“Richard, what are you doing?” I moaned softly. “Oh dear, has it been that long that you don’t recognize what I’m doing?” he said in mock-horror. “I shall have to remedy that.” “I didn’t mean ‘what are you doing’, what are you doing. I mean, what are you doing as in what are you doing here? In this spot? As in why don’t we go back to the house and do that?” I tried to maneuver him so that I could hopefully walk him off the bridge, just not backward. I think maybe my nervousness was finally beginning to get through to him. “What’s the matter, babe?” he asked, although his hands continued to attempt to read my nether regions like he was a blind man and I was the most fascinating Braille book in the world. “Nothing,” I bluffed heartily. Well, that was how I wanted to sound. I’m afraid that I came off as a whining little child instead. “Don’t you find this fascinating?” He finally stopped groping me for a moment, but to my horror, he was dragging me toward one of the bigger holes in the bridge. “Being able to look down at the waters, thinking about what is down there? I hear there are catfish that live at the bottom of the river that grow to be thirty foot long. Imagine!” That didn’t help one bit, as now I had to contend with the image of being eaten by a thirty-foot catfish on top of all my other fears. And please don’t bother to give me lectures on the feeding habits of the freshwater catfish, ’cause I don’t want to hear it. All I could think of was watching Jaws with Rachel and not wanting to swim in the ocean for a long time afterward. Not that it was a problem, not much ocean in St. Louis, but that’s beside the point. Completely beside the point. I dug in with my heels as he attempted to move me, determined not to get any closer to that gaping hole of death than I could help. Well, dug in as well as tennis shoes can dig in, which isn’t very damn well. And he is a little bigger than me and has a little more heft to him, although he isn’t actually stronger. The wolf inside is deceptively strong; people are misled by my slim physique into thinking me weak, which I am not. That’s because the wolf causes me to have a high metabolism too. Anyway, I felt myself being pulled, and I guess I became somewhat paralyzed with fright, otherwise I should have been able to counter his force with plenty of my own. Instead, I began to
70
Julie Lynn Hayes
panic, seeing my life flash before my eyes, and thinking that there should be more of it to flash. I was only twenty at the time, a mere babe in the woods. Hardy har, very funny, I know, wolf reference. Get it? “Richard,” I heard myself whimper like a helpless little puppy, and I put an advanced stranglehold about his neck, damn near climbing up into his arms. That stopped him cold. “Max, whatever is wrong with you?” he asked, gazing in consternation into my eyes, which must have been wide in abject terror. If I were a braver man, or a more suave, debonair kind of guy, maybe I could have pulled it off, laughed my way out of the entire situation. And I wish I could tell you that I did. I could lie, but that wouldn’t change a thing, now would it? No, the closer he edged me toward that terrible chasm, the worse I got. I lost all my words and simply began to whine, until the light bulb went on in his blond head— that isn’t a dig by the way, ’cause he is an intelligent man—but he does have blond moments, I am afraid, and so do I. “Max?” he asked, looking at me in astonishment. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of heights?” “Okay, I won’t tell you then,” I replied, keeping my eyes riveted on his, not looking anywhere else but at him. This feeling of overwhelming fear was growing stronger by the second. I realized that it’s all in the mind, but my mind was set to explode any minute now. And then my beautiful lover did something I did not expect. Perhaps I should have; I’m not blind to his faults, I tend to overlook them, though. He is not a perfect person, and neither am I. But when he started laughing, I was taken aback. Seriously taken aback. He continued to hold me, or rather I was clinging to him like a tick on a mongrel’s belly. But at the same time, he had thrown back his head, and his laughter rang out rather loudly in the still summer night. And most insultingly. The only other sound was the chirruping of the katydids on the shore. And the beat of my thumping heart. Under other circumstances, I would have flounced indignantly off, but as it was, I couldn’t very well do that, now could I? So I sacrificed my dignity for the opportunity to not die in the waters of the mighty Mississippi. But I did the next thing that came to me and swatted him upside his head
To the Max
71
angrily. Which was a mistake, as without thinking, he pushed me away in retaliation, and to my horror, I felt myself falling backward. I didn’t even realize I knew that many prayers, but I started gabbling every single one I’d ever heard. Any faith, I didn’t care. Mentally, I said a quick good-bye as I fell: to Mom, to Rachel, Sebastian, Diana, Jackson—everyone but Richard, of course, as I was rather pissed off at him, as he was going to be the cause of my death, after all. I closed my eyes, imagining what it would be like to be swallowed up by those swelling waters, to disappear beneath the waves, never to reappear again, hopefully to be mourned by my survivors as I became fish food for pituitarily challenged icthywhatsises. Okay, that doesn’t make sense, but neither did I at that moment. And then he apparently made a grab for me and pulled me back and up into his arms once more as we fell back together onto the roadbed and onto our rumps. “Jesus, Max, I’m sorry!” I think he was almost as scared as I was; I could feel his heartbeat, a persistent rhythm which would have given Gene Krupa a run for his money in one of his best riffs. I didn’t want to look and see how close I had come to dying; I really didn’t want to know. I gave up any pretense at dignity and just clung to Richard for what I was worth, burying my face in his neck, my eyes closed tightly. How we got off that blasted bridge, I’ll never know, but I do know that I was never so grateful to feel the earth beneath my feet as when I was set down upon it once more, and I collapsed into a limp heap of mindless fear. I didn’t even mind that I was sitting in what was undoubtedly a patch of weeds, maybe even containing some poison ivy, to which I am allergic and would suffer the consequences from if that were indeed the case. I simply lay there, panting heavily, attempting to calm down, letting my blood pressure settle into double digits again. The next thing I knew I felt myself being scooped up into two strong arms—three guesses whose—and cradled against his chest in rather a tender fashion while he peppered my face with soft kisses and comforting sounds. I let my anger melt, admittedly overpowered by my need to be babied, as he whispered his sweet apologies and promised to never put me into that situation ever again….
72
Julie Lynn Hayes
ALL those memories run quickly through my mind as I stand beside the river, lost in thought and reminiscences. Angry, hurt, and miffed all at the same time. Sometimes that man can be so damn callous, it’s just painful. And yet, at other times, he is the kindest, sweetest, dearest man I know. I just wish he would show that side more often; it would save me a great deal of heartache. A hand touches my arm. Automatically assuming it is one of the homeless people who populate the downtown area, trying to beg enough to live on, I reach for my pocket, but the same hand stops me. “Max, it’s me,” and I turn to see my Richard standing there, looking quite contrite. “I was just playing, darling, I didn’t mean anything,” he assures me as he pulls me into his arms. It is on the tip of my tongue to tell him that his tactics won’t work, that I am incredibly hurt and pissed at him, but once again the lack of vertebrae stands me in poor stead as the spineless Max gives in. Again. Richard wraps himself around me and envelops me in the warmth of his love once more, and once more I melt like a bonbon over a bonfire, slithering bonelessly into his grasp and allowing him to take my lips in his, oblivious to the people who may or may not be around us in our general vicinity. I neither know nor care, all my attention centered on Richard once more. He is my sun, and I am his satellite; I am revolving around him like crazy. And then he begins singing softly in my ear, “Heaven, I’m in heaven….” and before I know it he is leading me in our Flying Down to Rio routine, right there along the banks of the Mississippi, as if only he and I exist in this world together. And after all these years, we are still light on our feet. I never mind playing Ginger to his Fred, after all, it is only a dance, though if I want to be completely honest with myself, it does mirror our relationship. He is invariably the one that leads, while I am content to follow in his footsteps. It isn’t until we finish and he dips me at the end that I become aware that we are not alone. The sound of applause brings me out of my trance to find that we now have an audience, smiling and cheering us on in our terpsichorean efforts, among whom I make out Rachel and Amy. I blush rather sweetly, while Richard simply soaks it all in as he
To the Max
73
brings me back up almost to a vertical position and kisses me, reminding me of that very famous photograph of the sailor kissing that woman at the announcement of VE day in the middle of Times Square, I think, if I haven’t confused it with another famous photograph. Anyway, he kisses me, and we are greeted with more applause, and whistles as well. To make a long story short—I know, too late—we kiss and make up, bid a fond farewell to Rachel and Amy, never discussing what happened between us, head for home… and have hot makeup sex. That is a given. I have no idea what Richard might have said to the girls once I left the limo, and I do not care, so I don’t ask. Besides, I know that Rachel will tell me later. Now here we are, warm and sweaty but very much content, our limbs entwined in a tangle of love. Hearts entwined—to the max—let tomorrow take care of itself.
74
Julie Lynn Hayes
Chapter 6 In Lupine Dreams
THERE is no definitive volume regarding the creature known as the werewolf, that denizen of the dark, that overused and underappreciated subject of author’s fantasies and filmmakers’ cinematic enterprises. No handbook to the care and feeding of said werewolf, no guide to understanding the complexities inherent in their makeup due to the very nature of what they become under the auspices of the evil Luna, that vicious bitch that grabs ahold and pulls your very soul apart without a second thought or a backward glance. There are books to help you tend to every species of animal known to man, from stem to stern, from A to Zed, from how to choose one to proper grooming once you choose, the right kind of chew toys as well as dietary hints, even breeding suggestions and ideas on how to get your animal a little action in the sack, laid out in very loving and affectionate terms with well-wishing for a long and prosperous relationship. For the werewolf there is nothing. I don’t count the elaborate tales woven around the beast and his monthly transformations, some better than others, but most penned from an outsider’s viewpoint and therefore to be taken with a big grain of sodium. Most of them bunk, but then what can you expect from someone who hasn’t experienced it firsthand? Certainly not any reasonable expectation of veracity. There are certainly none that take a sympathetic view of the trials and tribulations of life as a lycanthrope, at least none that I have discovered, nor that make any attempt to understand the need to seek harmony in a discordant life. Being a werewolf is a thankless task. Rachel has suggested on more than one occasion that I fill this vacancy, stop up this unpardonable gap in mankind’s knowledge and understanding of life as we know it by penning the authoritative werewolf book. Stop the presses, hold your breath, the truth is about to
To the Max
75
slap you in the face, are you ready for it? There are two big reasons that I don’t do as she suggests. One is obvious: do I really want to out myself in such a fashion, tell the world what I have managed to keep secret for more than forty years, subject myself to its reactions, possible scorn and contumely, if not worse, stir up the villagers to bring out their pitchforks and start molding their silver bullets for my pursuit (by the way, I don’t know if that silver bullet theory is accurate or not—that only one of those particular pieces of ammo can kill a werewolf—but I don’t intend to become a test subject in someone’s demented experiments to find out, thank you kindly). The other reason you may find somewhat more surprising: because, honestly, I don’t know. Not that I don’t know what it is like to be a werewolf, because I am a werewolf and this is my life, this is what I know. But when it comes to the wolf side of the equation, there it becomes a little vague, a little more cloudy and unsure. Almost as if I am viewing my life through a snow globe, which during the full moon becomes upended by someone and all the little bits of snow blur what I see and distort my field of vision. Let me try to make better sense of this; I know that is rather vague. At least, I will try to explain as much of it as I understand myself. Like I mentioned before, I was born this way, my father having been a werewolf himself, although how he came to be that way, I cannot tell you, as he did not stick around for the aftermath. Hit-andrun paternity. Juliet always told me I came out ahead on Father’s Day, ’cause I never had to bother with ugly ties or cheap cologne. Which I suppose is a plus. I never felt the need for a father, to be honest. I was content with my little family group the way it was: Mom, Diana, Sebastian, and me. My grandfather while he was alive. Maybe that sounds cold, but it’s the truth. So being born like this, I didn’t know any other way to be. It was just part of who I was and who I am and who I will always be. Naturally I don’t remember being an infant. Who does? But I believe that my transformations began as early as the first full moon that occurred after my birth, although as a wolf puppy I probably didn’t present much of a danger to my family. How Juliet realized during her
76
Julie Lynn Hayes
pregnancy that I was different, or in what way I was different, I do not know. I suppose I should ask her sometime, just to get a complete picture of my prenatal life. Someday I guess I shall. Just not today. Before I continue, I have a question for you: how many of you actually remember the Cold War? What it was, when it was, or even who it was? The Cold War was a paranoid period in American history, begun shortly after the conclusion of World War II, between us—us being the Americans—and them—them being the Russians, or Soviets. It is my belief that there are some people in this world who take their own impure thoughts and deeds and ascribe them to others, whether to appear less blameless themselves or merely to confuse the issue. The Cold War merely serves to reinforce my beliefs. There we were, waist-deep in nuclear bomb preparations of our own, as well as designing ways of killing more people more quickly, so when we thought we detected an increase in radiation in the vicinity of the Soviet Union, naturally we panicked and decided that they wanted to nuke us first. Said panic took the form of preparing for such an eventuality by encouraging the good citizens to build their own handy-dandy bomb shelters, in case of nuclear attack. Fallout shelters, bomb shelters, now even tornado shelters, a hole by any other name, just anything that was underground that would withstand the force of a nuclear blast and provide shelter until such time as it was safe to come aboveground again. Which hopefully there would be someone who would tell you when it was safe to come up again or else you’d end up sitting there twiddling your thumbs, wondering what was going on in the world above you, maybe for a very long time. Maybe for years even. Concrete, steel, varying sizes, shapes, and configurations, they all had in common that they were built strong and would include storage for provisions that would be needed both for sustenance during the crucial hiding period and for afterward for survival in the brave new world that would surely emerge from the aftermath of such a devastating unnatural occurrence. And now we come to the point of this mini-diatribe—yes, there is a point, o ye of little faith—in the backyard of my grandfather’s house in Webster Groves, Missouri, said house now being my mother’s, there was constructed in the early 1950s such a shelter for the benefit of my hysterical mother and her twin who
To the Max
77
swore that they were frightened of being ravished by the Russkies (honestly, people really talked like that!), and my grandfather gave in and had one built. Not that they ever used it, since it never came to that. Or even put provisions into it. That was something that always seemed able to wait. The point of what I am saying is that by the time I was born, the shelter was in place already and not being used. Can you maybe see where I am going with this? Baby… werewolf… every month a full moon, my God, what do we do with the boy/beast? Ah, the shades flutter up, and the light in the house can be seen. Very good. As I said, the baby wolf wasn’t a problem, although I am sure Juliet didn’t take me out in my pram and parade me in front of the neighbors, either, in my hairy little form. But she must have always realized that baby wolves, like human babies, do grow up, and need a safe place during their period of transition, both for themselves and for the general populace. That’s where the aforementioned bomb shelter comes in. Although constructed for an entirely different purpose, it just happened to be in place in my time of need. I guess you could call that serendipitous. I don’t. And I’m the one that had to put up with being in the bloody thing once a month from early childhood until I moved out on my own, when I bought my house at the age of about twenty-five, a period of roughly twenty years I’m guessing. Twelve times a year, more in case of damned blue moons, times twenty years, that’s two hundred and forty, give or take a few. That’s a lot of time spent in a small underground room, let me tell you. It seemed like more, believe me. I guess I shouldn’t complain. The alternative would have been worse, to loose me upon an unsuspecting world. Better that one man suffer for the good of many, I suppose. It’s not even that I was treated unkindly, or inhumanely, considering…. But I do not like confinement of any kind, I am afraid, and bomb shelters do not tend to be very roomy, if you know what I mean. When I was five, my mother sat me down, along with my cousin Sebastian, and explained to me the nature of the beast that lived within me. I had no preconceived ideas about werewolves at that young age,
78
Julie Lynn Hayes
had not even seen them in films, but Sebastian, being five years older than I, and incredibly more mature to my young mind, had a passing acquaintance with the idea and was suitably impressed. She swore him to secrecy, which he solemnly promised to uphold. And then she entrusted him with something very important: seeing that little Max was taken to the shelter every month at the proper time. My cousin seemed enchanted with the idea. Laying a protective arm on my shoulders, he said that he would take care of me, cross his heart and hope to die. I already adored Sebastian; he was my playmate and my guide. He always had time for me and never scolded. I never saw the side of him that the rest of the world saw: the broody, sullen child who became the dark, sometimes sinister young man. To me he was simply Bastian, my playmate. And thus our routine began. On the afternoon of the night of the full moon, Sebastian would come for me after lunch, and he would take my little hand in his, and we would kiss my mother good-bye and head out toward the backyard to our own private little play area, which is how I regarded the shelter at that time. And we would play together, sometimes games of war with our little army figures, or marbles—we each had our own drawstring bags full of aggies and nibblies and the like—or simple card games, like Old Maid or Go Fish. We had books to read as well, and often he read to me, although I was able to read myself, having precociously taught myself to read at the age of two. But I enjoyed listening to him and would sit in his lap, spellbound, while he read fairy tales of all sorts and adventure stories. Naturally Little Red Riding Hood was among the repertoire, and he would tell me in the most serious voice that the wolf in the story was my father, and for years I believed him until one day I asked my mother and she dispelled that particular myth. Yes, my father was a werewolf, but he wasn’t that particular werewolf. And that’s the way it was. And before the moon was completely full, my mother would come out to retrieve Sebastian, kissing me and calling me her little wolf, and tuck me up to sleep. I would be so tired from our play that I think I basically slept through the first few transformations. But later, I was awake for them, and I began to be aware of what they actually entailed. Imagine, if you will, what it must be like to change your whole
To the Max
79
physical structure. To actually become something else. Not another person, but an animal, a beast of the field. My bones feel as if they are being torn apart and reformed, a most painful feeling, very intense, which radiates through my entire skeleton, centering on my spinal column. My whole center of balance shifts, my inner equilibrium regroups as I change from a biped to a quadruped, my legs become even longer and quite sinewy, ending in four padded paws rather than hands and feet. The facial bones rearrange themselves, particularly the mandible and zygomatic bones as they reshape themselves to the contours of the wolf’s skull, the top of the skull flattens, which in itself is not a pleasant process and is particularly hard on the coronal suture. It’s little wonder that I often suffer from terrible headaches the next day. And once this amazing metamorphosis takes place and my own pale skin is covered with the thick fur of the wolf, then the final change, the ultimate indignity: from my cute little tailbone sprouts a long tail. And damn, I am here to tell you that that hurts. At about this point, though, my tale gets confused, for the mind of the wolf takes over the thought processes, becomes the commander of the vessel, so to speak, and I, Maximillian Montague, know no more until the next day when I return to consciousness and pray that the wolf has not been up to no good. Which is why the concern over having a safe place to go where the wolf cannot harm anyone. The theory is, fortified by various myths and legends, that the presence of a human being is anathema to the wolf and rather dangerous to the aforementioned person, involving pain, and biting, and bloodletting. Well, you can imagine what it involves, things I would just as soon avoid for my own sake as well as that of the beast which dwells within. That sort of behavior is likely to put you on the local radar, make you a target for hunters of all types, amateurs and professionals alike, another reason that I generally prefer to blend in with the background, unlike my flamboyant better half who seems to attract attention wherever he goes. There, I’ve mentioned Richard again. So sue me. I realize that this must be something of an anticlimax, as most of you were probably expecting lurid tales of blood and guts and howling at moon and the like, but I’m afraid that I can’t provide them for you. Although I cannot swear that I’ve never shed blood, at least I hope that
80
Julie Lynn Hayes
is not the case, and I have no memory of it, if so. I think I prefer it that way, if you must know the truth. Sometimes when I read in the paper after a full moon of a missing child or a dead pet found in someone’s yard, I have to wonder a bit, but then I remind myself that I stay safe and secure and away from mankind during the full phase of the selenic bitch. No, I don’t run back to Webster Groves once a month to use the bomb shelter; that would get old in a real hurry. One of the things I was looking for when searching for a home was a place that would replace Mother’s underground asylum for just that reason, and because I wanted to be self-sufficient as well. As selfsufficient as I could be, under the circumstances, as I still require locking in, but now I have Richard, who watches over me like a mother hen. When he is here. I use that phrase a lot, don’t I? Can’t help it; it’s the truth. As I grew older, Diana sometimes alternated with Sebastian, and even Rachel a few times, during my monthly ritual. Saturday, May 19, 1962
RACHEL. I still remember the first time I met Rachel. Or became aware of her, I should say, as she had lived next door to me all her life, but we had managed somehow to not cross paths. I was about six at the time, Rachel about the same, as we are only months apart in age. I didn’t spend a lot of time outside, as I mentioned before, what with piano lessons and homeschooling and not being naturally inclined in that direction. But my mother occasionally sent me out the door with instructions to get some air and behave myself, which was rather redundant as well as quite unnecessary, as I was the least likely child to cause trouble, I think. But I supposed it’s written in the bylaws for mothers somewhere, along with all the other little speeches and words of wisdom with which they regale us throughout our childhood, ranging from “Clean your plate” to “I’ll give you something to cry for” and everything else in between. I was lying in the grass, on this particular occasion, lost in the adventures of The Three Musketeers—yes, I was reading Dumas at that
To the Max
81
age—when a shadow fell over the pages. I squinted up in annoyance to see a little girl standing over me, regarding me curiously like some sort of new species of insect. I wasn’t used to being around other children, being homeschooled as I was, and I just looked back at her without saying anything. “Hey,” she greeted me, flopping down beside me on the grass. “Whatcha doing?” I looked from her to the book and back again, giving her a look like, isn’t it obvious? “You just move in?” she asked curiously. “No,” I replied disdainfully, “I’ve always lived here.” “Really? How come I never see you then?” Rachel was never one to beat around the bush, even as a child. I shrugged. “Maybe ’cause you aren’t looking in the right place,” I suggested, not looking up from my book. She laughed, pushing her face up against mine so that I had to notice her. “You’re in my way,” I pointed out. “I know,” she returned. “What’s your name? I’m Rachel.” “I’m Max.” I finally deigned to give her more than a cursory glance, as I realized she didn’t intend to leave any time soon. At that time she had light reddish-brown hair that fell down her back in a long ponytail and greenish-blue eyes. And the friendliest smile I had ever seen. I found it to be quite contagious, and I felt myself soon smiling back at her against my will. “You know what, Maxie?” she said—yes, that name came out of her lips the first time she met me—“I think we’re gonna be good friends!” “If you say so.” I was a bit more skeptical. My only friends were my family, which at that time was my mother, my grandfather, and my cousin Sebastian. “I say so.” She nodded with all the confidence that I came to realize was simply Rachel Sheldon. Even at that age, she was singleminded and opinionated. She quickly managed to charm my mother, who then welcomed her visits, encouraging her to come over as often
82
Julie Lynn Hayes
as she liked. And pretty soon she was a common sight in our household, traipsing in and out as if she lived there. Sebastian even treated her nicely, a first for him as he tended to be rather surly toward most people. Not that I realized that at the time, but as I grew up I became more aware of his anti-social attitudes. I hear you all now: what has this to do with werewolves and such, you’re blithering again. I know, I know. At any rate, it took me about six months to get around to telling Rachel my secret. I knew that I shouldn’t tell, because my mother had instilled that thought in me from my very early childhood. It was our special secret, “our” meaning “our family.” But haven’t you ever done something you were told not to? Of course, we all have. And I, not being a perfect child, did too. I remember her first reaction when I informed her that I was a werewolf. I was gratified at the look of interest that filled her eyes, as if she saw me in a new light or something. Which undoubtedly she did. After all, that isn’t something you hear every day, now is it? Yes, more tea would be lovely, hand me a biscuit, would you, old dear, and by the way I happen to be a werewolf? A bit out of the ordinary, you must admit.
WHEN Richard and I were house-hunting—well, more or less househunting, as we were actually just out along 94, enjoying the drive, and scouting out new locations to shag in (no comments, please)—we came upon this stone cottage, the one where we now reside, and besides the house, one of the first things that I noticed about it was that it had an outbuilding in the woods near the house, probably used for some type of storage. It was made of stone, too, and seemed to be rather secure. Another plus in my eyes, naturally. And another reason that I chose this to be my home. Mine and Richard’s. So, during my times of the month—and for all you out there who are snickering, quit it, the wolf doesn’t like it!—Richard accompanies me to that little shack in the woods. Yes, when he is there, of course, otherwise either Rachel or Sebastian does the honors for me. And whoever it is locks me in and I am left to my own devices. The wolf isn’t enamored of this idea, but tough shit. It’s better than letting him loose to do what he will, after all. I can only imagine what he does as it
To the Max
83
is, as the next morning I often wake up to find bruises and cuts all over myself as if he has been trying to escape his “imprisonment.” But that is a small price to pay for the security of knowing that I am not hurting anyone. And as I believe I mentioned once before, the wolf howls are not taken too seriously out here in the country as I am. When I was a boy, I couldn’t be heard outside of the bomb shelter itself, so that was not a problem. And the morning after, Richard comes to unlock my cage, helps me back to our house, tends to any cuts and/or bruises with soft words and iodine, ministering to my body’s needs before addressing those of my soul. Let me tell you, morning-after-full-moon sex is not easy, as I am often rather weary from my exertions from the night before and sore as well. But it is damn good! Sometimes it hurts to live life to the max, but Richard makes it all worthwhile.
84
Julie Lynn Hayes
Chapter 7 If It Quacks Like a Duck…
I
SIT wrapped up in my flannel bathrobe, comfortably ensconced on
my own couch, glancing over the morning paper. The Tribune, of course. Flannel is warm, by the way, so I don’t want to hear any old fogie cracks. The wolf doesn’t like to be cold and neither do I. I read the paper on a daily basis, naturally. I have to check that the typesetter has managed to get my column right, don’t I? And somewhere in the back of my mind I have this impossible dream that maybe someday they will change my name to its proper spelling, but so far that hasn’t happened. I think the error is here to stay. Heavy sigh. While I am doing this, my legs crossed comfortably while attempting to maintain a modicum of decorum, (translate that as trying to keep my rod and tackle from showing), my cup of coffee warming my free hand, I am trying not to pay too much attention to Sebastian and Diana, who are both here with me, while Richard is enjoying a shower in our room. Which is, in fact, where I would be myself, had not my sister and my cousin caught me just preparatory to entering into that fabulous water world with my lover, and why I am sitting here like this now while Richard does a solo and Diana tells me every so often to please close my legs, she doesn’t need a show. I just shrug and remind her that it’s her fault that I’m not washing Richard’s back at this moment, as well as other parts, and that shuts her up. At least for a little bit. Sebastian is leaning against the bookcase, smoking one of his little cigar things, whatever you call them. Cherry somethings I think they are. It’s an affectation he acquired in his teens. He had had his ass parked up against my piano until I told him in no uncertain terms to move it or lose it. Diana is doing the Diana thing; she paces back and forth over the carpet between us in her best imitation of an expectant father, because she can’t stand to sit still for long. Says it helps her think. And expend nervous energy. Whatever.
To the Max
85
“Max, are you even listening?” She comes to a halt in front of me, lucky me, dropping her hands onto the pages of my newspaper, so that I am forced to glance up at her since I can’t see through her. “I am now,” I reply, rustling the paper to shake her offending presence off it, which involves moving myself, and as a result, my robe slips a bit. A mini peepshow. She rolls her eyes at me, as I recinch it. “You’re getting as bad as him,” an obvious reference to Richard. “Nobody’s that bad,” Sebastian comments drily. I shoot him a dirty look, which he ignores. As always. But he’s right; my lover has a way of prancing about in the altogether, with little or no regard to who might be watching. Major exhibitionist, that one. Diana continues once more with her frantic pacing and her ranting, now that she has my attention again. “I mean, what the hell is she thinking about? Church of Divine Providence? Sounds like a traveling salvation show, if you ask me.” Sebastian snorts. “Maybe you should cut back on the Neil Diamond,” he recommends in his usual witty fashion. “It’s Amy that I don’t trust, myself. Why is Juliet even hanging out with her? And in a church of all places?” None of us is what I exactly call religious, certainly not my mother. “Exactly!” Diana waves her arms over her head as if she is trying to flag a cab. “Mother, in church? I can kinda sorta understand the Amy thing; she still has hopes that Max will decide that he prefers tacos to hot dogs, but not the church thing, not at all!” God, she can be so crude sometimes! And if you haven’t noticed, there is no love lost between my cousin and my lover. Diana loves Richard, to an extent, but she doesn’t like the way he treats me at times, the way he mysteriously disappears, which I have mentioned before. When he returns, and he invariably does return, she tends to cut him cold until he jollies her up again, which doesn’t take very long, using his patented tried-and-true glib-tongued Richard ways. Sebastian simply despises him, and the feeling is quite mutual. Which is another reason why when they showed up on our doorstep—fortunately just having missed the main event, just as we were about to step into the shower, having taken the pause that refreshes to enjoy some serious
86
Julie Lynn Hayes
cuddle-time—Richard kissed me sweetly, told me to have fun and to join him later, and disappeared into the bathroom. Which, at this rate, ain’t a happenin’ thing. Dammit. Sighing, I turn back to the want ads. Not that I am reading them, mind you, or even care about what is printed there, but it just happens to be the page I am on, and I would rather look like I am busy than participate in this mindless discussion of my mother and her strange ways. After all, I’m sure it’s just a phase she’s going through. Like her black light/strobe light phase, when she plastered the living room with those damn black light posters, all velvety and black-like and eerily Peter Maxian—primarily dragons and wizards, do you believe it?—and refused to have any sort of normal lighting. She damn near ruined my eyesight with those things. Ever try to focus on something when the world is coming at you in bursts of imagery that only last for the smallest fraction of a second? Not a pleasant thing, I assure you. Add to that her Pioneer stereo blasting “Whole Lotta Love” and I think you get the idea. “Do you think maybe Rachel goes there too?” Diana turns toward Sebastian now, to my relief. Go bother him, I think to myself, pretending to be engrossed in a multicolored insert/coupon advertising the grand opening of some brand new restaurant in Rock Hill. Nouveau Italian. Live music. Actually, it doesn’t look half bad, I think to myself, as I mentally picture Richard and me sitting at one of the tables, trying out new Sicilian dishes, with an Ezio Pinza-wannabe serenading us beside our table, when the paper flies out of my hands in a most vicious way. “What!” I look up at my sister, very annoyed. “Max, pay attention!” “Say something intelligent and I will!” I snap. Okay, I’m lying. I think that, but what I really say, being the wimp that I am, is, “I am listening. You just asked Bastian a question about Rachel. There.” And I stick my tongue out at her. Childish, yes. Satisfactory? Maybe a little. “And you heard his reply, did you?” “Um… er… well….” She has me there. And I can’t even hide behind the paper now. Damn. I sigh, caught red-handed. “All right, all right, what did dear Sebastian say?” I spit out in my best Max-is-
To the Max
87
exasperated voice. “Max, you have no concept of the real world do you?” Diana sputters, which has nothing to do with anything we have been talking about. My wonderfully illogical sister. “God almighty, how long have you known Rachel, and I bet you still don’t know that Sebastian is doing her, and has been for years?” Whoa! Now this gets my attention. I mean, what the fuck? What the fuck? My eyes grow to be the size of planets as I turn my gaze on Sebastian. He doesn’t even have the grace to be embarrassed at being found out, standing there with his backside pressed up against my books, talking about shagging my best friend (other than Richard, but let’s not muddy the waters at this moment). Damnation! “Max, we’re both of age,” he points out. “And then some.” I don’t care. How can I not know this? What, has it been carried out in some sort of covert plan, Operation Keep Max in the Dark? Clandestine meetings, furtive gropings… my mind refuses to carry on that line of thought, it’s too… too… creepy. “You… and… you… and… Rachel… and… you….” I stammer idiotically. Diana shoots Sebastian a little conspiratorial look. What, are they children? Just then my better half appears from out of our room, having given up on me, I suppose, or deciding that he doesn’t wish to get pruney waiting for me, dressed in his own bathrobe, which is the mate of mine (I know, aren’t we so cute?), and he proceeds to flop down beside me on the couch, tossing his feet into my lap without so much as a by-your-leave. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” he shoots out as he watches me do my flounder imitation. God, I just love his tender moments. Before I can respond, Diana interjects. “Max just found out that Rachel and Sebastian are friends with benefits.” I can see my lover’s eyebrows shoot up at the news. Good, I’m not the only one here that didn’t know. “Interesting,” is his only comment. “We’re off the main topic here.” Sebastian sticks in his penny’s worth—I don’t give him credit for having two cents at this point. “Let’s
88
Julie Lynn Hayes
stick to what we were talking about originally, before we were interrupted.” This is a jibe against Richard, of course, and not even true, we got offtrack long before he appeared. But any chance to get a jab in. “Yes, back to Juliet. And Amy,” Diana agrees. Again Richard’s eyebrows shoot up as he looks at me curiously. I know what he is asking tacitly: what is your crazy family up to now? I shrug at him. “Don’t you think we should stop this churchgoing thing?” Diana continues, as if we have never stopped talking about it. “Hello? Churchgoing thing?” Richard asks. “Apparently Juliet is attending some weird church with Amy now,” I fill my lover in, giving him that what-can-you-do look. “And that’s bad why?” Sebastian snorts disdainfully but doesn’t deign to reply, his notso-subtle way of saying none of your business. Diana is nicer. “Because I know there’s got to be a catch,” she insists excitedly, “there’s something wrong with the idea. I know you don’t trust Amy, do you?” “Of course not.” “Have you ever known her to be religious in any way? And here she is, acting all holier than thou, and she drags Mother off a few times a week to this Church of Divine Providence. I mean, come on, going on Sunday would be bad enough, but who goes to church more than once a week?” There she goes again, using her hands and arms to punctuate her words, like some kind of demented octopus. “You’ve got a point there, Di,” Richard admits. Diana flashes a triumphant look at Sebastian. “I already agreed with you; don’t look at me like that!” he addresses her, ignoring Richard. “Tell Maxie, not me!” I counter her next words. “Look, until you have something more concrete to go on than the fact that she takes Mother to church a few times a week, I don’t think there’s anything to be done about it. Mother’s a big girl; she can do what she wants.” I shake my head, determined to not let them gaslight me. “And besides that, I want to
To the Max
89
talk about you and Rachel!” I glare at Sebastian. Sebastian pushes himself off from my bookcase, which only sets me to smoldering again. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he says flippantly. “Really, Max, you need to grow up!” Normally he is very protective of me, Sebastian is, but today he is simply acerbic. “You can’t drop a bomb on me that size and not expect me to want to at least discuss it!” I protest. But my protests are largely disregarded, as usual. “Max, this is precisely why we didn’t tell you,” Sebastian goes on in that oh-so-smug professorial voice he adopts when he is acting superior. “We knew you wouldn’t handle it well.” “We? We?” I mimicked him, pitching my normally baritone voice into a sarcastic falsetto. “Oh, we’re a couple now, are we?” And I’m not even sure now why it is that I am so upset. Is it more because of what they have apparently done, or the fact that they have chosen to hide it from me? Hello? Max here, best friend, cousin, remember me? Why the secrecy, the furtiveness? And how stupid must I be to never have noticed? I am becoming increasingly more agitated. Naturally. Allowing the wolf a little more leeway than I should. Ready to blow a major head gasket with little provocation. At this rate, I’ll develop high blood pressure before I hit fifty. Pissing and moaning about fidelity and honor and the nobility of the human spirit. And so on and so forth. Etcetera, etcetera. Until suddenly I become aware of Richard’s rather furtive movements which have heretofore been masked by my great distraction. His bare toes have been messing around with the tie of my robe while I have been ranting and raving, and he has managed to, with a rather prehensile ability, loosen it, snaking his foot inside the folds until it has come to rest on a portion of my anatomy which has just sent a notification to my brain that the flag has been raised and is standing at full mast. Oh damn, that feels good. I stop speaking mid-sentence, swallowing hard and trying to not appear as if I am in the process of being foot-fucked, but I am fairly sure that the mindless look of pleasure plastered on my face gives that particular game away. That and maybe the whimpering sounds that are emanating from the back of my throat.
90
Julie Lynn Hayes
“Want to take a shower, Max?” The lecherous tones of my lover merely serve to enhance my state of extreme neediness as I slowly become oblivious to everyone and everything else. It is my sister who catches on first. I think she is more highly attuned to that sort of thing. Or maybe it simply runs in the family. “C’mon, Sebastian,” she says, motioning to him as she scoops up her purse from the floor by the piano, “I’ll let you take me out to breakfast.” “Breakfast? Didn’t you eat before you left home?” he asks, then, “Ohh, yeah, okay,” as she catches his eye, making a crude gesture with her fingers: the universal symbol of getting laid. Doing the dirty deed. Laying pipe. Whatever. They are almost out the door when my sister has a sudden thought, turning abruptly, causing Sebastian to damn near collide with her. “Max, come to the church with me,” she entreats me, “help me find out what’s going on.” “Um… no.” That’s all the breath I am willing to waste on the idea. Richard only shakes his head before she can think to ask him, rubbing against my hard-on even more blatantly. Damn, are they still here? Diana sighs. “Twenty years later and you two are still at it? Jeez!” But I can detect a distinct note of admiration and some jealousy in her tone. “Take Sebastian!” I manage to croak out in my best Kermit voice. At this point, I think they finally leave, although I don’t recall saying good-bye to either one of them or hearing the front door slam shut behind them. But I’m fairly sure they are gone. At least I hope so. All my being is centered now on those talented digits that are causing me to rapidly lose my command of the English language, albeit in a very pleasant way. The next thing I do remember is having my robe slipped off my back and tossed carelessly aside, where it is joined by Richard’s—I’m guessing that they hit the floor together, if not, perhaps they’ve landed on top of the piano—and he is straddling my lap, his lips burning a message into my own, while his amazingly hard cock is pressed against mine in an all-consuming urgency, as if the message has just arrived
To the Max
91
that the world is going to end in the next twenty minutes so you better fuck as if your life depends on it. This is better. I moan into his lips, grabbing at those surfer-blond tresses, winding them through my fingers and holding them hard, pushing his head up against mine, the better to taste his lips. He moves his hands between us, spitting into his palms first, cupping both our erections together, grinding them against one another as he rubs them both, increasing the friction between our cocks ’til it is nigh unbearable. Oh God, that feels so good! “Shower time, Max,” he whispers into my kiss as he withdraws himself from my embrace. The sudden absence of his warm body leaves a chilly vacuum in its place, and we all know that nature abhors a vacuum. My body rises, not of its own volition, but as if being pulled on an invisible string, made to dance by the master puppeteer—can we say whipped, boys and girls?—and yet I follow him willingly, gladly, eagerly. Whither thou goest, I will go. ’Til death do us part. No-holds-barred loving, to the max, and making no secret of it.
92
Julie Lynn Hayes
Chapter 8 Descent into the Maelstrom
I PUSH the button marked 3 and watch the doors laboriously clang shut with a sound like the closing of a coffin lid. I am alone in this oversized gunmetal-gray elevator, everyone else having started their work day already. I am not actually here to work, though, hence having waited for a more reasonable hour than dawn in which to arrive. Or eight a.m., actually. No, I am not here to work today; I am here to interrogate. Richard and I have come together, but he is allowing me some time to get past the preliminaries, rather than coming up with me immediately, heading toward a local bookshop that is within close walking distance of the office. We know the owner pretty well, he has a wonderful selection of used books, many of which now grace my bookshelves, and in the back of his store he has a private reading room with more adult material, where my lover has gone to buy us some inspiration for later on. Sometimes we read erotic stories to one another in the privacy of our bedroom, recreating the more interesting parts, or simply looking for new ideas to experiment with. One of our favorite authors is Bob Vickery. Damn, his stories are hot, and we find them to be a great source of pleasure (read: wanking material). Third floor, time to exit. The city room, at least this portion of it, where the various people who work under Rachel’s watchful eye congregate, is its usual busy self. Always something to be done, papers to be processed, people to talk to, deadlines to meet. I’m glad that I’m not a part of this madness. My lifestyle suits me just fine. For the most part, that is. Rachel’s office is located near mine, which means I have to traverse the entire room before I reach it, and hopefully Amy won’t be at her desk. I have no time for her now. The first desk I pass belongs to my friend Maggie. Maggie is a sweet girl, fresh from journalism school, eager and enthusiastic. She wears a shy smile as she greets everyone who enters these premises, a
To the Max
93
far cry from the snarling young man who held that position before her. He needed to be muzzled, seriously. His people skills were virtually nonexistent; he acted like he was doing you a favor if he even deigned to speak to you, and as for answering the phone, well, that just seemed to be too much to ask of him, not to mention that he spent most of his time playing games on his cell phone. I suspect that’s what he is doing even to this day. Maggie, on the other hand, is a breath of fresh air and a pure delight to talk to. She has a warm smile for my lover when he accompanies me, and the two of them waste no time in launching into enthusiastic discussions of their favorite topics from Doctor Who to Blackadder to Father Ted. They love them all and never tire of talking about them. Or watching them. It’s not unusual for us to go to Maggie’s place, or her to come to ours, to watch movies and eat popcorn. And yes, they do call it a sleepover, even as old as we are, but so what? We have fun. Richard has promised Maggie that he will take her to Archon some day, and I hope that he does. I’m sure that they’ll have fun. Whenever I go into the office, I bring something extra for Maggie, a little something special. Today is no exception. I reach into my pocket, produce a bag of Jelly Babies, and give them to her with a smile. “Thanks, Max.” She blushes prettily, taking the sweets into her hand. “You’re the best.” I look warily across the room. “Is the dragon lady in?” I ask. “Nope, haven’t seen her,” Maggie replies. “Isn’t Richard with you today?” She sounds a little disappointed, and I try to hide my grin. My, my, how the ladies love Richard, even the ones who know that he’s gay. He just seems to attract them, like he’s got his very own groupies. I don’t mind a bit. It’s not the girls that bother me. Those I can handle. It’s the guys that find him attractive that disturb me. But I’d rather not go there right now, so I’ll move on. “Richard’s coming in a bit,” I reassure her, and her sunny smile returns. “You don’t think I’d forget to bring your boyfriend, do you?” I tease her. “Max, you’re so funny!” She giggles, holding out the bag of Jelly Babies to offer me one. I take one, popping the sweet into my mouth, sucking on it for a moment. “Tell him I got a new Doctor Who book, if he wants to read it. It’s a sixthy.” (This is her code for sixth Doctor, Colin Baker).
94
Julie Lynn Hayes
“Tell him yourself; you know you want to. He won’t be too long. Is Rachel busy?” Maggie shrugs. “She’s in. I dunno if she’s busy or not. Go on back, why dontcha?” “I think I will, thanks.” As I pass beside her desk, I lean in a bit so that I can whisper confidentially into her ear, “If you’re going to steal Richard away from me, I think I should warn you: he snores.” This sets Maggie off into peals of laughter. She just shakes her head at me, blushing severely. Oh yes, I know she’s got it for him bad. It’s a standing joke between us. She actually has no interest in dating at the moment, though, focusing on her job and her own writing. Someday she’ll be a published writer, I know, she’s that good. “Max, you’re a riot.” She grins. “Maybe you guys can come over this weekend, watch some DVDs? We can order in some Chinese.” “Sounds good to me,” I agree. “We’ll bring dessert. What would you like me to make?” “Anything you make is good, surprise me. As long as it has chocolate in it.” “I knew that, didn’t I?” I laugh, walking away from the desk, waving my fingers behind me. Okay, next step: confront Rachel and see what the hell has been going on behind my back. And why. Her door is closed, but that never stops me. I stand at the door for a moment, taking advantage of the wolf’s keen hearing to listen for the sound of voices. I think I hear a man’s voice, but it’s muffled, and I can’t be sure. Oh well, what the hell. I open the door and quietly let myself in. Rachel is there, just as Maggie said, transfixed in front of her computer monitor, which I can’t see from this angle. I wonder if perhaps she is watching a late breaking news story, as she seems rather intent upon the screen. Maybe someone died? Or some nation has gone to war? So engrossed is she that she doesn’t notice my entrance, in fact. But when I walk around behind her desk, I quickly discover why: there on the screen I see one crazy fucked-up DEA agent, popping pills and going on about how he likes Beethoven. I should have known. She’s watching The Professional. Again.
To the Max
95
Realizing that she still isn’t aware of my presence, I lean close to her and whisper in her ear, “What are we watching?” and am rewarded for my efforts when she jumps so suddenly she rams her head into my jaw, causing me to bite my own tongue. Damn, that hurts. “Max!” She glares at me. “That’s not funny! Hope it hurt!” She feels about on her scalp for injuries, while I run my tongue around the inside of my mouth, checking for blood. There isn’t any, luckily. “Yes, it does,” I reassure her. “It’s not my fault you’ve got your head shoved so far up Gary Oldman’s ass that you didn’t hear me come in!” I add in my wounded voice. “Where should my head be, up your ass?” she asks flippantly, swiveling to face me, satisfied that she is indeed not injured, grinning now. A typical Rachel shit-eating grin. “No, but maybe it should be up Sebastian’s?” I say archly, giving her a knowing look. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She scowls, but something in my expression must tell the story, ’cause she stops pretending. “Oh,” she says softly, obviously at a loss for words. “Oh,” I repeat sarcastically. I fold my arms across my chest, giving her a combination injured/aggravated/putout look. “You’re upset with me.” She states the obvious. I don’t say a word, let my eyes do the talking. “Max,” she says softly, “it’s not like we’re in love or anything. He’s just a friend.” “A friend with benefits,” I add snarkily. “I knew you wouldn’t take it well. Why do you think I never told you?” Maybe she’s right, but that doesn’t make it any better. She looks up at me, pleading with her eyes to have me make some attempt at understanding. “Sometimes people want someone to be with, but they don’t want or need to get permanently involved.” “Hmmm,” I grunt noncommittally. “And sometimes people can’t have the ones they really want to be with….” “Hmmmm.”
96
Julie Lynn Hayes
“Max, be fair, what would you have said if I had ever told you I wanted to make love to you?” “What?” The word becomes a cross between a yelp and a gulp and manages to register in the high soprano range. “C’mere.” She beckons me, patting her lap. I give her a look like “you gotta be kidding me,” but she tugs on my hand until I give in and sit gingerly across her legs. “Relax, you don’t weigh that much,” she reassures me, putting her arms around me and hugging me tight. This reminds me of sitting on St. Nick’s lap when I was seven, excitedly telling him about all the great things I want for Christmas, most of which I don’t even remember any more. Well, it ain’t Christmas, I ain’t a kid, and she ain’t St. Nick. Excuse my grammar. “Max, you know I love you,” Rachel says softly, her lips as close to my ear as she can get so that I can’t possibly miss her words. I nod stubbornly, not giving her the satisfaction of hearing the words returned, although she knows I do. Very much. “Well, Max,” she sighs, exhaling gently, “Sebastian is about as close to you as I can get.” If I had turned my neck any faster, I think I’d have broken it. Rachel is blushing, her eyes boring straight into mine, unflinchingly, as I stare back at her, slack-jawed. “Um… unh… ah… .” “She means that if she can’t get you, she’ll fuck your cousin and pretend it’s you.” We both jump at the voice. How can I have forgotten that Richard wasn’t far behind me? Not that I wouldn’t have told him anyway, as I tell him everything. But at the moment, for this moment, anyway, we look and/or feel like children caught doing something naughty. He, on the other hand, simply looks bemused and very worldly-wise, leaning in the door frame, holding a bag of books undoubtedly pornographic in nature, and looking incredibly hot, as usual. Coming into Rachel’s office, he closes the door behind him, something I apparently have neglected to do, and closes the little set of blinds on the window so no one can peek in now. Why, I don’t know. He saunters across the room toward us, and damned if he doesn’t make that simple action seem like the most sensual movement in the world. I am still sitting in Rachel’s lap, not having moved a muscle. Richard
To the Max
97
perches on the edge of the desk just beside us, regarding us both with what appears to be a great deal of tenderness. On my part, I am merely confused. I’m not even sure what Rachel is. “We’re all adults here,” Richard says softly. “Let’s deal with this in an adult manner, shall we?” “There’s nothing to deal with,” Rachel maintains. “What do you mean?” I ask. “Rachel does love you, Max, and she does want you, and I can’t blame her for that. You’re incredibly sexy, you know, not to mention you’re smart and sweet and loving and kind…” I feel my face turning ten different shades of scarlet. “…and you are the best lover in the world.” Oh my God, is Richard actually saying these things? Or have I died and gone to heaven and don’t know it? Rachel hasn’t denied a thing. I don’t think she can actually; her face serves to confirm Richard’s words. I feel like my brain has been turned into the little bits of cotton that they stuff inside of medicine bottles, and any coherent thoughts I might have are muffled inside. “But Rachel is a sensible girl, and she realizes that she can never have you, not only because you’re gay, but because you’ve chosen your mate, and you are committed to me for life. So she does the next best thing, don’t you, Rachel?” Rachel sighs, a plaintive little sound that goes straight to my heart. How could I not realize that she loved me like that? Is Max the word for dense in some foreign tongue? It must be, ’cause I surely am. But there’s nothing I can do about it, as Richard has just pointed out. Not only am I gay, but I am his forever, his alone. It’s what werewolves do. They mate for life. It’s unfortunate that I can’t get him to reciprocate the constancy with which I reward him. At this moment, though, I am feeling utterly perplexed, baffled, and more than a little confused. And maybe a little heartsore too. “So, for just this one moment,” Richard continues—for some reason he seems to be orchestrating whatever is happening between the three of us, although I am not even sure what that is—“for this one time, and this time only, I shall allow her to have that which she cannot ever have again, but for which she so desperately yearns.” I think neither one of us is sure what he is saying, to be honest.
98
Julie Lynn Hayes
Does he expect me to fuck her, just ’cause he tells me to? Just ’cause she wants it? I can’t. I mean, she’s Rachel, for Christ’s sake. She’s a girl, even worse. And she’s not Richard. “No, Max, not sex,” he reassures me, smiling. What, is he a mind reader now? “Just a kiss, but a good kiss, the kind that you do so well, my love. Something that she can remember for the rest of her life.” His eyes move back and forth between us, as if taking our measure, and then I am looking at Rachel, and she is looking at me, and we are looking at one another. I feel incredibly silly. Like a hormonal teenager who wants to get kissed and who doesn’t have a clue as to what to do. Like it’s my first time, for Christ’s sake. And I think maybe Rachel feels the same way too. But suddenly I begin to see what Richard is getting at, and I sense a certain maturity in my mate that I haven’t noticed before. Maybe he’s changing for the better? I dunno, but as I consider the possibility, I decide to do as he suggests. And I don’t think that Rachel will object; at least, I have the feeling she is amenable to the idea. From my perch atop her lap, I turn my head, leaning in to her. She obligingly maneuvers hers. I hope we don’t look like we are auditioning for some amateur porno. America’s Worst Porn Videos. I wonder if I’ll even remember what to do? Well, lips are lips are lips. Right? More or less. Our lips meet somewhere in the middle, I feel hers parting, mine seem to follow suit, and I just convince myself that I am kissing Richard, so it makes it more palatable as our lips meet under Richard’s watchful guidance. Our arms decide to add to the mix and just seem to wind about each other’s necks as we deepen the kiss. I even imagine that I feel the tip of her tongue exploring my lips in a tentative manner. And suddenly, unbidden, even as I think to myself, so this is what a woman feels like—and I have to admit that I am not singularly impressed—an image begins to flicker within my mind, a memory that stops and starts, and stops and starts again. Like a scene from a movie that has been looped and keeps playing itself out, over and over and over. I try to switch it off, but it refuses to quit running. What is it that is trying to push itself forward into my consciousness? And what in heaven’s name has triggered it?
To the Max
99
Damn, this is so annoying. At this rate, I’ll end up with a killer headache, I know. And then suddenly I remember. And oh dear God, I realize that this is not the first time that I’ve kissed a woman. There was one other time, a long, long time ago. Years and years and years ago. And God forgive me, it was Amy. Heading backward to the max and falling straight into the seventh level of hell.
100
Julie Lynn Hayes
Chapter 9 Into the Slipstream
Saturday, February 5, 1977
RICHARD left me, of all times, on the day of the night of the full moon. I wouldn’t have believed him to be capable of such a thing. But, apparently, he was. ’Cause he did it. I mean, how could he do that? How could he be so cruel? Anytime would have been bad enough, but to choose to leave on that night of all nights? The one night of the month when I am the most vulnerable, when I am so damn needy and so damn dependent on him? But he apparently didn’t take any of that into consideration, or he simply didn’t care. And when you come right down to it, does it matter what the reason is? The result is the same. And the aftermath still has to be dealt with. The next morning I came to consciousness very slowly and very painfully. Not that I’ve never awakened to the self-inflicted bruises and bites and scratches of the wolf before, in his attempts to vent some sort of bloodlust upon the unsuspecting human world, frustrated because of his inability to reach that same human world, but this was worse, far worse. Every muscle I possessed ached, including a few I wasn’t aware that I even had. My knuckles were swollen and torn, laid open almost to the bone it felt like, and they screamed at me when I attempted to flex them in any way. My arms were simply a mass of purple/black discolorations and tooth marks between the bruises and the bites, as if the wolf had tried to gnaw its arm off in frustration. Even my feet hurt, probably from kicking at the heavy door in an attempt to escape the bomb shelter. And my head—my head was throbbing a discordant rhythm that centered behind the bridge of my nose and snaked its way through my sinus cavity to engulf my entire pate with the most excruciating torturous pain.
To the Max
101
Everything I was, every single part of me screamed in agony. But the part that screamed the loudest was my heart. Do you want to know what the absolute worst thing of all was? What made me wince every time I thought about it, what caused me to try to tear my heart from my breast, as if to offer it up in some sort of Aztecan sacrifice, anything to stop this exquisite pain that threatened to engulf me in its maw? It was this: Friday morning, I was sleeping in, conserving my energy for the coming night. The better rested I am, the better chance I have at maintaining some level of control over my other self. Richard had gotten up early for a change, having had to do an early morning shoot. He was just getting started with his photography then and had to take any job he could, otherwise he’d never have arisen at such a beastly time. I’d offered to go with him, but he insisted that I rest, that he’d be back before I was up, and I took advantage of his thoughtfulness to do just that, confident in his ability to handle the Monte without me. I’m not even sure at what unholy hour he arose, but I knew he had to be somewhere at dawn, so it must have been damn early. And it was still dark when he returned. Which return I became aware of when I felt a wet tongue sliding into my ear and a warm hand embracing my sleeping cock. “Richard?” I murmured sleepily. “Who else, love?” he whispered warmly in my ear, taking my earlobe into his mouth, sucking on it, his hand wrapping about my growing erection, as I thought to myself what a very nice way this was to be awakened. “Mmmm,” I responded, moving my dick into his palm more, loving the way his hand felt, thinking that when I woke up a little more, I would grab me a piece of his own very lovely meat. The next moment I found myself bereft of all my sheets and blankets, unceremoniously stripped from my naked form, leaving me shivering in my birthday suit. Helluva way to wake up. But before I could complain about being cold, the linens were replaced with a soft warm body as my lover straddled my torso, dry-humping my stomach with his stiff prick as he moved up my body, past my chest and neck, his balls slapping softly against my chin as he rubbed his leaking hardness across my lips, asking for admission, which of course was
102
Julie Lynn Hayes
granted. I opened my lips, taking that beautiful cock into my mouth eagerly, sucking at that delicious flesh, the taste of which was so familiar to me, swallowing the pre-cum that leaked from it. My Richard is very well hung, more so than I am, and his dick is quite beautiful to behold, as well as to consume. When he is turgid, the veins swell along the underside like blue ropes, while his balls are two tasty little sacs of creamy flesh, lightly haired, just right for cradling in one’s mouth. Greedily I slurped at my breakfast treat, fully awake now, making whimpering noises around his cock that only served as a mini-echo chamber, enhancing the vibrations. I knew what Richard liked; we’d been together nearly a year by then and had had lots of time to explore one another most thoroughly: likes, dislikes, favorite positions, favorite rituals, etc. So when he unexpectedly removed himself from my mouth, I started to whine like a spoiled puppy. He shushed me. “Move down will you, dear, and hand me up one of the pillows?” I grumpily did as he requested, sliding my body down a little bit, handing him the pillow, which he proceeded to slide beneath my hips before changing his position about so that not only was his cock back within reach of my eager mouth, but his own mouth was directly above mine. I quit complaining as I began to see what he had in mind, and in my eagerness to accommodate him, accidentally kicked the small beaded lamp that sat on my bedside table, sending it crashing to the floor. Richard shushed me again. “You’ll have your whole family in here, and this is not a sight I wish to share with them.” Chastened, I attempted to calm down, busying myself with that pretty pink object dangling just above me. I took him back into my mouth, gripping his ass with my fingers, stroking his perineum gently as I attempted to suck him to orgasm. He, on the other hand, after first running his tongue over my pucker, stuck a couple of his fingers in his mouth, and once they were sufficiently moistened, proceeded to insert them, one by one, into my anal orifice, sending the most wonderful sensations rocketing through my body. I shuddered at his touch, moaned happily around his cock, while wishing for the umpteenth time that we had a place of our own where we would be free from the fear of familial intrusion. That dream, alas, was still a few years away.
To the Max
103
Oh dear God, what was he doing? Using his fingers to stretch my opening, he added his tongue to the mix, thrusting it inside of me like a mini-prick, and I couldn’t help but arch my back, it felt so damn good. This was something new, and my first reaction was an enthusiastic yes! I almost bit into his cock in my eagerness but managed to merely graze it with my teeth. “Like that, do we?” he purred, burying his nose in the crease of my thigh, his fingers corkscrewing my asshole most pleasurably, while I, concentrating on sucking him off, mumbled my response into his cock. I’m afraid there were no actual words, just animal sounds. He ran his tongue up along my sensitive skin, before moving back to my anus, blowing across it gently, cooly. I realized that he had recently eaten something pepperminty; its tingliness only served to drive me crazier. It was becoming harder to concentrate on what I was doing, and I did want to do justice to my craft. “Maxie, Maxie, Maxie,” he murmured into my orifice, before plunging his tongue in once again, and God, how I moaned, like an animal in fucking heat, pushing against his face urgently, desperately almost. His free hand snaked up to my erection, and he began to stroke it, setting a rhythm that matched that of his tongue. Damn, my concentration had definitely been broken, and his poor neglected cock lay inside my mouth, unattended. This was too good, too good, too good…. I gave myself over to the sheer pleasure of his tongue fucking my ass and his hand pumping my erection, bombarded with sensations right and left and every which way. I felt my balls grow tight, impatient to release their load, and although I wanted this to last forever, I knew it couldn’t possibly, but still…. Was there anything in the world at that moment but me and Richard and this incredible feeling between us? I didn’t think so. About then it was that I reached the edge of the precipice, stood there for a moment and then jumped off, plunging straight into my orgasm, shooting my load all over his hand as I felt his tongue hit my sweet spot, and only his hard-on in my mouth kept me from screaming his name loud enough to bring the whole household down around us. Instead the vibrations were constrained by his willing flesh. Which I remembered was being sadly neglected as I resumed my ministrations, feeling his cock touch the back of my throat, proud of my ability to
104
Julie Lynn Hayes
deep-throat my lovely one. Suck harder, harder, I urged myself, so very anxious to please. I was still coming down from my high when I felt him go, filling my mouth with his fluid, bucking up into my mouth as he spasmed, fiercely shaking with the force of his orgasm. I suckled at him greedily, drinking every last drop that issued from his pulsing prick. Mine, all mine. Until at last we both lay there, gulping air as if it were in danger of being rationed, quite sated and very content. Richard moved first, reversing his position and crawling up beside me, claiming my lips and kissing me as if he were imprinting me, as if pressing his own personal signature on me so that everyone could see that I belonged to him and him alone. If I had only known…. “Love you, Max,” he whispered heatedly into my mouth. My very own Benedict Arnold. With his very own lying lips. He must have known, even then. He had to. And still, he spoke those words. “Max, I love you so much.” I told him how much I loved him; I cooed all over him, groveled for him, abased myself in every conceivable way with my protestations of my undying devotion and affection… well, you get the idea. About that time, my sister knocked at my door to tell me that Rachel was on the phone. I guess the timing could have been worse. Reluctantly, I threw on a pair of pants, kissed Richard sweetly, and left to see what she wanted, returning within a few minutes. “Rach is having car problems; want to go get her with me?” He looked as if he might, as if he were actually considering the question, but then he shook his head. “No, you go ahead,” he said. “You don’t need me for that.” I demurred, protesting that I needed him for everything, but finally I decided that I was wasting more time arguing the point. “I won’t be long,” I promised, leaning over him, requesting a kiss, which he freely gave. Again his lips tightly pressed against mine, so hard he took my breath away. Damn, I was obtuse. “Love you, Max,” he repeated as I threw on shoes and a shirt. I stood in the doorway for a last lingering look, blew him a kiss, and then I was gone.
To the Max
105
And by the time I returned, a mere forty-five minutes later, he was gone. I knew it as soon as I came into my bedroom. Not just because he wasn’t there, not just because his personal items were missing. But it was as if something had been sucked out of the room, something vital, a piece of my life had just gone missing, and there was a black hole in my heart that was consuming all the happiness that had been mine such a short time before, grinding it into so much dust, turning it to bile in my throat. I looked about my room—so empty now, so barren of his being— and I sank to my knees, my eyes already stinging with hot tears, and the wolf and I howled together in great pain. Words of love, softly spoken, what did they really mean? Apparently not very damn much. My mother tried, my sister tried, my cousin tried, and Rachel tried, but nothing they could say or do could assuage that incredible pain. I was not to be comforted. The wolf was too strong, and he was both hurt and pissed. So I grabbed a bottle of Absolut out of my mother’s cabinet and took to my room, locked my door, and drank myself into a sorry mess. That night, Juliet was kind enough to perform the locking-in duties for my sorry ass. And how very sorry I was indeed. A complete sodden heap of self-pity, self-loathing, and shameless weeping. Carrying on like a hormonal teenager—which I wasn’t far from anyway, being not yet twenty-one—I had cried my heart out all day, curled up on my bed, keening and wailing like a Jewish widow. The wolf howled his pain into my very heart, and together we rocked back and forth, mourning the loss of our faithless lover. Telling ourselves what a complete and utter bastard he was. Heartless, cold, vicious, callous. Mean, evil, stupid…. God, how much I missed him and wanted nothing more than to crawl into his arms and hide away forever from reality. Mother hugged me before she left me. I am sure she was concerned, but I was sunk too far into my own misery to be very aware of anything or anyone else. And when the moon reached her maddening zenith and the transformation began, for once I welcomed the chance to
106
Julie Lynn Hayes
slip into oblivion, to forget about life for a while. Until the next morning, when I began to wonder just what I had missed. I lay on the bed, not moving for a very long time, not wishing to move, not sure how well I actually could. But what did it matter, anyway? Where was I going? What was I going to do that couldn’t wait? Nothing waiting for me. No one. Descent into pity. And a deep, abiding pain. I didn’t look up when I heard the opening of the heavy door, the sound of footsteps descending the steps. I couldn’t even be sure what time it was, but I knew that I had been lying there for awhile. The next thing I was aware of was a pressure on the bed, as of someone sitting near me. For a split second, I wondered…. But no. It’s Rachel’s soft voice I heard, her startled gasp as she took in my appearance, her gentle hands I felt lifting my head, very gingerly, and setting it into her lap. “Oh Max,” she breathed very softly. I made no reply. I just let myself be tended to like a little baby. I couldn’t feel. I didn’t want to feel. I refused to feel. Saturday, March 19, 1977
SIX weeks had passed. Life went on, more or less. My wounds had healed, at least the outer ones, leaving a minimum of scarring. Rachel forced me out of my room at last and introduced me to Amy. They dragged me about from place to place like the bastard child at a family reunion. Juliet refrained from setting me up on those miserable blind dates, at least temporarily. I knew that wouldn’t last, but I didn’t care enough to think about it either. Sebastian dragged me out into the real world, too, found me a part-time job working at a grocery store, bagging groceries. I knew that wouldn’t last either, but what did I care? Diana encouraged me to play the piano; if it wasn’t for her, I probably wouldn’t have touched the damn thing, for I now had too many memories of Richard tied up in it. But I did it to please my little sister, my fingers unwillingly spilling out my beloved Beethoven, Bach, and Grainger. And no one mentioned his name, not once, not ever, deliberately avoiding the subject as if it were number one on the list of
To the Max
107
things not to talk about. Which I suppose it was, at least for them. It didn’t matter; it didn’t really help. I thought about him all the time anyway. Thought and wondered and told myself not to feel anything. Convinced myself that I didn’t feel anything anymore, that I was beyond all that. I was strong. I was a werewolf. That was enough to deal with. I shouldn’t care about, wouldn’t care about such mundane things as… love. Damn, who did I think I was fooling anyway? Another Saturday night, one no different from another. No discodancing now. No Fred and Ginger. I worked in the morning, got my paycheck, put most of it into savings—it was a habit now, saving up for that dream home, even though I had stopped looking for one—just took out a little bit for gas and sundries. Particularly liquid sundries. Yes, I was aware I drank too much, but I didn’t care. I had promised Rachel that I would go out with her and Amy somewhere that night, I couldn’t remember where, but it was better than listening to her harp about it if I didn’t go, and I could always stop and get a bottle of something on the way home. Why not? So I went. Good Max, obedient Max, gentle Max. Wishy-washy Max, I say. And so there I was, sitting with my Jack and Coke at a table at some small bar, the name of which totally escapes me, with Rachel, and Amy, and Brendan. Who the hell, you ask, is Brendan? Same question I asked myself when I looked up to see a bespectacled blond boy with a shy smile, dressed in a tan cord jacket and pants, standing at our table, and then watched as the two sneaky ladies welcomed him with open arms and invited him to sit with us. Very subtle—not! Very unnecessary, and very not nice. Blindsiding me with a blind date. Jeez Louise! I cast sharp looks upon them both, noticing their Cheshire cat grins. Then I looked again. Amy looked different somehow. I couldn’t quite put my finger on the change, though. Rachel answered my unspoken question. “Do you like what we did to Amy’s hair?” she asked proudly. “Miss Clairol. Summer blonde.” I could see it now, the difference in the shade of her hair, now that it was pointed out to me. Too eerily close to Richard’s lemon shade for my taste. I repressed a quick shudder. “Looks nice,” I mumbled.
108
Julie Lynn Hayes
“Max, Brendan goes to school with us,” Rachel began. I should have known. What did they do, circulate my picture around the campus until they found someone hard up enough to go out with me? Damn. But I showed the proper amount of polite interest. Of course. “Are you a student?” Brendan asked. “No, I’m a bagger.” Amy interjected. “Max used to go to school, just last year.” “Yes, but he got sidetracked. I’m hoping he’ll go back.” Now I knew what it felt like to be the subject of a dissection. I will never look at dead frogs in quite the same way again. I grabbed my glass and took a good stiff drink, letting the Jack Daniels do its thing, numb this heart, then work its magic on my brain. “Brendan is studying to be a computer programmer,” Amy added. “He lives in Kirkwood.” Uh huh. Whatever. “I think that computers are the wave of the future,” Brendan said, “and I want to be prepared, know what to expect from them.” Bully for you. More Jack, letting my tongue linger over the little bits of ice still floating about, taking them between my teeth and chewing on them. No, don’t tell me about sexually repressive acts. I don’t wish to hear it. “Isn’t that interesting?” This from Rachel. “He calls it BASIC, the computer language he’s learning, but it doesn’t seem that easy to me!” The two girls giggled at this; Brendan smiled. I just looked at them, wondering why in the hell Rachel was dumbing herself down like that. That girl was smarter than most people I knew. Just to play me up? Surely not. Wasted effort, if so. Amy flagged a passing waitress. Brendan ordered a screwdriver, the girls got two more sloe gin fizzes, and I asked for two Jack and Cokes. Why waste time? I deliberately avoided Rachel’s probable glare of disapproval as I pulled the bills for my drinks out of my pocket. I knew I had to slow down; I only had so much money and a bottle to buy later, but at the moment that wasn’t my primary consideration. “This round’s on me,” Brendan insisted, laying his hand on top of mine as I would have tossed the money onto the table. I was going to turn him down, but practicality won out over principle, and I let it ride. However, I did move my hand, trying not to be too obvious. No offense, I just wasn’t interested. Don’t bother clucking at me, either one
To the Max
109
of you, I thought to myself, looking at Amy and Rachel. If you like him so bloody much, you shag him. But all I said aloud was, “Thanks.” The one good thing about this place I decided as I looked around me, looked anywhere but at Brendan so as not to give the budding yentes any ideas, was that there was no dance floor. So no making me perform like a trained monkey, thank you very much. Putting me through my paces like they’d been known to do, whining at me until I reluctantly agreed to lead one or the other of them out in one of my dance routines. Our dance routines. That was one of the last things I wanted to do, actually, but for some reason both Rachel and Amy saw it as therapeutic. Myself, I simply found it to be painful. But I invariably went along with them. It was better than explaining myself, explaining something I felt they should have understood instinctively, my desire not to do what I had done with him. But I guess it wasn’t tacitly understood, and I couldn’t bring myself to voice it. I had no real reason to think that Brendan was gay, but under the circumstances, I just knew it. It’s not like I have a built-in instinct that leads me to be able to out other gay men. It doesn’t work like that. Sometimes I know, sometimes I don’t. But why would they have brought him along if they didn’t think he was gay, dangling him like a nice juicy carrot in front of me? Oh yes, he had blond hair, too, like Richard. Blue eyes, as well, although his were a light crisp blue, not the deep midnight blue of my lover. Ex-lover. Whatever. There the resemblance ended, thank God. That wasn’t enough, not for me. Why couldn’t they understand that nobody ever would be enough, ever again? I sighed inwardly, tried to make small talk, but I didn’t have any to make, so I let the girls carry the conversation while I drank myself hopefully into a coma. The tactic worked up until the point where the two of them stood up and announced they were going to the ladies’ room. Damn, that is a most annoying habit women have, pairing off to go to a place where they cannot be followed, more than likely to discuss the foibles of the men in their lives. Which in this instance was me. And which left me alone with Brendan. Damn. But flounce off they did, giggling, looking like co-conspirators in some fiendish plot. Is this what Cassius et al looked like on March 14? I wondered. I chewed on my lip, thoughtfully, as I skillfully balanced one of
110
Julie Lynn Hayes
my two drink glasses in the palm of my hand, watching the dark liquid swirl in a mini-eddy. “Um… so you program computers?” I asked in a brave attempt to say something, anything, halfway resembling normal conversation. I felt bad, as he was an obvious victim here as well. I was sure that Rachel and Amy hadn’t been honest with him about me, led him to believe that I was indeed available, which I wasn’t. “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry to put you on the spot like this. It’s kind of awkward, I know. So don’t worry about entertaining me. It’s cool.” That just made me feel bad. I shot him a quick look. He seemed sincere enough, and he wasn’t a bad sort of guy. Not bad looking either. Under other circumstances, I might have chatted him up, saw where it led. Pre-Richard, of course. But I didn’t even have the energy or the will to pretend that anything was possible. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.” “You’re not,” he insisted, “I can understand where you’re coming from. I didn’t really expect anything other than a friendly night out. I don’t really know many people here, since I come from Indiana, and well, Rachel and Amy kind of insisted so much that I finally gave in, ya know?” I knew very well. And I felt even worse. “Y’all wanna go back to my place and smoke?” he asked. “I have my own apartment.” I shook my head. “I don’t smoke.” “I don’t smoke cigarettes, either.” Oh? This was something different. Not that I hadn’t tried smoking pot; I had, but as a rule, I didn’t choose to do it. I felt that it stripped away my control, which was very important to me, being in control of myself, particularly the wolf. Richard didn’t smoke either, at least not when he was with me, so that made it an easy abstinence. We neither one were all that interested in doing drugs of any kind. We got our highs from making love. Past tense, of course. But all of a sudden the idea appealed to me. “Sure!” I agreed on an impulse. I decided to start slugging my drinks. The sooner we got out of here the better, for some reason.
To the Max
111
Now to wait for the matchmakers to return. What the hell do women do in there that takes so long, I ask you! I think that if they had been gone any longer, I would have gone in after them, ladies’ room or not. But at last they came back, chuckling like they had received a laughing gas enema or something and giving us the eye. What did they think, I was gonna shag him while they were gone? Seriously! Women! When we explained about going to Brendan’s place, they exchanged amused glances, and I hastily corrected their erroneous assumptions. “All of us,” I interjected. I think that Rachel was inclined to ask questions, but seeing that I seemed to be interested in doing something for a change and that I was inclined to go, she held her tongue, and so did Amy. Within five minutes, we were all piling into Brendan’s little red Pinto. To avoid the appearance of seeming to be with him in any way shape or form, I opted for the back seat immediately and found myself being joined there by Amy, while Rachel rode shotgun up front. I know the backseat of a Pinto is small, but this was ridiculous, or did I just imagine that Amy and I were crushed together like canned sardines? Brendan lived in an apartment complex off of Lindbergh Boulevard in Kirkwood, a fairly good sized complex, and rather modern. He had a one-bedroom apartment, not big, but nice. He kept it neat, not cluttered. And there were no black light posters, not a single one, which I definitely appreciated. Nor any Norman Rockwell, which I actually despised. Just simple, tasteful landscapes. And potted plants. Being a good host, Brendan obligingly stuck his head into his refrigerator to see what he had to offer his unexpected guests. “I have a bottle of white wine. Is that okay for everyone?” Wine was fine with me, if he had nothing stronger. I could always get that bottle of Jack Daniels later. And getting high might be nice for a change, perhaps it would mellow me out? Or simply replace my morose thoughts with happier ones. Or something. Right that minute I really didn’t care. I just wanted a change. Rachel and Amy were agreeable, so he poured us each a glass— one thing you could say for him, he was prepared; he actually had matching wine glasses—and told us to feel free to choose whatever
112
Julie Lynn Hayes
music we liked. I let the girls pore over his albums, pick out what they wanted while I carried my wine over to the couch and nested there. Brendan’s stereo system seemed adequate enough. I figured they could handle the task. They put their heads together and came up with The Byrds. Oh well! Imitation Dylan, but I could live with it. Rachel snuggled up beside me on the couch, her knees digging into my legs, as Amy put the vinyl on the turntable, and the melodies of Roger McGuinn et al began to fill the room. “Why are we really here?” she whispered into my ear. “You’ll see,” I said mysteriously. “Be surprised.” We didn’t have long to wait for the answer to Rachel’s line of inquiry. Our host excused himself, went into the other room, and quickly returned, carrying a small plastic baggie filled with small white cylindrical objects. Doobies. Joints. Mary Jane. Pot. Cannabis by any other name…. Amy squealed at the sight, and I certainly didn’t hear any objections coming from Rachel’s side either. I leaned back against the soft cushions of the surprisingly plush couch, drinking my glass of adequate wine, watching everything around me with a certain incurious detachment. I saw that Brendan smiled at their girlish enthusiasm. I supposed he was used to the way they were from going to school with them. Or something. The three of them seemed rather comfortable with one another, and for a moment I felt a twinge of jealousy, my mind reverting, as always, to my absent lover, his image swimming before my eyes as mentally I stroked his beautiful hair, kissed his pretty lips, and worshiped him for the god that I thought that he was, before I managed to shake the delusion off with my usual aplomb. Or lack thereof. When I cleared my eyes of images of Richard, I glanced at them again. Brendan had lit one of the joints, taking it between his lips briefly, the end glowing as he brought it to life. He passed it to Rachel, who took a practiced hit from it—I think she indulged in the practice far more than I did—and then handed it on to Amy, who also appeared to be more than passingly familiar with cannabis herself. Which left me as the undoubted newbie of the group. Amy slid the cigarette into my waiting fingers. I fumbled with my wine glass, threatening to spill it as
To the Max
113
I tried to maneuver both the wine and the joint, before she laughingly took it from my hands. “I’ll hold that for you,” she offered. I wisely allowed her to take it from me before I managed to drop it. They don’t call me Mr. Sure Hands for nothing. Okay, they don’t call me that for any reason. I took a long drag from the rolled joint, pulling the smoke into my lungs and holding onto it. I think I was decidedly rusty at this, ’cause I started coughing almost immediately. I tried not to, tried to hold it in, which only made me look ridiculous undoubtedly, like when you try to stifle a belch. Some things just gotta give, and I gave it up and just coughed it out. Amy’s hand sympathetically patted my back while I noticed Rachel trying not to laugh too hard. Brendan was too damn polite to show that he had even noticed. Determined not to look like a complete and utter incompetent (read wuss), I tried again, this time managing to handle the smoke a lot better, keeping it in and allowing it to reach up into my sinus cavities where I could release it through my nose. There, a little better. It felt good, too, perhaps bolstered by the quantity of alcohol which I had imbibed, tickling my innards. To my surprise, I even giggled. The giggling felt good, too. Felt very good, in fact. I couldn’t remember the last time I had laughed. To my surprise, Rachel squealed for no apparent reason and threw herself onto my lap. Oompf! But she actually didn’t feel very heavy at all, for some reason, considering the force she used to propel herself there. Probably the combined effect of drinking and smoking. I was off in another plane. She took the joint from my fingers, passed it to Brendan, who was now sitting on my other side, I noticed. Amy then proceeded to throw her arms around my neck and hugged me. It was all becoming rather surreal. Almost abstract, Dali-ish. Rachel softly kissed my cheek. I looked at her in surprise. “What’s that for?” “’Cause I love you, silly!” My cheeks burned warmly, blushing git that I was. I buried my face in her shoulder, then peeked up at her playfully. And giggled again.
114
Julie Lynn Hayes
Damn, I’m a cheap date. Didn’t take much of that Mary Jane to get me high. And before you mention again that I drink too much, I know it. Between the four of us, we smoked two joints, and decent grade pot it was, maybe not sensamilla, but not homegrown either, and we killed off that bottle of wine, so altogether we were feeling no pain. The Byrds gave way to the Doors. Jim Morrison belting out “L.A. Woman”—very nice, very nice, indeed. I have to admit that I was feeling pretty damn mellow for a change. Maybe the pot hadn’t been such a bad idea after all. I let myself get carried away with the timber of Jim Morrison’s voice and his mojo rising. He was a good-looking guy after all, nice body. Especially the way he filled out those tight leather pants. I sat on the sofa alone now. Rachel and Amy were in the kitchen with Brendan. I think they were making Rice Krispies treats or something. Munchies, you know. The inevitable result of smoking pot. As inevitable as death and taxes. But they sure sounded good. I suggested to them that they should add some chocolate. And some peanut butter. Can’t ever have too much of a good thing, after all. I let the music flow through me, the vibrations soaring through my limbs; I was soaring myself now, higher, higher, rocking back and forth to the rhythms of the Doors. It’s the mojo rising, baby, Mr. Mojo rising… rising, rising…. I was pulled out of my deep philosophical reverie by Rachel’s voice in my ear. “C’mon, Max, we’re playing Twister!” Twister? What the hell? My eyes snapped open. She was kidding, right?’ No, she wasn’t. Indeed there was the colorful Milton Bradley box that I remembered from my boyhood sitting on the floor, the spinner beside it, polka-dot mat unfurled, and it seemed that they had every actual intention of playing the game. With me, I noticed. I tried to shake my head in a negatory fashion, but it was too fuzzy to move properly. I had to laugh at myself. So we played Twister. Right foot blue, left hand green, I’m sure you all know the drill. Spinning and moving and laughing, trying to contort ourselves into configurations that were patently impossible and
To the Max
115
positions that were not intended for the human skeleton to shape itself to and collapsing on top of one another with pretend cries of, “Hey, you’re heavy, get off!”, “Quit touching my ass!”, and assorted rude gibes. We fell all over one another and into one another and laughed about it uproariously. Everyone on top of everyone else. Amy seemed to land on me a great deal, but I didn’t take note of it at the time. The next thing I knew, though, the Jack Daniels, the wine, and the pot, as well as the rough-and-tumble game, caught up with me all at one time, and I stood, swaying like a limp noodle in a gentle breeze, excused myself, and headed toward the bathroom with all possible speed. I proceeded to fall to my knees there and worship the porcelain god. A couple of times. Damn, my stomach was churning like a cowboy on a bucking bronco. I slid back against the wall, my head on my knees, and waited for this feeling to pass before I dared to stand up again. Walked on my knees to the sink, took some water into my mouth from the tap, swished it around, and spit it back out to lose the horrible taste of vomit. Cursed Richard’s name, blaming him for my drinking like a damn guppy. When I felt I could trust myself to walk again, I rose, gingerly, and opened the bathroom door, swallowing hard to keep from having a repeat of the incident. There, in the hallway, Brendan was waiting for me, a sympathetic Good Samaritan. “Hey, you okay?” he asked. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak yet. “C’mon, I think you should lie down. You can use my bed,” he offered, taking my hand. I made no objection as he led me across the hall and into his bedroom. I was still fighting the nausea that threatened to engulf me at any moment, too ill to wonder about or infer anything. At that moment, all I wanted to do was make the world stand still. I lay down on his bed, keeping one foot on the floor, something I remembered had helped me before, but I wasn’t sure of the reasoning behind it. Perhaps it kept me grounded? I don’t know. I think I passed out almost immediately thereafter. Dead to the world and oblivious to everything around me. I think I remember opening my eyes a couple of times after that; I could see a faint trace of moonlight coming into the room from the window, the sound of voices floating to me down the hallway, muffled snippets of conversation. Maybe music too. Or maybe I imagined the
116
Julie Lynn Hayes
whole thing. And then I began to dream. About what else, but Richard? Who couldn’t have guessed that? We were swimming in a lovely blue lagoon, both of us naked, alone in the most beautiful waters I had ever seen. Crystal clear, crystal blue, heartbreakingly blue, while tiny golden fish swam in schools between our legs, making us laugh as we tried not to step on them. We raced each other around and around the lagoon, like two playful dolphins. Carefree and gay. Our lighthearted laughter echoed around us, whether we were splashing at one another, or swimming side by side, or locking lips as we tread water together. It was perfect, it was idyllic, and it was happiness wearing Richard’s form. I clung to him like his own personal barnacle, determined to hold fast to him. “Tell me how much you love me,” my needy self insisted, nay, demanded. “I love you like the air that I breathe,” my angelic darling proclaimed, “like the food that I eat. You are my everything.” His words were balm to my open wounds, soothing and healing. I poured myself around him, dove into him, swam in him, lost myself in the wonder that was Richard Burke. My heart relaxed as I welcomed him back into it, and his lips on mine were the only things that I could feel now. He was the only thing that I was aware of… …until I woke once more, in Brendan’s bedroom. Same pale light streaming in through the window. But whose lips were fastened upon mine? Surfer-blond tresses reflected the moonlight, and my heart beat so fast that I thought I was having some sort of heart attack. I kissed those lips most eagerly, wound my arms around that familiar body, whimpered like a little puppy. He was here, he was here, he was here!, my heart sang. But something didn’t feel right, something didn’t taste right, and as the body slid up against mine I felt something I knew I shouldn’t feel on my lover: breasts. Not breasts that size, anyway. That mouth on mine was very insistent, though, and kept on kissing me even as I tried to pull back and figure out what the hell was going on. My head was aching, a dull persistent throbbing like a conga line was passing through it, and my mouth felt, even aside from being strangely kissed,
To the Max
117
like it had been used as a feline bathroom. And then I heard that voice, and it definitely wasn’t Richard’s voice, whispering my name. “Maxie, Maxie….” Good God. I opened my eyes completely, pushed that body far enough away to allow the moonlight to shine on… her face? Amy? What the fuck? Amy, not Richard. Dammit all to hell anyway. I scrambled back off the bed so fast that I slid onto the floor, sat there for a moment wondering “what now,” then as I began to wake up a little more, I knew exactly “what now,” and I raced for the bathroom before I had an accident right there on Brendan’s floor, barely making it in time to be sick into the toilet again. I sat there for a long time afterward, until I heard her footsteps, her voice at the door, asking if I was all right. I didn’t answer. I think I passed out again at some point, ’cause that’s where I woke up later, stiff and cramped, and rather cranky.
YES, that was the memory that came flooding back when I kissed Rachel, which was an altogether entirely different set of circumstances. Well, kissing Amy was nothing I had done or encouraged. But it was just further proof to me of her strange obsession with me, even then. I mean, why me? Why me? I don’t get it. I release Rachel, pull back from her embrace, and Richard helps me to my feet. I look at my longtime friend: she sits there, looking up at me with a contented smile upon her face, a whimsical look, almost. Richard puts his arm around me, pulls me into his embrace and kisses me softly. “C’mon, loverboy, let’s go home,” he whispers. “I think you two are fine now.” I nod, looking back at Rachel one more time. “Go on, Max,” she urges me, “we’re good.” She nods her own good-bye. I blow her a kiss, before I lean in to my love, nestling close to him as we walk together out of Rachel’s office. “Yes, love, let’s go home.” Loving Richard to the max and setting a course for the future, full speed ahead.
118
Julie Lynn Hayes
Chapter 10 Players, That’s All We Are, Is Players
SEEING Juliet’s name on my caller ID sometimes gives me pause. Not that I don’t love my mother very much, ’cause I do. Never doubt that. It’s just that I never know when she is calling to spring something—or someone—on me. Even now, even having lived with Richard all these years, she still sets me up on damned blind dates. For Christ’s sake, Mother! When will this stop? When I’m drawing Social Security? When I’m in some home for old geezers, being chased around in my motorized wheelchair by little old blue-haired ladies whispering, “Juliet sent me”? I shudder at the thought. And please don’t think that she’s homophobic, ’cause she’s not. She has no problem with the lifestyle as a whole, just with my participation in it. It’s not good enough for her Max or something. I don’t know. I can’t really explain it; I just have to live with it. It doesn’t even disturb Richard. He takes it in good stride, which is amazing to me. I know I would go ballistic if his mother did to him what mine does to me. Richard’s mother. We’ll set that subject aside for now, if you don’t mind. Then again, why? I can handle it. What was it Shakespeare once said? If ’twere done, ’twere best done quickly? Saturday, April 9, 1977
IT WAS April of ’77, Richard had been gone for about two months. Life went on. It always did. I was sitting in my room, idly thumbing through a course catalog for the following fall semester. Rachel had half-talked me into going back to school. I knew that I had to do something, something other than sit around and mope for the rest of my
To the Max
119
life. Or deliver pizzas (I told you the bagging job wouldn’t last. The wolf refused to go back after the full moon, and they fired me). I was debating taking a class on North American archaeology, as they weren’t offering anything on Greece that semester, when Diana appeared in my doorway. She was going through some weird kind of Hollywood starlet phase at the time, which entailed her wearing sunglasses inside the house. And a chiffon head scarf. “Max, there’s a lady downstairs wants to see you,” she said. I glanced up at her. “A lady? What lady?” “I dunno, some lady.” She shrugged unhelpfully. “Asked me if Max was home.” “So you told her ‘yes’?” “Sure. You’re home, aren’t you?” I rolled my eyes. My sister giggled before reverting to her mysterious star status and dashing off to evade the paparazzi, or whatever else she might have been doing, leaving me to deal with the woman downstairs. Good Lord. I knew it was unlikely that I had an actual visitor, so that narrowed it down to another one of my mother’s surprise blind dates. It was not unusual for her to send strange young women to the house for just that purpose, even at times when my boyfriend was there. Which tended to be a bit awkward, especially if he wandered downstairs while I was attempting to make polite conversation, ’cause he invariably did something to stake his claim on me, whether it was simply kissing me or throwing himself into my lap. The end result was the same: the knowing look, the hasty farewell, leaving the two of us to collapse together in helpless laughter while Juliet would walk in and shake her head at us, saying, “You’ve not scared off another one, have you, Max?” which only made us laugh even more. Okay, let’s get this over with, I decided, not even bothering to put on shoes, shooting a hasty glance in the mirror and running a hand through my tousled hair. Oh well, I wasn’t going anywhere, and this was my home, so why shouldn’t I be comfortable? I padded downstairs. Diana had apparently shown the visitor into the living room. That was a misnomer, as we did most of our living in the family room. This was just a room we used to get into the rest of the
120
Julie Lynn Hayes
house, but at times it served a useful purpose. Like now. She was sitting in one of the upholstered green chairs leftover from my grandmother’s time. Honking big flowered things they were, but my grandfather would never allow them to be changed. Sentimental reasons, I supposed. Not uncomfortable, actually. At least they weren’t covered in plastic like I knew some people’s were. Now that was damned annoying, to find oneself being treated like an untrained puppy that couldn’t be trusted not to piddle on the furniture. I saw at a glance that this visitor/blind date/whatever was a grown woman, not a girl at all, and I wondered to myself what Juliet was thinking now. She rose as I entered the room, greeted me with a warm smile that lit her entire face. She was a pretty woman, I had to admit. Looked like she might be in her thirties, but I wasn’t really good at guessing ages, particularly women’s. Wore a flowing, flower print dress á la HaightAshbury with a matching hat. Little or no makeup. Something about her seemed very familiar to me, but I couldn’t quite place her face. “You must be Max,” she said. “I’d know you anywhere, I think.” Huh? “From the pictures Richard’s sent me,” she went on to explain. Which only confused me more. Richard? What had he to do with this? Surely my absent lover wasn’t setting me up on dates now, was he? That made no sense. She began to laugh at my confusion, a warm rich sound that seemed most sincere. And when she smiled, she looked like… Richard? “I guess I should start by introducing myself. I don’t think my son has done that yet, has he? I’m Moonsong. Simply Moonsong, no last name.” She held one hand out to me; I took it automatically, even as I went into a mild state of shock. His mother? What the fuck? “Richard’s not here,” I mumbled, swallowing hard, trying to keep my cool. “No?” I think that caught her off-guard; her forehead puckered as if in thought, and I could see a strong resemblance between mother and son in the shape of the eyes, that same dark blue velvet shade, but her hair was a rich russet, not blonde. Same high cheekbones, too, and well-shaped lips. Damn, I missed him. “I guess Angelo was right,” she said, half-chuckling. “I’ll never hear the end of this one.” Angelo? “Is that his dad?” I heard myself asking in spite of
To the Max
121
myself, more than a little curious. Richard never talked about his father. Come to think of it, Richard had never mentioned either parent to me before. “Angelo? Hell no, I’ve only been with him a couple of years. Richard’s dad was just a loser I picked up and lost a long time ago.” She laughed, pulling a cigarette out of her denim-clothed shoulder bag, lighting it, and taking a quick drag. “So where is my wandering boy?” she asked, watching me I thought rather curiously. “I don’t know,” I replied honestly, not wishing to get caught up in a discussion about it at all. “I haven’t heard from him since Christmas, last time I came through this way. When I brought him his sandals.” She took another drag from her cigarette, let the smoke out slowly, as if she were thinking about Richard. Or Christmas. Or sandals. “You mean those handmade leather ones?” I asked. So that’s where they came from. I’d been curious about them when I first saw them, a few weeks before Christmas, I guess it was, but he had been rather touchy, so I had simply dropped the whole subject. Wait a minute. She’d been here before? Where had I been? “Yeah, those ones. Angelo and I were visiting Richard’s grandmother, so we stopped by. (Grandmother? He has a grandmother too?) I think we missed you that day; he said you weren’t feeling very well. (Full moon maybe?) I’m glad to finally get to meet my son’s boyfriend.” Her smile was friendly, and she said “boyfriend” as if it were natural, unlike my mother who preferred the appellation “friend” but usually gave it perverted undertones. I felt the pain of Richard’s desertion shoot through me all over again, as if it had just happened, like sticking a knife into a wound you thought had healed: it still hurts, if you twist it the right way. “Not anymore,” I mumbled, looking down at my feet, biting at my lip to keep from crying in front of her. “Don’t worry about it, sugar! My boy’s like a bad penny. He always turns up sooner or later!” she tried to reassure me. Before I could even think what to say in reply to that, I heard a car horn blasting from outside; it sounded like it was in my driveway. I turned my head toward the sound.
122
Julie Lynn Hayes
“That’s just Angelo,” she explained, laughing. “He must be getting impatient.” She made a move toward the door as if she intended to leave. I hated myself for doing it, and I swore I wouldn’t do it, but I did it anyway, feeling like a complete and utter ass even as the words left my lips. “Um… Moonsong… do you have any idea where he might be?” God, that sounded pathetic. Incredibly pathetic. I should have been ashamed of myself for asking. I couldn’t even look at her when I said it. She must have turned and doubled back, ’cause she was stroking my cheek softly. “Darlin’, I won’t lie to you. He could be anywhere. If he loves you like I think he does, he’ll be back, though. Let him know I was here, will you?” I nodded, not trusting to my voice. Wanting to believe, not daring to, though. Yes, he’d been gone before, but this was the longest period of time he’d ever been absent. And each time he left, I worried that this time would be the time he didn’t come back. Again with the impatient horn. “See you later, Max, nice to meet you.” She smiled, never losing her cool or getting annoyed with the unseen Angelo. She turned toward me once more as she was leaving, looked me up and down as if she were taking a mental photograph, said softly, “My son has very good taste,” and then was gone, and I was standing there in my living room, wondering what the hell had just hit me.
BLIND dates. They came in all shapes and sizes and shades; some even bore passing resemblances to my boyfriend. Don’t think that wasn’t disturbing. And Juliet liked to blindside me at the strangest times. I’d be out with her, doing whatever—shopping, going to a movie, grabbing a cup of coffee, it didn’t matter—then I’d hear, “Oh, hi, fancy running into you here! I’d like you to meet my son, Max!” and I knew I was in for it. And suddenly I’d have a lunch/movie/coffee/whatever companion. They found me in the mall or at the library. Mailing letters at the post
To the Max
123
office or thumping cantaloupes in the fresh produce section of the supermarket. She sent them to assault me in bars, waiting for just the right moment, such as when Richard went to take a leak. Or they caught me on campus when I met Rachel there for lunch. What the hell does she think my type is anyway? Some of them were damn scary, to be honest, and most of them had some sort of peculiarity about them. What does that say about me, I ask you? Even if I were straight, which I never have been, I wouldn’t want to date these women, for the most part. And why does my mother think that just because I am a werewolf I should have a vampire fetish? What, are they supposed to be tandem creatures, like love and marriage, can’t have one without the other? Or is it because Count Dracula is, for the most part, a heterosexual character? “See Max? If he can do it you can do it”? She drags me to see every new Dracula movie that comes out, presenting them to me like some sort of fait accompli. Which meant that in ’92 when Coppola’s version arrived on the scene, I was double-ganged, ’cause then I had Rachel hauling my ass to see it ten or twenty or a hundred times (in case you’re wondering what was Rachel’s interest in the film, think about Rachel and her obsession, then check out the film. You’ll figure it out.) Don’t get me wrong. I have a healthy respect for and interest in things beyond the pale of man’s normal ken. Just not to the extent that my mother seems to think. I am proof that there are lives that are lived outside of what is considered to be normal, whether you like to call it paranormal, supernatural, whatever. And in case you are wondering, yes, there are such people as vampires. And yes, I have reason to know. ’Nuff said. At least for now. My blind dates, I can see them now, strutting down the runway of my memory, passing in an odd review of Wodehousian dimensions. Janice, the tall thin brunette who couldn’t stop talking about her previous boyfriend whom she ended up going back to and who dumped her again; Debra, the zaftig blonde who kept asking me to go skinnydipping with her; Leslie, the bank teller, who was arrested for embezzling funds from work (I still hear from her occasionally. She’ll be out in a few years); Margo, the lovely half-Japanese girl who dreamed of being a famous dancer and who left for Hollywood the day after our first and only date; Winnie, the closet lesbian who used me as
124
Julie Lynn Hayes
a beard so that she could secretly meet with her girlfriend Rose (Richard and I actually double-dated with the two of them a few times); Sandra, the giggling Mickey Mouse fanatic, whose sole mission in life was to get laid and had more hands than an octopus; Gwen, the redheaded waitress who liked to juggle fruit at odd moments; Allison, who liked to imitate Mister Ed; Jennifer, the fitness trainer, who insisted on showing me how to exercise and who tried to take advantage of me in the gym; Rosemary, the shy divorced mother who insisted on trying to fatten me up; Denise, a very lovely girl who owned her own beauty salon and became successful at an early age, and who encouraged me to follow my own heart, no matter what my mother tried to do…. And those are just the ones I actually remember At one time Richard suggested that I start a scrapbook of my “dates,” but I nixed that idea, and then I punched him in the arm for his suggestion. None of these girls was or ever could be right for me. Of course not, given my sexual inclinations (Ha! See, I refrained from saying “persuasion” that time!) and the fact that Richard was my forever mate, my one and only. But try explaining that to my mother. And still they came, more and more and more of them. I have to admit I did end up with a few friends from that list, not girlfriends, but friends nonetheless who just happened to be girls. I’m surprised that Juliet never tried to set me up with Rachel, but maybe we became friends at too young an age and she realized when we both hit puberty that it wasn’t going to happen. Tuesday, March 4, 1986
SPRING was definitely in the air, pouncing on us with all the energy of a rambunctious lion cub. Mild temperatures were shaking off the lethargy attendant on winter’s enforced idleness, encouraging activities of all sorts. And to what does a young man’s fancy turn at such a time, when his blood is rising along with the daffodils? Why, to spring cleaning! What, did you think I meant something else? Get your minds out of the gutter!
To the Max
125
On the first day that the temperatures rose enough to do so, I threw open the doors and windows to the beckoning spring and set out to scour the cottage from one end to the other. I made up master lists of things to do in each room, which I posted on each door, and I purchased the requisite cleaning materials to do the job well in advance. Lemonscented cleaning fluids, scrubbing bubbles for the bathroom, glass cleaner and tile cleaner, furniture polish and floor wax, vacuum cleaner, feather duster, scrub brushes, sponges, cloths, mops and brooms—a vast arsenal of weapons to combat the filthy foe. Now, I was ready to begin. But where was Richard? Conveniently absent, although I had warned him well in advance that this day was coming. But no, he had managed to elude me, with a vague reference to something he had to do, but he swore he’d be back soon, sugar lips, kiss kiss hug hug, as he finagled my own car keys from me and was out of the driveway and heading down the gravel road before I began to come around from the effects of his kisses. Shit! Hoist on my own petard! Nothing to do for it now but to take care of it myself. Naturally. Which as a result, made me less than agreeable and most definitely out of sorts. I cranked up my stereo to the max; the “1812 Overture” blasted out over my speakers. It was my aggressive music therapy, one I indulged in at times of stress or unhappiness. Whenever Richard would hear it playing, he would know that he needed to coddle me out of my bad temper, which he invariably did. Of course, he was the reason for it at the moment. So when my phone rang, which my mother swears it did, although I have no proof of it, I didn’t even hear it, what with having the music blasting somewhere in the 120- to 130-decibel range and having my head shoved inside of my refrigerator, taking out all the little bits of unidentifiable material that seemed to crop up on occasion (we both vehemently denied being the cause of any of it) and scrubbing the interior with a vengeance. See, anger has its place. Maybe. God, I hated doing this, ’cause my sensitive nose picked up on each and every obnoxious odor. But if I left it to Richard to do A) it wouldn’t get done, and B) he’d probably throw out something good that I could actually use for something, leaving the little bits of nastiness. Good thing he’s so damn cute. So I threw myself into my work, and I scoured and I scrubbed, and I swished and I swirled with a vengeance.
126
Julie Lynn Hayes
There! Pristine once more and gleaming to my satisfaction. That just left the rest of the house. I stomped into the living room, decided to start my cleansing work there. Cranking up Tchaikovsky again, I set the turntable to repeat so I wouldn’t have to touch it again with soapy wet hands. I try hard to keep my things in good condition, as much as possible. Some people call me anal; I prefer to think of it as being careful. The music hadn’t begun to work its magic on me yet, as I was still uptight and pissed off. (If this had happened today, I’d have just called that boy on his cell phone and read him the riot act. Alas, this was not an option at that time, so I was forced to stew in my own juices and wait for him to return, and in the meantime hopefully work out my aggressions.) I pulled back all the curtains, allowing the sunlight to stream into the room and illuminate my work. As well as other things, I noticed. There was a big pile of old newspapers in the corner where Richard had apparently left them after reading them. Shaking my head and muttering imprecations to myself, I grabbed the stack, noticed that some of them were dated as far back as a month ago, and threw them into the large trash bag I had brought in for just that purpose. “Pack rat,” I mumbled to myself. “Lazy sod.” I also picked up some of his socks that had somehow managed to miss ending up in the laundry basket I had placed in our room for convenience. Typical. I saw that he had left our photo albums out, too, for some reason. A lot of those albums contain photos he has taken over the years. I picked up the top one; it was opened to a photo of me and him. Someone with a camera had caught us unawares: I think it was taken at a party at my mother’s house. I was sitting on Richard’s lap, straddling him, we had our arms wound around one another, our foreheads pressed together, and were simply gazing into each other’s eyes, oblivious to the world around us. A very tender, very sweet moment. Damned if he didn’t do that on purpose, leave that for me to find, knowing I’d be pissed off at him and trying to manipulate my feelings from… from wherever the hell he was that wasn’t here. Childishly I stuck my tongue out at the picture and closed the album, determined not to give in to him, to retain my ill humor. It was mine, goddammit, I was entitled to it! Oh, what a tongue-lashing he would receive when I caught up with him, and not the good kind either!
To the Max
127
I gathered all of the books together. I would just put them back in the closet—out of sight, out of mind. I turned to do just that… … and damn near jumped out of my skin when I collided head-on with a young woman who had been standing right behind me, her mouth open as if she were about to speak, her hand stretched out in front of her. She fell backward, I fell backward, and the albums fell between us, hitting the ground with a soft thud. I saw with dismay that some of the photos were shaken out of the books in the process, strewing across the floor. I struggled to come to a sitting position, and where normally I would have been Mr. Solicitous, today I was in full bitch mode. “What the hell?” I squawked. “Where the hell did you come from? Don’t you know how to ring the bell?” The young lady sat up, too, adjusting her glasses upon her nose from where they hung askew. Her lips quivered, and she seemed very much on the verge of tears, which brought me back to myself with a crash and an immense feeling of guilt. I’m a sucker for tears, I am, a regular softy. “I… I… did ring the bell,” she said faintly. If I didn’t have such incredibly heightened hearing I wouldn’t have made her words out, especially with Tchaikovsky blaring around us. “But you… you… couldn’t hear, I guess.” I scrambled to my feet and hastened to extend my hand to her. It wasn’t fair of me to take out the ill temper Richard had brought about on a complete stranger, even if she did just scare the shit out of me, and I had no idea who she was or why she was here. “Here, let me help you up,” I offered apologetically. Damn, I think I really scared her, she was trembling. I helped her up, handing her over to the sofa, after which I hastened to pause the stereo, at least for the moment, deciding that it probably wasn’t helping anything. When I turned back to her, she seemed a little calmer; it looked like she was getting a little color back into her cheeks, anyway. I took a seat beside her. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m not usually so rude. You caught me on a bad day.” “It’s okay,” she said, attempting to smile, “I’m fine, Max, really I am. You are Max, aren’t you?” She began to look worried, as if maybe on top of everything else, she was in the wrong place.
128
Julie Lynn Hayes
“Yeah, I’m Max,” and suddenly I realized what must be going on here. “My mother sent you, didn’t she?” “Actually, yes,” she admitted, “she did—” “Look,” I broke in, not meaning to be rude, but damned if I hadn’t heard it all before, “I’m sure you’re a very lovely person and all that, whatever your name is, but I’m not looking to date anyone, and if I were looking to date anyone it wouldn’t be you. No offense,” I added hastily, “not you personally. You as a female, I mean. What I mean is that I have a boyfriend, and I’m not wanting to date anyone. Well, at least not unless I kill him, which I may very well do when he gets home,” I added, thinking again of his inopportune defection and beginning to steam again. The strange girl began to laugh then, a laugh which managed to not sound rude somehow, but lighthearted even, maybe even verging on amused. “Actually, your mother told me that you had a great library of Greek books,” she said. “I’m doing research for a novel I’m writing, and she suggested that you might be willing to let me look at some of them. She was supposed to call you first. I’m sorry.” Talk about feeling stupid! I did, incredibly stupid. Not to mention vain and egotistical. And self-centered. I realize it was an understandable mistake, given my mother’s history, but still, I could have waited and let her tell me herself without jumping to erroneous conclusions. “Of course she did mention that you’re cute, and she suggested that I get to know you better,” the girl added with a small smile. Ah ha! Juliet never gave up, did she? I grinned ruefully at her even as I blushed. “You know how mothers are,” I mumbled. “Um, what’s your name by the way, and where are my manners? Can I get you something to drink? I have some soda in the fridge, or I can make coffee or tea?” “Tea would be nice, if you really don’t mind,” she said shyly. She had a very pretty smile, I noticed as I began to relax and stop being quite so angsty. “My name is Cat. Cat Dupre.” “Hi Cat, I’m Max. Duh, guess you knew that already.” Could I never say anything right? “Yeah,” She smiled back. “I guess I did.”
To the Max
129
“Would you like to look over my books while I make that tea?” I offered as a bit of a sop. “If you aren’t too busy?” She was just too nice for words. “Tell you what: I’ll make the tea, show you the books, and work around you, if you don’t mind? I just want to get this done, that’s all. I thought I was going to have help, but he skipped out on me.” “I’d be glad to help you, Max,” Cat offered. “Oh no, no, that’s not necessary,” I demurred, heading toward the kitchen. Cat was right behind me, her blue eyes glowing in her determination to be of use to me, maybe to make up for inadvertently scaring me. Well, a man can only take so much. I’m only human, after all, how could I resist her generous offer? I didn’t. We spent the rest of the afternoon together spring cleaning, getting along like gangbusters, and by the time Richard showed up, my temper was once more under control and my good nature restored. He liked Cat right away, and the feeling was mutual. At least then it was. Like Rachel, she tends to get upset with him when he disappears. That seems to be the nature of my friendships with women—they like to protect me.
I GLANCE at the caller ID. It’s Juliet. I can’t not answer it; she’s my mother. So I do. “Hello, Max, darling,” she fairly coos into the phone. Oh, oh, I’m in trouble now. I can feel it. “I want you to come for dinner Friday night.” “Why, you trying a new recipe?” I joke. Or try to. “No, there’s someone I’d like you to meet….” Oh dear Lord. Save me from well-meaning mothers! Richard will be less than thrilled when I tell him. What, did you think I would turn her down? That would actually entail having a spine! Dreading Friday to the max and wishing I could get out of it.
130
Julie Lynn Hayes
Chapter 11 For Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory…
FUCK. Why did I agree to go again? “Max, quit whining,” Richard insists as he straightens the knot in my tie after I have fucked it up several times, clawing at it when it won’t cooperate and yelling at it like it can actually understand the words I am cursing it with, him, on the other hand, all calm and cool and Bond-ishly collected. Why I am even wearing a tie in the first place is beyond me, but Richard has talked me into it. We’re both wearing three-piece suits, and I have to admit that seeing him in his is a real turn-on. Now, just add a little opera scarf… oh baby! But I digress. “That’s easy for you to say. You won’t be there,” I continue to moan. “Yes, I will,” he promises. “This won’t take all night, love, and I’ll be there in time to rescue you from the clutches of another one of Juliet’s missionaries.” “Juliet’s missionaries”: a phrase we use for the women she throws at me to save me from my depraved life of homosexuality. “Not soon enough,” I mutter, watching as his fingers easily fix the damage I have done and set me to rights once more. Satisfied with his handiwork, he smiles and kisses the tip of my nose. “Don’t pout, Max, or you’ll tempt me into making you late.” “And the problem with that is?” “It’ll just make me late, too, which will put me even later getting back to your rescue.” Damn, sometimes he is so downright logical, it’s scary. He has an appointment with a client about a wedding he is scheduled to shoot this summer, so he is taking the Monte, and Rachel is coming to get me. She isn’t staying, though, says she has things to do. Sure she does. Just sacrificial Max, being thrown to the lions once more.
To the Max
131
“Besides, isn’t Rachel going to be here any time now? I don’t think she’d appreciate walking in on us again.” He smiles at me most roguishly, and I blush at the memory, even though it was many years ago. May 21, 1981
AN INCREDIBLY happy day for Richard and I: the day we moved into the cottage on Lupercalia Lane. Our own home at last. Just him and me, together. A dream we had worked for for almost five years before seeing it realized. It hadn’t been easy, by any means, and I have to admit there were times along the way when I became discouraged for one reason or another—whether because of Richard’s unexplained absences, saving the money for the sizeable down payment we wanted to make wasn’t happening fast enough, or we simply couldn’t find just the right house—but we made it, and here we were! It was also a bittersweet day, leaving home for the first time. I had literally never lived anywhere else from the day I was born, had known no other home but my grandfather’s house in Webster Groves. As excited as I was, it was also hard to leave my mother and my sister. Diana was eighteen and six months pregnant at the time with Jackson. Jackson’s father was an older man who seduced her and impregnated her in the back room of the fast-food restaurant she worked at. He was the assistant manager there and, as it turned out, married, and when the home pregnancy test came back positive, he got a quick transfer to another store (almost as fast as the speed with which Jackson was conceived, Diana used to joke with me later), and was never seen again. The curse of the Montague women, you know. Passed down from generation to generation in a time-honored tradition. Only time will tell if this trend will be continued or not in any future female line. At the moment there is only Jackson. Sebastian has no children, and unless either I or Richard grow a uterus, which I consider to be highly unlikely although rather amusing, I don’t see us having a daughter to be cursed with it either. After all was said and done, Juliet didn’t care if Diana never saw the loose-moraled son of a bitch again, but she contacted a lawyer and made damn sure he paid the price for what he did. And to give the devil his due, he did make child-support payments on a regular
132
Julie Lynn Hayes
basis, but he never wanted anything to do with the child. Diana was fond of showing off her growing bump, which by then was fairly sizeable. She was always confident that she would have a boy. Her son’s full name is Andrew Jackson Montague, but ever since he was born, he’s gone by the name of Jackson. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who he was named after. That’s my sister for you. The day we moved, she got completely hormonal on us. She hugged us both and told us how much she would miss us, and we promised to visit often and swore we would always be there for her and the little bump baby. We didn’t have a lot to move from our old home to our new home, not really, the only pieces of furniture being our bedroom set, the rest of it consisting of our clothes and books and miscellaneous possessions that were boxed and ready to go well before the day, all of which fit into a small trailer we had rented for the occasion. There are some benefits to being anal, I suppose. We had taken some of our savings and gotten a few essential pieces of furniture at flea markets and estate sales, just the minimum for now, including the piano that Juliet and I found in Ladue. That piano was my pride and joy, still is actually, as I’ve never replaced it. I could afford another one, a better one perhaps, but I love that one dearly, and all the memories that go along with it. I arranged for the furniture to be taken directly to the cottage, seeing as that was where it belonged anyway. My mother had graciously taken me on a shopping expedition to stock our kitchen and bought us all the little conveniences that make cooking a joy, from pots and pans to a full-stand mixer, knives and measuring cups, a food processor, a cappuccino machine, a coffee maker, and a bean grinder. What more could two young men just starting out want or need? The bed we already had. And had broken in already. Thoroughly. We made short work of carrying everything from the trailer into the house, leaving the doors wide open for convenience’s sake. It was a beautiful day in May anyway, temperatures in the seventies, the most gentle of breezes stirring the flowers in the garden, a good day to air out the house, a day that was befitting what promised to be the start of our new lives together. I mean, we had been together for almost five years, but it seemed different now. Better. We weren’t just living in a room at my mother’s house—and yes, I do realize how generous she was to take care of both of us all that time, especially my lover, who
To the Max
133
was no relation to her whatsoever—we had our own home. It was a tremendous feeling, and we were both pretty pumped. I had marked every box with the precise location of where it was to go, which made distribution much easier. And more organized. Although a few times, I caught Richard attempting to set boxes in random locations, and I had to reprimand him for his laxity. He laughed at what he liked to refer to as my analness, assuming that there even is such a word and not just his own peculiar contribution to the English language. Naturally, I couldn’t bring my mother’s awesome stereo system with me. It was hers, after all, but I did take a little of our savings—it was for a good cause, we agreed—and bought one of our own, another Pioneer, but I hadn’t had a chance to properly set it up yet or balance the speakers even. It sat in the original boxes still, on the floor by the empty bookcases, and once everything came in from the car, I thought that now was as good a time as any to do just that. And then maybe set up the books. However, when I reached for the first box with the intention of tearing into it, I felt a firm hand grip my wrist, and I found myself being pulled into my lover’s strong arms. “Now, what do you think you’re going to do?” he whispered warmly in my ear. “Put the stereo up,” I responded, rather limply, I’m afraid, as I felt his tongue licking wetly at my helix, probing around the crest and into the very meatus itself. God, what a turn-on! But I was determined to be strong, so that by this evening everything would be in place, and we could benefit from the fruits of our labors before we went to bed that night. “If you want music, I’ll sing to you, sweet thing,” he offered, continuing his ministrations on my ear, and all the blood in my body seemed to form a union, meeting in my groin and going straight to my cock. Oh my God, the things that man does to me! His touch acts as a shunt that bypasses my first brain completely and sends his messages directly to the second-in-command. Or is it actually the controlling brain and I don’t realize it? Fuck it, who even gives a damn? I tried to be strong, to be the efficient Max, the responsible Max.
134
Julie Lynn Hayes
The sensible Max. “Richard, it won’t take long,” I feebly protested. Half-heartedly attempted. Lamely attempted. But how did I end up on the sofa with him reclining full length on top of me? Oh my God, he’s so hard, and oh God, he’s so incredibly hot… and damn, simply damn…. “My luscious little wolf,” he crooned into my lips, his words sending a vibration straight to my soul. “Richard,” I moaned back. His hands were pinioning my wrists over my head now, and I was beginning to forget what I was even talking about. “Um, we should be… I mean, I should be….” What the hell was I even yammering about? Damned if I could remember. “We should be what?” he asked softly. “Um… stereo,” I managed to gasp out, even as he released my hands, sliding backward down my body until his mouth was parallel to my cock, the warmth of his breath on my sheathed erection delightfully maddening. He moved his lips over my hardness, lipping it, sucking at it through the material. I was fast losing the ability to speak, much less think. “Mmm, Richard….” He pressed his nose against my crotch, his fingers seeking and pulling at the zipper of my jeans, I heard each tooth as it disengaged from every other, until I could feel my cock spring free at last, that traitorous organ, and I knew very well that I was lost. And didn’t care. He buried his nose in my pubes; it sounded like he was snorting them, damn near, snuffling into my crotch like a pig searching for truffles. My fingers sought his head, found it, gripping tightly at those gorgeous blond tresses. His nose was nudging at my balls—it’s my opinion that they are too hairy, although he pronounces them perfect— his tongue lapping at my twin sacs. Damn, I could already feel pre-cum oozing from the head. He took my balls into his mouth, devouring them as I bucked up, slapping him across the face with my cock. “Oh yes, oh yes,” I moaned, drowning in my great desire for him. I heard his response against my cock, my name repeated in that breathy-sexy-lusty voice that never fails to send shivers down my spine, “Max, Max, Max!” It was only a matter of time now ’til he would take me into that hot, moist mouth. Paradise, pure paradise.
To the Max
135
At that moment, I heard a sound out of the corner of my ear. What the hell? I jerked my head up just in time to catch a glimpse of Rachel standing there. God knows how long she’d been standing there or what she saw. Surprised me so much I tried to sit up, which enterprise was doomed to failure with Richard buried in my crotch like that. Damn! My fingers were so entwined with his hair that I inadvertently yanked on it, pulling his head up, which caused him to accidentally bite down on what was in his mouth. My tender bits. My bollocks. My nuts. My family jewels. Which in turn brought a strangulated cry from me as we both fell off the couch into a tangled heap on the floor. By the time I looked again, Rachel was gone. It was only then I remembered that the door was wide open, pissing and moaning as my lover tried to make amends to me for having bitten me.
SO, RACHEL picks me up and drives me to my mother’s while Richard takes the Monte and heads off on his own business. When we arrive, I look for strange cars in the driveway. My mother’s car is there; there’s no sign of Diana’s. But there is a strange Cadillac parked next to Juliet’s Oldsmobile. I sigh. So there is someone here. Dammit. Someone who appears to be into conspicuous consumption. Rachel ruffles my hair affectionately. “Max, calm down,” she laughs. “Want me to come with you? I will, you know.” “No, no, I’ll be fine,” I sigh dramatically. “Besides, Richard shouldn’t be too terribly long, and then we can make our excuses and go. It’s only dinner, after all.” But I make no move to get out of the car, flipping on her radio instead, which seems to amuse her. “I’ll go in a minute,” I waffle, settling back to listen to Beethoven’s Fifth, which has only just begun. Bum bum bum bummmmmmmmm. After a few minutes of this, Rachel nudges me. “What?” I ask. “You’ve been spotted,” she informs me. “I see the curtains moving, I’m pretty sure it’s your mom. You might as well go in now and get it over with before she comes out and drags you in. You’ll only lose dignity that way.” I grumble and fuss and stall for at least five more minutes, but I can see the nervously twitching curtains now; they seem to have taken
136
Julie Lynn Hayes
on a life of their own. Most assuredly we are being spied upon, and yes, it is better to walk in under my own power than to have my mother come out and drag me in by my ear. Which I certainly wouldn’t put past her. Rachel tries to assuage my fears. “Max, it’ll be okay. Just be polite to the girl for a little bit. Then when Richard comes, she’ll see the two of you together, and she’ll know you’re not available and move on.” “I know, but dammit, it’s undignified to even have to go through this shit!” I fuss. “At my age, especially!” She bends over and kisses my cheek. “You’re still stalling,” she chides me gently. “Go on, you sexy little thing. Did I remember to tell you that you look very hot in that suit?” “Soft words won’t turn me now,” I tell her, scowling, “since you’re leaving me here at their mercy, you cruel wench.” Rachel only laughs and points toward the house significantly. I get out, slamming the car door very loudly as a signal to my mother that I am indeed on my way. I walk into the house, finally, attempting to gird my loins against the inevitable assault. Okay, where are they most likely to be? In the living room, perhaps, judging by the rustling curtain game I witnessed. But no, no one is there. Must be already at the table. Juliet will be pissed. I sigh even as I can’t help but wish that my mother would quit this shit and hope that Richard comes back soon to take me away from this madness. Damn, I need a drink! Maybe I can slide past and grab something out of the kitchen first. No such luck. I can hear my mother’s voice. It catches me and pulls me unwillingly into the dining room. Okay, then, show time it is. I prepare myself to smile politely at the unknown visitor who my mother is so insistent I meet, preparatory to letting her know in as kind a way as I can that I am not in the market, I am not interested, I am absolutely not available, and I am very much in love and have been for twenty years. I stride easily into the room, prepared for anything. But not for this. Not for this man who sits so familiarly beside my
To the Max
137
mother at the head of the table, his hand atop her knee, smiling into her eyes. What the fuck? He is somewhere around fifty or so, I gauge; his hair is mostly black with a distinguished gentlemen gray about the edges. Muttonchop sideburns, trimmed to be not quite as ridiculous as they sound, for all I know they might be considered to be stylish. An aquiline nose and high cheekbones that conspire to allow him to look younger than his years. But it’s the eyes that I notice the most: they are dark and yet fiery, and there is something in them that doesn’t sit well with me. But that’s probably because of the way he is looking at my mother. I glance in confusion about the room. No sign of any girl or woman. No prospective girlfriends for Max to meet. No potential hearts to break. (Ha ha, being facetious there. I don’t think I’ve ever broken any woman’s heart, not really. Or even any man’s). “Max, you finally decided to come in!” My mother rises, and I can hear a slight edge to her voice. “Sorry, Mom,” I mumble, “I was talking to Rachel.” I eye the man askance. He rises as well, holding his hand out in a gesture of welcome. “Max, I’d like you to meet Terranova. The Reverend Terranova Fisher.” “I’m very pleased to meet you, Max.” The man has the voice of a practiced speaker, I can tell. I take his hand in my own; his grip is firm. And challenging. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Juliet.” I may be slow sometimes, but even I start to get it now. Mother hasn’t brought me here to meet a prospective girlfriend, but rather, a prospective boyfriend. For herself. And he’s a reverend? The light bulb slowly begins to flicker as the proper connection is made, the slender filament doing its thing, illuminating my mind, brightening the shadows in the corners. My suspicions are confirmed with my mother’s next words. “Terranova is the pastor of the Church of Divine Providence.” That explains much. The church that Diana and Sebastian were complaining about. The one Juliet attends with Amy. Cowabunga, Batman! I think we have achieved liftoff! Hang the mixed metaphors. “Your mother and I would like to see you at service sometime,
138
Julie Lynn Hayes
Max,” he invites me. “Uh huh,” I reply noncommittally. I glance at Juliet; she’s looking at him. Oh dear God, what is going on? And why is this man sitting at the head of the table, as if he belongs there? “I’m not much of one for going to church, I’m afraid.” Thinking to myself: and neither is my mother. Not normally, anyway. “You are most welcome, my son, to join us.” What the fuck? I start to open my mouth, but before I can point out that not only is the son of a bitch most assuredly not my father, he isn’t even old enough to be, Juliet cuts in. “Wine, Max?” And Reverend Buttinsky rises, reaching for the decanter and pouring me a glass of some sort of rose, which he offers to me like it is the bloody blood of Christ. And no, I don’t care how that sounds. I take it as graciously as I can and mumble, “Thanks.” Juliet catches my eye, and I see a warning there, so I leave it alone. For now. If it isn’t rather patently obvious, I have taken a strong dislike at first sight to the Right Reverend Terranova Fisher. What the hell kind of name is Terranova anyway? Smacks of revivalism to me. Probably made up. Or Southern. And just why exactly is he tomcatting around my mother? And why is she eating it up like a love-starved schoolgirl? Okay, calm down, Max, I tell myself, taking a good healthy drink of the wine. And then another one. “Max!” my mother chides me. Jeez, can’t I do anything right? “Help me in the kitchen?” Universal mother talk for I want to see you alone, now. Whatever. Better that than to be left alone with Bozo the Preacher. I excuse myself and rise from my chair, even as he makes a move to pull hers back for her. Consummate suck artist. Not in a good way. I make sure that I move out of her reach in case she is feeling the need to grab my ear for any reason and drag me along. We meet in the kitchen. Hopefully neutral territory. “Max….” Her opening volley: a warning shot. Only my name, but it’s the tone of her voice that is significant. “Juliet….” I respond, copying her. “Please be nice to our guest.” “Your guest,” I point out.
To the Max
139
“Our guest,” she returns. “Why didn’t Rachel come in with you? She’s always welcome, you know.” “I know, but she’s busy. She just gave me a ride, that’s all. Richard’ll pick me up later.” “Why don’t you call him and tell him not to bother? You can spend the night. I’ll drive you home in the morning.” “It’s not a bother, and I don’t want to spend the night.” Mexican standoff. “How much later?” “I don’t know. Why, does it matter?” “No, no reason,” she waffles, pulling on her oven mitts and taking a casserole out of the oven. Damn, but she’s acting odd. “What did you want help with?” Conference over, back to the battlefield again. In answer, she makes three plates, hands me two, follows me in with the other. I lay one before “our” (read “her”) guest. Sit down with mine. Pour myself more wine, don’t need his help or permission, thank you kindly. And no, I am not being childish. Chug it, hoping it will relax me a little bit. Or not. “You are truly blessed to have a mother like Juliet.” Damn, he’s talking again. “And a good friend like Amy.” I concentrate on my dinner, mumble something. Luckily he needs no encouragement to keep flapping his gums. Just another body in the same room. Although I suspect that when he’s alone, he’s more than happy to talk to himself. I sneak a peek at my mother. She sits there, apparently transfixed by this man. Her eyes have this strange glow, as if she’s been secretly irradiated by some of the fallout from Chernobyl, her lips parted in some sort of breathy anticipation. Damn, I don’t like this. Not one little bit. I make a mental note to discuss the Amy aspect of this with Rachel, find out what she knows about it. Or about any of it, actually. Now he’s talking about his plans for the expansion of the church, raising funds to build a new structure on some land that has been very generously donated by one of the church patrons. I am only halflistening, working on getting sloshed and not actually interested, but my attention is caught when I notice Juliet’s blush at those words, and I
140
Julie Lynn Hayes
raise my head to watch her now. Don’t tell me she’s funding the son of a bitch? Not that I care what she does with her money—it’s hers after all. I’m doing very well myself, Richard and I are financially secure, and we always tell her to enjoy her life, spend my inheritance, and Diana’s too (which usually earns me a smack from my sister). But I hate to see her throwing it away on this creep and his sideshow. He seems to be going out of his way to be friendly to me. Very friendly. And yet patronizing at the same time. My mother has inched her chair closer to his, listening intently as he pontificates on this, that, and the other thing. Dinner ends, and still he goes on. And on. And on and on and on…. Ad infinitum. More wine, please. I see I’ll have to find another bottle soon, if I keep lapping it up at this rate. Juliet has stopped paying attention to how much I am drinking, luckily. ’Cause I anticipate drinking more. A noise attracts my attention, the front door actually. I cock my head, listening. It might be Diana, or Jackson, but I am hoping that it’s— It is. It’s Richard. Thank goodness! I’d know his step anywhere. He enters the house without knocking, naturally, passes by the living room, now he’s entering the dining room, and he’s right here with us. At last, I breathe a sigh of relief. I barely have time to notice the peculiar look of dismay on my mother’s face—no time to analyze it either—my lover is standing behind me now, one arm wound round my neck, while one hand tilts my head back for a kiss, smiling at me warmly. “Hello, love.” Either Richard hasn’t noticed the stranger in our midst, or he is too intent on me to pay him any attention. I prefer to think the latter. I say hello with my lips. Nothing says I love you better than a good kiss. Unless, of course, you own stock in Hallmark. Richard slides into the chair next to me, scooches it over by me, and remembers his manners. “Hello, Juliet,” he greets her. Then he looks toward the now silent minister. Which is when I realize that he is indeed silent, whatever diatribe he had been spouting cut off mid-sentence. He is looking at us oddly, almost in some sort of disbelief, and I can see him and Juliet exchange glances. This can’t be good, I think to myself, even as he rises and
To the Max
141
excuses himself, leaving the room, Juliet hot on his heels after giving the two of us an enigmatic look of her own. “Who the hell’s that? And where’s your new girlfriend?” “Reverend Fuckface from that quack church of Amy’s. No girlfriend, just him.” “Ah, I see,” Richard says thoughtfully. I turn to face him, still wondering what the hell is going on. “Darlin’.” He answers my unspoken question. “I think I see a problem here.” “Problem? What problem? What do you mean?” “I think the preacherman is a homophobe.” Goddamn, no wonder she wanted me to call Richard, so that he wouldn’t show up while loverboy is here. Oh good Lord, save me from anti-gays, and religious ones at that. Fighting prejudice to the max. But in my own home?
142
Julie Lynn Hayes
Chapter 12 Serpent’s Tooth Reversed
I SIT at my computer, hands poised on the keys, ready to type, wanting to type, needing to type. The letter which I am attempting to answer waits patiently on the screen for me to deliver my sage words of wisdom. But I cannot type. My fingers refuse to cooperate with me, mainly because my mind is too far from what I am supposed to be doing, which is solving the problems of my reading public, but it is locked instead on what happened at my mother’s the night I met him. The night she and I got into the biggest fight we’ve ever had in my life. It’s bad enough when a mother tries to set up her gay son on blind dates—and not just any blind dates, but with women for crying out loud!—and tries to connect him with any female she can put her hands on no matter how incompatible or how unsuitable (and believe me, all women are simply incompatible to and unsuitable for me, and always will be), but then when that same mother tries to deny her son for who and what he really is, which is what it comes down to, after all, all I can say is that it really hurts. Almost as if my fingers have a mind of their own, I find myself bringing my Yahoo! search engine onto the screen, and I type “Reverend Terranova Fisher” and click on search. Interesting. The first match I find is the official website for the Church of Divine Providence. So, this obnoxious man with antiquated thinking is modern enough to be acquainted with the power of the Internet, is he? There he is, the smarmy bastard, a fairly recent picture, I see, and there all his adoring parishioners, or followers, or whatever they are. I press my face closer to my flat screen and peer intently at the image. The figures standing behind him are a little indistinct, but I can still make out my mother. And Amy. Both wearing the same glazed expression, the same look of rapture, as if they have just witnessed the Second Coming or something.
To the Max
143
Gah!
JULIET managed to somehow talk him into coming back into the room, and it was if nothing untoward had happened. He apologized for his actions, claiming some bullshit about a sudden attack of indigestion. Right. And then he began to pontificate again. Damn. At the same time, he was spreading the preacherly charm on with a trowel and my mother was eating it up. Richard laid his hand on my knee beneath the table, anchoring me, keeping me from exploding. He can be very perceptive at times, especially when it comes to me. In most ways except one, that is. Mother served dessert: a black forest cheesecake she had made herself. I barely tasted it, even though normally I love this particular confection, and I usually tend to inhale it. My appetite was just a little off, although I had no problem with the wine. Fisher tried to get on my good side. “I enjoy reading your column every morning. I find it quite amusing.” Feeling my mother’s glare on me, I managed to mumble something resembling thanks or I’m glad. “Max is a very talented writer,” Richard spoke up, which earned him a grateful smile from me. He squeezed my knee reassuringly in response. “Yes, he is a very talented writer,” came a voice from behind me. Oh, oh, what now? I didn’t have to look to know whose voice that was, and within seconds I could see her, using my most excellent peripheral vision, as she greeted my mother with a big hug, shook the Reverend Dimwit’s hand, and headed toward Richard and myself. “Surprise, Max!” Amy smiled at me. I hugged her, of course, and so did Richard. Was it my imagination or did she give him a strange look? Or maybe it was just too much wine on my part. She made herself at home at the table, as my mother cut her a piece of the cheesecake. “It’s only a matter of time ’til Max’s column is in every country in the world!” Amy boasted.
144
Julie Lynn Hayes
“I don’t know about that,” I demurred, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. Will someone please change the topic of conversation? Now? “Well, I do,” Amy continued. “You’ll have the world beating a path to your door, sweetie, and they’ll simply adore you, like everyone that knows you does.” At about this point, I wanted to crawl underneath the table and quietly expire. “I have an idea!” my mother exclaimed, clapping her hands together with enthusiasm. I braced myself and squeezed the hand on top of my knee. “Max, why don’t you play for us? Max is quite the pianist.” She turned toward her would-be boyfriend; it was obvious to even me now that she had quite a thing for him, and it seemed to be requited. He smiled the requisite polite smile of dubious interest, spoke the proper words of encouragement. “No, I don’t think—” I tried to get out of it, but Amy had already taken up the cry, “Yes, Max, do please play something for us!” It was Richard’s endorsement of the proposed project that threw me for a loop. Surely he knew I didn’t want to be paraded like the prize hog at the county fair? But when I looked at him in surprise, I saw that his beautiful blue eyes were gleaming, and I realized that he had ulterior motives. So I swallowed my pride and agreed. “Sure,” I said, trying to be gracious about it, as both he and I rose at the same time. I began to see what he had in mind, especially when he added for the benefit of the room, “The piano isn’t hard at all to hear in here, is it, Max?” Ah ha! “No, no,” I hastily agreed, “it’s quite loud, actually. You’ll be able to hear it quite clearly.” And before anyone could protest or make a move to join us, or even make a request, we hightailed ourselves out of the dining room, down the hall, and into the family room where the piano sat. And kissed one another most thoroughly before sitting down together at the bench. There was always room for two on that thing, a fact we had discovered many years before. “Wanna make it a duet?” I asked, flexing my fingers, my joints popping like bubble wrap. He shook his head, stroked my hair softly. “I want to listen to you play, love,” he said softly, his eyes so warm and adoring that I simply
To the Max
145
melted at his look. “Play the sonata, will you?” How could I refuse? I took a moment to prepare myself mentally before I laid my fingers against the keys and began filling the house with Beethoven’s immortal work. And appropriately, a thumbnail moon was just visible through the French doors that led to the backyard, as well as to the swimming pool. And although, as you know, I am not a fan of that particular orb, tonight I found it enchanting. Swimming pool? Hmmm, interesting possibilities began to insert themselves into my mind. Was there any way to get rid of the church crowd in the other room? Somehow I doubted it. Too bad. I wondered what they would think if I just said, excuse us now, we’re going to go out in the pool and shag, so if you don’t mind not coming outside ’til we’re done? Thanks kindly! Yeah, like I had the balls to do that. Richard leaned in to me as I played. It didn’t bother me at all; I had learned a long time ago how to concentrate on my playing, even when he was talking to me or when he simply breathed warmly against my ear. We had even experimented with what kinds of sexual intercourse could be carried on without disrupting the flow of the music. You’d be surprised at what we found out. Maybe we’ll publish the results of our research some day. But at the moment, I knew that wasn’t going to happen, so I knew that he must want to talk. “Don’t let them get to you, sweetheart,” he murmured, “everything will be all right.” I sighed deeply. “I can’t help it. I’m a worrier.” “I know you are, babe, but I won’t let anything happen to us, I promise.” I turned my head to regard him—it’s not like I was looking at any actual sheet music, anyway, so there was no need for me to look at the keys—and our lips came together softly, lightly, no urgency, just love. Soothing, nurturing love. “There will always be ignorant people like him in the world, we can’t change that.” “But my own mother?” I whined, never missing a beat. Musicwise, I mean. “She loves you, Max, you know that,” he reassured me. “Give her a little time, that’s all. She’ll see him as he really is.”
146
Julie Lynn Hayes
I wasn’t nearly as confident as my lover, as I changed from the allegretto to the presto agitato. And where did Amy fit into the scheme of things? I knew instinctively that she did, somehow. I just didn’t know how. “It’s you and me, babe, all the way.” So nice, so very, very nice… getting lost in his words now, in his touch, and in his love, and for once I forgot what I was doing at the keyboard, as I simply stopped playing. God, Richard, oh God, your kisses drive me crazy even after all these years. You’d think I’d be immune to that particular thrill by now, but I’m not. He’s got my heart doing a samba as I simply moaned and returned his kiss with all the love that I could possibly impart through my meager lips. It’s not until I hear a disquieting cough from the doorway that I became aware of what I was doing—or not doing actually—as I opened my eyes, turning them toward that sound. Shit! They were all standing there, grouped together like a disapproving Greek chorus. The condemnatory jury. I started to pull away, as if I had been caught doing something I shouldn’t have, but he wouldn’t let me. He’s a braver soul than I am. He put a defiant arm around my shoulder and simply faced them down. There was complete and total silence, which was broken at last by Richard’s exaggerated yawning as he moved his arm and pretended to stretch. “Max, I think we should go home and go to bed, love. We have a busy day tomorrow.” It took all my self-control not to burst out laughing at this. I decided against asking the Right Reverend Bigot if he liked what he heard. Why push it? We made our good-byes and headed gratefully out the door. Freedom! I breathed a big sigh of relief to be out of there at last. It had been a damn long evening. All I wanted at that moment was to go home, with my Richard, and forget about all of this. I spoke too soon. “Max?” Damn. My mother. Right behind us. She caught up to us, the leftover cheesecake wrapped up in tinfoil in her hands. “I thought you might like to take this home with you.” “Thanks, Mom.” I took it from her. “Thanks, Juliet, you know how much I love your desserts.”
To the Max
147
Richard smiled, ever the gentleman. “Um, Richard, would you mind?” He kissed me sweetly. “I’ll go start the car,” he said aloud, but then, only loud enough for me to hear, he whispered, “Love you. Stay strong.” My mother waited ’til he had actually started the Monte before she began to speak. “Max, I’d like to see you at church with us.” “Mom,” I whined, “you know we don’t go to church.” “Then you come, with Amy.” My eyes narrowed angrily. “You want me, but not Richard, is that it?” “If he doesn’t want to come—” “I said we don’t go to church. Remember that: he and I are a we, no matter what you might like or what your holier-than-thou friend might like—” “Don’t talk about Terranova that way!” “Why? You don’t seem to care how you talk about Richard. When will he ever be good enough for you?” “He’ll never be good enough for you!” I thought of oh-so-many things that I could have said to her, epithets I could have hurled, insults I could have slung, but I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it, even though she had just stabbed me right in the heart. “Staying strong,” I muttered to myself. Instead, I pushed the cheesecake back into her hands. “Feed it to him!” I snarled, and I turned around without another word, got into the Monte, so mad that I was actually shaking as I slid over as close to Richard as I could get. He didn’t ask me anything, just put the car into gear, wrapped his arm about my shoulder, and we pulled silently away. I didn’t even look back.
THAT was Friday night. Today’s Monday, and I still can’t get it out of my head. And worse, I can’t even work. I refused to answer the phone all weekend, petulantly shut it off,
148
Julie Lynn Hayes
no communication with the outside world whatsoever. Never set foot outside the house once. I re-organized my books, cleaned out the kitchen cabinets, scrubbed the floors, and blasted Tchaikovsky’s cannons ’til even Richard had had enough and took the CD away from me. But to be fair, he didn’t leave my side once, and every time that I needed him, he was there for me. And I needed him quite a bit. I hear the front door open and shut. Shit! How long have I been staring at this thing, and not a bloody word to show for it? I hear him clattering in the hall closet, putting some of his equipment up. He tends to be very careful with that, as a lot of it is rather expensive stuff. The cameras themselves get stowed in our room for safekeeping. He heads that way now, putting the cases into our joint closet. I know his routine as well as I know my own. He’s standing behind me now, and I know he’s looking at the screen. This is the same screen he saw me staring at when he left me this morning. Great progress, Max. Good thing I’m always ahead of my deadlines. But still…. He winds his arms around me, hugs me tight; his lips are soft, his voice encouraging. “I think someone needs a break.” “From what?” I ask, but I only half-heartedly resist as he pulls me away from the computer and walks me out onto the front porch. He sits down lengthwise on our big porch swing, the one that came with the house, the one we fell in love with the moment we saw it. And yes, we’ve broken it in, a long time ago. He takes my hand, pulls me down onto the swing to fill the space between his legs, his arms going around me as I settle into place, leaning against his warmth, his security. He shifts his weight to start the swing moving in a gentle arc, and I am content to just lie there in his grip. It is hours before we move again. Holding the line to the max, and trying to keep it all together now.
To the Max
149
Chapter 13 Of Mothers and Queens
MY MOTHER taught me that I was a werewolf as soon as I was old enough to understand what that meant. Being gay I learned about on my own. Nowadays, being homosexual is not looked upon as quite the aberrant lifestyle that it once was, although obviously there are those who refuse to understand that it is perfectly natural, as is being heterosexual. Neither way is right, nor wrong. In fact, it seems to me that the current trend leans toward lesbianism as being chic, en vogue. Women kissing other women in public displays of affection doesn’t draw quite the attention it would have at one time. Neither does the sight of two males holding hands. But in the time that I grew up, that wasn’t the case. Not that I realized that, of course. What child is born knowing and understanding their own sexuality, much less that of the world around them? That comes with time, as well as physical and mental development. Although, as a rule, I think the body knows before the mind does. Sunday, November 16, 1969
I REMEMBER the first time that I kissed another boy. I was thirteen at the time. Puberty was beginning to manifest itself on my unsuspecting body, which had enough to deal with on a monthly basis without throwing out-of-whack hormones into the mix. It was at Rachel’s thirteenth birthday party. If it hadn’t been for Rachel, I’d have had next to no contact with other children, being homeschooled and not inclined toward making new friends. Which was the way Juliet preferred it, determined to protect her little Max from the outside world. But
150
Julie Lynn Hayes
Rachel’s mother had planned something special, and we begged my mother for weeks to let me go, until she reluctantly gave in. Rachel made sure that I was there well in advance. I had been careful to make myself presentable, although she encouraged me not to be too formal, so I made do with my best pair of cords and a nice shirt. Once there, I made myself useful and helped her mom set things up. Mrs. Sheldon was always nice to me—she was a very nice lady—she never minded how much I came over or how often Rachel zipped over to my house, never treated me like a pest, and always had time to listen to whatever I found the nerve to say. Which was a lot, surprisingly. She had a knack for drawing people out of themselves. She encouraged my and Rachel’s friendship, as did my mother, although for different reasons. Juliet seemed to understand that we were close friends, nothing more, and that was fine with her. The party was scheduled to go off at two, and a few minutes before the appointed time, the arrivals began. I had seen a few of the other guests at Rachel’s house before, had had limited contact with some of them. Most of them were her classmates from the local public school she went to, and there seemed to be far more girls in attendance than boys. For the most part I shyly kept to myself, spoke if I was spoken to, was polite. Rachel, my little social butterfly, although the center of attention, always returned to me, making sure that I wasn’t alone for long. That girl has always had my best interests at heart. Always watched out for me, even then. Still does, to this day. The party was being held in the basement, which was also the rec room. Adult supervision was right upstairs—Mrs. Sheldon and some of the other mothers were gathered together in the kitchen, drinking coffee and chattering—but for the most part we were left to our own devices, which consisted largely of talking, listening to music, and eating. Until the games began, that is. I was standing in the corner of the room nearest to the table where a vast array of pizza had been set out, as well as the mandatory chips and dip—what party was complete without the taste of homemade French onion dip, made from real sour cream and dry onion soup mix?—thinking what a terrific combination that was in my book, when another boy approached the table, looked over its offerings before selecting a slice of pizza and claiming it. He regarded me for a moment
To the Max
151
as he ate the pizza, giving me time to look him over as well. He had curly black hair and mocha eyes, and for a boy I thought that his bowshaped lips were rather pink. I envied him his glossy curls; I thought my own hair boring and totally uninteresting, while his was dark and mysterious. I liked his looks, he seemed nice, and I didn’t analyze it any further than that. He chewed his pizza, swallowed, before he addressed me. “I hear they’re going to have games?” I nodded. Rachel had told me beforehand everything that was planned. “Girls.” He shrugged. “Hope they’re not too stupid.” I only kept nodding, like some sort of idiot savant. Luckily he didn’t seem to notice. “You’re Max, aren’t you? I’m Gene.” Before I had a chance to say anything even remotely stupid, Rachel bustled over and shepherded us to the other side of the room, telling us that our presence was required for the first game, which turned out to be pin the tail on the donkey, which pretty well ended that. Whatever that might have been. Everyone knows pin the tail on the donkey, right? Blindfold, pin, donkey—that’s about all there is to say about that, basically. The second game was spin the bottle. It’s not like I had never kissed a girl before. I had kissed Rachel. She wasn’t shy about that sort of thing, and we were kids; we didn’t know any better. It didn’t mean a thing. We had even played doctor once when we were about seven, which consisted mostly of you show me yours, and I’ll show you mine, that sort of thing. Forgotten as soon as it happened. No big deal. Kissing Rachel was no different than kissing my little sister Diana, who was about six at this time. Or kissing my mother. Nice, but nothing exciting. I really didn’t want to play this game, but I knew there would be no way around it. The girls especially were clamoring for it, so we all formed the obligatory circle, the empty glass bottle on the ground in the middle of the circle, like an evil predator waiting to claim its victim. The bottle was spun, the victims chosen, and amid the hoots of the boys and the giggles of the girls, the selected pair met awkwardly in the middle of the circle and kissed: lightly, tentatively. One boy, one girl, pink-faced but smiling. Applause. The bottle was spun again, the
152
Julie Lynn Hayes
heavy glass skittering loudly against the tile of the floor, before it came to rest, one end pointing at Rachel, the other at a bespectacled young man with soft eyes and wavy brown hair. He blushed, Rachel giggled, and never one to be shy, she reached the center of the circle before he did. “Come on, James,” she encouraged him, and once again the ring of spectators was cheering him on. Their lips met, someone cried out, “Ooolala,” and everyone laughed. The game continued, more couples, more kissing, more laughter. When the bottle pointed to two girls, everyone went “Oooooo,” but it was done in fun. As long as it didn’t point toward me, I was happy. Every time it looked like it was going to stop in my vicinity, I grew cold, but it always seemed to be for someone else. Which suited me just fine. I noticed that the boy I’d been talking to, Gene, was never picked either, and I wondered, did he mind? I looked at him now and then, admiring the easy familiarity he seemed to have with the people around him. He struck me as being very nice, in fact, friendly. I didn’t have any male friends other than my cousin Sebastian who, at eighteen, wasn’t around much between working and preparing for college. And as for female friends, there was just Rachel. And then I was thunderstruck as I watched that cursed bottle stop dead on me. Damn. I didn’t want to look to see who was on the other side of it, but when the major giggling began I had to, raising my eyes to find my gaze returned by the dark-haired boy on the other side. Oh my God! Since there was a preponderance of girls to guys, this particular combination hadn’t arisen yet, so we were the first. And did they make a big deal out of it! I didn’t honestly know why. Not having been exposed to public school, I had no frame of reference for this, knew nothing about sexuality, straight, gay or otherwise. My mother hadn’t given me “the talk” yet. I bit my lower lip, looked at him. He just smiled and moved into the circle, waiting. For me. Damn. “Go on, Max.” I could hear Rachel’s voice, encouraging me. And then her words were echoed by the other children, as easily as if they were all rooting for their favorite baseball team: “Go, Max, go, Max, go, Max….” What could I do? My movements seemed highly exaggerated, everything moving in
To the Max
153
a sort of slo-mo as I found my way into the center of the circle, miraculously without tripping on my own two feet. Gene continued to smile in a calm Buddha-like way. And as those around us cheered us on, he pressed his lips gently against mine. I wasn’t prepared for the reaction of my own body to that kiss, having been more worried that I didn’t make a fool out of myself or gross Gene out. But as soon as he kissed me I knew that I liked it. This was different from any other kiss I had ever gotten. This was good. Very good. If he hadn’t broken it off, I’d have probably stood there for a lot longer, so I guess it’s a good thing that he did. As it was everyone was laughing, but I didn’t hear them at first. It was good-natured, though, and as I slowly became aware of my surroundings, I managed to find my place again, as the game moved on. But something inside of me was different, and I could feel it, even though I couldn’t put a name to it. And to my embarrassment, I realized that something outside of me was different too: namely, I had an erection. Not that I had never had one before; that’s something that starts with males at a very young age, as well as masturbation. Whacking off, if you will. And I had begun having wet dreams about the age of ten, although I never seemed to remember the dreams afterward and was left with just the sticky sheets as evidence of my nocturnal emissions. But I had never gotten hard at someone else’s touch before. Male or female. Luckily no one else seemed to notice. I guess it was just more obvious to me than to them, naturally. But it had awakened questions in me. Serious questions. Which I took to the person I loved and trusted the most in the world, my mother. We were sitting together in the kitchen after dinner that night, she was putting the finishing touches on a chocolate cake she had made, and I watched her hands expertly smooth the rich chocolate fudge frosting into place using her big frosting blade. “So, Rachel’s party was fun, was it?” she asked me, flipping up some of the icing on the side for a textured effect. “Yeah, it was lots of fun. They had food, and soda, and stuff. We played music. And games.”
154
Julie Lynn Hayes
“What kind of games did you play?” she asked, eyeing the cake as if to make sure it was perfectly aligned. “Pin the tail, musical chairs, spin the bottle.” I shrugged. She turned her head and smiled at me. “Did you kiss anyone?” she teased. “Yeah, a guy named Gene.” “Oh.” This must have taken her aback. “ ’Course it was just a game. Boys don’t really kiss boys in real life,” she said. “Why not?” “Because they don’t, that’s all.” She looked more closely at me. I flushed under her scrutiny. “Max, it’s not like you liked kissing him, is it?” “Well….” I waffled, feeling myself on precarious ground and not sure what to say. Was it such a bad thing if I did? I didn’t understand. She put her hand under my chin, raised my face toward hers. “Max, it’s just a phase, ’cause you’re growing up and things are confusing for you right now. It’ll be okay. Someday you’ll find the right girl, and you’ll see what I mean.” She was the one that was confusing me. I had liked kissing Gene, but she was making it sound wrong. At that point, I just dropped the subject, and it was a few years before I finally came out to her, although from that point on I was watching myself and the world around me for clues as to what was going on. And that is when I became aware of just what it meant to be homosexual. Like belonging to a secret society that everyone was aware of but no one wanted to talk about. I was left to grapple with my own feelings on the subject for a while before I dared to approach Rachel about it. I had no one else I felt I could talk to. And was she shocked? Upset? Perturbed in any way? No, not my Rachel. She just hugged me and told me if that’s how I felt, then I should go for it. No matter what anyone else said. Oh, do I hear a question? You want to know if I ever kissed Gene again, if anything ever came out of it? Yes, and no. Yes, I kissed him again, the next time he was at Rachel’s house. We snuck into my backyard, shielded from the house by the flowering shrubbery, and kissed each other ’til our lips were swollen. But no, alas, nothing came of it, for shortly afterward his parents moved to another city, and I lost
To the Max
155
track of him. Que sera, sera. Juliet is still in a state of denial about my sexuality. Obviously. Painfully so. Even after all these years, she acts like it’s just a matter of switching teams, stepping up to bat for the other side. I’ve asked her: if it’s that easy, why doesn’t she do it and start dating girls? She just tells me not to be impertinent and that ends that. I asked Richard once about his first kiss—with a boy, that is. I think Richard actually kissed girls, too, before he realized he was gay. It was the Sunday after our first meeting at the disco in Illinois. We had not been apart since that day, as if we had become glued together somehow. Every waking minute of every day was spent in each other’s company, and all night as well. After the first night, we had come back to my house. It just felt right. Natural. And on Sunday we went back to Kirkwood and got what few things he owned and moved them into my room, first saying good-bye to his friends and thanking them for their hospitality. Mother had taken Diana and gone out somewhere with Sebastian, lunch at the art museum, I think, so we had the house to ourselves. We had been invited to come, and under other circumstances this was something I would have loved to do, that being one of my favorite places to be, but today we had declined. Now we were simply naked and relaxing on my bed. I straddled Richard, my ass resting on his legs as we just talked. Still in that getting-to-know-you stage. The exploratory touchy-feely stage. So completely enamored of one another that we couldn’t seem to see or think of anyone else. Come to think of it, we’re still in that stage, most of the time. When he’s around, of course. Not being facetious, just honest. I was playing with his pubic hairs. They were the prettiest shade of blonde; they looked like he had rinsed them in lemon juice. They had a crinkly texture to them but were soft, and I was curling them around my finger, not pulling at them in any way but simply enjoying the feel of him. Not to mention, it gave me the opportunity to soak in the sight of his cock, which even at rest was a beautiful thing to behold. “Richard?” “Hmmm?”
156
Julie Lynn Hayes
“Do you remember the first time you kissed a boy or a boy kissed you?” “Mhmmm. It was when I was twelve.” “That’s young, isn’t it?” He shrugged lazily. “I looked more like I was sixteen. My mother liked to put eyeliner on me sometimes, and it made me look pretty, not to mention older.” “Why’d she do that?” Curiously. He laughed easily. “Because she’s her.” “Oh.” “And the first guy that kissed me was one of her boyfriends.” My eyebrows must have gone up at this piece of information. “How old was he?” “Thirty, forty, I dunno.” His face moved in a gesture of dismissal. “He also taught me how to suck cock.” “Shit,” I breathed, “that doesn’t sound right. Why didn’t you tell your mom what he did?” “I did,” he said quietly. “She didn’t listen.” “Why was he going out with her if he was gay?” I was confused. “Sucking cock doesn’t always mean you’re gay, love,” he said. “In this case it just turned out that I really was, and he was just horny. It was easier to give in than to fight it, and besides, I discovered that I had a talent for it, and I used it to get things.” I couldn’t imagine a mother that would allow something like that to go on under her nose. My mother would have emasculated the other man for even thinking about it, let alone doing it. “Your mother should have done something.” “It’s not always that easy, Max,” he sighed gently. “I moved out not long after that, anyway, so it didn’t matter.” “You moved out? When you were twelve?” I goggled. “Well, she moved, so I ended up moving; we just moved in different directions, that’s all. I went to Chicago. She went to New Orleans. Maybe six months later she left that guy and found another one, and then we ended up meeting up again on some commune, and
To the Max
157
we lived together. For a while. Colorado, I think it was.” “How did you survive?” “The best way I could. Blowing guys for money and living on the street. I managed.” I was appalled at his words, his mother’s callous actions. Made me appreciate mine even more at that moment. I leaned down and tenderly kissed the head of his cock before I crawled up beside him, stroked his face gently, gazed into his beautiful blue eyes. “It’s okay,” he reassured me with a tender smile. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, you know?” “I know, but still….” A pause. “Richard?” “Mmhmmm?” “Promise me you won’t leave me?” I was already deeply in love with him and totally committed. And insecure as hell. “Darlin’,” he sighed, “don’t worry. I’ll always come back. I’m like the proverbial bad penny. “ If that was meant to be reassuring, it wasn’t. But it was rather prophetic. I just chose to ignore it at that moment.
DAMN. There’s someone coming up the drive. I can hear the gravel spinning beneath the tires. I close my eyes, not wishing to be disturbed, just want to lay here in Richard’s arms, protected, secure. Richard’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “Max, it’s Juliet.” Mothers are confusing creatures at times. Trying to be patient, to the max, and grateful for my Richard.
158
Julie Lynn Hayes
Chapter 14 Beware the Jabberwock
MY FIRST instinct is to pretend we aren’t home, but I know right away that won’t work, since we are in plain sight. “She’s not alone,” Richard observes. He tightens his arms around me protectively. I have my eyes closed in serious denial. “Please tell me she didn’t bring the preacher?” I groan. “No, it’s Rachel,” he reassures me, and I breathe out again. “Thank heaven for small favors.” Richard strokes my hair tenderly, affirming that he is mine and that we are indeed in this together. “Baby, you do what you want to do. She’s your mother, but you know that I’m here for you, don’t you, no matter what?” I turn my head, draw his lips down to mine, and kiss them gently. “I know.” But there’s no time for anything else. The car has stopped; Rachel has already reached the porch in her inimitable swift style. Apparently she’s just passing through, though, doesn’t intend to stay, as she lets out, “Hi, can I get a drink? Thanks.” and breezes on into the house without pausing. That’s Rachel for you, direct and to the point. And then I realize that my mother is also there. She stands poised at the top of the steps, in mid-stride, as if she is unsure of her welcome; watching us kiss, I know she is unsure, not saying anything. It’s impossible to tell what she’s thinking; she’s seen us together for years. Why is she so against us now? I would have thought she would have accepted Richard as more than my live-in lover. He’s my eternal mate, my one and only. She, better than anyone, understands my particular needs. She just seems to be indifferent to them at the moment. I’m afraid that is the influence of her new boyfriend, for now I have no doubt that is what he is. Isn’t there some sort of commandment? Thou shalt not mess around with thy parishioners?
To the Max
159
“If you want me to leave….” she begins. She knows damn well I’m not going to ask her to leave. It’s just a ploy. Richard is already nudging me as he sits up, so I am forced to sit up also. “Of course not, Juliet,” he asserts. “Max?” Damn, I wish I weren’t so weak. “It’s okay.” I nod. He squeezes my hand reassuringly, manages to maneuver his long leg around me, unfolding himself from me so that he can stand up—he is remarkably limber; I think I would have just made me get up rather than attempt such gymnastics—and he offers my mother his vacated seat. “I’m going to make sure Rachel isn’t stealing the silverware,” he jokes, and then he mouths to me, “Call me,” which I understand to mean if Mother gets to me, he’s close at hand. That, at least, is reassuring. And then he disappears inside the house. I scoot over, and Juliet comes up onto the porch at last, placing her big clunky handbag between us as she sits. “Your carry-on luggage?” I attempt to joke. She smiles weakly, but it’s forced. “I know you’re upset with us,” she begins. I bite my lip at her use of the word “us.” “How would you like it if I told you that he wasn’t good enough for you?” “You don’t know him well enough to make that judgment,” she protests. “And you know Richard too well to make yours,” I counter. “I thought you loved him. You’ve always acted like it, anyway. You treat him like he’s your son, most of the time. You laugh at all his jokes, and you love it when he flirts with you.” “I do know Richard very well,” Juliet agrees. “And I do love him. But you’re my son, Max. I love you more, and it hurts me to see what he does to you, how he tears you up when he leaves without a word and comes back to you whenever he feels like it. And God knows what he does while he’s gone. You don’t think he’s faithful to you, do you?” I refuse to answer that question. That’s no one’s business but mine and Richard’s. “Okay, don’t tell me. But that doesn’t mean that you don’t know it, whether you admit to it or not.” I decide to change directions. “You don’t accept me for what I am, which is gay, Mother, completely gay. Never been anything else.”
160
Julie Lynn Hayes
“Max, I know that you think that you are, but you’re just confused. It’s not natural, Terranova says—” I cut her off with an indignant howl. “Not natural? And being a werewolf is? What does he know about it, anyway?” I rise from my seat and begin to pace in agitation back and forth across the porch. “Mother, I was born this way, both gay and a werewolf. I didn’t choose to be either one. Why can’t you just accept that? Why do you insist on trying to change me? Aren’t I good enough for you?” “Max, you’re being melodramatic. Calm down, and sit down.” On general principle, I refuse. “Max, I didn’t come here to argue with you. Please sit down.” Of course I do. Damn. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you ever since the other night. I know you were upset when you left. (My, how perceptive!) I just wanted you to meet Terranova, get to know him. He means a lot to me, Max.” “So I’ve noticed.” A bit sullen, that, but I don’t care at the moment. “Max, he’s a good man, a brilliant man, and a very kind one. Look at me.” I reluctantly raise my face to hers. “We’ve been discussing marriage.” What? “You haven’t known him long enough,” I protest, trying hard not to raise my voice at her. “Look how long you’ve known Richard, why doesn’t he marry you?” “That’s different, and you know why.” “If he wanted to, he could. You know there are ways….” I can’t argue with that. The truth of the matter is that I’ve always been afraid to bring the subject up. I have no fear of commitment on my part; I committed myself to him heart and soul a long time ago. But what if I asked him and he said no? What would I do then? I don’t want to find out. “You don’t want me marry him anyway. What do you care?” “No, I don’t,” she bluntly admits, “because I know he’ll hurt you.”
To the Max
161
It’s a stalemate. Nobody can move except in the same tired directions, and nobody wins. I close my eyes wearily. “Mother, did you come here just to insult Richard in his own home?” “Your home.” “Our home, Mother!” God, how I just want to scream! Several minutes of silence ensue. “Max, do you remember: when you were ten, you wanted your own bicycle, just ’cause Rachel had one and you wanted to keep up with her?” I nod, saying nothing. “I tried to talk you out of it, but you wouldn’t listen to a word I said. You just had to have it. So I gave in and I bought you one. Remember it? Red, it was, with streamers. It had to have a banana seat too. And monkey handlebars.” Again I nod. I remember that bike. It looked just like Rachel’s, except that hers was blue. “Do you remember how you fell off the first few times you rode it and scraped up your legs so badly that they bled? And even after I put Mercurochrome on them and bandaged them up, you insisted on climbing right back on, even though it must have hurt like hell? And that you fell off again?” “Mother, I remember, yes. What’s the point?” Is she trying to tell me that I’m clumsy? I already know that. “Max, I’m just trying to keep you from being hurt again.” If she expects me to fall into her arms, crying like a baby, with that tactic, I surprise her, ’cause I don’t. But it’s not easy. “I don’t want to see you get hurt either,” I say instead. “And have you told him about me?” “He knows you think you’re gay.” “Does he know that I think I’m a werewolf too?” Two can play that game. “Of course not.” “Good. Keep it that way.” “Max, if I’m going to marry him, I have to tell him at some point.
162
Julie Lynn Hayes
I don’t want to start out with a lie between us.” Aargh! I rise once more, pacing again. I kick the table leg as I pass by it. It doesn’t make me feel any better, and I nearly topple the potted plant perched atop it. I hastily move it back out of harm’s way. “Max, you know that I didn’t marry your father, and you know why. And you know that I didn’t marry Diana’s father because I couldn’t, he already had a wife. Not that I wanted to, anyway. Have you ever heard me say that I wanted to get married, Max? Ever? This is the first time I’ve ever felt this way, at my age, even. Please, try to understand and try to get to know him better. For me?” Women! I swear if I live to be a hundred, or two hundred even, I’ll never understand them. The closest I ever get is Rachel, and sometimes that’s not very damn close. One of the advantages of having a driveway that is made of gravel is that you can hear someone coming as soon as they turn off the main road. Well, at least I can. I can hear someone approaching now. As it’s far too late to be the mail carrier, besides which she came ages ago, I can’t imagine who the newcomer is, but it’s not likely to be anyone I want to see. “Mother, you expecting anyone?” “Me? Why would I be? Unless maybe it’s Amy.” I look at her sharply. “How could it be Amy? She doesn’t know even how to get out here.” “Sure she does. She asked me.” Damn! “Didn’t you think maybe there was a reason that she didn’t know?” “No, what reason?” I roll my eyes, mutter something about a drink, and storm my way into the house. Richard and Rachel are seated at the kitchen table, deep in the midst of some discussion or other, all I manage to hear is “Greek dynasties,” “Jerry Springer,” and “Cleopatra” before I bury my head in the fridge, looking for the bottle of wine that is usually there. Ah, there it is, hiding behind the asparagus. It’s already been opened, so no need to pop the cork. I merely pull it out, throw my head back, and chug it like a freshman at a frat party. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Richard is at my side. He pulls the bottle
To the Max
163
away from my sucking lips, spilling it in the process. On me, of course. “Slow down there, Max.” He pushes the cork back into the bottle with a thunk and slides it back into place. Seeing as I haven’t even bothered to close the door yet, that isn’t hard to do. “Here, take that shirt off, before it stains,” and before I know what I’m about, he’s pulling my T-shirt over my head and taking us both to the kitchen sink, running cold water over the stained fabric and kissing me. What a Renaissance man he is; he can handle both me and dirty laundry at the same time. “Why didn’t you just call for me, instead of letting her get to you like that, love?” he asks, his voice filled with concern. I’m about to answer when I hear voices from the front porch, one undoubtedly Amy’s, I have no idea who the other belongs to. I can’t even tell if it’s male or female. Rachel, not being shy, rises and pats me on the arm. “I’ll see who it is, Max. Just stay here.” And she is gone before I can say yes, no, or maybe. Richard licks the dribbles of wine that cling to my lips, sets the shirt into the sink for the moment, and wraps his arms around me, pulls me to him. I don’t resist; I rest my head on his chest, close my eyes, and sigh. My heart is pounding with unexploded emotions, like a grenade with a hair-trigger, set to be detonated at the smallest vibration. His fingers move through my hair gently, soothingly, the other hand stroking my back in small circular motions. “Was she giving you trouble about us, love?” he asks. I refuse to answer the question. I hate when my mother gets likes this. It’s like she is trying to make me doubt my lover. I know Richard loves me; I know that. Why is she so determined to see me unhappy? At least that’s the way it appears to me. He doesn’t press the issue, continuing his tender ministrations and making soothing noises into my ear. I relax a little in his embrace. A discreet cough behind us. Rachel is back. “Amy’s here,” she announces. I’m not surprised. “She’s not alone, either. And they’re looking for you, Richard.” “For me? That’s a surprise.” He’s surprised? I’m surprised. We’re all surprised. What does this portend? Curiouser and curiouser. “Should I send them in, or do you two want to go out?” “We’ll be out in a minute,” I hastily interject, and she nods
164
Julie Lynn Hayes
understandingly and exits, stage left. Okay, maybe not, but still. I am simply not in the mood for visitors inside the house; let’s keep them outside for right now. At least until I decide how to handle them. “Why is Amy here? Do you know?” Richard asks me. “No clue. But we can blame Juliet for giving her directions,” I grumble. I look at him, clearly concerned. “Just be careful, Richard.” “Of course.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “C’mon, handsome,” and he leads me out to the slaughter. Out on the porch now. It’s getting crowded, and there aren’t enough seats, so Rachel makes herself comfortable on the top step, Mother and Amy are sitting on the swing, the newcomer sits between them. My first impression of the boy, for that is indeed what he is, just a young boy, maybe twenty or so, is that he is very pretty. My second is that he is gay. As for the third, something about him is making my hackles rise for no apparent reason. Maybe it’s something the wolf senses, I don’t know. “Hello, Max darling!” Amy rises to greet me, envelops me in the scent of Chanel which clings about her as she first hugs me, which makes me uncomfortable in my current shirtless condition, then hugs Richard, crying, “Richard!” in the same annoying voice. Don’t get me wrong, we’ve made our peace. But at the moment, everything seems to be getting on my nerves. “I’ve brought you some business, Richard,” she continues, directing our attention to the pretty boy, who is smiling at us in a very practiced manner, particularly at Richard, I notice. That isn’t helping my nerves any, I assure you. “I’d like you to meet my nephew, Morgan Arthur. Morgan, these are my friends, Max and Richard. Richard’s the photographer I was telling you about.” He moves with all of the sinuousness of an alley cat on the prowl. When he stands I am surprised to see that he is taller than he seems at first glimpse, only a couple of inches shorter than Richard, in fact, so somewhere around six foot. And lean, but a compact lean, which hints of a muscular grace just beneath the surface. A conservation of energy, as if it is beneath him to expend too much at one time or on any one person. His hair falls to his shoulders in a tawny veil that defies the laws of normal hair by refusing to be disrupted by his movements, remaining in one coherent whole, while his golden eyes promise much, as do his bee-stung lips. All these details I notice in the short time that
To the Max
165
it takes him to move from the swing to where we stand, extending his hand in greeting… to Richard. I am hard put to still the wolf, who wants to take a chunk out of that sculpted ass and spit it out with great disdain. “Amy has shown me some of your work, Mr. Burke. I find it very impressive,” he says, his voice most oily. He fairly drips of grease. At least, that is my opinion. Richard takes the boy’s hand in his, and it takes all the restraint I can muster not to leap between them and snatch back what belongs to me. “Thank you,” Richard says easily. Am I crazy, or do I hear some sort of connection being made here? I glance around me in confusion. Does anyone else see what I see, hear what I hear? Neither Juliet nor Rachel seem in any way alarmed. And when I look at Amy, her eyes lock with mine, and for a brief second I see something disturbing, something I find rather disquieting. But then it is gone as quickly as it came, and I am left shaking my head, both at myself and at my overactive imagination. “I am looking for someone to shoot my portfolio for me,” little snot continues, “and I’d like to discuss the possibility with you. Maybe over lunch one day next week?” Son of a bitch! In my own home yet! How ballsy is that? Before I can react, though, (translate that as leap upon him and tear into his jugular) Richard answers most smoothly, “Sorry, I don’t do business lunches. But if you give me your number, I’ll be glad to call and set a time for the shoot.” And then he proceeds to very noticeably put his arm around my waist, smiling at his prospective client as he makes his point—to him, to Amy, and to Juliet. God, how I love that man! “I can live with that,” Junior nods as he proceeds to hand Richard his card. He certainly comes prepared, doesn’t he? Without even glancing at it, Richard slides it into his pocket. I seem to have emerged the victor in this round, or is the inevitable merely postponed? Feeling confused, to the max, and trying to deal with it.
166
Julie Lynn Hayes
Chapter 15 Interlude
LIPS, warm lips, lightly brushing across my cheeks, caressing my own lips. Nice lips, tender lips. A soft voice coaxes my attention, “Max, wake up, wake up, Max….” Damn, it must be the middle of the night, surely? But no, as I tentatively open one eye, I see a little daylight trying to poke its way through the curtains. Oh, okay, it’s sunrise. Much better. Sun’s not up yet. Neither am I. I try to roll over, pull the blankets around me like a cocoon. Richard climbs over me, and he’s on the other side of me now. “Max, wake up, babe, I’ve got a surprise for you,” he coos into my ear. “What,” I grumble, “have you signed us up to take the day shift for Count Dracula?” “No, better than that,” he continues to kiss me, cajole me. He’s awful cheery for this time of the morning. Or night, actually. To me, day doesn’t begin nearly this early. Not for me, anyway. “I’m taking you away, just you and me, for the day. No one else but us. And I’m not telling anyone where to find us.” This catches my interest. “Can you tell me where I can find us?” I finally open both eyes, and he rewards me with a wet kiss. “At the river,” he says simply. The river. For that, I’ll wake up. Get up, even. When we say the river, we’re not talking about the Missouri River that flows outside our backyard. No, we don’t even have access to that from where the cottage sits. The river to which we refer is the Big River, which is a misnomer, for it isn’t very big, at least not the parts that we are familiar with. Even the Missouri starts out somewhere as just a trickle, and I’ve been told that you can step over the Rio Grande in sections. Go figure. Richard and I own a piece of property along the Big River, and
To the Max
167
yes, we own it as in joint ownership, as in purchased together, as in if something happens to one of us it automatically goes to the other, Mother. It lies in the vicinity of Bonne Terre, which is a couple hours’ drive from here, south of St. Louis. That was our second major purchase, after the cottage. We wanted somewhere we could go to get away from everything and everyone. And it had to be near water. That was a given. It’s just an empty lot at the moment, as we haven’t gotten around to building anything on it yet. We’re always talking about doing that some day, but for now it suits our purposes. Most of it is wooded, overgrown actually, with brush and weeds, and there is a narrow path that leads to the hill that slopes down to the beach. You have to watch your step on the climb down, and sometimes it’s a major pain in the ass when you’re lugging stuff from the car. But Richard just tells me to quit bitching, so I do. Sometimes we camp overnight there, on the beach. We have a good-sized tent and a comfortable air mattress; I’m afraid that sleeping bags just don’t cut it for us. “Here, hon, drink this. It’ll help,” and he presses a mug of warm coffee into my hand. Mmm, I clutch at it gratefully, fold my palm around its enticing warmth. Richard knows just how I like it—he should after all these years—one packet of Sweet’N Low and plenty of amaretto liquid creamer, Coffeemate, of course. I sip at it as I begin to really wake up. I see that he is already dressed, and he looks quite fetching, as always. A muscle T-shirt that accentuates his build, cut-off jean shorts, cut very high and very short. So short that he usually can’t wear them in public because of certain things that might expose themselves at inopportune moments. Buttons, no zipper. It’s my favorite pair and he knows it. I don’t know how many times I’ve had to sew the buttons back on because of my impatiently ripping them off. I don’t mind. “I ran up to the store while you were asleep and made us up a basket to take with us. All your favorite cheeses, including the English cheddar.” I smile at that. “And the freshest loaf of French bread I could find. Fresh sliced fruit from the salad bar, too—melon and cantaloupe and mango and papaya—I asked the girl to get it from the back, and she did, ’cause the salad bar wasn’t really open yet.” That’s my boy. He can charm anyone into just about anything. “And chocolate, of course, lots
168
Julie Lynn Hayes
of chocolate. Oh, and a couple of bottles of wine on ice.” He looks at me, visibly pleased with himself, as am I. “My, you have been busy.” I reward him with my lips and stroke his face tenderly. “Is there a particular reason for all this? Some holiday I’ve forgotten?” I know it isn’t the Fourth of July yet, and Memorial Day is over. “No, I’m just worried about you, and I want to take you away from the things and people that are bothering you, have a day just to ourselves. You and me by the river, just us and the beach, sweetheart.” Has anyone ever had a sweeter lover than mine? I don’t think so. “Finish your coffee and get dressed, and we’ll be on our way,” he encourages me. “I also gassed up while I was out and loaded everything we’ll need. Even the rafts, if we decide we want to use them, and the air pump.” He’s so damned efficient. It’s a shame more people don’t get to see that side of him. I know they view him as a charming wastrel, some kind of gay Dorian Gray, but he’s not—he’s really not. He’s smart, and funny, thoughtful, caring and considerate, sexy, and sweet. And if you think my life begins and ends with him, it does. I admit it. As long as we are together, nothing can go wrong. We may have our off days, times when we spat and hiss at each other like feuding alley cats. But so what? Everyone does. It’s only when we’re apart that trouble ensues. God, how I wish I could keep him from leaving me, but I don’t seem to know the magic words to do that, to keep him by my side forever. But I haven’t stopped trying. Or hoping. “And you told no one where we’re going?” “Nope, not a soul.” He grins at me most mischievously. “You better hope that this isn’t the day that machete-wielding serial killer decides to go on a rampage. They might not find our bodies for days.” “Or weeks.” “Months even.” He nods. “Maybe not until the next century.” “Or until the collector of revenue forecloses on us for unpaid taxes,” I suggest. “That too.” We giggle at one another. We’re just too cute for words sometimes. I don’t care what anyone else says. I’m fully awake now. In more ways than one. “Richard”—I pull him down toward the bed, licking the corner of his mouth—“do I get
To the Max
169
breakfast first?” I put my knee between his legs, firmly against his cock, so there can be no mistake as to what I am asking for. “Yes, I have croissants.” He removes my knee; at the same time he takes my hand and presses it against the bulge in his shorts. “Don’t worry, you can feast on that later, love.” I try to pout, but he will have none of it. He is most adamant, and I give in with somewhat good grace. One of the advantages to basically being self-employed, which is what we both are for all intents and purposes, is that you can do things like this when you feel like it. Take little jaunts during the work week when other people are enslaved at their dreary nine-to-five drudgeries, come and go pretty much as we please. We only have the one car between us—my reliable ’76 Monte Carlo—and have never felt the need for another one when this one has always served our purposes. I make sure that she is immaculately maintained, and we are either together or, if not, our schedules never seem to conflict to where this is a problem if one of us needs to use the car. Richard plays chauffeur today, and I sit close beside him, my fingers playing with the dangling threads on his shorts, at the same time stroking the soft skin of his inner thigh. I feel lighter already, just for him having thought of doing this for me. It shows how much he loves me, despite my mother’s misgivings. I push all thoughts of everyone and everything out of my mind. Today there is nothing but Richard and me—us—this is our day to make the most of together. “You know, I’ve been thinking.” We’re already south of St. Louis by now, heading down I-55. It’s a glorious day, and there’s nowhere else on earth I’d rather be but right where I am. “Maybe we should take a trip. Go back to Greece soon. Stay on Crete for a while; check out all the Minoan sites again. Whaddya think?” “I think it’s a possibility,” Richard says noncommittally. “We can discuss it later, if you like.” “Okay.” Satisfied for now, I relax against him, happily tracing patterns on his leg. We reach our lot at last, winding down the narrow road, the turnoff of which is just before the Bonne Terre exit off of Highway 6167. The sun is awake now, and so am I. These are not roads to be taken
170
Julie Lynn Hayes
lightly or too quickly, not just for safety reasons. It’s not unusual to see deer cross the road, or fox or raccoon even. Or to find turtles crawling placidly along. I get out and release the padlock on our gate so that Richard can pull the car through even as I think to myself that I’ll surely need to wash the car tomorrow. After he is past, I relock it, wait for him to stop, and saunter up to his side of the car, leaning into his window. “I think the first thing we need to unpack is the blanket, so I can have my breakfast.” I wink at him knowingly. “No, the first thing we unpack is the sunscreen, my sensitive little wolf, so I can rub it all over your cute little body.” “Cute? I’m not cute. I’m fucking sexy,” I protest with a pout which probably detracts from my words. He squishes up my lips between his fingers. “Aw, who’s not cute? You’re adorable,” he teases before he kisses me. “C’mon, cutiepie, let’s get what we need down there so we’ll be done.” I can’t very argue with that logic, now can I? Working together, we’re done in just a couple of trips. Some of the stuff we leave in the trunk ’til we decide if we want it or not—the rafts, the air pump, the fishing poles and related accessories. Neither one of us is what you call an avid fisherman, and we don’t really know one lure from another, but we do like to throw a pole in the water now and then. No pun intended. Richard has even packed a few books, including Cocksure, our favorite Bob Vickery. We’re big fans of Joe, the sperm-eating vampire. Makes for some interesting role-play. On our section of the beach, we have only one big tree for shade, beneath which we set everything, including the hibachi, for those occasions when we decide to cook. The rest of it consists basically of sand and rocks. Rocks and sand. Not the warm silky squishy desert sand á la Lawrence of Arabia, no, tough demanding Missouri sand. The kind that makes or breaks you. This sand is best confronted with footwear of some type, such as sandals or tennies. Go barefoot at your own risk. Directly across the river from our lot are high bluffs, which I imagine are attainable from somewhere, I just don’t know where, and I’ve never seen anyone up on them. You couldn’t ask for better privacy, actually. We have no qualms about skinny-dipping or sunbathing. Or making love. Our neighbors on either side are seldom there, and the
To the Max
171
only other egress is from the river, which, while there are people who canoe by now and then, thanks to the bluffs which act as a sort of echo chamber, the sounds of their coming can be heard far enough in advance to enable us to cover up or put our activities on hold until they pass by. We have a big blue-and-white comforter which we only use for excursions to the river or other outdoor activities; it is never allowed to touch the bed, and it has its own place in the linen closet. Richard just laughed the first time I separated it from the other blankets and insisted on washing it in its own load. He said I was one very anal wolf. But he is careful to obey the rules for its use, just the same. I simply have my own way of doing things. If that makes me anal, then so be it. We spread the comforter, and then we strip out of our clothes. Ah, what a glorious feeling of freedom this brings, to be able to allow one’s skin to breathe, to feel the warmth of the sun directly, not hear about it secondhand. To stretch one’s muscles and simply bask beneath the glorious disc of the sun god himself. And to be able to see Richard’s beautiful body, unmarred by tan lines, it manages to stay a pale, deliciously creamy color because we don’t actually tan, merely sunbathe. As I’ve said before, we burn. Hence the reason for the sunscreen with the rating of 200+ SPF to protect our delicate skin. He is bending over our tote bag, and I take advantage of this to slip up behind him, press up against that beautiful ass and snake my hand around to grab his slumbering cock. “I’d like some breakfast now,” I purr. He slaps my hand away, straightens up, sunscreen in hand. “Not so fast. What did I tell you?” He gestures toward the blanket. “Lay down like a good boy and let me put this on you.” I do as he asks. I’m a rather obedient wolf, I must admit. “Back or front first?” I ask. “Back first,” he responds, squirting the thick white fluid onto his long, slender fingers in preparation. This particular brand is supposed to be good for the skin as well, filled with vitamins and emollients and such like. It has a pleasant silky texture and a nice smell, and we’ve discovered that it works well for other purposes too. I flip onto my stomach, lay my head on my interlaced fingers, and relax. Richard settles himself on me, straddling my legs as he spreads the lotion,
172
Julie Lynn Hayes
beginning with my shoulders, not just troweling it on but actually using the flat of his hand to work it into my skin, where it will do some good. I like the feel of him on top of me, the comforting solidness of his body on mine. His gentle touch. He gives good back rubs too. He makes sure that he covers my back, his hands moving lower and lower as he massages the goo into my skin. When he reaches my ass, his slides his fingers teasingly between my cheeks, brushing lightly across my pucker, which produces a moan from me. So, for good measure, he does it again. “Quit teasing unless you’re serious,” I warn him. He only laughs, slaps my butt, and tells me to roll over so he can do my front. Of course I am now sporting an erection. “Grease that up, and I’ll show you what I can do with it,” I offer. “We have all day, sweet thing.” He grins. “I think we’ll find time for you to show me a thing or two.” Pouting isn’t working, so I have to content myself with that thought for the moment, as he covers my chest. The little devil! He tweaks my nipples, supposedly in the cause of applying sunscreen, but I know better. I try to reach for his cock, which isn’t easy considering the angle, but he merely slaps my hand away again. “Slow learner, are we?” he asks smugly. “You’re a cock teaser, is what you are,” I growl, and he only smirks all the more. I have a random thought. “Has Mr. America booked any more time with you?” I ask for no apparent reason. I know that Richard has already had two photo shoots with him. So far. “If you mean Morgan, then the answer is yes,” he responds, applying fresh lotion and rubbing my stomach. “Now shush and let me concentrate. I mean it: no stress today. No shoptalk. Nothing but you and me.” He continues his ministrations while I stew for a minute over Amy’s goddamned nephew. The wannabe model with the face of an angel and the soul of… what? I don’t know. I still haven’t put my finger on it, but there is something not right about him, and the wolf recognizes it. And I still think he is after my boyfriend in a major way, which only serves to awaken every jealous sensibility that I possess. By the same token, Richard still insists that Amy is hot for my body, which
To the Max
173
notion seems patently absurd after all these years. She has done nothing, I have to admit, since she’s been back, to indicate that in any way shape or form she harbors any form of the crush she had on me way back when. I don’t know about either one of them, so I push those thoughts away. Out with the bad air, in with the good, right? Right. “You wanna watch Total Eclipse tonight?” I ask. “So you can drool over David Thewlis’s cock?” He smiles. “Well, you drool over Leonardo DiCaprio’s ass,” I counter. Touché. “You only think I do, ’cause it makes you feel better for drooling over Verlaine, my little Rimbaud.” He finishes with his task, leaning down and brushing his lips lightly over my erection. Oh God, that feels good. “Admit it, you think Thewlis is hot.” He licks around the slit. “Yeah, hot, totally hot,” I agree, losing my concentration. “I’d love to get him between my thighs….” “I bet you would,” Richard laughs, slapping my hip lightly. “Change places so you can do me.” Dammit, I knew he’d quit there. But I move so that he can lay down, and I take the same position on him and perform the same ministrations. “Wouldn’t you?” I query. “Of course. Totally.” He lay on his stomach and I try to cheat, pressing my erection insistently against his ass. “Stick to the agenda,” he warns me, “or you’ll find yourself in the river, toot sweet.” Why do the same rules not apply to both of us? He can be such a prickteaser sometimes. “Did you bring Season in Hell for me?” I ask, sliding my fingers over that lovely torso, guiding the sunscreen into every little crack and crevice I can find. No pun intended. “Hell no,” he replies, “this is not poor tortured poet day; this is you and me day. I brought Cocksure, the Joy of Gay Sex, and Moby Dick.” “Moby Dick?” “Yeah, it’s a whale of a story.” He never even cracks a smile as he utters that horrible pun. I roll my eyes.
174
Julie Lynn Hayes
Slicked up at last and ready for the UV rays. “Wine, my love?” he asks, sitting up once more, rolling me off in the process. Knowing my answer already, he reaches into the cooler, brings out a bottle of white Zinfandel, deftly uncorks it, and hands me the bottle. Down there we eschew glasses as being a pain in the ass. I take a long drink, hand it back, and he does the same. “I lied.” He smiles. “No Melville. I brought the sonnets.” The sonnets. The bard of Avon. Sounds marvelous. He slides the cork back in with a resounding thump, sets the bottle within easy reach of either one of us, then makes himself comfortable, and pats the blanket beside him. “C’mon down here and lay by me,” he says and beckons, and of course, I do. He slides his arm beneath my neck, around my shoulder, and we are like two large grains of sand cohabiting on the beach now. This is nice. This is very nice. As he softly strokes my shoulder, I begin to relax, gazing up into the sky, where fluffy white clouds of various sizes and shapes lazily roll across the heavens for our viewing pleasure. “I see a fire-breathing dragon,” Richard comments, pointing up to a peculiar cloud formation. “See the smoke coming out of his mouth?” This is a game we’ve played many times over the years, picking pictures out of the clouds, letting our imaginations soar. “Mmhmmm,” I reply. “I can see it. See the train? Over there? Not a modern one, but one of those old-fashioned ones with the big locomotives, like Jessie James liked to hold up.” “Yeah, I see it. Right next to the one that looks like a wolf.” “Wolf? I don’t see a wolf. Where are you looking?” He points up to the sky. “See? You can see the gaping maw from here, that feral look in the eyes.” I have to laugh at that. “I think you have wolf on the brain. I don’t see that.” “Only have one wolf on my brain, and that’s you.” He kisses the top of my head sweetly. “Oooh, look, now I see David Thewlis’s cock, moving toward the wolf’s open mouth. I think the wolf is going to eat him.” “Is that so? Looks like a regular porn movie up there, doesn’t it?”
To the Max
175
I roll over on top of him, press my growing hardness against his. “This wolf wants to eat you, instead.” “First lunch, then fun,” he promises, but that doesn’t keep him from sliding his hands over my ass and grabbing it for good measure before tumbling me back off onto the comforter. “Mr. Burke, you don’t play fair,” I grumble. “No, Mr. Montague, I do not. You’re just now figuring that out?” His blue eyes twinkle at me before he buries his face in my neck, blowing raspberries in the skin. He knows that never fails to make me laugh, and today is no exception, as he reduces me to helpless giggles under his touch. God, how I love that man! We end up cuddled together, just lying there comfortably, relaxing, just holding one another, content, so very, very content…. I doze off a little bit, and when I waken he has lunch already laid out, merely waiting for me. And he insists on feeding me everything with his own fingers, pampering me and spoiling me outrageously. The cheeses and the bread. The fruit. And the chocolate. And wine. I eat it up, naturally. The attention, I mean, along with the food. And while he feeds me, he reads to me. And compares me to a summer day. How beautiful. How sublime. But still I want more. “When do I get my dessert?” I want to know. “You want more chocolate?” he asks, giving me his innocent look. “No, dammit, you know what I want.” He reclines beside me, so much like a Greek god, one hand behind his head, the other holding a cigarette, one leg crossed lazily over the other. I have given him special dispensation to smoke around me today. Normally I don’t tolerate it, at least not in enclosed spaces. Not that he listens all of the time, but he tries, I’ll give him that much. And I try not to be quite so anal retentive, but it’s a matter of my heightened olfactory senses, the smoke is just very hard on my nose. I never get tired of looking at him; he is just so incredibly gorgeous. Is it any wonder that I am also jealous? He can get anyone he wants, and I know it. They all— male and female—flock to him like moths to a flame. And yet he is with me. Go figure.
176
Julie Lynn Hayes
He takes a last drag from his cancerstick and stuffs it down the neck of the empty wine bottle, where it sizzles and drowns in the dregs of the wine we have left behind before opening the second bottle. I won’t allow him to toss it in the river or on the beach, and I made my feelings known years ago about not tossing butts out the car window onto the street, so now he doesn’t do it, at least not when we’re together. I can’t be sure what he does when I am not there. I kiss each of his lovely knees tenderly, maneuvering in between them in one lithe motion, on my own knees. And then I bend my head and nuzzle his beautiful cock, running my tongue over his balls. He shivers. “Is that all you want?” “It’s a start,” I reply before taking those lovely creamy balls, so firm, so nicely packed, into my mouth and lave them most lovingly. “Yes, it’s a good start,” he concurs, his fingers lightly caressing my hair as I work on him. This is what I have been waiting for. There is something about making love outdoors, and especially with the added element of possibly being caught at it, that serves to heighten the sensations that even now run rampant through me. Being with Richard makes me forget everything else. And everyone else. They all recede into that nebulous region of some other time, deal-with-it-later land. My mother, her bigoted boyfriend, Amy, her coquettish nephew—not here, not now. Now there is only Richard and me. I move my attention now to his big lovely cock, and my tongue makes patterns on the shaft, swirls and loops and numbers and such. He tightens his grip on my hair, so I know that he is pleased. “If you get that wet enough, we won’t need lube,” he murmurs softly. My own erection grows even bigger at that, knowing exactly what he means, what he intends to do. I reach up and twist his nipples, not too gently, not too hard. He groans his appreciation. I make sure now that my tonguing is getting his cock nice and juicy, so it will slide smoothly inside of me—not that it doesn’t always do that, it does; my Richard is a master cocksman, after all. And I go no further with that thought, determined not to let anything spoil this day. I make sure to tongue his slit, ’cause I know he likes that. I know everything my baby likes. After more than twenty years together, I should, after all.
To the Max
177
“Yes, oh yes, Max,” he moans, “suck on me, my little wolf, suck harder,” he encourages, and I oblige, more than willing to do that for the man I love so much. I tickle all his favorite spots and even graze my teeth along his length, just the way he likes. But just as I feel that he is on the brink of his orgasm, he pushes my head off. “No, Max, stop, not like that, I have other plans.” He pulls me up toward him and rolls me over on the blanket, his hardness pressing wetly against my stomach, where I have juiced it up. He leans down; his breath is warm in my ear, and his voice alone is making me tingle. He brushes his fingers over my lips, exploring their contour, maneuvering around each and every curve, even though he knows them so very well. “Suck on these, baby. Do your thing to me,” he moans, and I take his fingers inside my mouth and moisten them for him. Suck on them like they are mini-cocks. When they are wet enough he pulls them out, kisses me sweetly, and then moves his hand between my legs. “Spread your legs, honey-child,” he murmurs, “daddy’s got somethin’ for you….” I would tell him to forego the stretching, but I know he won’t listen, so I save my breath. Richard is always a considerate lover, not wanting to harm me in any way, not physically anyway. He insists on making sure that I am prepared to take him. Today is no exception. He pushes his fingers inside of me carefully, one at a time, pausing to let me adjust to the feel of each one, to relax that ring of muscles that stands guard against unwelcome intrusion at my entrance, which he is not and never could be. And at the same time, he moves his finger around inside of me, trying to ring my bell. Which he almost always manages to do. “Richard!” I gasp, jumping when he finds my prostate. Again. And again. I am arching my back now, pushing against his three fingers, which fill me so completely, although I know there is more to follow. My hand goes to my painfully hard cock, but he pushes it away with a small growl. “No, mine!” I whimper, but I don’t argue. I never do; I allow him to do as he will. It is the nature of our relationship. It is and ever has been our way. He pulls his fingers out now, and now he is positioning himself
178
Julie Lynn Hayes
between my legs. He takes my legs and moves my hips up so that he can gain better access. I shiver in delicious anticipation as he pushes his cock just to my opening and pauses. “Richard,” I whimper. “What, my little studmuffin?” he teases me, running his fingers over my chest, across my hardened nipples, squeezing them briefly. “In me, please,” I moan rather needily, not caring at the moment how I sound, only knowing that I want to be filled with him—now. As if this is the sign he has been waiting for, he pushes completely into me with one swift move, skewering me with his cock. I gasp as I receive him. No matter how often we might do this—and I assure you, that we do this often—the first feel of his cock inside of me produces the same reaction. The same sensations wash over me as they did the first time that my Richard made love to me, if anything, heightened over the years, with practice. “Is this what you need? What you want? What you crave?” He punctuates each sentence with his cock, thrusting into me again, and again, and again…. “Yes,” I manage to get out, “yes, what I want… unhhhhhhhhhhhhhh….” I simply lose my words and give myself over to the pleasure of him inside of me. Sometimes making love is tender and sweet and drawn out, while at other times it is fast and hard-hitting and almost pleasurably brutal. It doesn’t matter which it is, as long as we both agree on it. We always seem to be of one accord, one mind, when it comes to most things, and sometimes no words need to be spoken to communicate what and how we feel. We are truly one soul with two bodies; this I do sincerely believe. Sometimes it is both ways in a single day. He pulls himself nearly completely out, only the very tip of his cock remaining inside of me, then suddenly slams back inside in a move that is calculated to take my breath away. And it does! “Like that, baby?” he coos as he feels me jump. “You know I do,” I moan. “More, Richard, more!” He slams back into me again, so hard that his balls slap against my ass with a wet sound. God, how good that feels. “Want that, baby?” he croons throatily. “Yes, yes!” I beg and plead for more.
To the Max
179
Again he pistons inside of my tight channel, setting a frantic pace, a driving rhythm. His hand wraps itself about my cock, and he strokes my hard-on in time to that same driving rhythm. His blond hair falls in a veil across his face, his eyes closed in concentration now, as he works at pleasing me, and a light sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead. That motive alone would be enough to please me, much less what he is doing, the wonder that is him inside of me. It’s a feeling that never grows old, never grows stale, and at moments like these, I know we will last forever. “Max, your finger!” he moans, and I know what he wants. I touch my fingers to my cock, where the pre-cum is already oozing, and I spread it over my digits, lubricating them, before moving my hand behind him. He leans closer over me to make it possible. I slide between his asscheeks, feeling for his pucker, thrust my finger in, without warning, all the way to the knuckle. Which is what he wants. “Max!” he screams my name, and I am gratified by the deep lust in that voice, the pleasure that is derived from me and me alone. “Harder!” And I push in more, until one whole finger is engulfed in his tightness. He grabs my mouth, pulling my lower lip almost brutally into his mouth, biting it so hard he draws blood. I move my hips in an effort to match his pace, twisting my finger, touching his pleasure zone. He arches against me, in me, around me. We are so firmly enmeshed that we are one. I am oblivious to all around me, and I’m glad that none of our friends ever come down here unannounced, for they know they do so at their own peril. He sucks at the blood as it spills from my lip, a little harder than usual, and when he throws back his head, it trickles down his chin. He locks eyes with me, and they blaze with the heat of the moment, and with love, yes, I know that’s what he feels for me, true love. This is something that cannot be faked, something that is truly hard to find. “Tell me who you love, Max?” he whispers in my ear warmly. “Richard,” I moan, pushing in again with my finger. “Louder!” “Richard!” I raise my voice. “Again!” he commands.
180
Julie Lynn Hayes
“Richard!” I howl his name to the skies as my orgasm strikes, my pulsating cock shooting all over his hand in great sticky ropes. “Max!” he echoes as he releases his own passions within me, flooding me with his ejaculate deep inside. If I were a woman, the way we go at it, I’d have been pregnant a long time ago. I guess it’s lucky for me I’m not, or we’d have a lot of children by now. Or not. And when he is done, he collapses upon me, and we are a tangled sweaty heap of limbs, tired but sated as we kiss now, softly, gently, tenderly, the way it could not be done during our wild coupling. He whispers terms of endearment to me, croons love’s tunes, and his hands are soft and tender as they push back the hair from my brow, while I in turn caress his face and gaze lovingly into his eyes. “Pretty baby.” He nuzzles my face, rolling me over, reversing our positions so that he is on bottom, and I am cradled on top of him. “Close your eyes, take a nap,” he encourages me, wrapping the comforter over us, just in case someone should float by while we’re unable to hear anything. And there we lie, taking a siesta ’neath the drowsy afternoon sun. Only Richard and me, in love to the max, and no one else to disturb this idyllic interlude.
To the Max
181
Chapter 16 The Dance Begins
THERE’S a thick mist swirling around me in a most annoying fashion, a foggy condensation which is almost palpable, obscures my vision, and makes it difficult to see where I am going. Not that I exactly know where I am going, or where I even am. All I know is that I am searching for Richard, and I am unable to find him, which only increases my anxiety as I move frustratedly through this cloud. Faces swim in and out of my consciousness—Juliet, Rachel, Cat, Maggie, Diana, Sebastian—disembodied heads that appear and disappear, moving their mouths like a badly dubbed Japanese film, but I never hear their voices before they dissolve into the void once more. And none of them are the one I seek, my Richard, my love. I can hear music playing. No heavenly choir this, it sounds like a dance band. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care. I just want to find Richard, make sure he’s okay, and get out of this place. Now. I try to center myself and determine what is up and what is down, so that I don’t lose my sense of being and fall. I keep my hands outstretched before me at all times, cautiously. Ahead of me the light appears to be shifting, the density of this mass surrounding me is decreasing, and I move eagerly in that direction. I feel something in my hands, but I don’t bother to look at it; my attention is given solely to finding my missing lover before it’s too late, before I lose him forever. I can see a gap in this mist now, a definite hole taking shape within the darkness. Almost there now, almost…. And then, as if a switch has been thrown, the fog is gone, dissipated in one fell swoop, offering perfect visibility, and there before me is a most heinous tableau: there is Richard, my Richard, my one and only love, and he is with Amy’s horrible nephew, the wannabe model. They stand together, lips locked—I can only imagine their tongues are
182
Julie Lynn Hayes
plunging together in the depths of my lover’s mouth—their octopusian hands engaged in exploration of rapidly growing areas of mutual interest. I can’t move, frozen in place by how surreal it all is. I watch them, transfixed as they writhe and grope, and all I can see is the two of them, and all I can hear are their animalistic moans, which fill my ears even as the sight of them fills my eyes, and oh my God, I just want to die, just want to die…. And when I look down into my hands, I see that it is my bleeding heart that I am holding. Richard sees me now; he breaks apart from the little maggot, turns to me, moves toward me in a slo-mo run. He is calling to me even as I turn from the scene and attempt to flee. “Ma-ax, Ma-ax….” His voice is growing louder, more insistent. Got to get out of here, got to get away, got to…. I sit straight up in bed, my heart thumping painfully in my chest, shaking violently. Richard is beside me, and it’s his voice that has brought me out of it, calling my name with concern. Damn, that was so real, so painfully real. I collapse against him, seriously shaken, and he envelops me in his embrace, soothing me, holding me. It was so damn real. I gotta get it out of my head. ’Course it was probably a combination of too much to drink and having to put up with that damned Morgan’s presence at Daniel’s charity do tonight. What charity do, you ask? Okay, let me back up a bit here. My editor, Daniel, and his lovely wife, Marti, now these two are truly the happiest couple I know. Childhood sweethearts, married young and still as happy and as much in love as ever, even after more than twenty-five years and three kids. It warms my heart to see them together, to know that such things are possible, and sometimes I steal surreptitious glances at Richard when we are all together to see if he sees what I see, but he never shows that he notices them or their happiness, so I sigh, and I leave it alone. As usual. The way that I ignore all the questions for which I desperately seek answers from him. What is Max’s specialty, kids? Playing dead, apparently. Tonight Daniel and Marti hosted a private charity dinner at their stately mansion on Lindell Boulevard, four stories of pure elegance, one floor of which consists entirely of a ballroom. The dinner was given for patrons of the Tribune at a thousand bucks a plate, the
To the Max
183
proceeds to go to various children’s organizations. They engaged an orchestra for those who wished to dance, as well as sketch artists, a magician, and a photographer. And as star attractions they invited (read coerced) select members of the Tribune staff to attend to meet their adoring public. Which meant dressing up in my monkey suit and dancing for the organ grinder. If it had been a written invitation (read command), I would simply have ignored it, dismissed it, paid it no heed. But it came personally from Daniel himself, and as he is and has always been so very nice to Richard and me, how could I turn him down? I couldn’t, and I didn’t. And it was for a good cause after all; I’m a sucker for that sort of thing. Plus there was the added benefit of getting to see Richard in his tux. I splurged and bought us matching Armanis: his in midnight blue, mine black. My God, how beautiful he looked, so painfully beautiful. He took my breath away completely. His hair was tied back into a tail that rested at the nape of his neck with a matching hair ribbon. Damn. Just damn. The pre-dinner reception was held in the aforementioned ballroom, which was decorated for the occasion to resemble turn-ofthe-century St. Louis. World’s Fair time. Circa 1900, that is, not 2000. I have to keep reminding myself we’re in a new century now, as I don’t tend to exactly keep up with the times. Everyone coming into the ballroom was stopped in the doorway, allowing him or herself to be announced by a gentleman with a basso profundo voice, before being greeting by the host and hostess themselves with their own personal brand of warmth. Everyone simply loves those two. Rather oldworldish, but very effective. I could see the eyes that turned toward Richard as we entered the room together, and who could blame them? After all, he’s drop-dead gorgeous. I only clung to his arm a little harder in my possessiveness, while he didn’t seem to notice a thing. He never does. I had known that my mother would be there; she had told me that ahead of time, and it therefore came as no shock to find her spiritual adviser/(lover?) clamped onto her like a vise. The minister was at his most charming tonight, I could tell, oozing goodwill and Christianity to the circle of people clustered about them. We approached this group cautiously—after all, she’s my mother, and I do love her, and I didn’t want to ignore her presence—and I could hear his oily voice pontificating on the merits of brotherly love. Damned hypocrite.
184
Julie Lynn Hayes
Mother looked up as we approached, rising and greeting us with smiles and hugs, leaving Reverend Fuckface to fend for himself, and told us both how nice we looked—she had to say that to me. She’s my mother, after all. With Richard it’s simply true. “Don’t you just love the decorations? I think Marti’s outdone herself tonight.” We concurred, looking about us in tacit approval. There were recreations of some of the pavilions from the Fair in a mural across one wall, with old-fashioned ladies and gentlemen in vintage clothing strolling about the grounds, while overhead could be seen the colorful explosions of fireworks. Very effective. As we oohed and aahed, a liveried waiter bearing a tray full of wine glasses circulated near us, and we managed to snag two for ourselves, one for Mother. “Rachel’s here somewhere,” Juliet said, taking her drink from Richard with a smile. “ And that cute little friend of yours, Richard, Maggie. I think she was looking for you.” I flashed her a warning look, intending to nip this in the bud right here right now. No matchmaking. He’s with me; I’m with him. End of discussion. Damn, I hate these things. I’d much rather be at home alone with Richard. Sliding beneath the sheets. Warm oil and play toys. “Are you doing anything Sunday, Max?” Her voice brought me out of my reverie with a blush. She was looking directly at me, as if Richard weren’t even there. Before I could respond, though, Marti was at my side, linking her arm with mine. “Mind if I borrow Max for a minute? I have some people who are dying to meet him!” she enthused. What could I do? That’s why I was there after all, so I graciously went with her, glancing back over my shoulder to watch Richard and my mother—they were face-to-face, simply looking at one another. Why did I think of the OK Corral at that moment? I don’t know. By the time I had done my duty and hopefully made a good impression on my readers—and not disappointed them in the process— I returned to the spot where I had left my lover and my mother only to find that they had apparently separated. Juliet was back with the man in black, and Richard was I don’t know where. I grabbed another glass of wine as I began to look for him, sipping at it and smiling mindlessly at the people who greeted me as I cased the room, some of them I knew, others complete strangers. A hand on my arm caught me unawares, and I turned to find
To the Max
185
Rachel’s smiling face. “Hello, Rach,” I greeted her. “Mother told me you were here.” I returned her smile. “So, did you come alone?” “Not exactly.” She blushed. I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. “What, did you bring Sebastian?” “No, actually, Max, I’ve been meaning to tell you. He and I… I mean… we… well, we don’t… we aren’t together any longer.” All of which was a roundabout way of saying that they were no longer fuckbuddies, I presumed. “I’m seeing someone else.” “Don’t tell me you finally caught Gary Oldman?” I teased. “I so wish!” She laughed. “No, not him. Someone else.” My attention was distracted for a moment by someone calling my name and waving at me—who it was, I wasn’t sure, but I dutifully waved my hand in response—and by the time I turned back, Rachel was beckoning to someone, a tall lean man with light red hair, palecomplected with pale blue eyes, who smiled and came immediately to her side. The first thing I noticed about him was that he had a nice smile, the second that he seemed very smitten with my Rachel. She introduced us, and his eyes lit up in immediate recognition. His name was Mark, by the way. “So you’re Max,” he said with that tone of I’ve heard so much about you. “Rachel’s told me a lot about you.” “That makes one of us, I’m afraid. She’s kept you a secret.” He threw back his head and laughed. It was a pleasant sound, and I found myself liking this man already. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask Rachel what about Sebastian, but it didn’t seem diplomatic under the circumstances. But she seemed to understand my unspoken question as she nodded across the room. I turned in that direction, and what did my wondering eyes behold? Two things actually: there was my Richard, deep in conversation with Maggie, and there was Sebastian himself, with Cat on his arm! Will wonders never cease? I made a mental note to talk to him about her later, even as I smiled at my lover. He caught my eye, smiled back. I heard Rachel’s voice in my ear, laughing. “Go on, go on,” Rachel shooed me, “I’m going to introduce Mark around. We’ll catch you at dinner.”
186
Julie Lynn Hayes
I didn’t need to be told twice. I probably look like a lovesick schoolboy sometimes, the way I run after Richard. But as I crossed the room I caught a glimpse of my mother and him again, and they were apparently glancing in our direction, and the look on his face spoke volumes while my mother’s mien was unreadable. Defiantly, I threw my arm around Richard’s waist and drew him in to me for a warm kiss. Let them stew over that awhile! First round over. Time for dinner. Dinner was good. For a grand a plate, it should be. Petit filets. Lobster tails. Swordfish. Chicken Kiev. Fresh asparagus. Saffron rice. Sorbet for a palate cleanser between courses. Very, very nice. Of course the paper was footing the bill for the employees, otherwise none of us would have shown, I suspect, although I wondered at first how Maggie managed to afford it, ’cause she wasn’t on the list of sacrificial goats. And I knew she didn’t have that kind of money. But looking at her face as she looked at Richard, I understood, and I smiled to myself. My generous lover had paid her way, just so that she could be there. Isn’t he sweet? I began to relax over the good food and splendid wine. Had a most pleasant conversation with Mark, across and around Rachel, who merely leaned forward or backward as the situation demanded. The more I talked to him, the more I liked him. He and Richard hit it off as well, for which I was grateful. That would make things easier, if we were going to spend time together as couples, which was a natural assumption. Rachel was too big a part of my life not to, after all. After dinner, the dancing began, and once more we were in the splendidly decorated ballroom. Richard excused himself to grab a quick smoke. Made me promise him not to dance with anyone else while he was gone, which I did, blushingly. I had to laugh when I noticed that coincidentally Sebastian chose that same moment to do the same thing, seemingly oblivious of one another. I hoped they wouldn’t get into it. Taking advantage of that, though, I approached Cat, probably wearing a shit-eating grin of sorts. “Hi, Max.” She smiled at me. “What’s up?” “I was going to ask you the same thing.” “Well, the book’s going well, actually, thanks for asking. And
To the Max
187
work is picking up. I’m getting more hours at the store now.” Cat had gotten a part-time job at a used bookstore. It helped to pay the bills as well as to give her time to write. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” I arched an eyebrow at her. “I saw who you were with. Spill the beans, woman.” Cat laughed softly. I like the way her eyes light up when she does that. She is one of the gentlest souls I know. And the kindest. I’ll kill Sebastian if he hurts her in any way. “Max, I like your cousin,” she said simply. “He asked me if I wanted to go out, and I said yes. That’s really all there is to it.” She looked at me a little anxiously, as if seeking my approval. Of course I gave it. I love Cat, after all. And I love Sebastian. No problem there. I hugged her to me. “I think it’s great,” I said. “You’ll be good for him, I think. Try to get him to loosen up, will you? He has the ability to be a real uptight asshole, sometimes.” “I’ll do my best, Max,” she promised. “Did you meet Mark yet?” I nodded. “Yeah, I like him.” “Me too.” I saw her eyes flicker past me, but before I could turn to see what or who she was looking at, a pair of hands was over my eyes, and a familiar voice was in my ear, “Guess who?” “Hello, Maggie,” I didn’t have to turn to know who it was. She laughed and moved her hands. “You guessed, no fair!” I grinned. “If you don’t want me to recognize you, then maybe you should stop wearing Tommy Girl. It’s a dead giveaway.” I turned my head and snickered. “Give it up? I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “Where did Richard go?” “He’s outside, smoking,” I gestured with my thumb toward the windows. “Hopefully not fighting with Sebastian in the process.” “Hopefully,” Cat echoed. “Should we check on them?” Maggie sounded worried. “No, they’ll be fine. I think they both know better than to start something. At least not here.” I hoped. Just then Juliet appeared beside me, greeting the girls with smiles. I could hear the wheels turning now: no sign of Richard and my gay
188
Julie Lynn Hayes
son is talking to two girls, not just one. Mentally I sighed. “Mind if I take my son away from you for a few minutes?” she asked, while to me, “Dance with me, Max.” They both demurred, and naturally I agreed. When Richard said no dancing, he meant with other men, women didn’t count, particularly not my mother. I bowed to her most formally, before taking her hand and leading her onto the dance floor. And before anyone decides to be cute, yes, I do know how to lead. So stop right there. “Having a good time, Mother?” I asked as we danced. “Yes, we are.” A moment’s silence. “Cat’s looking pretty tonight, don’t you think?” “Yes, I do. She always does. By the way, did you notice that she’s with Sebastian?” “And?” “And just wanted to clarify that.” “Thanks.” “No problem.” More silence. “Maggie is—” “Mother! Don’t start!” “I was only going to point out that Maggie is very taken with Richard.” She pretended to pout. “Most women are,” I responded, a trifle testily perhaps. “Most men too,” I added in a half-mutter. She changed topics quickly, visibly backpedaling. “Have you spoken to Amy tonight?” “Amy? Didn’t know she was here.” “Oh yes, she’s here. Why wouldn’t she be? She’s part of the paper too.” How could I have forgotten? Yes, come to think of it, I had seen her name on the list. But no, I hadn’t seen her. Yet. “Oh, there Morgan is. He’s such a lovely boy!” she gushed over the little twerp. I cast a look toward where she was pointing, and there
To the Max
189
he was, in the flesh. Worse than that, there was Richard, standing next to him, and they seemed to be engaged in conversation. Shitfuck! I felt an immediate greenish tinge over my entire body. “What’s he doing here?” I asked even as I tried to diplomatically dance her in that direction. “He came with Amy, of course. Max, whatever is wrong with you?” She looked from me to them and back again, and didn’t make any comment, but her thoughts were apparent. “Don’t go there,” I warned her. “There’s nothing going on. Nothing.” “I didn’t say anything.” “I know. Just telling you.” I gave up my efforts to look anything but jealous and seething, so simply took her by the arm and dragged her after me, rather than strand her on the dance floor. As soon as I came within earshot—earshot for me, that is, which consists of a much larger radius than most people—I began to listen. Well, as well as I could around the music that was playing and the conversational buzz of the people around us. I could hear well enough to hear the words “drinks,” “dinner,” “dancing”—that was enough for me. I dropped Juliet’s hand and staked an immediate claim on what was mine. I slipped a possessive arm around Richard, who until then was unaware of my presence. He turned and smiled down at me, while I reached up for a kiss. And received it. And for just a moment, time stood still while we pressed our lips together. ’Til he ruined it. “Max, you should really calm down,” he said in that irritating condescending voice of his. “At your age, you might have a stroke if you get too excited.” Only Richard’s restraining hand kept me from leaping at him. Snotty little git. I liked him less and less each time I saw him. Morgan gave Richard the most flirtatious smile as he began to walk past him, presumably to look for his aunt, lightly brushing his fingers over my lover’s cheek. “You should try belling him,” he suggested archly. “Talk to you later.” And he was gone before I could fire a shot. Damn, damn, damn! I was completely and utterly steamed. And I had forgotten my mother entirely, who was looking at me with
190
Julie Lynn Hayes
something akin to pity in her eyes. How I hate that. But the look she gave to Richard was worse, as if he had done something wrong, which he hadn’t. Without another word, she walked away, showing remarkable restraint for her. “Hey, hey.” Richard pulled me closer, wrapped his arms around me. “It’s okay, sweetness, c’mere….” I didn’t say anything, just struggled to regain any semblance of equanimity. “Can I have this dance, my love?” Without waiting for a response, he pulled me onto the dance floor, away from most of the other couples, to a more or less secluded part of the floor, and drew my head onto his shoulder as we began to sway together in familiar synchronicity. “Is he hitting on you?” I had to know, even though I had sworn I wasn’t going to ask. “He asked me out, yes,” Richard admitted, “but I let him know I wasn’t available, and that was it.” I wondered how often that little scenario was played out, with other people, other places. With different results. Dammit, I had to quit thinking that way. It only brought pain. “Max,” he said, forcing me to raise my eyes to his, “Max, you know I love you. Don’t worry about him, okay? He’s just another client, that’s all. No more, no less.” I gazed in awe into those gorgeously blue eyes. “I don’t trust him,” I said at last. And prayed that Richard wouldn’t ask the obvious question, ’cause I wasn’t sure how I would answer that. But luckily he didn’t. “Does he have to be your client? Can’t you let him go?” “Yes, he does, and no, I can’t.” He kissed the tip of my nose gently. “With any luck, he’ll be out of here before we know it. He said some TV producer is wanting to see his portfolio, so the sooner I get it done the better. Pack him off to Hollywood and out of our lives, eh?” He smiled most warmly at me. I couldn’t help but shiver, as if a goose were walking across my grave. There was still something wrong about him, and I just didn’t know what. But I wanted to find out before he caused irreparable damage to the things I cared about the most (read Richard). I merely
To the Max
191
nodded and stroked his back softly as we danced. Which would have been, and should have been, the end of that, but as we were bidding farewell to everyone and preparing to take our leave at the end of the evening—and after I drank a few more glasses of wine to calm my nerves—Richard was approached by one of Daniel’s friends, something about needing a photographer. He kissed me sweetly and said he’d be right back, which was fine. But as I stood there, waiting, lost in thought, I was accosted by none other than the right honorable Reverend Fisher himself. “Hello, Max,” he greeted me with a warm smile. I guess it would be considered warm, if given by someone else. “Lovely evening, don’t you think? Everything was splendid!” “Uh huh,” I replied noncommittally. “Lovely.” “Max, I wanted to talk to you for a minute, if I could, son.” I wanted to bristle but managed to keep it down to a minimum, and he never seemed to notice. “Max, I happen to think the world of your mother, as you might have noticed. She’s a fine woman, a very fine woman.” Tell me something I don’t know. “I think that she and I together could do good work. I think she would make a perfect wife.” What? “You want to marry her?” I asked. “Someday, Max, someday, yes. But in my position, I have to be very careful of everything that I say and do, and that goes for my future bride as well. But I hope that soon we will have every impediment resolved and that we may declare our union.” He smiled most beatifically. I just wanted to punch him. Impediment? What impediment? Did he mean me? How could I be resolved? That was making no sense to me. “Ah, I see my fair lady now,” he finished, “if you’ll excuse me, Max.” He waved to Mother, who waved back to him, and just as he was about to turn away from me, he leaned in closer and said in a completely different tone of voice, almost sotto voce, “I think you should be at services this coming Sunday, for your mother’s sake, Max, as well as your own.” And then he was gone before I could even think of how to respond to his threat. For that is what I perceived it as: a
192
Julie Lynn Hayes
direct threat. “What did that bastard just say to you?” Richard wanted to know, coming up behind me. Finished with his business now, he had just missed the reverend’s exit. “C’mon, I’ll tell you.” I grabbed his hand, headed for the door. “I think we’re going to church Sunday, Richard. It’s time we found out what this is all about.” Now it’s the middle of the night, I’m holding on to Richard as tightly as I can, and I know—I simply know—that something bad is coming, and I don’t know how to save us. Suspicious, to the max, and going to get to the bottom of things.
To the Max
193
Chapter 17 In the House of the Enemy
THE CHURCH OF DIVINE PROVIDENCE does not have a permanent structure yet, but it is well on its way to attaining that goal, thanks to gullible church members like my mother and the patron who donated the land on which the new church will sit. Somewhere in West St. Louis County, I think, which surely can’t be cheap. At the moment, though, they hold their services in the rented hall of a Masonic Temple in North County, where is where we are to meet, our merry little band, which consists of myself and Richard, Rachel and Diana, and Sebastian and Cat. Embarking on our own personal Crusade. Does that make me King Baldwin, then? I wonder. I feel like it sometimes, especially on those nights when the selenic bitch fastens her hold on me and I lose myself in the nature of the beast. Maybe I exaggerate a bit, but I can’t help the way that I feel. The reason is obvious, at least to me: my mother needs to be saved from something very dark and very sinister, once I can make her see that that is what the Reverend Fisher really is. And in order to succeed, I need more information on our foe. Or is it foes? I suspect that he is not in this alone, and that maybe Richard’s instincts about Amy are more on the money than my own or Rachel’s. You know, I’d even be glad to discover that I am wrong about Terranova Fisher, that he is actually good for Juliet, and that their union might be a worthwhile thing. But somehow I don’t think so. And maybe at the same time that I save her, I can save Richard and myself. From what, I still don’t know. We decide to go in separate vehicles. Because it is more expedient? Or because it makes for a faster getaway? More likely because it just makes sense, considering where each group of us is coming from: Richard and I from St. Charles County, Rachel and Diana from Webster Groves. And as I am the last to discover, my friend Cat has taken up residence with my cousin Sebastian at his apartment in Ballwin. (Richard and I should visit them soon, bring a gift. Do they
194
Julie Lynn Hayes
make cards that say congratulations on your cohabitation? I just might have to write one myself and print it out on the computer.) I nix Richard’s suggestion that he wear his Devil Made Me Do It T-shirt. I think he is joking, to lighten my mood, but I’m not taking any chances. Instead we wear dress shirts and pants, and another damn tie that he has to help me with. We are all concerned about my mother, and Rachel is even worried about Amy, thinks maybe they are both being swayed by the same evil influence. Looking at her nephew, I have to wonder if it just doesn’t run in the family. But I allow Rachel her delusions. For now. The Masonic Temple sits at the top of a hill, the drive leading up to it is steep, and the Monte doesn’t particularly like it. Luckily she’s a V8, and I coax her up the steep grade and into a parking spot well away from others. There is no sign of the rest of the crusaders yet, so we decide to meet them inside. I pocket my keys, and we walk around to the front of the building and through the main entrance. Inside, in the foyer of the temple, there sits an empty desk, where I imagine a receptionist sits on business days, and beside the desk is a slate board set on an easel, a neatly lettered chalk message pointing one toward the Church of Divine Redemption. Richard and I follow the arrow through a set of open doors and find ourselves entering what is apparently the meeting room for the temple, with a stage at the far end and rows of grey metal folding chairs set up on the floor, parted like the Red Sea by an aisle down the middle. Innocuous. Ordinary. So why then do I feel as if I have just entered the stronghold of the enemy? The chairs are filled with nicely dressed people already gathered for the first service, which is set to start at nine—and don’t think Richard didn’t grumble about getting up early on a Sunday for this—a lot of them women, I notice, and a few couples. At first it doesn’t dawn on me that I don’t see any young children, until a family comes in right after us, with two little ones in hand, and I watch as the young ones are taken off into another room by a cheery-looking attendant. I wonder what sort of indoctrination is practiced there. We stand there uncertainly for a moment, looking about for Juliet. A young man approaches us. He is maybe twenty-five, has short dark hair and impenetrable dark eyes, and is dressed entirely in black; his darkness is in direct contrast to his very pale, almost cadaverous
To the Max
195
complexion, and he has a very sober mien. “Welcome to the Church of Divine Providence,” he greets us, giving me something of an appraising glance. “My name is Josiah. Josiah King. You are Max, are you not?” “How did you know?” I ask suspiciously. “Your mother described you to me,” he explains. “Besides, you do look a lot like her, you know.” I suppose that makes sense. “And this would be your friend, Richard?” he continues, turning toward my better half. Richard merely nods. “Juliet is waiting for you,” he says. “Let me take you to her.” As he is speaking, my eyes are skimming the worshipers, and I can see her. I should have looked in the front row first. There is no sign of the reverend, but sitting next to her there are Amy and Mordred (which is what I call him now), and I’m not sure that I want to go in that direction. I decide to play detective instead, stalling for time. “Let me ask you something, Josiah. Have you known the Reverend Fisher very long?” I pretend that I haven’t heard his suggestion. “Yes, I have.” I notice immediately that Josiah doesn’t seem to smile very much—is that from being around His Eminence too long, I wonder?—and his voice reveals nothing of what he may or may not be feeling. “Maybe you can tell me something about him?” Not subtle, but sometimes a less-than-subtle approach is called for. He never blinks an eye. “He is an honorable man of God,” he responds automatically, as if he’s said this so many times he no longer has to think about it. And yet for a second, I thought I saw a flash of something more in his eyes. And then it’s gone. But before I can delve any farther, I can feel my waist encircled by a pair of hands and my ear is being blown into. I slap Rachel’s hands away in annoyance and move my head out of her reach, which only makes her laugh. Richard chimes in with his deep rich voice, and my sister giggles. “Very funny.” I turn and give her my faux evil eye. “Behave. Rach, you’re in a church, remember?” She only sticks her tongue out at me. How mature. “Where you two sitting?” I don’t get a chance to answer that. Apparently we’ve been
196
Julie Lynn Hayes
standing by the door too long for my mother’s taste, and Josiah isn’t making any headway at moving us toward her, so she comes to fetch us herself. Doesn’t even act surprised to see us, as if we have been expected; did loverboy tell her that he threatened me to get me to come, I wonder? I doubt that he presented it in quite that way. He must have sugarcoated it somehow. So why don’t I just tell her that he did? I suspect she wouldn’t believe he meant it that way. It would be futile effort on my part, so why bother? “I’m glad you could make it, love,” she says to me, and I watch her carefully to see her reaction to Richard’s presence. If he is unwelcome, then so am I. But no, she is her usual self, and she hugs us both in her usual warm way. Maybe it’s because the minister isn’t present, I can’t help but think. Rather ungraciously, I must admit. She takes my hand. “Come on, I saved you a seat.” And she leads me toward where Amy and the brat are waiting. I cling to Richard’s hand, and the rest simply follow of their own volition. I’d rather not have a ringside seat, but apparently I do. Although I make sure that I am in between Richard and the evil child. “Josiah is Terranova’s right-hand man,” she explains. “He helps with the day-to-day running of the church. I don’t know what Terranova and I would do without him.” I wonder how much time the minister spends running his own church, as he seems to spend an inordinate amount of time smooth-talking my mother, but I make no reply, taking in my surroundings instead. Mother clears her throat and glances at me expectantly, so I turn to meet her gaze. “It means a lot to me that you’re making an effort to get along with him,” she says, “so that we can form a family.” But we are a family! Always have been! I want to cry out even as I wonder what led her to find someone who only serves to feed her homophobic tendencies, which can’t possibly be good for me and Richard. Why can’t things be like they were before he came along? Even with the attempted blind dates and the little stunts she’s pulled, I always knew she loved me, but now I am worried that I am not good enough for her, not without a major overhaul of my personality, and my psyche, and my libido, which I cannot, nor would I even attempt to, perform. I feel Richard shift in the seat beside me. Naturally he has been
To the Max
197
listening, that’s a given; he always looks out for me and me him. And he leans in toward Juliet. “But Juliet, you have a lovely family now,” he says, his hand resting tenderly on my knee. He’s a much braver soul than I am. I tend to get overemotional at times and lose my capacity for rational thought. If she had been about to say something, that idea was shelved as the sound of a drum roll begins with what sounds like a single snare. Mother’s attention immediately snaps toward the stage, her head whipping about as if it has been pulled on a string, and as the curtains slowly draw back, the sound of a chorus can be heard, but not seen. The stage is dark on first perusal, seemingly empty, but then a spotlight is flipped on and in the middle of the stage a figure is revealed, dressed entirely in black from head to toe. I can hear a collective sigh from the women in the audience, as if he has simultaneously struck their pleasure chord. I find him to be rather ominous myself, for it is none other than the Right Reverend Terranova Fisher. In his hands is a large black Bible with a gold cross on the front. But it is not open, like he has no need to see the words to know the contents. His dark eyes flash as he scans the people before him. Is it my imagination, or is he looking in our direction, as if to ascertain that I have given in and come because he commands it? As if reading my thoughts, Richard lays a calming hand upon my arm, and I can see the reverend visibly flinch before he recovers his equanimity. Score one for us, I think. In the background, I can hear that the drum is done, as is the chorus, replaced apparently by a CD, Holst’s “Planets”—in particular, “Mars, Bringer of War,” a very powerful piece indeed. And as it begins, so does the applause, which swells and rolls about us in enthusiastic waves, as if the music is a cue of some sort. My mother and Amy lead the others in their enthusiasm as they energetically bring their hands together. Somehow, I manage to refrain, as does Richard. “Good morning, all,” Reverend Fisher begins, picking up a wireless mic from the floor, “how’s everyone doing this fine day? I hope that you’re all happy to be here, just as I am happy to be here with you. Good, good. Your smiling faces tell me all I need to know. Ah, I see that we have some new faces among us. Let us welcome them to our church, shall we?” Friendly applause is directed toward us like an
198
Julie Lynn Hayes
intrusive wave. I feel like I am on some sort of display, and I don’t like it. I look away from the stage for a moment, away from the apparent object of veneration, to where I can see Josiah King standing at attention by the wall, like a member of the emperor’s guard. And as I look at him, the gaze he turns upon the sole occupant of the stage is less than friendly. What’s that all about? I wonder, even as his expression relaxes into its former unreadable expression. “Before we begin today, I’d like to offer my congratulations and warmest wishes to Donnie and Debbie Whitlock who recently celebrated their fifth wedding anniversary.” He points toward the back of the room, where everyone cranes their neck to gawp at a young couple sitting together, a sleeping infant cradled on the girl’s lap, and another one obviously well on the way. “I remember when they met here, mere children, so many years ago it seems, but they have grown together, getting to know one another, and in the process they fell in love, and here in the sight of God and their friends and family they were united five years ago, and are very blessed in the sight of the Lord with a wonderful growing family. “Family. Family values. Something which is hard to find these days, but once found it should be embraced and held onto with all one’s strength.” Everyone dutifully swivels around to face the preacher once more as he begins his sermon. “In these days of loose morals and looser values, sometimes it’s hard to do what is right, rather than to go along with the crowd. It’s hard to be the lone voice of reason in a world where anything goes, and too many people just do what feels good at the time, decrying that love is different now, and our notions of it are old-fashioned. But real love is not old-fashioned, is it, nor is marriage, although it is quickly becoming the exception rather than the norm. Divorces are too easy to obtain, so there is no incentive to try to work something out. It’s easier to break the faith and just try again. “As the Scriptures say, ‘A man leaves his father and mother and is joined to his wife, and the two are united into one’. ’Til death do they part. Not until they decide that it’s inconvenient to be married any longer. Proverbs asks us, ‘Who can find a virtuous and capable wife? She is worth more than precious rubies’. Truer words have not been said. Also, in Proverbs, ‘Houses and wealth are inherited from parents, but a prudent wife is from the Lord’.”
To the Max
199
He moves from the stage now as he speaks, leaping down onto the floor so that he is level with his parishioners. The women especially are hanging on every word. I wonder if they are fantasizing about what it would be like to be his wife. I glance at Juliet. Her mouth is slightly open, and she wears a rather glazed look. Good Lord. And I don’t mean that facetiously. I definitely do not like where this is going. I risk a glance beyond my mother; Amy is looking at Fisher just as slackjawed. But her nephew has his eyes focused on my lover. I glare at him, and he winks at me and turns his head. I must have growled a little, ’cause Richard squeezes my hand reassuringly, and I return my attention to the sermon at hand. Terranova is working the crowd now. He doesn’t stand still but moves up and down and around while he speaks, so that everyone pivots to follow his movements. I catch Rachel’s eye. She doesn’t look too happy, either, nor do Diana, Sebastian, or Cat. I’m sure there will be a big confab after this ordeal is over. “Again from Proverbs… this seems to be a proverbial day does it not?”—his parishioners laugh appreciatively, like trained hyenas—“‘The righteous man leads a blameless life; blessed are his children after him’. I think that we can safely say the same for a woman and her children. It is only fitting that the children receive the blessings and the benefits of their parent’s life, but it is also their duty to lead righteous lives themselves, that they may pass this legacy onto their children.” Am I imagining things or is he directing this at me? His next words leave no doubt. “First Timothy says, ‘If anyone does not know how to manage his own family, how can he take care of God’s church?’ Having a family is both a blessing and a responsibility. It is much more than a biological function as some would have you believe. God intended us to procreate, not recreate, and to raise our children lovingly and in his image. Therefore, how can one devote one’s life to God, and do as he wishes, if he cannot carry out such a simple commandment? One can’t. It’s just that simple. One can’t. Parents have to know what their children are doing at all times. They must be there for them, watch over them, and lead them away from the evil and wicked temptations that the flesh falls heir to. The devil has many playtoys, and he likes to try to entice us with them. And oh, yes, there are so very many of those enticements, are there not? Turn on the television: they’re there for all to see. In our television programs. And in our literature. In the
200
Julie Lynn Hayes
magazines that they try to bombard us with. And in the wicked people that come into our lives that try to tempt us to stray from the path of righteousness. Wickedness seems to very prevalent, these days. It must be disheartening to many of us, for did not the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah fall for just that reason? Yet, do not despair, for is not the Lord God with us? “‘Do you not know that the wicked will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived in that regard, nor worry. Neither the sexually immoral nor idolators nor adulterers nor male prostitutes nor homosexual offenders’. First Corinthians, chapter 6 tells us….” What the fuck? Did he just say what I think he just said? I glance at Mother; she is too wrapped up in him to pay me any heed. I glance at Richard—he heard it, too, I can tell—his lips are compressed in a thin line of anger. “Society as a whole is too willing to embrace the immoral,” Fisher is continuing, gathering momentum, “because it’s easier to go along with someone, give in to him, than try to make him give up his wicked ways, or say something that might ‘upset him’. Family values have become passé, out of date—at least that is what they would have you believe. But it isn’t so! Do not doubt for a moment that the way to the Lord, to eternal salvation, lies anywhere else but with the paths of righteousness. Suffer not the immoral to continue to follow their wicked ways. Lead them back, help them back to the love of our Lord God Jesus, save the sinner, love him, but do not allow him to follow the path to perdition. “Suffer not the harlot to continue to lie with a man who is not her husband, nor a man to lie with a woman that is not his wife. Encourage them to remember their vows of fidelity, and to honor their marriage beds. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife. Neither lie with a man as one lies with a woman, for that is detestable. Leviticus tells us so. Did God not destroy the city of Sodom for that reason? We must save the Sodomites from themselves, for they are obviously confused and need us to lead them back to the light which only comes from the acceptance of Jesus Christ as our Savior.” Fisher’s voice has been rising steadily, whipping himself and his congregation into an emotional feeding frenzy. I hear soft amens around me, and praise the Lords, which only serve to punctuate his words.
To the Max
201
“Let us pray for these sinners now.” He falls on his knees in front of the congregation, eyes closed, hands which hold the microphone uplifted as in supplication. “Dear Lord, we call upon you to help our brethren, to lead them back into your mercy, and to cure them of this bedevilment which fills their soul….” There is more, but I am no longer listening. I am hurt, and I am angry, very, very angry, but it is Richard’s actions that give me the courage to do something other than sit there and seethe. He rises to his feet with a great deal of grace and dignity and reaches down for my hand. “Come along, love, I think we should go now.” I take his hand and stand also. Behind me, I can see that the rest of our group are on their feet as well. Looking at Richard, I think how very handsome he looks, so very dignified. His eyes are trained on Terranova, who seems to be regarding him with some amusement, through half-lidded eyes. We make our way to the aisle and head down it—the congregation is far too immersed in their reverend to notice, not even my mother, apparently—as we hear Fisher’s voice continue. “Save these sinners, God, show mercy unto them, for they know not what they do….” We are almost out the door now, but Richard turns, and giving them all his most dazzling smile, quips in his beautiful baritone to the congregation en masse, “I know exactly what I do… and I do so enjoy it,” and he puts his arm around my waist as we walk from the building into the bright sunshine once again. We’ve been in there less than an hour actually, but it seems a lot longer. I am so angry that I am fairly shaking now, and my sweet Richard draws me into his arms to calm me down while the others form a wagon train around us. “Max, I refuse to call that man ‘father’,” Diane says. “Do you really think Juliet plans to marry him?” I hear Cat ask, and Sebastian’s answering snort as he says, “Yes, that woman is so besotten, it’s not funny. Did you see her face while he was talking? She obviously thinks he walks on water!” Rachel strokes my arm sympathetically. “I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t know he was as bad as all that. He must keep that side of himself hidden in polite company.”
202
Julie Lynn Hayes
“I think Mother knows,” I spit out, “and it doesn’t seem to bother her at all.” “We have to talk to her,” Diana fairly wails, “before she does something stupid… like marry him. At her age, even, why bother? She’s been fine all these years; she never felt the need to marry either of our fathers (I don’t bother to point out the obvious, just let her ramble), so why now, why him? It’s not like she’s planning on popping out any more kids!” My sister has a real way with words, as you might have noticed. “I think he’s a gold-digger myself,” Sebastian injects. “Do you know she’s been pulling money out of her savings to give to him?” Sebastian is Mother’s financial adviser, has been for years. “For that damned building project of his, among other things. I’ve never interfered with how she spent her money before, but this is getting to be a bit much!” Richard alone has said nothing, has stayed silent while the others vented, imparting his strength to me through the arms that are wound about me. I give him a worried glance. “You okay?” I ask solicitously. “Let’s go home,” he says, nodding in answer to my question. “We were going to go get some brunch, discuss things,” Rachel says. “Don’t you wanna come?” I glance at my lover. He’s got this look on his face like there’s something on his mind, and I know that he isn’t interested, he just wants to go home for whatever reason. I shake my head and make an attempt at levity. “No, thanks, I don’t think so. Just send me the minutes.” I don’t know how well I succeed. They decide among themselves where they want to eat. I’m not paying attention to them, just leaning against Richard for a moment. He kisses the top of my head, his fingers running through my hair. Sebastian and Cat take off first, after I promise to have Cat to lunch at the cottage this week, to look at the new chapters of her book. I have a random thought as I watch them walk away: as obsessed as Cat is with Greek mythology, does she call him Ares in private? I’ll probably never know. Diana is still looking woebegone, and Rachel is trying to comfort her. “You know who he reminds me of?” she asks. “That Reverend
To the Max
203
Trask guy from that old soap, Dark Shadows. I half-expected him to pull a stake out of his back pocket and attack you, Max.” “You’re mixing your canons,” I remind her. “Stakes are for vampires, silver bullets are for werewolves. There is a difference, you know.” “So what do they use on gay men?” Rachel jokes. “Other gay men?” I suggest. But all of a sudden, that doesn’t sound so very funny. Or far-fetched. And suddenly I want to go home myself, very badly, and leave the world behind and barricade myself in with Richard. Protect him, protect me, protect us. “I’ll call you later,” I promise them both as Richard and I walk toward the Monte. He holds out his hand for the keys, and I drop them into his palm. As he opens my side first, and I slide in. He leans in suddenly and catches my lips with his, kissing me so hard that I am momentarily breathless. When he finally pulls back, I can see something in his eyes, something that makes me very uneasy. I just can’t pinpoint exactly what it is. Please, let it not be that he’s thinking of taking off again. Please, not that. “Just remember that I love you, Max, very much.” His voice is so serious, so heartfelt, and I resist the urge to ask him if he’s leaving me. Sniveling coward that I am. Would knowing beforehand make it any more bearable? Damn. “I will,” I promise him solemnly. Apparently satisfied, he takes his place behind the wheel, and we are on our way once more, away from this horrible place. And only then do I realize that my mother has not even come outside to see if I’m all right or ask why I am going. Has she even noticed? I glance back toward the church as we pull out onto the road once more, and there, standing in the doorway, is Morgan Arthur. I shiver at the sight, but say nothing. My life is getting complicated to the max, and I feel like I’m lying in front of a freight train, waiting for it to run me over any minute.
204
Julie Lynn Hayes
Chapter 18 Love’s Labour is Never Lost
RICHARD has left me. But not in a bad way, and not for long. It came up rather suddenly. A friend of one of his clients was having this big wedding in Kansas City (Missouri, not Kansas, most people when they say Kansas City mean the one on our side of the border). At the last minute the photographer they had already booked months in advance bailed on them, leaving a totally panicked bride and a very desperate groom. So they ended up calling everyone they knew, including this particular friend, who gave them Richard’s number, and they phoned him in complete hysterics, begging him to take the job. They offered to triple his usual fee, pay for his airfare there, and put him up for the night in a five-star hotel. How could he possibly refuse? Of course he couldn’t. Alas, we couldn’t work out the details of my going with him, as I had already made commitments here, so I was forced to stay behind. But I miss my boy. I miss him very much. You can imagine how long it took to say good-bye to him before he drove himself to the airport. Which means that I am not going anywhere ’til he gets back, not that it is a problem. He calls me on the cell phone when he can, but he’s rather busy just now getting everything set up. He’s very professional when it comes to his photography, painstakingly so. You might even say he’s a perfectionist. On the other hand, he’s a complete slob around the house. Go figure. It’s been almost a week now since the farcical scene at the church. What was that supposed to accomplish? Did he set me up for that somehow? And not a word from my mother. In fact, from what Diana tells me, she is pissed off at me for walking out on Reverend Fuckface’s sermon. She doesn’t blame the rest of them, thinks they were merely following my lead, like I’m some sort of ringleader now. And they are
To the Max
205
my followers. Is she so far gone, then, that she doesn’t hear what he is saying? Or maybe she does, and that’s the problem. I don’t know what to think anymore. I thought I knew her better than just about anyone, but now she is like a stranger to me. Today is the lunch I have promised to Cat. I have decided on a simple meal: homemade French onion soup, served in ovenproof bowls en croûte with cubes of various cheeses and apple slices, and a loaf of fresh French bread. Once we are seated at the kitchen table, meal spread out before us, and she finds out where Richard is and why, she tells me how silly I am for not breaking our lunch date and going with Richard to KC. “I’m not like that,” I protest, “I couldn’t do that to you, and I wouldn’t. What kind of friend would that make me?’ She smiles at me warmly. She is looking particularly pretty today, I notice. There is a new sparkle in her gentle blue eyes, a new confidence in her voice. Can this be the work of my irascible cousin, I wonder? “Unless, of course, that is your subtle way of saying you have better things to do than have lunch with me?” I tease her, “maybe with Sebastian?” Cat blushes quite prettily, pink roses blossoming on her cheeks. “Of course not, Max,” she protests. “I love your company and you know it.” I can’t resist asking, “Just like you love my cousin?” and watch her color all over again. “Maybe I do,” she shyly admits, and I can’t help but be thrilled for her, for them both. “So tell me all about it,” I encourage her. “How you ended up with a beast like my cousin—” “He’s not a beast,” she automatically protests before she sees that I am joking, and she laughs again. “Okay, I’ll tell you,” she relents, but I think she deliberately ignores me for a few minutes while she goes on and on about how good the lunch is, and what a good cook I am, before she finally gets to the point. Not before I am forced to put on my best pout for her. Never fails (he modestly says). “You remember that fund-raiser you were supposed to go to, the one you didn’t show up for?” she begins.
206
Julie Lynn Hayes
Of course I do. “That wasn’t my fault,” I say defensively, “I had every intention of going. You know that.” Cat does a lot of charity work—another indication of her great heart—and this one was for the National Kidney Foundation. A dinner/dance at the hotel with the rotating top down by the riverfront with the name I never remember, which she had coordinated, working her fingers to the bone, I might add. “Uh huh,” she teases, “next you’ll be blaming Richard.” Well, it was his fault, I have to admit. But it was my fault for allowing him to do it. After all, I’m old enough to say no, surely. Except I can never manage that with him. We were getting ready for the big event, donning our tuxes, discussing nothing in particular, just the little things of life that live-in lovers talk about when they’re alone: bills that need paying, foodstuffs that are running low, home maintenance (I discussed this, he just listened), his work, my work… when suddenly he came up behind me, pressing himself against me, kissing the nape of my neck. “Richard,” I moaned, “what are you doing? We don’t have time for this. Look at the clock.” “When I’m with you, baby, time stands still,” he insisted as his arms circled my waist and his hands slid beneath my waistband. Oh damn. I caught my breath as he began to fondle me, as he kissed my neck with those glorious lips, and my traitorous cock would insist on responding, although I kept telling him not to. No time for this. No time at all. Lot of good that did; he stood at attention for Richard, as he always does. I faltered, my firm resolution diminishing, unlike my hard cock, as he proceeded to stroke it, licking at my neck like I was an all-day sucker. I was not born to resist that man, I swear. “Mmm,” I groaned, giving in, “we’ll have to make it quick.” “Of course, darling,” he promised as he pulled me toward the bed, disrobing me as he went, as well as himself. Did I ever mention that on the plus side of lycanthropy, werewolves have great stamina and resilience? Which translates to we can come over and over and over again—and often do. Our quick little sexcapade became an hour, then two, then three, before it finally
To the Max
207
dawned on me to check the time. By then it was far too late to make even a belated red-faced appearance. So, I blush to tell, we stayed in bed. And Richard called Cat with some lameass excuse, which she saw right through. And I apologized profusely the next day. A number of times. One for every… okay, you get the picture. She laughs at my obvious embarrassment. “Anyway,” she says. “I was a little flustered that night, as you can imagine, and sure that I had mucked everything up beyond belief, when Sebastian came up to me, out of the blue, and he was just such a dear. He made me relax, and he helped me with everything I was doing, down to the tiniest detail, and everything went off perfectly, without a hitch. He made sure that we sat together at dinner, and we talked and talked and talked—I never knew how much we have in common—and he even asked me for the first dance.” This certainly doesn’t sound like my cousin Sebastian. Perhaps it’s an alien clone, the original being held hostage in an iridescent green spaceship hovering somewhere over Milwaukee. Or not. “And while we were dancing, we got to talking some more. I’m not even sure how it came up, but I mentioned that I like carnivals and amusement parks, even though I hadn’t been to one in years. And he offered to take me to Six Flags. So we went.” “Uh huh, that explains everything,” I laugh. Cat blushes. She is so easy to tease sometimes. I should be ashamed of myself. “So, what happened at Six Flags,” I prompt her. “Did you go through the Tunnel of Love?” “They don’t have one, and you know it.” She wrinkles her nose at me, making that cute little face she does when I frustrate her. “No, but we did get on the Ferris wheel.” I shiver at the mention of that very, very tall object, which I absolutely refuse to set foot on, and which no amount of pleading or teasing will induce me to ride. And I know that Cat feels pretty much the same way about heights that I do. I give her a quizzical look. “I wasn’t paying attention to what ride we were in line for,” she admits with a small self-conscious grin, “until it was too late, and we were next in line. What could I do? Tell him I’m scared of heights?
208
Julie Lynn Hayes
After we’d waited all that time? So I didn’t. I just shut up and got in beside him while the attendant locked us in.” I nod sympathetically as I offer her more wine. She shakes her head. “Well, I was scared to death, believe me. And it seemed like it moved so slowly, going up and up and up and up… until it reached the top. Guess what happened then?” “It stopped?” “No kidding. I just knew it would, with my luck, and it did.” She shudders at the memory, dipping some of the bread into her soup and eating it thoughtfully. “Then what?” I press, somewhat impatiently, I admit. She is only doing that for effect. And to drive me crazy. “Then…” she said, slowly, dramatically, as if waiting for the drum roll, “then he kissed me!” “Kissed you?” “Umhmmm, kissed me,” she said dreamily. I could see the stars twinkling in her eyes from where I sat and couldn’t help thinking how cute that was and how grateful I was that it wasn’t me and Richard, ’cause that boy wouldn’t have stopped with a kiss. And the thought of making love at the top of a Ferris wheel makes me downright dizzy. “Sebastian kissed me, and suddenly everything seemed all right again. And we just kind of looked at each other, like we knew what the other one was thinking….” “Which was?” I prompt her. “Personal.” She flashes me a shy grin. I don’t press the issue. We finish our lunch, and Cat helps me to clear the dishes away— she is always so helpful and efficient—and then we retire to the living room to chat some more. All of a sudden, I hear a knock on the door. Funny, I’m not expecting anyone, and this is not some place people drop into on their way to somewhere, ’cause our home isn’t on the way to anywhere but here. I look at Cat, and she has this shit-eating grin on her face. Uh oh. “What are you up to, woman?” I ask. “Who me?” She feigns innocence, but she goes to open the door herself, which is a dead giveaway that she knows what is going on,
To the Max
209
’cause normally she wouldn’t. Sure enough, standing at the door is none other than Maggie. Holding a sleeping bag and pillow and an overnight case. Clad in pajamas. And behind her is Rachel, similarly equipped and dressed. “Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” I ask as Cat greets the new arrivals and hugs are exchanged all around. The girls waltz into the house and begin to lay their stuff about the living room, as if they intend to camp out there. Which apparently they do. “Slumber party!” Maggie cries happily, and the cry is taken up and echoed back and forth among them. Slumber party? Are they for real? “Richard’s idea,” Rachel explains after she greets me in her usual effusive manner. “He thought you could use some company while he’s in KC.” Isn’t he sweet? How many guys do you know that would set their lover up with three pretty girls for a sleepover while he’s out of town? Okay, so he knows that I’m gay, but that’s beside the point. He was looking out for me—that shows that he cares, no matter what my mother or her zealot boyfriend think. “We have everything we need with us,” Rachel says after making a second trip to her car, returning with bags of newly purchased goodies. “Cat, will you put this in the fridge?” She hands out a bottle which Cat obligingly schleps out to the kitchen. I hear the opening and closing of the fridge door as I wonder what it is. “That’s for later, dahling,” Rachel says to my quizzical look. “I brought you a sleeping bag, just in case you didn’t have one. Do you have one?” “Um, I’ve never been camping,” I say, “so I guess not. Do I need one?” “Vell, of course, ve are going to sleep in ze living room.” I’m not sure if she is meant to be Mata Hari or Natasha Fatale, but her cheesey accent makes me laugh. Rachel winks at Maggie. “I zink ve should torture him, vat do you say, dahlink? Until he agrees to do vateffer ve vant.” “But of course, dahling,” is Maggie’s immediate response, and before I have the common sense to move out of the way, they have grappled me to the ground and are mercilessly tickling me, and I, being
210
Julie Lynn Hayes
the wimp that I am, am crying for reinforcements. “Cat, Cat, come and save me!” Ah, there is my savior now, my Cat won’t allow this to happen, surely. But no, her face lights up with a decidedly fiendish look, and I have one more body pressed against mine, another pair of hands tormenting me, and the witches are cackling in a most MacBethian manner. I expect a cauldron to materialize any moment, maybe some fillet of a fenny snake. What else can I do but concede, as they are three to my one and I am but a poor, weak, helpless werewolf? Or maybe not? As with a mighty roar, I suddenly turn the tables— they forget that I possess a certain wiry strength, that my outward façade of a thin mild-mannered middle-aged man is somewhat deceptive—and I show them just how nimble a lycanthrope’s fingers can be, tickling each of them into submission before leaping up and out of their reach. “The winner!” I exclaim victoriously. And modestly. This completely breaks the ice, as if any needed to be broken, and the slumber party officially begins. Once I don the brand new pajamas they have brought for me with cute little lambs on them. How old am I again? First we make mugs of steaming hot chocolate, topped with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles, and pass around bags of chocolate candy, milk chocolate and dark chocolate and white chocolate, while we play our favorite board game: Monopoly. Rachel has bought the Star Wars version, and we race around the board with miniature figurines of Luke and Leia and Han for markers. It doesn’t even matter who wins; it’s just for fun. And we natter about nothing. And everything. Including, but not limited to my mother, of course, and Richard. And Mark. And Sebastian. And Doctor Who. All our favorite men. After Monopoly, we break out the bottle of peach cider from the fridge, which was what they were hiding from me before. It is appropriately chilled and most delightful as we put Moulin Rouge into the DVD player and enjoy it, laughing and crying by turns, depending on what is happening. The girls all giggle when I tell them that I think Richard Roxburgh is a stud, and they all go gaga over Ewan McGregor, except for Maggie, who is partial to the conductor character named Satie. We’ve seen the movie so many times that we even role-play parts of it, taking turns with the various parts, particularly “Spectacular,
To the Max
211
Spectacular,” the scene where everyone is pitching the show to the Duke, as well as the tango that is danced to the old Police song “Roxanne,” which is a very sensual scene. By the way, Richard and I do a very mean tango. After the movie we natter some more. The peach cider is crisp and fruity and goes down smoothly as we enjoy more chocolate. I am very relaxed and at ease, enjoying this evening very much. I shall have to thank Richard when he comes home, and I imagine various ways in which this can be accomplished. We are sitting on the floor, lounging indolently on our sleeping bags and pillows. “I think Professor Snape is totally sexy!” Cat says out of nowhere, giggling. “Totally,” Maggie agrees, nodding seriously, while of course Rachel has to speak up for her favorite. “Not as sexy as Sirius.” For obvious reasons. “What do you think, Max?” Cat asks me, and they turn their heads expectantly toward me, awaiting my gay male perspective, I imagine. “Yes, Max, who is hotter: Severus Snape or Sirius Black?” Rachel chimes in. I ponder the question for a moment, take another sip of the cider, roll it and the question around on my tongue, before finally replying, “Richard Burke,” having decided to be diplomatic about it. Besides, that is the way that I feel. “He’s not even in Harry Potter,” Rachel points out. “Tell us the truth, or pay the price.” I arch an eyebrow at her quizzically. “What is this, Truth or Dare, all of a sudden? I don’t think so.” “Yes, and you have to tell the truth, or we’ll tickle you again.” Cat giggles. “Then you run the risk of having me spew all over you,” I bluntly point out, “so I wouldn’t do that. Got any other punishments?” Cat and Maggie and Rachel put their heads together, before Cat stands, going to her things. Uh oh, I know they’re up to something. She returns to where we sit, holding a small cloth case and wearing an allegedly innocent smile.
212
Julie Lynn Hayes
“If you don’t cooperate, Max, we’re going to give you a doover!” Rachel announces, and Cat and Maggie nod their agreement. “And maybe even if you do,” Maggie adds. “A what?” I ask, sure that I don’t really want to know. Rachel gets up on her knees, crawling to me across the floor, plopping herself in front of me as Cat hands her the first item of torture: a small bottle which I instantly recognize as nail polish. Purple. “You’re not seriously thinking of….” I splutter. Rachel nods. “Oh yes, we are seriously thinking of….” I put my hands beneath my ass, out of reach. “Nuh uh.” I shake my head. “Nothing doing.” “Maxie,” Rachel coos, crawling predatorily closer and pressing her cheek against mine, “Maxie, let us have a little fun with you, pretty boy….” “I’m not a pretty boy,” I protest. “Yes, you are, and you’ll be even prettier,” Cat chimes in, and I see that she holds a tube of lipstick in her hand while Maggie wields what appears to be a can of instant hair color. Bloody hell. What is happening here? The wine must be getting to me. That must be it, for I can think of no other reason for allowing them to continue with their evil machinations as suddenly I become a human Barbie doll to be fiddled with and decorated. And they still insist on playing Truth or Dare. “Rachel, truth or dare,” Cat begins. Rachel has one of my hands held on her knee and is very meticulously applying the nail polish, which is a red-violet in hue, almost day-glo. I dare not move, lest she spill it. Not that she couldn’t wash it off herself, but it would be murder on the carpet. She pauses a moment, cocks her head, and grins at Cat. “Truth,” she replies. “Have you ever kissed Max?” “Hey, hey, that’s getting personal!” I protest, but I am shushed by all three girls. “That’s the point of the game!” Maggie giggles. “Max, stay still!” Rachel warns me, brush poised mid-air. She turns to Cat. “Yes,” she says succinctly. Finishing the hand, she holds it
To the Max
213
up for inspection as she blows on it, looking at it critically. “Ooh, details, details,” Cat and Maggie sound like a Greek chorus. “Nope, not required.” Rachel grins. “Okay, my turn. Max, truth or dare.” Not liking the sound of that, I decide to try something different. “Dare.” “Good. I dare you to let me do your toenails too.” I am going to look so fucking gay, I moan to myself, and no comments from the peanut gallery, if you please. But what can I do? Merely smile charmingly and present my long hairy werewolf toes for coloring, which I do, and which she immediately begins upon, the same shade. Have to coordinate, you know. Cat kneels beside me now. “Turn your head a little this way, Max,” she coaxes me. The wine is loosening her as well, and there is a decided rosy glow to her cheeks. “First, my turn,” I insist. “Cat, truth or dare.” “Truth, I guess,” she says. “Do you want to marry Sebastian?” I have caught her off guard with that question, I can see. Her eyes grow wide, and she flushes even brighter red. But she doesn’t exactly look displeased, or as if the thought has never occurred to her. “Okay, yes,” she admits, and Rachel and Maggie both start hugging her and squealing excitedly. “But don’t tell him I said that,” she adds hastily. Of course they swear they won’t. She gives me a look, and I affirm the same. Of course I’ll tell Richard; I tell him everything, naturally. It’s what lovers do. Or should do, anyway. Okay, let’s not go there, not while I’m feeling so good. Cat takes my head, aims it toward her. The tube in her hand is plum colored. “Pucker up,” she encourages me, and for some strange reason I do, as she paints my lips with practiced fluid strokes. Oh well, they’re too pale anyway. Can’t really hurt, can it? Besides, it’s not like anyone will ever see me. I’ll wash it off before Richard gets back, and it’s only for fun, right? “Maggie, truth or dare,” Cat says as she concentrates, her eyes intent on my lips.
214
Julie Lynn Hayes
“Truth,” Maggie immediately chooses. “Would you like to kiss Richard?” Cat glances up at her as Maggie is standing behind me, hairbrush in hand, brushing out my hair. I’ve been lazy, and it’s grown a little longer than usual, starting to wave now. When Richard is in a playful mood, he calls me his little Lord Fauntleroy, which earns him a bleak look from me, but he only laughs and kisses me. If Richard were here, I would run my fingers through his golden tresses, ’cause I love the way they feel—like silk sheets and butterfly wings and baby kisses—how they fill my nose with traces of citrus and whispers of love when I press my face into them. I start to drift away on my sensuous daydream but after Cat’s question, I am listening once more. At first there is dead silence. I tilt my head back toward Maggie, inquisitorially; she swats me with the brush while Cat chides me with, “Max, be careful!” Finally Maggie admits, “Yes, I would.” Nothing more. No news flash here, who didn’t know that? “But only as a friend,” she hastens to add. “Right,” Rachel says. “Sure,” from Cat. “Of course,” is my contribution. “Besides, he’s gay.” “Really?” I pretend to look shocked. “Are you serious? Richard is gay? Don’t tell Reverend Fuckface. He’ll have a heart attack.” “I wish he would,” Rachel says half-seriously, and for a moment, we merely murmur our agreements. “Okay, my turn,” Maggie says. “Rachel, truth or dare.” She is shaking the spray can now, and on the label, I catch a glimpse of a model with red hair. Not a bright red, more of a muted shade, closer to auburn. “Max, close your eyes. Cat, you almost done?” Cat nods, releases my face, “Yep, all through,” and stands back to admire her handiwork. I feel the cold spray hit my hair, and I involuntarily shiver. “Don’t be a baby, Max, it’s not that cold,” Cat chides me fondly. “Truth,” Rachel says.
To the Max
215
“Okay, then, what is the biggest secret that you know?” My breath hitches a little bit at the question. Rachel is the only one that knows about me, at least among this group. “Not mine to tell,” she says smoothly, and I breathe a little easier. “But if you insist, I’ll tell it….” Uh oh. I look at her, panic-stricken momentarily. She only winks at me. “Yes, yes,” Cat and Maggie encourage her. “Tell, tell.” “Well,” Rachel looks around, as if making sure no unseen spies are lurking about, listening in on our private conversation, “to tell you the truth, I’m in love with this Englishman by the name of Gary.” Rachel can be damned funny sometimes. Cat snorts and Maggie giggles. “Rachel, that’s no secret, everyone that knows you knows that.” Rachel passes on now, before anyone can comment on her answer. “Max, truth or dare.” I’m tired of dares, I think. “Truth.” I should have thought that through better. “When are you going to tell Richard that the next time he leaves you is the last?” I scowl at her words. “Don’t do that, you’re mussing up the lipstick.” Cat tries to get me to relax. She turns to the other two. “What color shadow do you think?” Maggie looks at me critically. “Blue. But first the eyeliner and mascara. I brought midnight blue.” “That’s the color of Richard’s eyes,” I comment randomly, still not responding to the question. “I know,” Maggie murmurs, blushing, as she tilts my head into position. “Look up and do not move,” she warns me as she begins to apply the pencil below one eye. “How about some music?” Cat suggests. Ever the diplomat is my Cat, wanting to ease the sudden tension in the room. Rachel is nothing if not straightforward. “Max, you know I love
216
Julie Lynn Hayes
you, and I’m only looking out for your best interests. It’s just us talking now, no game. You need to let him know he can’t keep doing that to you. He can’t play with your heart like that.” “Richard loves Max,” Maggie defends him. “Maybe he has his reasons.” For the moment, I say nothing, knowing in my heart that what Rachel says is true but not really wanting to hear it. Or deal with it. “Max, you don’t know where he goes, what he does,” Rachel points out, as if the same thoughts don’t churn through my brain every time he is gone. “and in this day and age, and with AIDS, and STDs, you just can’t be too careful. Have you ever made him get tested when he comes back? I bet you never have. Or gotten yourself tested, for that matter.” Her words bore directly into my soul. But I haven’t. I never could. That would mean talking to him about it, and that never happens. When he returns, we simply move on, no looking back. Well, nothing overt, anyway. I don’t bring it up, but I never forget. Cat starts a CD. I can hear the opening notes of Tchaikovsky’s beautiful “Swan Lake.” Maggie finishes applying eyeliner below both eyes. Then the stiff mascara brush is carefully layered over my lashes, and I am especially careful to be still, not wanting to feel that thing go into my eye. Upper lashes, lower lashes. All midnight blue. “Okay, close ’em,” she says, and I do. She runs her lithe fingers over my eyelids. I can feel her applying more liner, on the edge of my upper eyelids. Then a softer feel as she uses her finger to spread some liquid shadow. Then a soft brush across my cheekbones. What the hell now? I wonder. “Cat, that’s nice,” Maggie compliments her. “Ripe peach,” Cat says, “to give some color to his skin. He’s so pale.” “Cadaverous,” Maggie agrees. “I’m not that bad,” I insist. “Can I open my eyes now?” “Yep,” Maggie says, while Cat echoes, “Sure, go ahead.” I blink from a little excessive eyeliner, find Rachel’s eyes delving into mine. “Look,” I say defensively, “it’s been a long time now since he’s gone. Maybe he won’t go again.” Wishful thinking on my part, I guess.
To the Max
217
“Maybe,” she repeats, but I can hear doubt in her voice, and I can’t honestly tell her she’s wrong to feel the way she does. I’m just taking my usual journey into Egypt, wandering down the Nile so to speak. That’s our catchphrase for things like that; we accuse the other one of being in D’Nile. You know the phrase: de Nile is not just a river in Egypt. Usually we laugh about it, but not tonight. It’s just too close to home, and it mirrors my fears that with everything that is going on with my mother and her boyfriend, Richard might get stressed out and run from me. I can hardly bear the thought, but I have to live with it. Cat claps her hands. “Ooh, Max, you look so pretty!” and Maggie chimes in, “Yes, he does, doesn’t he?” “He’s beautiful.” Rachel gives me her best smile, the one that says “I love you, Max, no matter what,” and reaches for my hand. “C’mon, let me show you in your mirror.” Richard has a full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. I hate mirrors myself and only look into one when it’s absolutely necessary, but he uses that one, and I like to watch him looking at himself in it. Okay, I like to watch him, period. I am taken aback at the sight which greets me: my hair is now red, my lips are plum while my eyes are heavily accented and blue, my cheeks are properly blushed, and my fingers and toes are an iridescent purple. Regular drag queen, I am. Which reminds me of another line from Rocky Horror, something about Puff the magic drag queen. I know, don’t say it—way too much. Rachel stands behind me, winds her arms around me, and hugs me tightly. No words pass between us, but I know what she is saying, and I appreciate that she is here for me. We return to the living room and pass around the last of the cider. Cat has thoughtfully set out the sleeping bags so that everyone can be comfortable, as we begin to settle down for the night. No teenagers are we to sit up talking until the cock crows. And the wine is making me sleepy. The girls are still talking, but it’s getting harder to focus on just what is being said. Occasionally I hear snippets of conversation. Maggie says something about Sylvester McCoy and Daleks. Rachel is explaining something about Sirius Black. And Cat has a story about Sebastian, but I miss most of it, floating in and out of consciousness… …until I am awakened some time later by the feel of a wet tongue on my cheek. “Mmm,” I murmur without thinking, “Richard,” and
218
Julie Lynn Hayes
reach out to touch him. But I am taken by surprise by the feel of something warm and furry, much too furry to be my lover. What the hell? I open one eye and look up. By the light that streams in from the window, I see a strange little face looking back at me. If I’m not mistaken, it appears to be a puppy. Funny, I don’t remember having one of those. Just a big bad wolf. Oh wait, that’s me. The tongue laves me again, now I open both eyes. Yes, it’s a puppy. A very cute puppy. From what I can see of it, it looks like a spaniel. And he—or she—seems to like me, for some reason. And when I hear a familiar voice, shivers go up and down my spine. “I think she smells me on you, Max,” I hear as Richard drops down onto the floor next to me, holding the puppy between us as he reaches for my lips. And when he pulls back, I can hear him tasting his own, as if he is trying to figure out what that strange flavor in between us is. “I didn’t expect you back tonight,” I say, slightly disoriented and trying to make sense of the situation. “I missed you too much to stay away,” he says, and I hear the question in his voice as he tries to get a good look at me in the limited light. “Max, come into the bedroom. I want to introduce you to her properly.” He takes my hand and helps me up, carrying the puppy in the other arm. We quietly tiptoe around the sleeping beauties, who haven’t been disturbed by Richard’s unexpected entrance, at least not that I can see. We close the bedroom door behind us before I turn on one of the lamps next to the bed. Richard whistles at me. “You look very delicious,” he says, his eyes running up and down me. I blush at his words, as I had thought to have done away with it long before his return, but I am pleased. “You should wear makeup more often, lover.” “I don’t think so,” I demur, “but the girls kind of insisted. I think it’s a bit much, don’t you?” “No, I think it’s lovely,” he says softly, “as lovely as you, pretty baby.” And he kisses me again. The bundle in his arms yips. “Good girl,” he coos, “it’s okay, this is Max, I told you about him. He’s my baby, and you’re his now.” He kisses the puppy softly, hands her to me. “Mine? She’s mine?” I stare at him in amazement. “What…
To the Max
219
how?” I look back and forth from him to the pup. She is simply beautiful, and she has the most soulful eyes, large, soft brown orbs, like melted milk chocolate. I stroke the soft fur of her beautiful long silky ears in amazement that she is really mine. I’ve never had a pet of my own. He smiles at my confusion. “Tonight, or rather, last night, it’s morning isn’t it? Anyway, at the reception, I was talking to the mother of the bride, and I was talking about you, and one thing led to another, and I found out she raises King Charles spaniels. She’s a major breeder in the Midwest. And she was so happy with the way the wedding went and everything, that she took me back to her place and gave me this little girl just for you. She even helped me get a ticket on the next available flight, ’cause I told her I missed you, and she felt bad that we were apart.” His smile is so very radiant that I am getting lost in it. “Two tickets, I should say, Principessa rode in her carrier on the seat next to mine. The stewardesses didn’t care; the flight was almost empty. They spoiled us both the whole way.” Oh God, his words are so much balm to my soul. He missed me, he was talking about me, he got me a present, and he came home to me early. I am positively glowing, probably grinning like an idiot, but I don’t give a big damn. “She’s beautiful,” I whisper. “Her name is Principessa?” “Yes, don’t ask me why an English dog has an Italian name,” he laughs, “but she does. Principessa Nabuleone Desiree, in full.” “Did you get stuff for her? Food, brush, leash? Bed?” “No, my love, we’ll do that tomorrow. I just wanted to come home to you. I missed you, Max.” I lay the yawning animal on the bed, where she promptly curls up and goes to sleep, while Richard pulls me close to him and kisses me warmly. “Didja miss me?” “You know I did,” I reply into his lips, moaning at his touch and simply melting all over him. How can Rachel think such things about my beautiful boy? It’s obvious that he loves me, that he needs me as much as I need him. “Were you surprised?” “Yes, very surprised.” I smile at him, leaning my head against his, gazing into those gorgeous eyes. “Thank you for sending them over, we
220
Julie Lynn Hayes
had a lovely evening.” “So I see,” he chuckles. “I hope they took pictures.” “Luckily no.” He pretends to pout, his hands running up and down my spine. Making me shiver again. “I think you look simply delightful. If only you were wearing lingerie… stockings… high heels….” He punctuates each item with a kiss. “My own little Frank–N-Furter,” he murmurs. “Next time we go to Rocky Horror, you should do that. Knock ’em all out.” “I wouldn’t set foot outside the house dressed like this,” I reply, my tongue reaching out to lick his lips. “You should, though. You’re the pretty one here. You’d look fabulous in makeup, and you do, you know you do.” He opens his mouth to my tongue, so I slide it in between his sexy lips, glide over his teeth, and softly run it across his tongue. Then he takes my tongue into his mouth and begins to suck on it. And for a moment we are content to stand there, exchanging saliva, not speaking a word. I maneuver him in such a way that when I glance into the mirror, he is the one that I see, not me—never me. I never tire of looking at him. He breaks the kiss and whispers, “I hope the girls don’t mind, but I’m keeping you here with me for the rest of the night,” as he pulls me down onto our bed. The puppy stirs, relocates herself to another part of the bed, goes back to sleep. He winds himself around me so tightly that we are indistinguishable, one from the other. “I forgot to ask, how did the wedding go?” “I’ll tell you later,” he says, “right now I have other things to say.” And his lips proceed to tell the tale, as do his hands, and every other part of him. As I listen most attentively. Filled with happiness to the max, and holding on for dear life to what I have.
To the Max
221
Chapter 19 Getting to the Heart of the Subject
I HOLD the portfolio in my lap as we make the trek to Webster Groves. I had wanted to bring Principessa with us, but we decide that she probably wouldn’t be up to the long journey quite yet, so she has been left with food and water and toys to last her until our return. Richard has done a very nice job; the photos are mounted in a handsome leather binder, and I can’t resist opening it to glance at its contents, the pages crackling smartly as I turn them. It’s not like I don’t look over most of his work. I do. He is a wonderful photographer with a real eye for composition. And he excels at bringing out the heart of his subjects, their emotional core. But even I realize in the back of my mind that this is something different, my motives are impure at best, and I am not simply curious, I am jealous. There is a big difference. Morgan’s smarmy face grins up at me, and even in the photos a disturbing quality makes itself felt, as if there is more to this boy than meets the eye, something that draws one’s attention to him in a decidedly sexual manner. He is neither heterosexual nor homosexual. He is omnisexual, and more. There’s an unnatural glow in his eyes that belies the apparent innocence of his countenance. The predatory orbs look as if they would suck you deep into his very soul—or what might pass for such a thing with him—and then trap you there forever. And it would most likely be a very painful experience. I shudder as I close the portfolio, tearing myself away from that cruel gaze. Richard pats the knee that is butted up against him, as if to reassure me. “You’ve no reason to be jealous of him, babe,” he says. “None at all. Didn’t I tell you he’s just a client?” I can see him watching me from the corner of his eye, even as he navigates the highway. “Did you tell him that?” He just laughs and tells me I am silly.
222
Julie Lynn Hayes
Why are we going to Webster Groves, you’re surely wondering, knowing that my mother lives there, who has let me know I am not as important a part of her life as a certain sinister minister? Surprisingly she called us this morning, and I answered the phone without thinking and couldn’t exactly hang up after that. She invited us to lunch. Yes, us, as in the two of us. With Richard’s approval, I agreed to go on condition that no one else would be there (read you-know-who). We’ll see how that works out. When we pull into my mother’s drive, I look with some trepidation for the reverend’s overgrown Cadillac, but it isn’t there, luckily. However, I do notice that there is a strange car parked besides her Olds, some sand-colored junker I don’t recognize, slathered with a slew of bumper stickers that engulf over half of it: peace signs and marijuana leaves, that old tired one about “ass, gas, or grass, nobody rides for free,” and even a gay pride rainbow. Whose can that be? She said no one would be here. I glance at Richard, as if for reassurance, and he is frowning. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Maybe nothing.” He shrugs. “I’m not sure.” He takes the portfolio from me as we exit the car. We walk into the house in the most casual way. No one in the living room, so we head past the dining room directly to the back of the house. Unless I’m mistaken, that’s Bob Dylan I hear. When did my mother start listening to him again? I wonder. I guess it could be worse—like her Yanni phase. From the doorway, I can see that there is indeed someone with her, but I don’t recognize this woman from the back—long russet hair, interspersed with bright red streaks, plaited with multi-colored beads—and yet there is something strangely familiar about her. Beside me, I hear Richard mutter “fuck” under his breath, and I look at him questioningly. His eyes are riveted on the stranger, and he doesn’t look happy, not at all. Uneasy, is the word I might use even. I’m not used to my boy looking like this. Just then, my mother sees us and rises. It’s impossible for me to make out the expression on her face; she is playing it too close to the bone. The woman turns, too, and for a moment I am taken back a number of years to the first and only time I ever saw her. The
To the Max
223
resemblance is still noticeable, although time has added a few grey hairs and some fine lines are visible in the tanned face I don’t remember being there before, but otherwise she is pretty much the same. She moves toward her son with her arms held open, although he makes no effort to meet her halfway. Moonsong. Who the hell knows what her last name is or ever was. I think Burke is actually a name that Richard made up. I shoot my mother an accusatory glare, and she knows exactly what I am saying, hastily defending herself with, “It wasn’t a lie; it was a surprise.” Sounds pretty damn lame to me, as I turn my attention back to my… what? Mother-in-law? Significant other-in-law? What is the right term for one’s live-in lover’s mother? I haven’t got a clue, and I don’t really give a damn at the moment. I wait for her to turn him loose, rather smoothly attaching myself to his hip, and he puts a grateful arm around my waist as I take the portfolio and shove it onto a nearby table. Right now that is the least of our worries. “Max!” She addresses me with a warm smile and before I have time to react, she has clasped us both in her embrace. I respond as well as I can without turning loose of Richard. “Long time, no see, sweetie. You’re looking very well,” she compliments me, “and I see you’ve been taking good care of my boy.” She winks at me as she speaks. She releases us finally and steps back to simply look at us together. I take it she isn’t displeased; she seems to bask for whatever reason. “What’s it been, Richard, two years already? I told you I’d turn up here eventually, didn’t I? Don’t you two look cute together? Don’t you think so, Juliet?” And she turns to my mother, who is merely standing there, an uninterested bystander, apparently, watching the accidental spectacle inside her home which just happens to accidentally feature her one and only gay son. Two years? Suddenly Moonsong’s words hit home, as I realize that two years ago was the last time Richard left me, and I feel as if I have just been sucker-punched, the wind knocked out of me, and I can’t help but shiver. A goose has just walked over my grave, and the worst feeling of déjà vu I have ever experienced in my life is making itself felt. For a few moments, I lose total track of the conversation, so whatever Richard’s response may have been, it is lost to me. It seems to me, and yes, I know it sounds damn superstitious, that some awful
224
Julie Lynn Hayes
chain of events has been set into motion, one that cannot help but lead to intense heartbreak, and I am helpless to do anything about it. Feelings of dark despair overwhelm me as my mind, unbidden, travels back two years. I remember that summer well; it was one of the happiest of my life. Richard and I had never been so in sync with one another, so incredibly in harmony. In June we traveled to Tuscany and spent two weeks of pure bliss in a rented villa with the most beautiful view of the Arno Valley. What we could see of it from our bedroom window, that is. Or from the beautifully landscaped grounds. We made love under the Tuscan sun, picking grape leaves out of each other’s hair and from our bums. Danced together beneath the Tuscan moon to the music in our hearts. Played tag in the vineyards and never stopped saying I love you every moment of every day. We did take some time to explore the neighborhood, though, and found the most marvelous little café where we took our meals and sipped cappuccinos and glasses of the local wine. Where we discovered and learned to love lemoncello and ate tons of pasta of every size and shape. The owners of the cafe were a married couple about Juliet’s age; the woman was warm and earthy, told us to call her Mama Sophia. She took a liking to us—adopted us in fact—and she always gave me extra portions of whatever I ordered, as if she thought I were in danger of wasting away to nothing. I couldn’t very well explain to her about my high werewolf metabolism, so I merely thanked her and ate it, which only caused Richard to laugh and warn me that I would be plumping up, if I didn’t watch out, and become too heavy for his lap. So naturally I had to put his theory to the test by jumping directly into his lap, and he had to moan and groan as if I were killing him before I stopped him with my lips. Estate della amore! That summer we also made a record number of trips to the river and were almost caught in flagrante delicto by some passing canoeists on a float trip, too entangled in what we were doing to take proper notice of our surroundings. But at the last moment, I heard the sound of an oar dipping into the water, and we were able to wrap the blanket about us in such a way as to preserve proprieties and waved cheerily to the group of young people in their vessels until they were past us and well out of sight, at which point we collapsed together in tears of
To the Max
225
laughter at our near faux pas. And on one very memorable weekend, my lover surprised me with an impromptu visit to New York, for a special Greek exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art—which just happens to be one of my favorite places to go in the city—and we were also able to squeeze in a visit to the Percy Grainger library in White Plains, which is on Long Island, and lunch with the archivist, the very affable and knowledgeable Stewart Manville. Yes, that was indeed a summer of incredible bliss… until the day that I awoke, shortly after our return from New York, to find him gone. Again. This time the separation only lasted a month. Naturally it seemed longer to me. And nary a word of explanation on his return. He walked into the house one day as I sat at my desk, typing up my column. Do you think that I yelled at him, quizzed him, beat him with the proverbial hose until he confessed? Made him explain his disappearance? Made him crawl like a worm, abasing himself before me until I relented and accepted his sincere apology for having been the cause of such great mental anguish and suffering on my part? If you think this, then you haven’t learned anything about me thus far. Of course I didn’t. With a strangled cry, I rose from my chair and threw myself into his arms, and we can all guess how that ended up: naked and sweaty in our bed. ’Nuff said. Luckily no one is taking any notice of me as I make an attempt to throw off this dark mood. But I am struck by a sudden question. “You came here looking for us? We haven’t lived here in over twenty years,” I begin. A sudden pressure on my hand stops me from spilling out our current address. “This was the last address I had,” Moonsong replies, “so this is where I came. My boy likes to be closemouthed sometimes, don’t you, Richard?” Her smile is so eerily like Richard’s, and yet different, in a way I can’t quite put my finger on. “I’m glad, anyway, ’cause it gave me the chance to meet Juliet, Max, and for us to become better acquainted. It’s about time. We’re practically in-laws anyway, aren’t we?” I see my mother flinch, and at that moment I hate her for it. But she does a quick recovery and manages to half-joke, “Something like
226
Julie Lynn Hayes
that, I think. Would you like a drink?” She addresses us directly for the first time since we walked into the house. “I have some wine in the fridge, or I can mix something?” “I’ll get it,” I offer tensely, deciding to expend my energy in motion. Not giving her time to respond, I swish out of the room, my lover still attached. But instead of poking my head into the refrigerator, I lean against it, looking at him, not saying a word. “What?” he asks, trying to fathom my expression. “Why didn’t you tell me you saw your mother two years ago?” He shrugs, almost casual in an elegant sort of way, which only Richard can achieve. “Wasn’t important,” he says, “just happened to run into her, no big deal.” He kisses my cheek softly. “Don’t let it bother you, Max, and don’t let her get to you.” “Get to me? What do you mean?” I would have thought the warning should have been about my mother, not his. Instead of replying, he opens the fridge behind me, peering in as best he can. “I see some Zinfandel, want that?” “Sure,” I say, stepping out of the way so he can grab the bottle. I’m still not satisfied, but this is neither the time nor the place to discuss anything in depth. I want to trust him—I really do—but at times it is just difficult. And Morgan Arthur isn’t making anything easier, only adding fuel to the smoldering flames. “Grab some glasses, baby?” he says, pulling the cork from the bottle as he speaks. I do, and he pours out some of the pale liquid into each, setting the bottle back into its place. When I would return to our mothers, he stops me, twining his arm through mine first, and bringing the glass to his lovely lips. “To you,” he says sweetly, “to my precious Max,” and he drinks to me, his eyes locked on mine. “And to my one and only love,” I return, sipping from my own. For a moment, nothing is said; then he moves toward me, our lips meeting in the middle, and we are momentarily suspended in time until it is broken by the sound of Moonsong’s voice. “Richard, quit molesting that boy and get back in here!” “Permission to continue molesting at #1 Lupercalia Lane?” he asks. “At Mr. Montague’s convenience, of course….” I smirk. “Permission granted, Mr. Burke, at any time when the
To the Max
227
two parties shall consent to be present at the same time.” “How about right after lunch?” He brushes his lips softly over mine, setting me atingle. “Or as soon as we can get out of here.” “It’s a date.” I nuzzle his lips in return. When we return to the family room, the two women have Richard’s portfolio in their hands and are turning the pages, oooing and ahhing over little Mr. Prissy, which only makes me scowl as they go on and on about him, his pretty face, his nice body… ye gods, it’s nauseating. “I think the photography was very well done,” I remind them, and I am rewarded with a kiss and a smile for my words. “Yes, of course.” Moonsong grins at us. “Not that you’re prejudiced or anything.” “Before I forget, I have a little news for you regarding Morgan.” My mother slides in smoothly. “Why don’t you two sit down?” Richard claims the nearest chair, and before I can make a move, he pulls me down onto his lap, his arms around my waist. “What’s the news, Juliet?” Mother starts to scowl, but instead allows it to pass. “Morgan was able to use some of the earlier photos you took of him, and he has already found an agent who has shown them to a TV producer in LA, and he will be embarking shortly upon what promises to be a successful career there. He leaves at the end of the month.” She beams as if this is the best news in the world. “To stay?” I ask hopefully. “At least for now, I’m afraid. Amy was all excited for him, of course, as we all are. What a marvelous opportunity, don’t you think?” Richard and Moonsong mouth the appropriate polite words; I, however, say nothing, for my first thought is good riddance, but I suppress the urge to say that. He’ll be out of our hair and I can breathe a little more easily. At least I hope that will be the case. “In any event, Amy and I are going to throw a farewell party for him on the sixteenth. We’ve already booked a room at the King’s Regency. I trust that you two will be there?” A party to send him on his way? I guess I can live through that. And then her words actually get through to me, and I jerk my head in
228
Julie Lynn Hayes
surprise. “The sixteenth? It has to be that night?” “Why, yes, Max, it’s what we could get,” my mother replies, as if she doesn’t know exactly why I am questioning her on this. “Mother, that isn’t a good night for me—” I begin, but she cuts in. “Just make an appearance, please. Terranova and I would appreciate it.” She knows, she knows, she knows, and yet she sees nothing wrong with this. And she has brought up his name again. Not to mention not once have I heard anything to indicate that she is sorry, has missed me—none of that. Bullshit, bullshit, and more bullshit. I start to rise angrily from my seat, but Richard is ahead of me, and he continues to anchor me, whispering into my ear, “Sshhh, sshhh, my love, it’ll be all right. We’ll leave well ahead of time. At least she is asking us both.” I turn to him, and his eyes are soft and love-filled, so I give up and cease with the arguments. But it makes me uneasy, for normally we never plan anything on full moon nights. And as for the Regency? Well, we won’t go there right now. I swallow a whimper, lean against him, forehead to forehead, and draw on his strength. We merely sit there for a moment. Aloud he says simply, “We’ll be there, Juliet.” “Don’t they make the sweetest couple?” Moonsong chuckles softly, bringing me back to a greater awareness of my surroundings. I can just imagine my mother’s face, but I don’t bother to turn my head to look. “How can you think they’re wrong together?” That gets my attention. We both look now. My mother’s cheeks are flushed, but she doesn’t deny the words. “You can plainly see how much they love each other, Juliet. How can that be wrong?” “God made man and woman to be together, not man and man, the Bible says so—” Juliet starts, but Moonsong breaks in. “God made us all, honey, to love one another, including Max and Richard. Are you saying he made a mistake?” It’s apparent that this discussion has been going on for a while, and I wonder exactly what it is we missed. “I’m saying that it isn’t what he intended,” my mother continues. Ladies and gentlemen: my mother. Great, isn’t she? “It if were meant to be, then he wouldn’t have made it so that only men and women can
To the Max
229
procreate to continue with his plan.” “So you’re saying that if you can’t have kids, you shouldn’t make love or have sex?” Moonsong queries, her voice never rising, as if she is simply seeking information. I open my mouth to protest, but Richard places his fingers against my lips and shakes his head slightly, as if to say “Let’s listen to this first.” I see my mother’s hesitation, and I realize what shaky ground she is on. For if this continues, the whole question of premarital sex could arise, and here Mother is with two children and no husband to show for it. But she doesn’t let it stop her. Not my mother. “Yes, that is, during your childbearing years,” she replies. Which she is long past. And now that brings up a new image: she and the Reverend Fuckface…. I resolutely push that picture out of my mind. It doesn’t bear thinking about. “Well, then, what about couples who are infertile? Does that mean they don’t have the right to make love? Or women who have had their tubes tied or their uterus removed? Men with vasectomies? Couples who practice birth control? I mean, where do you draw the line?” “Terranova says that people like our sons have a problem and should be helped,” Juliet goes on, skirting the question, “and I’ve been trying to do that, introducing Max to good women instead.” “So my son isn’t good enough for your son?” Moonsong’s voice takes on a little harder edge. “I didn’t say that. I love Richard, and he knows that.” Here Juliet finally darts a look at my lover, who remains quiet. “I want to see them both with the right women in their lives. Not each other. I mean, as friends yes, but not as more.” That hurts. A great deal. “Max, you know I love you,” my mother’s voice pleads with me to look at her, and unwillingly I do. I know she means it; I know she does mean well, but dammit! How can she do this to me, deny who I am, what we are? It’s not right! For how many years now have I been trying to get her to accept the idea that not only am I a werewolf, but I am gay? I’m getting too old for this, I realize. Too old to still be explaining myself to my mother. Richard’s mother accepts it. She obviously gets it. Why doesn’t
230
Julie Lynn Hayes
my mother? Okay, maybe Juliet has never been totally accepting of the idea, but she’s never been so much against it as since she met this unholy minister, who seems to have fucked up her thinking from the inside out. She’s never gone so much out of her way, at least from my perspective, to cause me pain. It is on the tip of my tongue to retort: What kind of love is that, then? But the front door suddenly opens and closes, and my blood freezes at the thought that the enemy has arrived. Richard and I glance at one another, and I see that our thoughts are the same: we want no part of him today. The sound of feminine laughter allays my fear, however, and is quickly followed by the appearance of both Rachel and Amy. “Maxie! Richard!” Rachel squeals, and she embraces us warmly. Amy waits her turn to do the same, although in a bit more restrained fashion. They both look at Moonsong, for neither has met her. Juliet performs the introductions, and polite greetings are exchanged. “I should have known,” Rachel confesses. “He looks just like you, except for the color of his hair. We didn’t mean to interrupt, but we saw Max’s car, and Amy was wondering if Morgan’s pictures were here.” I rise smoothly from my comfortable seat, pointing to the portfolio where it still rests between Juliet and Moonsong. “There it is. You’re not interrupting. We were just leaving.” I grab for Richard’s hand, and he rises without a word. “Leaving? We haven’t had lunch yet,” Moonsong protests. “You can’t leave yet. I haven’t seen my boy for two years, and Max, I’ve not seen you for what? Twenty?” My eyes meet my mother’s—hers are just as baffled as I suspect mine are—but she doesn’t say a word. “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well,” I lie, “and besides, we’ve left the baby home alone, I want to make sure she’s okay.” “The baby?” Now I’ve confused them both. “Yes, the baby. Our puppy. The only grandchild you’re going to get from us. You can see her next time you come out.” I reach down for my glass of wine, finish off what is left, and swallow any other words I am thinking, along with the vino.
To the Max
231
“You are coming to Morgan’s farewell party, aren’t you?” Amy asks, and my mother answers for us before either one of us has a chance to reply, “Yes, they’ve promised.” Moonsong has her arms around us now, and I can see my boy is totally uncomfortable with this and just wants to go as badly as I do. So I pull him out of her grasp with, “Richard, I really don’t feel well.” He lays a supporting arm about me, and we make short work of good-byes, with promises to Rachel to call soon, and are quickly out the door, heading away from them all, homeward bound. “Do you want to stop and pick up something for lunch?” Richard asks after a few minutes, as I sit as close as I possibly can without being in his lap. Given half a chance I’d do that, but it’s a physical impossibility to sit that way and drive too. I know, we’ve tried it. “No, I can make something,” I sigh wearily as I lean my head up against his comforting shoulder, nuzzling him tenderly. “Too bad, I thought if you wanted to, we could stop by Mario’s and get some pasta con broccoli, maybe some cheese garlic bread? But if you don’t wanna….” I perk my head up at this. “Mario’s?” “It was just a thought,” he says casually. “Never mind.” “Well, if you’ve got your heart set on it, who am I to naysay you?” I pretend as if it doesn’t matter to me, one way or the other. “You’re too good to me, Max.” He kisses the top of my head. “I know,” I answer smugly as I snuggle against him all the way to our favorite Italian restaurant. Richard and I together to the max—screw what other people think!
232
Julie Lynn Hayes
Chapter 20 Alarums
“I
KNOW that you don’t want to go, and you’re just looking for an
excuse to get out of it.” Rachel pulls no punches. Like I’ve said before, that girl tells it like it is. I am draped in my chair across from her desk, sullen poet attire again. Richard laughed when he dropped me off, asked did I want him to call Verlaine for me, but I chose not to dignify that with a response. The only reason I am even here is that she has called me down here under pretext that I had to sign some very important papers that could not wait, or some such bullshit. The papers are nothing urgent; she could have mailed them to me. But then she wouldn’t have been able to do this. “And of course it being the night of the fucking full moon is just a little quirk on my part,” I contribute in a petulant manner. “Max, I know it is, and I know Juliet knows it, too, but sometimes it can’t be helped, sweetheart. And that isn’t the big reason you don’t want to go anyway, and you know it. It’s because of Morgan. You hate Morgan. You think he’s after Richard, don’t you?” “Yes, I do,” I admit, and I sit back and wait for her big “Max is paranoid” speech. “Well, I think he is too,” are her next words. That takes me by surprise. “Amy doesn’t see it; she tells me I’m wrong. But I see the way he looks at him. And given Richard’s history and all, I think you have reason to be worried.” Isn’t that fucking great? I scowl contrarily. The last thing I need is to be reminded of Mr. Burke’s infidelities. That just makes the possibility of this one that much greater. “Don’t blame it on Richard,” I protest, rather lamely, I admit. “I’m not, but maybe if he were a little more reliable and not so damn free with his cock, then you wouldn’t be quite so worried about this, now would you?”
To the Max
233
I feel my face flush, and yet how can I tell her she’s wrong? When she knows damn well what has been going on with us for over twenty years? And never, not once, have I had the nerve to confront my lover about it, to ask him any questions, demand any answers. Why should now be any different? “Richard loves me. I know it. He doesn’t want that little prick,” I counter. “He might love you, Max, but he makes a habit of spreading his body around like he’s the free sample lady at the supermarket. What kind of love is that? I realize you’re not married, but there is a certain amount of fidelity that you can expect in a committed relationship, you know? And after twenty years, I’d say you’ve got a committed relationship.” I shift uncomfortably in my chair in a vain attempt at blocking out her words. It’s not like we haven’t had this conversation before, because we have. Many times. It’s not like I listen, either, ’cause I don’t. Not really. Rach takes pity on me and changes the subject. “I don’t know if you want to hear this or not, either, but a certain Cadillac has been seen lately parked overnight at your mother’s house.” I groan and roll my eyes. Not unexpected. Still, I didn’t exactly want my suspicions confirmed either. Does this make me an ostrich? That I prefer to bury my head in the sand rather than face the world around me? “Mother’s of age. I just wish she had better taste.” And wish she weren’t quite so hypocritical, I add mentally, remembering her lecture on sex for procreation’s sake. At her age, she sure as hell isn’t reproducing, this I know. Rachel nods her agreement. “I don’t trust that man,” she says bluntly. “He may come off as all holier than thou, but there’s something he’s hiding. I just wish I knew what it was. I’ve been going to his services on Sundays, just to see if I can figure him out.” She leans back in her executive chair, twisting strands of magenta-laced hair in her fingers thoughtfully. “And have you found out anything?” I ask curiously as I pick nervously at the skin of my thumb, a terrible habit of mine since childhood and one which I find I cannot break. That and biting my nails.
234
Julie Lynn Hayes
“Quit that, Max,” Rachel says automatically, the same thing she’s been telling me for over thirty years, and yet I keep on doing it. “No, but I’ve been getting to know his assistant pretty well. Josiah King? And I think he knows something. I’m just not sure what it is yet.” “What are you thinking? Maybe he’s a closet alcoholic or a drug user or something?” Rachel shrugs. “Who knows? Ex-con maybe? Or maybe he’s married already? Or he’s not married, and he’s hiding some illegitimate children somewhere? Or maybe he’s just a thief taking the members of his congregation for all their money before he slips out of town in the middle of the night?” “Interesting ideas,” I have to admit, “I’m just not sure if they have any validity. Be sure to keep me posted, will you, Rach? I’ll see what I can find out too. Have you tried asking Amy?” “Kind of, but not too much. I’m not sure she would tell me the truth, Max, to be honest, and I hate to say it, but I don’t entirely trust her anymore. They seem to be too tight, if you know what I mean, but not in a good way. Morgan too. I think he’s got them under his evil influence or something.” I nod. I know exactly what she means. Except it’s hard to tell just who is influencing who, from my perspective. “Well, at least he’ll be out of our hair after the end of the month. Let LA have him, I say. I’m sure he’ll feel quite at home there,” I say snidely. A concerned expression crosses Rachel’s face, and she opens her mouth to speak, but just then a friendly rap on the door is followed by Maggie’s cute face poking through the doorway. “There you are!” She grins. “I should have known you’d be in here, since you weren’t at your desk.” “Max at his desk? Heaven forbid!” Rachel teases while I simply roll my eyes, not giving her the satisfaction of a retort. True, but not necessary. “Anyway, a gorgeous blond just called to say he’ll pick you up in a few minutes. Isn’t he simply the most thoughtful man?” Maggie’s eyes take on a dreamy expression, a gentle smile gracing her face. I can’t help but smile myself at the way she carries on over my lover. Rachel looks like she is about to make a caustic comment and tear apart
To the Max
235
Maggie’s illusions, but I give her a pleading look, and for once she desists and does not avail herself of the opportunity to denigrate Richard. At least not at the moment. Perhaps she got enough of that before Maggie’s entrance. “Thank you, Maggie,” I reply politely, “but you didn’t have to search for me, you know, you could have just used the intercom.” “Oh, no problem, Max,” she reassures me. “I was looking for you anyway. I wanted to verify what time I should be there for the Fourth.” “What time? I dunno, usual time I guess? Late afternoon, whenever you want. Do you have somewhere you need to be first?” Maggie just looks at me and blushes. What am I missing? I glance back and forth between her and Rachel. Rachel laughs. “I think she doesn’t want to walk in on you two unannounced, so she’s trying to get some idea of when it might be safe?” Oh good Lord, do they think we are really that bad? Or are we that bad? “What have you been telling her?” I fix her with my stern Max eye. “Only the truth,” she yelps. “You have the memory of an elephant,” I shake my head. “As long as I don’t look like one.” “Well, now that you mention it….” Maggie giggles as the office door opens and in saunters the gorgeous blond himself, looking like something fresh from a GQ shoot and definitely looking good enough to eat. “Afternoon, ladies,” he greets my coworkers with his usual boyish grin before flashing me a warm smile and a blown kiss. He walks past Maggie, tugging her hair playfully as he passes by, which only produces more giggles from her. I shoot Rachel a quick warning look, but it’s probably unnecessary on my part, just me being anal. I don’t think she’s really looking for a fight; she’d have done that years ago if she wanted to. I think her love for me keeps her from saying more to him than she does, for which I am grateful. “Hello, cutie,” he greets me, bending down for a kiss and chucking me under the chin as he does so. I slide into an upright position, and he perches on the arm of my chair, crossing his long legs negligently and regarding the room at large. “Did I interrupt
236
Julie Lynn Hayes
something?” he asks, as the room has fallen silent. “Maggie was just asking what time she should come for the Fourth,” I smoothly insert. Which is true. “What should I bring too,” Maggie quickly adds. “What were you thinking of?” I ask, leaning forward and laying one hand over that nicely muscled thigh. “You don’t have to bring anything, you know. We always have plenty.” “Oh, but I want to. What would you like, Richard?” And again she looks at my lover with those big moonstruck eyes. He tilts his head, as if carefully considering the question. What a tease he is, when I know damn well he knows that she’ll make anything he asks. I elbow him surreptitiously and mouth “behave.” He smiles. “Anything you bring would be perfect, Mags, but if you’re looking for a particular suggestion, I really love your taco salad.” “Then taco salad it is,” Maggie almost squeals. Richard merely smiles while I try not to roll my eyes. He puts his hand behind my neck, massaging it gently, and it is all I can do to keep from purring like a contented kitten. “Juliet and her beau coming?” Rachel asks. “I haven’t invited them.” “Max, why would you? You do the same thing every year, she knows that, and she’s always there,” Rachel sensibly points out. “I just wondered if you had talked to her. What about Moonsong? Is she coming?” This question, of course, being directed toward Richard. For some reason, my mother has invited Richard’s mother to stay at her house as a guest. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. On the one hand, Moonsong is unabashedly on our side, mine and Richard’s, and has no problem with touting the beauty of our love. On the other hand, her presence apparently agitates my lover; even now I can feel it in the sudden tensing of his hand against my neck, the sudden stiffening of his posture. “Moonsong does what Moonsong wishes to do.” He shrugs most casually, even as he uncrosses his muscular legs and rises. “Max, you ready to go?” I hastily stand. “Yeah, sure, mind if we stop by my desk on the way out? It’ll only take a sec.”
To the Max
237
“Sure.” He reaches for my hand and I gladly give it to him as we make our way swiftly toward the door, Maggie turning to follow us. “See you later, Rachel.” He nods at her, and we are out the door before she gets a chance to respond. Just before the door closes, I can hear, “Bye, guys!” Maggie tells us good-bye and returns to her tasks at the reception desk, and I am in the act of turning toward my own desk when a bell suddenly goes off in my head: an alarm bell of sorts that takes me very much by surprise. I freeze where I am, glancing around, causing Richard to pull back toward me. “What the…?” And then I see them: they are between my desk and Amy’s, and they look as if they are headed our way. My hackles rise, and I feel a growl in the back of my throat that is threatening to make itself heard. “Let’s go!” I grab at him, rather more sharply than I intend, walking in the opposite direction. “But I thought….” And then he sees them, too, and I watch him as his eye meets that of Morgan Arthur, and the growl is growing stronger now, with definite undertones of possessiveness. “It can wait,” I insist. My grip is stronger now, and I have managed to use my forward momentum to bring him along with me, past all the currently empty desks and out of the door, but not before I catch the triumphant look on that smarmy git’s face. At this moment, I’d like nothing better than to assume my lycan form and tear his fucking throat out. We reach the elevator in record time, my breath coming now in steam form, and my thumb jabs viciously at the down button until Richard grabs it and pulls it back. “Once is enough. You don’t get points for multiple entries,” he tells me. He waits until the car arrives— luckily it is empty—and we are safely within its metallic confines before he gathers me into his arms and just holds me, not saying a word, simply waiting for me to calm down, reassuring me with his love. Damn, I hate that Morgan Arthur. What is it about him? Why does he set off every alarm I have whenever he is near? What does he want with my Richard—my Richard? Feeling agitated to the max and wishing I knew what the hell is going on!
238
Julie Lynn Hayes
Chapter 21 Someone’s in the Kitchen With Richard
I LAZILY stretch my leg, careful to keep my foot beneath the blanket that cocoons us, lest I get it wet in the dampness of the grass beneath us. I burrow into the space beneath Richard’s armpit, just content to inhale all the intoxicating scents that comprise my lover: musky, sweaty, spicy, sensual, and very much alive with the essence of my Richard. He stirs around me. Perhaps I shouldn’t have licked his armpit if I wanted him to keep sleeping. That was so naughty of me. “Happy Fourth, Max,” he whispers, reaching for my lips. “Happy Fourth,” I respond with a kiss of my own. We have spent the night under the stars with only a blanket betwixt us and the now dew-dampened ground, having decided on an impulse to make love out of doors and then falling asleep wrapped about each other. Normally we never do this without our air mattress, but there comes a time when you just throw caution to the wind and do what your heart dictates and your gonads demand. And with all that we have to do today, it is unlikely that we’ll get another opportunity to swap spit or much of anything else. Maggie’s concerns about walking in on us doing anything other than party preparations are pretty much wishful thinking on someone’s part. The first Fourth of July Richard and I ever spent together was back in 1976, which was the year of the bicentennial anniversary of the founding of this nation. Personally, I have never been one to participate in mass celebrations of any sort, and the idea of trying to navigate my way through the drunken hordes to be found at most of these revelries has never appealed to me. My family wasn’t much on Independence Day events, either. When we were younger, Juliet took Diana and Sebastian and me to view the fireworks display downtown, but I made such a fuss about the crowds that she never attempted that with me again. The smells
To the Max
239
were unbelievable, and the noise was just more than I could handle, having spent most of my sheltered life well away from strangers. Rachel’s family held a huge barbecue that particular Fourth, mostly because of the bicentennial, and Richard and I had been invited, and we went next door for a little while, availing ourselves of Mr. Sheldon’s free-flowing keg of beer, which was particularly welcome on such a warm, muggy night. From the moment I had introduced him to her, Rachel had accepted Richard as a part of her life, because he was a part of my life. Because she loved me, she loved him, unquestioningly, without reservations. Those came about later, and only by his own actions. The Sheldons had accepted him as well, treating him no differently than they did me, which was like a son, actually. And they accepted our relationship at a time when being queer was unacceptable to most people and treated like a disease, although there are still some who think that way even today. Obviously. We came and went in the Sheldon’s home as if it were our own and thought nothing of being asked to perform chores as if we were a regular part of the family. Rachel never did move out of the house she grew up in, even after they passed, and I know she misses her parents terribly. In St. Louis County, then as it is now, the sale of and shooting off of fireworks is strictly prohibited. Which does not prevent a number of people from defying the lawmakers and doing it anyway. One of Rachel’s parents’ guests—I don’t remember who it was, some second or third cousin or something, a so-called adult and definitely someone old enough to know better—had actually brought some of the contraband to the gathering and proceeded to set off a varied assortment of bottle rockets from a distant corner of the backyard. Richard was instantly taken with them, watching in fascination as they exploded in colorful ribbands above our heads. I watched him watch them and followed him in my usual puppylike manner when he approached the shooter, asking a million and one questions about them, which the other was glad to answer. Everyone loves to talk to Richard; they are drawn to him like moths to a flame. It’s all that charm he exudes without even trying to. It turned out that Richard had never seen an actual firework display. Moonsong was usually too busy with whatever Moonsong tended to be busy with—and I began to suspect
240
Julie Lynn Hayes
that this did not include her son very often—to observe any of the rituals oft associated with childhood and adolescence. Until he moved in with me and my family, Richard had never even been to a real family function. 1976 was a year of firsts for us both. At that party in the Sheldons’ backyard, Richard and Rachel and I sat together, a little apart from the others—Rachel is sensitive to my dislike of being around too many people at one time—just talking and drinking beer. I had my chair as close to Richard’s as I could get; if we’d been at home, I’d have been on his lap, but I was still a bit shy and not quite out to everyone yet at this point. Although it was no secret that we were together together and not merely together as friends, as our fingers were twined most of the time and we seemed to be touching every chance we got. He used any pretense to brush against me, to surreptitiously kiss me, to mouth I love yous. How I lapped it up like the very nectar of the gods! Someone’s child—I never did learn who the monster actually belonged to—was running about with a small camera grasped in his annoying clutches, snapping photos with wild abandon when you least expected it. I suspect he got more than a few good shots of Richard and me kissing; he seemed to be hovering around us for some reason, at every turn. Rachel tried to shoo him off, but he was a very stubborn child and merely laughed at her. At first I thought that Richard was irritated with his presence, glaring at him, but on closer inspection I discovered that it was the camera which drew his attention and that which his eyes were actually focused upon. When he found me looking at him curiously, he blushed slightly, explaining, “I used to have one of those when I was a kid. I used to take pictures with it wherever we went. Until one of Moonsong’s boyfriends took it, that is. I never did get it back.” He shrugged nonchalantly, like it was no big deal, but it was too late. I had seen the look in his eyes, the way they gleamed when he talked about it. It was a big deal, at least to him. The next day I withdrew some of my savings, and I bought him a decent camera and a book about photography. It was well worth the expense to see the expression on his face when I gave them to him. He pored over that book day and night, talking about F-stops and S-stops and every other kind of stop there was and I don’t know what the hell he was talking about most of the time, but I just let him talk, giving him my wholehearted adoration and simply listening to his sexy voice, content
To the Max
241
in the knowledge that I had contributed to his happiness. With Rachel’s help, we found him a photography class and got him to enroll in it; he quickly excelled, being a natural, as the teacher said. With time, we were able to afford better cameras and better equipment, and then he began to take photos professionally—advertising at first on the free board of the local supermarket—the first real job he’d ever had. One gig led to another, and by virtue of word of mouth from satisfied customers, he was able to expand his client base, as well as to do freelance work. And now he is considered to be one of the best in his field, some of his photos having appeared in such periodicals as National Geographic and Time and People, just to name a few. Can you tell how very proud of him I am?
IT
WAS during that first holiday together that I began to get the
glimmerings of an idea, one I was unable to bring to fruition for a few more years, not until July of 1981. By then we were in our own home in St. Charles County, a county which, by the way, does permit the sale and shooting of fireworks. That was the first year ever of the Lupercalia Lane Fourth of July Extravaganza, hosted by none other than yours truly. This was to be our holiday, our special occasion, held at our home. Juliet does Christmas, and we alternate everything else, such as Thanksgiving and Easter, but this is ours and ours alone. And every year our friends and family join us for food and libation, for games and for laughter, for music and for chatter and for, of course, the fireworks, which my lover is in charge of, and which light up the country sky for miles around with the most amazing explosive brilliances. We keep the guest list small and exclusive, but over the years it has grown to include ever more of our expanding little family circle. Every year they know when to come, and they know what to bring, and we have the most wonderful time ever. To me, it is more than merely a day to mark the occasion of our country’s birth. It is far more personal. It is the first real symbol of Richard and I as our own family. And I am desperately determined to keep that family from being torn apart by anyone or anything. “Ready to get up?” he asks, “I know you’re dying to get
242
Julie Lynn Hayes
everything started, aren’t you?” I gaze up into those beautiful dark blue eyes, and for the moment, everything else is immaterial. “All in due course,” I reply, “I think we have time to lay here for a few more minutes.” “I was hoping you’d say that,” my lover confesses with an unexpected sigh of relief as he draws the blanket tighter around us. “Hold me, Max. Hold me like you’ll never let me go.” This is very unlike Richard. It takes me so much by surprise that without a second thought I latch onto him as per his request and squeeze him tightly, feeling a certain amount of tension in his shoulders and throughout his strong arms. Could he possibly be feeling the same sense of foreboding that has been troubling me? That same idea that something terrible is headed right toward us? “I’m here,” I reassure him, “I’m here for you, baby, always.” And we simply lie together as the sun begins its ascent, clinging to one another in a loving tableau.
RACHEL is the first to arrive. She always helps to decorate the house. Being the somewhat different beings that we are, Richard and I long ago decided to eschew the normal frippery to be found in volumes at this time of year—the red, white, and blue bunting, the American flag, the gangly wooden figures of Uncle Sam, etc.—and have chosen instead as our theme the French Revolution. Why? Because we can can can…. And actually, if you think about it, the architects of the French Revolution owed a great deal to their American brethren; they were influenced by what they heard and read of the great struggle against the British tyranny, and the words and wisdom of such great men as Jefferson, Franklin, and Thomas Paine helped add fuel to a fire that had already been lit beneath the bourgeoisie, to set the scene for such men of action as Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. It’s not so much that we are rejecting the American Revolution as we are embracing our French brothers in ideology, if that makes any sense. Although we do draw the line at requiring participants to come dressed as their favorite revolutionary.
To the Max
243
Rachel brings pasta salad and homemade brownies with fudge icing—my favorites!—but no Mark, as his job requires him to work strange hours and inconvenient holidays. I’m not sure in my mind how serious they are, as evidenced by the fact that they still have separate domiciles, but then again, you are talking to one impetuous wolf who invited his new lover to move in with him within a few days of their first lovemaking. Not everyone works quite that swiftly, I know. But when you’re positive you’ve met your one and only true love, why wait? Richard is in charge of the barbecuing of the meat. I have no knowledge of or interest in grilling; that is strictly his domain. I, however, make the barbecue sauce, my own recipe, one of which I am actually rather proud and which I have managed to hone over the years. It is both tangy and spicy and full of secret ingredients that I am not about to divulge in these pages. We have a little of something for everyone, from bratwursts to salsiccia to hamburgers to chicken, and a St. Louis favorite that seems to not have curried much favor in other parts of the country: pork steaks. I prefer the center-cut boneless pieces to the butt slices, as they tend to have a better flavor and just the right balance of fat to meat. My contribution lies in the other courses: my own potato salad that is a blend of mayonnaise and mustard with bacon and chopped egg; my orange JELL-O salad with crushed pineapple and apricots, topped with a blend of whipped cream and shredded cheddar; my very own deviled eggs, with just a touch of hot sauce; and my special Fourth of July cake: a chocolate sheet cake topped with whipped cream and decorated with strawberries and blueberries in the shape of the American flag. Ha! Were you expecting a fleur-de-lis? Rachel sneaks up behind me as I stand at my cutting board, intent on cubing potatoes to add to the pot of boiling water on the stove. I am wearing my Kiss the Cook apron—I could tell you stories that begin with wearing nothing but that apron, but I’ll refrain, at least for the moment—and a tricolor cockade that Richard set upon my head this morning, kissing me and calling me his own little Maximillian. Obviously a Robespierre reference. I know she is there, of course, but I allow her to think she has taken me unawares with her pat on my ass as I pretend to jump. “Happy Fourth, Max!” I turn to her and grin, kissing her cheek. “Trying to give an old
244
Julie Lynn Hayes
wolf a heart attack?” I joke. “That depends. Whatcha leaving me in your will?” she fires right back. “Richard?” She pretends to consider my offer. “Naw, heartache I can do without,” she says, which earns her a frown from me. “Don’t start,” I warn her, “I have enough on my mind without you adding to my insecurities.” She winds her arms around my waist, leans her head on my shoulder. “Sorry, Max, you know how I worry about you, and Mr. Burke is just overdue to disappear, you know? Not that I don’t trust him, but I don’t trust him.” Just then, and before I can make any sort of swift retort—but what’s the point, other than that she is hitting too close to home—the topic of our discussion himself saunters in, a catalog in his hand, Principessa at his heels, his eyes fixed on something on one of the pages, unaware of Rachel’s presence as he continues a conversation we were having a little bit earlier. “I think this one looks interesting, Max. It has some distinct possibilities, depending on how we use it, you know? It says here that it vibrates too. What color did you like?” I blush furiously, knowing damn well what he’s talking about, coughing in a pronounced manner to let him know we are not alone. He glances up from the page but is not disconcerted in the slightest to see Rachel standing there. “Maybe we should ask Rach’s opinion,” he says, holding the naughty directory out toward her. To my dismay I see her reach for it, so I hastily intervene, snatching it before she can touch it. “No, I don’t think Rachel is interested,” I thrust the small volume behind my back, quickly pirouetting away from her, almost losing my balance in the process. Which only causes Rachel to work that much harder at getting it out of my clutches. “Of course I am interested, Max. I’m interested in everything you do. You know that.” She giggles as she tries again to get around me. My face feels hot; I’m sure I’ve just discovered ten new shades of red as I push the catalog back into Richard’s open hands while Rachel scoops up the puppy and bestows affectionate kisses upon her which are returned a thousandfold.
To the Max
245
“Please put that up, and we can look at it together later, okay?” And I arch an eyebrow at him to let him know that I am serious, the nofooling-around look which I’ve perfected years ago. And which he totally disregards. He takes it, leans in to me for a kiss, speaking in a loud stage whisper, “I think Rachel is old enough to know what sex toys are and how they’re used, Max.” But he gives me a bemused look as he leaves the room with the offending object. I shoot Rachel a glance. She pats my blushing cheek. “Yes, Max, I am,” she reassures me. I don’t need to hear any more, I think. “Um, you know where the decorations are, Rach. At least you should by now,” I quickly interject as I finish putting the potatoes in the boiling water—I leave the skins on for flavor, just thoroughly scrub them first—and begin to crumble the bacon that has been cooling in the meantime while the hard-boiled eggs are doing their thing in the refrigerator. “Want me to get you a drink?” “I’ll get it, honey. You’re busy,” she says, and I can hear the laughter playing in her throat. She reaches into the cooler set against one wall, filled with ice and cans of assorted soft beverages, as it’s far too early to start any serious drinking, even for us, juggling the energetic canine with one hand while she draws out a can of diet soda. “C’mon, Princess,” she coos to the baby as she carries her off with her. I am still working on coffee, myself. Richard allows me a second pot on days when I need the energy, though normally one is the limit. He says he doesn’t need a nervous werewolf on his hands. Funny, isn’t he? Maggie is the next arrival. I can hear her squeals of delight as she greets my lover, who is doing God knows what in the living room. Within a few minutes they are both in the kitchen, and Maggie too has her own cockade, stuck at a jaunty angle atop her head. Maggie’s cheeks are flush with color and her eyes glow. “Hello, Maggie.” I take the bowl of taco salad from her, lifting the burped lid and sneaking a peek at the contents, fishing out a piece of cheese from the top and quickly stuffing it in my face. “Max, behave!” Maggie chides as I obediently place it with the pasta salad and the JELL-O salad within the cool confines of the ice box. “Happy Fourth.” I grin boyishly. “Happy Fourth, Max,” she responds, casting an eye at Richard.
246
Julie Lynn Hayes
“What can I do to help?” “Give Rach a hand with the decorations?” I suggest. “I think she’s in the library right now.” “Sure,” she says agreeably, heading in that direction. I give Mr. Burke a look, and he meanders over to me, looking mighty fine, let me tell you. “What are you up to, then?” I ask, taking his hand in mine without thinking and smearing some of the bacon grease from my palm to his. He merely brings it to his mouth and licks it off, which I find incredibly sexy for some reason. “This, that, and the other thing,” he replies vaguely, which causes the hair on the nape of my neck to prickle suddenly. “Need me to do something? I’m not busy at the moment,” and he presses up behind me now, running his tongue over my neck. I moan and involuntarily arch backward into his touch before I snap out of my inadvertent reverie. “Richard, we can’t do this right now; we have guests. And besides we’ve lots more to do. You want to help the girls while I finish up in here?” “Of course, sweet thing,” he says agreeably, but he doesn’t move, creating a vacuum with his lips and hoovering the skin at the base of my neck. God, that man has poor timing sometimes! I am saved at this moment by Maggie’s re-entrance. “Rachel says you have a stepstool we can use, Max?” she is saying, before, “Oops, sorry, guys,” as she tries to back out of the room unobtrusively. Richard has the grace to unhand me and retrieve the requested item from the walk-in pantry. “I’ll help you with that,” he says, taking it for her, winking roguishly at me and walking back to the family room with her. Now I can finish what I am doing. Good. And allow my libido time to get back to normal as well. The potatoes reach just the right doneness, not too soft and not too hard. I remove them from the heat. Nothing else needs attending in the kitchen right now, so I grab a few sodas and work my way into the library to see how they are coming. Richard is nowhere to be seen, and Rachel and Maggie are sitting together on the sofa, eyes glued to something between them, which they are turning the pages of and commenting on to one another. With a blush, I recognize it
To the Max
247
as the aforementioned catalog. So this is his idea of putting it away? “But what do you actually do with that?” Maggie is asking with all too much curiosity, pointing at an object on one of the pages. “Well, you just take it and slide it over—” Rachel breaks off as she notices that I am in the room. “Maybe you should ask Max. I’m sure he has experience with them.” “If Max has any experience with them, Max isn’t telling,” I hastily interject, holding out my hand for the offending book, even as I notice that the room is fully decorated and looking good. Maggie’s eyes are looking past me now, and I feel the presence of my lover behind me, as I turn and give him one of my “looks.” “In here?” I ask in a tone of great disbelief. “What were you thinking?” “I was thinking we’d be sitting in here later to look at it, was what I was thinking,” he replies smoothly. “I didn’t realize that anybody else would be interested in it. You can request one of those online.” This directed toward Rachel. “That’s how we started getting them. I can send you the link, if you like?” “Sure,” Rachel says, even as I nudge my lover out of the room with, “Take it to the bedroom, please?” and he grins and complies. Which ends that discussion. At least for now. Mid-afternoon sees the arrival of Cat and Sebastian. They make a very handsome couple, I think, as I note the intimate way that they walk together, his arm possessively about her waist, the soft glow that suffuses her face, and the love that shines from their eyes whenever she looks at him and he looks at her, which is often. They both deserve happiness. I am happy for them, and I wish them the best of luck from the depths of my heart. I just wish that my cousin and my lover got along better. Sebastian makes no bones about his distrust of Richard, and Richard doesn’t hesitate to give as good as he gets. But I know he cares for Cat and has made more of an effort not to get into Sebastian’s face since they have been together. Let’s hope that that is the wave of the future. Cat carries a bottle of Asti Spumanti, which she and I take into the kitchen, tucking it away into the fridge for later, as well as a box of Belgian chocolates. She does know my weaknesses. “I finished reading the last chapters you sent me,” I begin, “and I
248
Julie Lynn Hayes
think they’re marvelous. Have you started shopping for an agent?” “No, not yet,” she admits with an embarrassed grin. “I mean, why bother until I’m done, you know? Just in case?” “In case what? In case you forget how to write?” I ask a trifle flippantly as I hand her a cold can and another one for Sebastian. “In case I don’t finish?” she suggests. “Or in case I run out of things to write? I’m not as secure as you are about things, Max. I worry, you know?” Her words only draw a laugh from me. Me, secure? Since when? “You’ll be fine, Cat; you’re a very talented writer. I know you’ll do well,” I attempt to reassure her. “Look how far you’ve come, and you’re still going strong.” Before she can make any sort of self-deprecating reply to this, my cousin comes in and claims his lady, taking his soda and frowning for a second ’til she tells him softly to behave and their lips meet. Is this my cue to leave the room? Cat pulls back, as if aware of my thoughts, and Sebastian says, “What time do you expect Juliet and Diana?” “I don’t know that Mother is coming. Why, did she say something to you?” He shrugs casually. “No, but she always comes. Why should this be any different?” “I don’t know, maybe she could be sensitive to the idea that maybe I don’t want Reverend Fuckface here in my home?” “Max, I understand how you feel,” Cat interjects, my sweet little peacemaker, “but maybe she can get him to change his attitude about you two, make him see that you two together is simply right, not wrong?” She worries at her lower lip fretfully. “Cat, I think it’s the other way around. I’m afraid he’ll convince her not to have anything to do with the fucking sodomites,” I can hear the touch of bitterness in my own voice, and I try to swallow it, not let this ruin the occasion. I take a deep breath. Control, Max, it’s all about control. When I look up, I see Richard standing in the doorway, not sure how long he’s been there. “Max, can I get you to give me a hand outside for a moment?” he asks.
To the Max
249
“You go on, Max,” Cat urges, “is there something we can do?” “No, everything’s done right now. Rachel and Maggie are in the library. Why don’t you join them? I’ll be right back.” She pats my arm reassuringly before taking Sebastian’s outstretched hand. “Sure. Everything’ll be okay, Max. You’ll see,” “Max, you’re not wrong. They are,” Sebastian says. “Just remember that.” Surprising words from my normally gruff cousin. Cat’s influence, no doubt. I like it. “Thanks, Bastian.” I join Richard, note the curious look he gives my cousin. “Although your taste is questionable,” Sebastian adds, which actually gets a small smile from my lover. “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about Cat,” he quickly quips. “Okay, separate corners.” I push Richard ahead of me out the door, rolling my eyes as Cat takes her unruly charge in hand as well. “What do you need help with, love?” I ask as we approach the barbecue area, where I can smell the burning briquettes as they smolder in the bottom of the smoker. “I was wondering if the chicken is in the marinade yet,” he says, glancing back at the house. “You know it is; you watched me marinate it this morning, remember?” I cock my head and give him a quizzical glance. “And the barbeque sauce is already bottled. Now what is the real—” But before I can finish the question, Richard gathers me up into his arms and stops my words with his lips. I fall into his touch, losing myself in the rich mesquite aroma that clings to him, smoky and mysterious, and for a moment we are alone in the world, just he and I, and nothing else exists but us. “Max, you are so precious,” he whispers into my lips. I feel my knees weaken at his words, and I am seriously contemplating sneaking him back into the bedroom, even if for just a few minutes. But my concentration is broken as my keen ears pick up the sound of tires on gravel from the front of the house. We look at one another apprehensively. It could just be Diana and Jackson, but it could also be my mother and the minister from hell, and maybe Richard’s mother as
250
Julie Lynn Hayes
well. She has spoken to him a couple of times since the day of the lunch that never was at my mother’s house, but I have no idea what about. He never says anything when he hangs up, as if he doesn’t wish to discuss it, and I never press the issue since it seems disturbing to him. He kisses me again, softly, and whispers, “It’s showtime, folks.” We walk around the side of the house, along the paving stone walkway we laid ourselves, with the intent perhaps of watching the arrivals without announcing our presence yet. There are actually two new vehicles to be seen: my mother’s white Oldsmobile and Diana’s blue Blazer. My sister and her son are already out of the vehicle, and with them is Jackson’s best friend and constant companion, Nathaniel. Diana carries a vegetable tray while the two boys each sport a backpack, which I suspect contains my nephew’s Playstation and assorted games. Them I’m not worried about. I glance toward the Olds as two heads emerge, both female. I breathe a quick sigh of relief for at least being spared his hateful presence today in our home. How I will feel about my mother’s remains to be seen. Then I realize that Richard is frozen at the sight of Moonsong, and I remember that he has never given her our address for a reason. But now here she is. I furrow my brow in sympathetic worry as I stroke his arm softly in an attempt to comfort him. “It’s okay. You know she’ll disappear soon, and we won’t even hear from her for another twenty years.” Even as I say the words, my traitorous mind adds, “Well, maybe you will, the next time you leave me.” And I bite them back hastily. But he must feel my unspoken thoughts, for the eyes that meet mine are troubled, dark and stormy. My heart leaps to my throat. He looks like he is about to speak, but the moment passes, and we step forward to greet our guests. We aren’t the only ones, I see. Rachel and Maggie, with a squirming Principessa, are ahead of us, and greetings are being exchanged all around. Moonsong reaches for our baby and cuddles her. Everyone just loves to hug that dog, luckily she doesn’t mind being pampered, and her two fathers spoil her the most. “Come to grandma, baby!” she gurgles, and I feel rather than hear Richard’s groan. “She’s darling, Max,” my mother declares, getting her own patting of the puppy in. “Wherever did you get her?” “She was a gift from Richard,” I respond, squeezing my own true love’s hand tightly.
To the Max
251
“Well, aren’t you the sweet one?” Moonsong praises her son, even as I feel him stiffen within my grasp. She obviously doesn’t know him as well as I do; she ignores all the signs that he is not happy nor comfortable with this, and giving Principessa to my mother, throws her arms around us both. “Richard is always sweet,” Maggie defends him indignantly, and Rachel seconds that idea. They are nothing if not loyal. “Richard is the best,” I say simply, brooking no argument. There is none given. “Max, do you mind getting my Crock-Pot out of the back seat?” my mother asks. Of course I don’t mind, what else are sons for? But when my love would follow me, his mother claims him. “Show me around your house,” she encourages him. His blue eyes meet mine with a mute appeal that tears at my heart. “Go ahead, I’ll catch up,” I say with a nod. I instantly send a distress signal to Rachel, which she picks up on, and she and Maggie form a guard of honor around Richard as they enter our home in a strange sort of phalanx. Behind the driver’s seat of the Olds I find the Crock-Pot, still warm with the cheese and salsa concoction contained within its stone depths, as well as two bags of white corn tortilla chips on the backseat. And interestingly enough, Jackson and Nathaniel have followed me as well. I heft the pot into my grip and turn back toward them. “Pick up the chips, will you?” And I wait to hear what they are obviously waiting to ask me. “Uncle Max, do you mind if we hook up the Playstation to the TV in your bedroom and use it for a while?” Jackson asks. Nathaniel hangs on my answer. He is a soft-spoken young black boy who stands several inches in height below my gangly nephew. I don’t really mind. I know it must be boring for the two of them to hang around us “old” people for great lengths of time. If I allow them to play their games and spend some time in their own company, then I am sure they will be more than agreeable to joining the rest of us for dinner and fireworks. This is Nathaniel’s third Fourth with us. They are both good boys. “Sure,” I agree. “If I can get you to take this into the kitchen and plug it in over my counter, I can go make sure the room
252
Julie Lynn Hayes
is presentable.” “I’ll take it,” Nathaniel offers, holding out his hands, and I gladly give my burden over. I swiftly make my way to our bedroom as they scamper off to do my bidding, my main purpose being to make sure the aforementioned catalog isn’t in plain view, as I am afraid it just might be, knowing Richard. Which it is. But what surprises me most is that it is in the hands of Sebastian and Cat, who sit on the end of my bed, leafing through it together. I stand there open-mouthed for a minute or two before they are aware of my presence. Cat blushes, but Sebastian only grins. “Nice book,” he comments, holding the publication up as he speaks. “Um… what are you doing in here?” I stammer, rather idiotically to my own ears, I must admit. “Hiding for a minute,” Sebastian replies honestly. “I heard the hordes pull up, and I was afraid Juliet brought the dishonorable minister with her.” I shake my head. “No, the only person she brought is Moonsong.” “Ah, your mother-in-law.” He nods sagely. “She seems nice, Max,” Cat offers with a hopeful glance at me. “I dunno. I can’t really say. She just doesn’t seem to have been much of a mother to Richard.” Richard. That reminds me I’m supposed to be rescuing him. I reach out my hand for the catalog and thrust it furtively into the bottom drawer of my dresser, beneath my clothes. “I told Jackson and Nathaniel they could hook up the Playstation in here, so be warned that they’re on their way. I gotta go.” I hastily pop out of the room, looking to locate the tour group. I find them in the library. Moonsong is admiring the decorations, the books, and the piano, and as I enter the room, I can hear Richard’s voice making terse replies to her questions. “Sorry,” I murmur, “I was straightening out the bedroom for the boys,” as I take my place beside my lover, slipping my hand into his and squeezing it. “The way those two carry on, they’re like an old married couple,” Diana jokes, “I don’t remember talking to any of my boyfriends on the phone the way that they do. Sometimes it seems like their conversations last twenty-four hours.” “That’s not funny!” my mother’s voice rings out. “My grandson is
To the Max
253
not gay!” The tension in the room has just risen a thousandfold. “Mother, lighten up. I was just kidding.” Diana shakes her head. I am unaware that I have suddenly increased the pressure on my lover’s hand. “Some things are just not funny,” my mother continues, as if she has completely forgotten where she is and among whom. “Jackson is a perfectly healthy, normal boy—” Now I am simply seeing red, and I think I’ve stopped breathing. “Juliet!” Sebastian lashes out, echoed by Moonsong’s, “Juliet!” and Diana’s “Mother!” Rachel and Maggie seem too stunned to even react. My mother can’t even look me in the eyes now. Is this how today is going to end, then? Prematurely, in an argument, right here, right now? “Juliet.” I am surprised to hear Richard’s voice, as much because of the steadiness in the tenor, the refusal to raise it so much as a decibel above normal speaking tones, as the words themselves. “As Max’s mother, I both love and respect you, especially as you’ve been like a mother to me in many ways over the last twenty years. But please remember that this is our home—mine and Max’s—and that we are undoubtedly gay, and we consider ourselves to be quite normal.” As he speaks, he punctuates his words by kissing our clasped hands tenderly, at which time I realize how intensely my nails must be digging into his palm, and I relax my fist. I am so proud of him at this moment, mere words cannot express. “I could use a drink. How about anyone else?” Sebastian breaks the silence. “Max, I know you always have good wine on hand. What do you suggest?” “There’s a bottle of blush chilling in the fridge. You can open that. Want me to get the corkscrew for you?” I offer, my voice sounding as if it is coming from a distant cold land, a bit icy even to my own ears. “No, I can manage,” Sebastian assures me as he and Cat leave the room without further ado. Well, this is awkward. My mother stands frozen, not saying a
254
Julie Lynn Hayes
word, and for once Moonsong is quiet as well. “Max, why don’t you play for us?” Rachel suggests, breaking the silence. “You and Richard. You know, that cute duet you two do? The Grainger?” She means “Shepherd’s Hey.” I glance up at my better half. For a moment he remains immobile; then he inclines his patrician head slightly toward me. He takes my hand and leads me to the piano, seats himself beside me on the bench. Mechanically, I lay my fingers against the keyboard, flex them slightly, and begin the sprightly composition, losing myself in the music as it wells merrily forth. Richard takes it up when it is his turn to play, and we bounce the notes back and forth between us, challenging one another as we up the tempo, to see if the other can keep up. Cat and Sebastian return with the wine which they distribute just as the final notes ring out and we simultaneously play the last chord. And reach for our own wine. “I’d like to propose a toast!” Sebastian cries out in his stentorian tones. Everyone quiets down and dutifully raises their glasses. It must be an inborn reflex, gained from overexposure to weddings and banquets and the like. “I’d like to wish everyone a happy Fourth of July as we celebrate the anniversary of our country’s birth. And I’d like to drink a toast to good friends and family, to the love which connects us and keeps us strong, and to Max and Richard for being who they are and for allowing us to share in their lives and their love. To Max and Richard!” “To Max and Richard!” echoes around the room, and everyone is suddenly toasting my love and I. I feel a goofy smile curl up on my lips, and Richard’s arm is around me as we stand to acknowledge the toast. Even my mother is drinking to us, though what that means, I cannot tell you. Richard twines his arm through mine and whispers, “To you, Max,” as he takes a drink, and I respond with, “To you, Richard,” as I join him in our private toast, followed by a soft kiss. After this, everything settles into an uneasy truce. My angst meter is running extremely high, but I try to quell the anxieties which insist on ruthlessly coursing through my body and attempt to drown them. By popular request, Richard and I play, both separately and together, assorted show tunes, which ends up as a community sing-along, except for when Richard dedicates and sings a song to me alone, “Till There
To the Max
255
Was You” from Meredith Willson’s The Music Man. God, that man has a beautiful voice; it still sends shivers up and down my spine. I cannot deny it, nor would I want to. Which is followed by the playing of games. Rachel has brought her Trivial Pursuit, and we break up into teams. I give Richard to Maggie as her partner, knowing that for he and I to partner is to take an unfair advantage, which produces a squeal from her; I take Rachel, and Cat and Sebastian play together. My mother and Moonsong decline to participate, and they decide to take Principessa outdoors for some exercise. And no doubt to smoke, as well, and talk about us behind our backs. I sigh, but I say nothing, deciding to concentrate on the game instead. And drink my wine. We all sit on the carpeted floor of the library. Cat blushes when Sebastian pulls her into his lap, but she doesn’t complain. The tension in the room has relaxed considerably, which doesn’t hurt, as we all try to regain the holiday spirit. When Richard glances at the clock, and then at me, I realize with some surprise at the sudden passage of time that we’re ready to move on to the next phase of operations. Now the barbecuing begins in earnest. I help Richard to carry out the first batch of meat for the grill. Not that he needs help, but this is just an excuse to get him alone for a minute, as we temporarily excuse ourselves from the game, which has actually degenerated into simply asking questions of one another to see who knows the answer and laughing at some of the goofy responses that are given. Except we aren’t alone. I’ve forgotten—there are Juliet and Moonsong, sitting on the patio, sipping wine and simply chattering away. When Juliet sees me, she stands, moving directly toward me. My temples begin to throb. “Can I borrow Max for a moment, please?” This question is directed toward Richard. “Of course,” he graciously replies. She puts her arm through mine, drawing me away so that we have some semblance of privacy. Not that I care all that much at the moment. Only my lover’s civility has kept me from making a rude rejoinder, but I manage to control my temper and wait to hear whatever she might wish to say. It has turned into a typical St. Louis July afternoon: humidity high enough to wring out, a cloistering sort of heat which makes breathing difficult if exposed for too long a period of time.
256
Julie Lynn Hayes
Hopefully it won’t be quite this bad by the time we’re ready to shoot off the fireworks. “Max, I didn’t mean to offend you and Richard earlier,” she begins. Her hazel eyes hold a note of concern as she meets and holds my gaze. She is sure that I have my father’s eyes—not that she had any clear view of them from their one encounter, and what she remembers of them mostly is that they were feral—but she says that no one else in the family has quite the shade of blue that I do, which is about the extent of the information that is available on my father. That and the fact that he was a werewolf. “You should tell Richard that too,” I say, perhaps a bit stiffly. But at least I am speaking to her, right? She sighs in her typical Juliet fashion, as if I should know why she can’t do that, which is utter bullshit. “I love you, Max,” she says. “You’re my son. I’m proud of you, too, what you’ve accomplished, the life you’ve made for yourself.” “Except for my choice of boyfriends.” “Max, you know I love Richard, and he’s been like a son to me in many ways—” Haven’t we had this conversation before? “I know, but he’s a man and he isn’t good enough for me.” I finish the now familiar litany. “And your dear friend Reverend Fisher was kind enough to point that out to you. Where is he, by the way? Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but I half expected he’d be with you.” “Terranova had important church business to go over with Josiah King,” she replies, “otherwise I’m sure he would love to be here today. Max, he thinks a lot of you, you know. You and Diana both.” Uh oh. That can’t bode well. Sounds like the typical crap of someone wanting to get in the good graces of a woman with children—pretend to love the kids and you’re in. “How can either one of you think a lot of me when you don’t like who I am, which is gay? Mother, I don’t want to have this conversation again, and especially not today. Can we just table this, please?” “Max, I—” she begins, but then she swallows her words. “I’m sorry. I only want what is best for you.” “Richard is what is best for me,” I steadfastly maintain, and as if
To the Max
257
on cue, my beautiful lover joins me, having deduced from my rising tone of voice that intervention is probably necessary. “More wine?” he asks smoothly. “Thank you, no, Richard.” She smiles at him. Is she being hypocritical, or does she genuinely like him? I no longer know. Some days I just don’t know much of anything, I think. “Meat’s cooking. Why don’t we all go in where it’s cooler?” he suggests. I notice that our baby has fallen asleep in the grass at Moonsong’s feet; the heat must be getting to her too, poor thing. I take her into my arms, cradling her gently. Moonsong smiles benevolently. Richard takes my arm as we re-enter the house, our mothers following in our wake. The rest of the afternoon passes in conversation, and in music, laughing, and joking, and a certain level of camaraderie is reestablished, for which I am grateful. Dinner is served in an informal buffet on a table we have set up for this purpose in the kitchen. Everyone is free to take their plate and eat wherever suits them, which today seems to be outside, as a sudden cloud cover has made the temperature moderately bearable now. The boys have emerged from their self-imposed exile long enough to eat and would have immediately returned to their intellectual pursuits, but Juliet tells them to be sociable, so they reluctantly remain in our company. After everyone has eaten enough—and then some—we lay lazily about, letting everything digest and sopping up the after-dinner wine, a fruity German vintage which turns out to be quite pleasing to the palate. The boys drink soda. Then there comes that peaceful interlude betwixt the end of one thing and the beginning of another where time seems to simply fold over onto itself, neither moving forward nor backward, existing in a sort of sated somnolence, merely awaiting the slightest touch of energy to propel itself into the next arena. In this case, the shooting off of the fireworks. I can see the distinct signs that my lover is getting restless; I know him far too well to be fooled by his apparent calm demeanor. It is with no surprise that he approaches me, whispering in my ear that he is going into the house for a few minutes, and he’ll bring the cake out when he comes back. He just needs to be alone, this I know, and under other circumstances, I would join him, but it is understood why I don’t.
258
Julie Lynn Hayes
I kiss him softly before he disappears inside the house. I know he will take some time to smoke a cigarette or two, although he will cover up his traces carefully with air freshener, but he can’t pull the wool over this lycanthrope’s nose, so to speak. It’s alright. I understand. Jackson and Nathaniel sidle up to me, one looking cheesier than the other. I prepare to be bombarded with a request to use my bedroom again, but they surprise me. “Uncle Max, do you think Uncle Richard would let us help him with the fireworks this year?” I look up at the boys with amusement and smile at their youthful enthusiasm. I like the way Jackson calls Richard uncle. Out of the mouths of babes…. “Why don’t you ask him when he comes back out?” I suggest. “I bet he wouldn’t mind showing you some things. You know how he is about his fireworks.” They exchange glances, grinning. “Awesome!” Nathaniel says. As the two happy teens stroll back to where Principessa is lying in the grass, the center of attention as usual, I can hear my nephew’s friend’s voice, “See? Toldja your uncles are cool,” and Jackson’s laconic reply of, “Yes, I know.” It’s not ’til I see Rachel and Maggie stir suddenly that I become aware that someone else has entered the scene unexpectedly. I turn in my chair, wondering who else it could possibly be and praying that the sinister minister hasn’t found time from his unholy duties to invade our privacy. My mother is bad enough by herself, much less with him to incite her. But no, it’s not him. I breathe a quick sigh of relief, although I am not all that thrilled to see Amy, either. I know she wasn’t on the guest list. “Hello, Max,” she greets me. “Happy Fourth!” She leans down just as I stand up, and we damn near collide in the middle. “Oops, sorry!” Rachel rallies to my side hastily. “Amy! I didn’t expect to see you here!” “Well, Juliet told me what was going on. I hope you don’t mind?” This aimed at me. “Of course not,” the cowardly werewolf replies. Why can’t I just be honest and tell her that I don’t want her in our home? Because I can’t can’t can’t, apparently.
To the Max
259
Amy is quickly converged upon by my mother and Moonsong now, exchanging female greetings, secret handshakes and passwords, and whatever else comprises the feminine mystique. I glance down into Rachel’s warm sympathetic eyes. “It could be worse,” I tell her, “Little Lord Fauntleroy could be here too.” And suddenly the thought of him chills me, as if my grave has once more been walked across. “I’m going to get more wine. I’ll be right back,” I tell her, and before she has a chance to react, I leave, for some inexplicable reason going around to the front of the house, rather than through the kitchen. Which I find odd, as I expect Richard most likely to be in the kitchen. But instead I surreptitiously glide onto the porch and through the front door, making no sound. Who or what am I hiding from? I stand in the living room, listening, letting my ears be my eyes, so to speak. Though what I expect to hear is beyond me. It’s not like Richard talks to himself. But then I do hear something, faint, indistinct, coming from the kitchen. A sort of singsong melody, words I cannot make out no matter how I try. I move stealthily toward the sound, my heart beating faster, almost afraid of what I will find. When I do stand in the doorway, this is what I see: my Richard, slouching against the sink, a lit cigarette in his hand, immobile, while standing beside him is the hateful infant. Their eyes are locked, and I swear the sounds I hear are coming from the enfant terrible, but his lips do not move. My heart screams at the sight, while I find myself unable to move at first, frozen in place. But Morgan must sense my presence, as he breaks the contact with my lover, turns to me, his eyes lit with a triumphantly hellish light, and without a word to either one of us, disappears into the backyard. “Richard!” I hear myself involuntarily blurt out his name. He turns to me with a smile. “Miss me, did you?” he asks, straightening up at the sound of my voice. “What was that little bastard doing in here?” I want to know, sounding rather petulant, I must admit. Richard regards me with perplexity. “Who are you talking about, Max?” he asks.
260
Julie Lynn Hayes
“Morgan Arthur, that’s who!” “Morgan’s here? Since when? “Since he was in here just a minute ago.” Richard chuckles with amusement. “I’m the only one that’s been in the house since I came in, babe.” Now I am completely baffled, but I can see in his eyes that he is being totally truthful. So what the hell does this mean? What did I see? Who or what is Morgan Arthur? And should I be afraid? I reach for his hand as he reaches for mine, pulling me to him. His kiss is warm and natural, albeit he smells like tobacco, his lips sincere. I try to put all thoughts of what I have seen out of my mind. “Let’s go show ’em some fireworks, Max,” he whispers, “and later on I’ll show you fireworks of a different kind.” Paranoid to the max and afraid of losing what I have, what I think I have—oh God, what do I really know? Do I have heaven, or am I heading toward hell?
To the Max
261
Chapter 22 Into the Valley of Death
I GUESS that in some ways the ongoing battle between the wolf within and the full moon is comparable to that waged by women during their cyclical hormonal wars: the closer to that particular time of the month, the more intense the feelings that rage inside, the harder to control one’s emotional stability, and the wolf becomes as bitchy as any PMS-y woman, I have to admit. Which is not an indictment of the opposite sex, by any means, nor a scathing commentary. In fact, I rather sympathize with women for what they have to go through. I don’t even pretend to have it as hard as they do. But for some reason, this month, the pull on my psyche is worse than usual. And it doesn’t take a fucking genius to figure out why. And it doesn’t help to have my mother call every other day to remind us of the date, the time, the location, of the big event. Like I could forget? Damn! Of all the fucking nights. Yes, I know I’m harping on it again; I can’t help it. But every nerve in my body is simply screaming, and it seems as if every morning I wake up with a new headache. I have warned her that we won’t stay long, that we need to leave well in advance of the full moon so we can return home, so that I am safely out of the world’s way before the selenic bitch forces my transformation into the wolf. I hope that she is really hearing me and not her ministerial partner in crime. Another reason to dread that night. He’ll be there, Morgan will be there, Amy will be there… and my mother will be there, and although I hate to include her with such company, that is where she has placed herself lately. Wow, what major incentives to show up! Weighed against the thought of seeing him leave town, hopefully for good. What is a wolf to do? Shut up and go, undoubtedly.
262
Julie Lynn Hayes
The days go by. The time is passing much too quickly for my taste. And yet I don’t know where it’s actually going. I dutifully write my columns, meet my deadlines. Richard takes his photographs when he needs to. Otherwise we spend our time together, as we’ve always done, and we are simply there for one another. Do the things that couples do, the regular parts of life. The normal things. Cook, clean, do the laundry, pay the bills. Make love. The ordinary threads that make up the warp of the fabric of our lives. And each day that brings us closer to the full moon, I feel it inside of me that much more keenly: a tug on my heartstrings, a premature howling, but why that is, I have yet to determine. The weekend before the party, Richard suggests we go away somewhere, just he and I—perhaps to a bed and breakfast or maybe camping on the river. But I tell him I am too restless to go. I have too many things to do at home, maybe later. He accepts it, agrees that we can do it another time. But I see a shadow behind his eyes, and I bite my tongue because I want to cry out, “Are you leaving me?” But I say nothing, and life goes on. By Monday, I regret that I said no and decide to set something up for us for Tuesday and Wednesday. Maybe we can relax together before we have to face the onslaught, ease this paranoia that is eating away at my heart. Yes, that sounds good. But then unexpectedly a pipe bursts in the kitchen, and between cleaning up the mess and waiting for the plumber, the time slips away from us, and before we know it, it is too late to even think about it. “Don’t worry, Max,” he assures me, “we’ll still do it. There’s always another time.” But I do worry. It is in my nature to worry, and this tendency of mine to do so is growing stronger every day. Wednesday, the day before the day, Rachel comes to the house and tries to entice me into going to the office. I resist, claiming there is no reason for me to go, so she enlists Richard’s aid, and he encourages me to go with her, to get out of the house. I don’t want to get out of the house, but I reluctantly go along with her. I don’t want to push Richard or crowd him in any way; maybe he needs his space. But the whole time I am away I am terrified that by the time I come back he will be gone; I mutter prayers beneath my breath the whole drive back to St. Charles, and when I get there, I run into the house, trembling at what I
To the Max
263
might find… or not find. But there he is, as I should have known he would be, although he has no idea why I am breathing heavily, looking like a wild-eyed idiot. I refuse to tell him, and life goes on. And now it is the sixteenth of July, the last day, the final day, and hopefully we shall never have to see Morgan Arthur again in this lifetime. I wake up early, before the sun, even. Or should I say I get up early? I can’t even swear that I slept. But I must have, because of the dreams I can’t quite remember that linger on the edges of my psyche, like half-felt memories, omens, if you will, something that is almost on the tip of my tongue to remember but not quite, like an image on the side of my peripheral inner vision. When I drag myself into the bathroom and look up into the mirror, I am not surprised to see dark puffy circles, red eyes. Lovely picture I make, I know. “Are you coming down with something, babe?” Richard asks with concern when he comes in behind me to use the facilities and sees my reflection. “Maybe we should skip going tonight.” How his words make my heart sing, and how I am so very, very tempted to do just that, call in sick to my mother, even though I know that I’m not. But something inside of me insists that we need to go, need to mark paid to this account, as if our not going will allow the little bastard to stay on and be a further impediment to our happy existence. I know; it makes no sense, but it is too close to the full moon, and I have quit making sense. “We won’t stay long,” I repeat my now-familiar refrain. It’s what I’ve been saying for the past two weeks to any and all who will listen. Emphasis on not long. And I mean it—I truly mean it—for I’ve never spent a full moon anywhere else but either the shelter at my mother’s house or in our own little shelter in the woods. The wolf inside of me has never been permitted to run loose, nor shall he. “Did you intend to pick up a gift on the way?” he asks, nudging me aside so he can wash his hands, dry them, and then circle my waist and nibble at my neck. The wolf inside wishes to respond, but I know that this is not a good time. “Yes, the gift of me not killing him,” I joke, turning inside the radius of his arms and kissing him. Maybe I should make time for this after all, I think. But too late, our timing is off now, and he exits the
264
Julie Lynn Hayes
bathroom, leaving our room for the kitchen. I hear Principessa scampering after him. Oh well, there’s always later, or tomorrow even. I don’t see us having time tonight, not with the tight schedule we’ll be keeping. Bloody hell, how I hate to think about it and yet how my mind constantly reverts to it! Where has the day gone? I don’t know how we’ve spent our time; all I know is that Richard is warning me we need to get ready to go, so we do. Nothing fancy, but nothing shabby either, casually elegant, I guess, I don’t know what you would call it. And I don’t care. It’s good enough for the likes of him, whatever he might be. My mind keeps going back to the scene in the kitchen, and I keep wondering…. No, don’t go there, don’t, I warn myself. Have faith, and trust, or at least try to…. Richard has insisted that I cut back on the caffeine today; he says that I am far too jumpy as it is and doesn’t want to see me tear myself up tonight, any more than I can help. Normally my full moon nights are fairly placid, as long as I can keep my psyche on an even keel, which isn’t difficult when Richard is around. But I have a feeling that even with his presence nearby, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride. I take a little wine, hoping to soothe my jangled nerves. It doesn’t help. And before we know it, we are in the car, heading to the King’s Regency. Damn, how that takes me back. Saturday, August 11, 1979
AMY was going away. She was leaving St. Louis to pursue her acting dream, having auditioned for and won a role on a nationally syndicated soap opera that filmed live in New York. I won’t mention which one, for their sake. Good for her, I said, as well as good riddance. Which was probably petty on my part, and somewhat vindictive, but not altogether unjustifiable or uncalled for. It’s not even so much that I hated or disliked her; I’m not quite sure how I felt about her, to be honest, after all, she was Rachel’s friend and had at one time been a friend to me. It’s just that the tension between her and Richard over the past two years had been so very palpable and if I had a knife, I’d have
To the Max
265
cut through it, if I could. He, on the other hand, would gladly have buried it in her heart. Assuming she even had one. My mother, being fond of said Amy—have I ever mentioned that she can be the worst judge of character sometimes? Or perhaps it’s been noticeable—decided to throw a bon voyage/good luck/we’ll miss you type of party to send her off on her new career, and of course Richard and I were invited. A “be there or else” sort of situation. I wasn’t inclined to go, as the full moon was only three days prior and I knew I’d be tired and not sure I’d be able to play referee between my lover and his would-be sparring partner. But Rachel insisted, and she wheedled and whined and pleaded until she got her own way. And Richard went along with my wishes in the matter, just to please me. The site selected for this official offing was the fairly new King’s Regency Hotel in West County. They were still in the throes of their grand opening and eager for business, so Juliet finagled some sort of deal with them to rent a banquet room for the occasion and received discount rates on their rooms for her guests. The idea appealed to my lover, so he persuaded me that we should take advantage of this generosity on the hotel’s part to get a room for the night, splurge a little bit to do it, since we would have to take it out of our savings, and simply spend some time apart from the others, alone together. How could I argue with that logic? We were still living at my mother’s house at that time, and privacy was at a distinct premium. I can’t begin to tell you how many times my little sister had nearly walked in on us in compromising positions. And not just in our room. She actually did catch us in the pool once, quite in flagrante delicto, but we quickly submerged ourselves and refused to come out until she left. So of course she had to torture us with her presence for a while as we grew uncomfortably prunier. It wasn’t until Richard had the bright idea of actually threatening to show her what she seemed to want to see that she finally giggled and ran away. Having become resigned to the idea that we would be attending this little shindig, we drove ourselves to the hotel that night in our Monte; Mother took Diana in her Caddy, and Rachel was responsible for bringing the guest of honor, as the whole affair was supposed to be a complete surprise. I’m not sure what story Rach gave her for being there, but I’m sure my creative little friend thought of something good.
266
Julie Lynn Hayes
Richard and I actually brought a gift of some sort, I don’t even remember what it was, something Rachel had suggested to us, I know. We checked in at the front desk as soon as we arrived, not that we had any luggage, but we did acquire the room key, and I slipped it into my pocket for safekeeping before we made our way to the room reserved for the grand occasion. I’d say there were maybe fifty people there in attendance already, the legions of her friends and admirers who wanted to make sure that Amy Banneker actually made her farewell appearance that day. At least it seemed that way from my perspective. There was a tasteful buffet set up along one wall, catered by the hotel, full of appetizers and desserts and whatnots, and a small band played dance music from a dais at the far end of the room. The room itself was gaudily decorated with good-bye banners and balloons in bright colors, and Mother had gotten hold of some of the photos from Amy’s portfolio—this was before Richard had established his own business, not that he would have consented to do anything of the sort for her— and set them up on a table at the front of the room in a tableau arrangement, along with the obligatory guest book everyone was required to sign as a lasting memento of the occasion. You know the drill, I’m sure. And at the appointed time, in walked Amy and Rachel, as everyone screamed, “Surprise!” Amy did look genuinely surprised, I must admit, her cheeks flushed, wearing a happy smile, but perhaps one should take into account what she does for a living. And thus it began. Richard and I stood back as everyone thronged the guest of honor, greeting her, wishing her well, as we waited our turn to dispense with the obligatories. We wished her well also, and she thanked us for our gift, whatever the hell it was, but I was damned uncomfortable standing there, even for the short period of time we spent talking to her. And to be honest, I didn’t even want to be there. It felt like some sort of electric current was surging through the air around us, like a sort of emotional static cling. Richard fairly bristled every time she even looked like she was going to touch me, and with Amy this was a constant and ongoing possibility, as she tended to be one of those touchy-feely sorts of women, and I was constantly having to calm him down before he let loose any verbal barbs. Sebastian’s presence wasn’t helping any either,
To the Max
267
as he and Richard simply despised one another, and my cousin was only looking for an excuse to beat the shit out of my lover. And vice versa. I tell you what, sometimes it isn’t easy being me. Most of the people who attended this little affair seemed to be fellow students of Amy and Rachel. I would hesitate to call them friends, mostly acquaintances. Amy didn’t seem actually prone to making friends. I wonder why? And yes, that is sarcasm. I did recognize Brendan, the blond boy whose apartment I had thrown up in two years before. He stopped to talk to me, having been informed by Rachel of my presence there, and he seemed genuinely happy to see me, but Richard made it clear by his possessive actions just whom I belonged to, so Brendan took the hint and didn’t linger. I felt sorry for him, because I could see he had no designs on me such as my jealous boyfriend had seemed to impart to him. But at the same time it thrilled me to know that I could incite such feelings in Richard. I know, kind of strange in me, isn’t it? Once Richard had driven him off, Rachel approached us, giving him the evil eye. “You remember Brendan, don’t you?” she asked. “I know it’s been a while, but you two hit it off pretty well, I think.” “Rachel, you and Amy tried to shove him down my throat two years ago,” I reminded her. “I still remember him, and yeah, he’s a nice guy, but I wasn’t interested then and I’m not interested now. Case closed, okay?” I felt Richard’s possessive nature come to the fore as he wrapped his arm around my waist and positively glowered at her from his full height, towering several inches over her. Okay, it’s a male dominance thing, I admit it, this posturing and marking of territory and such. “Well, I think it might have worked out,” Rachel began, but she relented when my lover obviously stiffened. “Next time, don’t leave,” she shot at him before she walked off to find the lady of the evening. And yeah, I meant that as it sounded. I turned, soothed my baby’s ruffled feathers, and cooled him off with my lips. No need to explain Brendan or the night we met, I’d already done that a long time ago. I tell Richard everything. He relaxed at my touch, and for a moment we lost track of everything about us. Until my cousin’s voice behind me brought us back to reality, the here and now. “They have rooms here, you know,” he pointed out
268
Julie Lynn Hayes
snidely. “Yes, we have one,” Richard replied, not abashed in the slightest, as he leaned his head against mine and simply glared at Sebastian. “Then I suggest you use it and not make a public spectacle of yourselves,” he commented tersely as he passed by on his way to somewhere else, I wasn’t paying much attention to where. Just then the band began to play—there is such a thing as perfect timing, occasionally—and Richard leaned down and whispered into my ear, “Care to dance, love?” “I’d love to.” I melted into his arms. We weren’t the only ones with that same idea, as other couples sprang up around us, forming intimate twosomes there on the dance floor. I noticed Brendan pass us by in the arms of a dark-haired boy. I couldn’t help grinning at the sight. “So much for Rach’s matchmaking efforts.” “She can just stop that shit,” Richard insisted, giving me that look he gives so well, the one that simply turns my insides to JELL-O, and whatever he tells me, just goes, and I simply acquiesce to everything he says. At that moment, I felt a tap on my shoulder—not Sebastian again. I groaned—and I glanced back to see my mother standing there. “Mind if I cut in?” But when I started to take her hand, she shook her head. “What makes you think I meant you, Max?” and before I could react, she had taken off with my very handsome dance partner, laughing. He blew me a kiss and winked at me as he and my mother disappeared into the crowd of dancers. Which I found no end amusing… until I heard my name being spoken softly, and I turned to find myself staring into Amy’s dirty river eyes. “Looks like you’ve been abandoned,” she joked. “Will I do instead?” What else could I do but say yes? And take her stiffly into my arms, keeping a good arm’s length from her, as we began to circumnavigate the dance floor. “Having a good time?” I asked the obligatory question. I felt more than a little bit awkward. The looks I had gotten from her over the past couple of years—like a shark hovering about its favorite chum, just waiting for the right opportunity to bite—disconcerted me, to tell the truth. I don’t know if that analogy actually works or not, but that’s how I felt around her, as if she were
To the Max
269
some predatory creature, waiting to pounce on me. “Yes, I was so surprised!” she said. “I’m glad that you came, Max. And Richard, too, of course.” Uh huh. An afterthought, surely, but I didn’t call her on it, decided it wasn’t worth it. She was leaving our lives; let her have that one tacky little victory. Not even a victory so much as a snide remark left unvoiced. “You’re going to watch the show, of course?” I think I wasn’t paying attention, as somehow we’d changed subjects. “If I can,” I answered weakly. Not like I watched soap operas, or much of anything else. I was usually too busy for that. Although I did enjoy nature programs and cultural events and was working at expanding Richard’s own repertoire of interests. Yeah, I hear it. You’re all saying to yourselves, what a geek! I don’t care. “Good,” she said, seemingly satisfied by my response. She sidled closer to me, uncomfortably so, leaning her head on my shoulder. But of course I couldn’t simply keep her at arm’s length, could I? No, naturally not. “Max, you’re too good for him,” she began suddenly, to my surprise. I jerked my head away from hers. No, she wasn’t surely starting again, not on her last night? Fuck! I was about to retort, what I don’t know. I didn’t exactly have the chance to formulate anything halfway witty or even coherent, when I heard Richard’s voice sounding less than thrilled in my ear. “Hello, Amy, mind if I steal Max?” and without waiting for an answer, he ripped me out of her arms and away from her. My mother was nowhere to be seen. How does he sense these things, I wondered to myself. I knew he was mad. I could feel it in his arms. It was simply radiating from him in waves, and the fact that he was moving us toward the far corner of the room told me a lot. But when I would open my mouth to explain, apologize, whatever it was I was going to do, he surprised me by pressing me up against the wall and silencing my vocalizations with a kiss. Long and hard. Demanding and begging both. And by the time he released me, I’d forgotten what I had been about to say. As well as my name. Damn, that boy is smooth. “I was looking for you to see if we could blow this joint and go to
270
Julie Lynn Hayes
our room,” he whispered into my neck. “I think we’ve made enough of an appearance, don’t you?” How could I do other than agree? Especially with those beautiful midnight blue eyes smoldering like that, and his lips, God, his lips, so soft, so warm. Even without touching me, he touches me in ways that plumb the very depths of my soul and wring it inside out, reforming it into Escherian shapes that simply defy description or understanding. I am his to command and always will be. “Why don’t you go on up? I’ll just be a few minutes,” he continued, nuzzling my neck softly, his warm breath passing over my skin, sending goose bumps across the titillated flesh. “Rachel was kind enough to mention me to one of her college buddies, and they want to talk to me about having me take some pictures for them. I shouldn’t be very long, though, sweet thing, all right?” “All right,” I repeated automatically. “That’s nice of Rachel, don’t you think?” I only wanted them to get along. It would certainly make my life much easier. “Yes, it is,” he agreed. “I guess she doesn’t really hate me, does she?” I knew he was jesting, but at the center of that was a kernel of truth: that he thought she hated him. Not that she actually did. Rachel liked Richard, but she always looked out for her Max, and she just didn’t like the way he treated me sometimes, and she didn’t hesitate to say so. “No, she doesn’t hate you,” I assured him for the umpteenth time. “Good.” He kissed me again, a kiss which held much promise of things to come. “See you in just a few then,” and he disappeared in the opposite direction. I simply stood there for a minute, my mind and heart holding onto his touch, just savoring it, before I called myself back to reality. If I didn’t move, I would never get to the room, and none of what I was imagining would take place. Being a dutiful son, I looked about me for my mother, to let her know we were leaving. I found her helping herself to punch and looking over the photos of Amy that were arrayed about the cut-glass punchbowl. She appeared to be rather pleased with herself and didn’t even argue when I let her know of our imminent departure. “Just say good-bye to Amy first, will you?”
To the Max
271
Well, I really didn’t want to do that, especially after that very uncomfortable dance, but I obediently cast my eye into the crowd, searching for her. She was nowhere to be seen. Not my fault, now was it? But I delayed my departure for another ten minutes, waiting for her to reappear, which she didn’t, so I told my mother I had to go, kissed her cheek and told her I’d talk to her soon, and fingering the key that seemed to be burning a hole in my pocket. I headed to the lobby, and the elevator. As I passed by the front desk, I thought the desk clerk gave me a goofy grin, but I put that down to my own brand of paranoia and continued on my way. Richard wasn’t in the room when I got there, which alarmed me at first until I realized that I had the key, so he’d no real way of getting in. Max, get a hold of yourself, I thought. He’ll be up when he finishes with his business. After all, I wanted him to be successful, didn’t I? Of course I did. It was a nice room, actually, with a generous full-size bed, a mini-bar, and a coffeemaker. All the amenities. Nice, very nice. Not that I had much experience with hotel rooms at that time. Or any. I’d never really been anywhere; our traveling days were yet to come, we were still saving up for our home, and we were on a very limited budget. I wandered into the bathroom. How nice to have a bathroom to one’s self that one didn’t have to go down the hall to use. I saw the complimentary toothpaste, mouthwash, shampoo, and deodorant and was naïvely impressed. The towels for us to use were thick and soft, and on an impulse I decided that I wanted a shower, wanted to prepare myself for my lover’s arrival. Later on, he and I could take one together, but for right now, it would be just me. And by the time I came out, surely he would be there. Yes, and imagine his surprise when I sashayed into the other room in my birthday suit. That decided it for me. The look that would be on my Richard’s face, the hunger that I would see in his eyes for me, all for me…. I stripped quickly, folded my clothes, and set them neatly into one of the drawers in the bedroom. Then I stepped into the shower and turned on the hot water; how good that felt, little hot fingers that stung at first, but I easily got used to the sensation and simply stood there, basking in it. I stuck my face into it, closed my eyes, and merely luxuriated. My thoughts turned, as they invariably did, to Richard, and I felt the
272
Julie Lynn Hayes
familiar response of my body as it touched upon that well-loved chord. I turned, letting the water run in rivulets down my back, over my ass, and down my legs, caressing my own hardness gently. Warming up, I guess you’d call it. I heard a click from the other room, even above the sound of the cascading water, and I smiled to myself. Just in time, I thought. But I didn’t want to appear too eager, and I also wished to give him time to prepare for me, as surely he would hear the running water and by the time I emerged, he would be ready and waiting, probably naked…. But neither could I wait for very long, as I was indeed eager myself, and it showed. I grabbed one of the thirsty towels, dried myself thoroughly so that I wouldn’t drip my way into the other room, smiling to myself in anticipation. This would be one splendid night, indeed. As I emerged from the bathroom, toweling my hair, I wondered if we might even splurge on room service, have them send up a bottle of champagne or something. After all, it wasn’t every day that we— I pulled up short at the sight which met my eyes, which was definitely not what I had expected. Oh, there was a naked body on the bed all right, but it wasn’t the right naked body. It wasn’t Richard Burke. It was goddamned Amy Rose Banneker! She was draped across the top of the bedspread, splayed out in a very “hello sailor” manner I didn’t find even the least little bit appealing, even if I had been into women, which I definitely wasn’t. I knew I would never find her attractive in any way, shape, or form, not in this lifetime or any other. I was taken so much by surprise that I just stood there, stunned and immobilized, before I realized that her eyes were practically raping me, and I recalled my very nude condition. Hastily I threw the towel around my loins, even as I managed to finally find my voice. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? How’d you get in here? And how’d you know I was here?” The words tumbled out indignantly. “I asked the desk clerk,” she admitted with a self-satisfied grin. “Your mother told me about the room discounts and that you had gotten a room.” I groaned when I heard that, Being my usual anal, considerate self I had told my mother about us getting the room so she wouldn’t worry about us when we didn’t show up back at the house. “So I told him that I was your girlfriend and I wanted to surprise you—”
To the Max
273
“Amy, you aren’t my girlfriend,” I pointed out, “and never will be. And neither will anyone else, and you know damn well why!” “You deserve a lot better than Richard Burke!” she insisted. “Max, do you have any idea how very sweet and adorable you really are? Not to mention very sexy.” She ran her eyes over my body again, and although I knew that everything was safe from her gaze, still I shuddered. I found the whole situation very creepy, almost like she was stalking me. Which, in looking back, in essence she was, but I didn’t have a name for it then. “Max, I love you!” I gazed at her in startled horror. “No, you don’t. You can’t; you don’t even know me,” I protested. “Amy, this is ridiculous. You know that I love Richard, and he loves me, and we’ve been together for more than three years—” It was like talking to a brick wall. No, worse than talking to a brick wall, ’cause brick walls don’t talk back. “Max, look at the way he treats you! He comes and goes whenever he pleases, fucks other guys, maybe women, too—who knows? But any way you slice it, he’s not faithful! Doesn’t that bother you?” I wasn’t about to discuss my relationship with my lover with Amy, not here, not now, not ever. “Amy, I think you just need to get out of here. Now. I’ll forget about this if you just go, before Richard gets here.” Fall on deaf ears my words did. Not listening to me she was. “Max, I can make you happy, as happy as you deserve to be. Come to New York with me. I have an apartment there; we can share it, just you and me. I’m going to make good money now. I’ll be able to take care of you.” “Amy, no! This is ridiculous!” I shook my head at her, and her absurdly rose-tinted vision of the future that she envisaged for us. I only half-heard her protestations of love and devotion; I just kept thinking that Richard would blow a head gasket if he saw her, heard her— And then something she was saying finally got my attention. “I don’t mind what you are, Max. We can deal with it, I promise you, together—”
274
Julie Lynn Hayes
“What? Deal with my being gay? Thank you very much!” I said sarcastically. “No, deal with you being a werewolf,” was her response. My eyes grew very large at that point, and I blanched to an even paler shade than normal. What the… how the… how could she know? No way that either my mother or my sister or Rachel told her my most intimate secret, no fucking way. And Sebastian despised her more than he disliked Richard, so it wasn’t my cousin, either. But how? “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” I bluffed even as my mind raced. This did explain something, though, that I’d always wondered about, the strange picture of the wolf I’d found that I had suspected was from her a couple of years before, a few casual wolf references since then. Nothing overt, just enough to give me pause. “Max, you don’t have to hide who you are; you’re not the first one I’ve met,” Amy said as if we were having a casual discussion about the weather or the political situation in a far-off third world nation, not a life-threatening personal revelation such as this. It wasn’t even so much that I was ashamed of what I was, as it was that it had always been deemed more expedient to keep the nature of the beast hidden. People being the oddities that they were, you never knew how someone would react to the news that they were in the presence of a creature usually associated with old horror movies, an allegedly blood-thirsty killer. She patted the bed beside her, beckoning to me with one thin finger. The thought of getting that close to her was most distasteful to me. “Amy, get dressed,” I repeated insistently, “and get the hell out. I don’t want you here, no matter what you think you may or may not know about me.” Her face grew hard, her brown eyes narrowed into little muddy slits, and her skin flushed an angry, mottled color. “Max, if you don’t come to New York with me, I’ll tell everybody what you are!” she threatened in a hoarse voice. She was lucky it wasn’t the full moon, or I think the wolf would have torn her limb from tacky limb. As it was, I swallowed my anger in the interests of keeping control over the slumbering beast. “So what you’re saying is you want me to fuck you or else?” I stared at her in
To the Max
275
disbelief, maintaining my distance from her. She started to reply—something scathing, I’m sure—but then we both heard it, the rattle of the doorknob, followed by the sound of the door falling open, and a very familiar voice. “Damn, I’m sorry I took so long, but this woman can really talk your ear off; it was all I could do….” And then silence. Two heads swiveled to the source of the voice. Richard stood poised in the doorway, taking in the tableau before him, before closing the door and looking back and forth between me and Amy. She didn’t even have the modesty to cover herself at this point. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Amy was just leaving.” “Max, don’t do this!” she snarled. “I’ll do it, so help me God, I will!” “Do what?” Richard asked smoothly, moving to my side, positioning himself between me and the she-devil on the bed, a protective arm around me as I instinctively slid into his grasp. “Max, please tell me what the fuck is going on. What is she talking about?” I was tired of trying to reason with her. She was beyond my power to save at this point. “Amy thinks I’m a werewolf, and she’s going to tell everyone about me unless I fuck her,” I replied without thinking. “That’s right,” she said as she fairly smirked. “What do you intend to do about it, Dick?” She should never have said that. “You fucking bitch!” I heard the words, and I felt him move away from me, but even I was surprised at the swiftness with which he jumped onto the bed and put his hands around her throat to begin to throttle her. She threw her own hands up defensively, but her strength was certainly no match for his, and all I could hear from her were wordless gurgles. “Richard, don’t!” I grabbed at my lover, pulling on him with all the strength the wolf possessed, which was deceptively formidable at times, and I managed to dislodge his grip on Amy’s windpipe, tumbling us both backward onto the floor. I wrapped myself about him, so that he couldn’t get back up, nor continue with his attempted murder. “Sshh, sshh, love, don’t, she’s not worth it,” I begged him not to move, willed him not to move, nor to follow up on his actions. I could feel the
276
Julie Lynn Hayes
heaving of his chest beneath my hands as he struggled to regain his breath, feel the warmth of the anger which flowed from him with a terrible heat, a searing intensity, his fingers clenched into tight fists. For her part, Amy was holding her throat, gasping for air, and shaking. “You- you’re insane!” she managed to croak out. “I- I’m going to tell people how insane you really are! You tried to kill me after you tried to rape me! Both of you!” I stared at her in disbelief. “What? Who would believe that? Why would we want to rape you? That’s a disgusting idea!” “Doesn’t matter, they’ll believe me,” she retorted, “and you being a werewolf will only be the icing on the cake.” “You won’t say a word,” Richard said swiftly, “not a damn word to anyone!” I held tightly to him, feeling his muscles gather together for another leap, holding him back. She glared. “And why is that?” “Why? You wanna know why? Because I’ll tell everyone and their brother what I know about you. And you know you don’t want that!” Amy visibly flinched as if she had been struck. Bingo! A direct hit. On what, I had no idea. And I didn’t really care. We pulled ourselves up from the floor, as I straightened the towel that threatened to fall from my hips. “You just need to get dressed and get out of here,” Richard said, and although his tone was calmer, it was also deadlier. The tone of someone that meant every word he said and should be heeded. “Go to New York, and do your thing, whatever the hell that is, be successful, fail, I don’t give a fuck—but stay the hell away from us!” “Max!” She tried to appeal to me, and for just a moment, I thought that I saw tears glisten in her eyes, which made me distinctly uncomfortable. “You know I love you more than he does! I’ll be good for you, I promise! And I won’t cheat on you!” Gah! “Max, remember that she’s an actress,” Richard said coldly, and as soon as the words left his lips, I saw her mask fall, and I realized how right he was. “For God’s sake, Amy, leave with a little dignity, why don’t you?” She rose silently from the bed, her back stiff, her head held high,
To the Max
277
as she gathered her clothes. We turned our heads as she proceeded to dress. Was this but a performance, I had to wonder? Was nothing about her real? Her eyes were not pretty, not pretty at all, and I wondered to myself how I had ever thought she was nice. And what would Rachel think about this? I couldn’t not tell her, though. That wasn’t even an option. She was now dressed as she had been at her farewell party, everything seemingly in place, although I wasn’t really concerned—her appearance was hers to worry about, nothing to do with me—even as I wondered how she would explain her absence from her own party? But neither did I really care. She walked slowly to the door, before turning to face my lover and me. Her eyes narrowed at us, and they seemed to glow with an almost preternatural light. “You’ll be fucking sorry, both of you,” she spat out. “Someday I’ll get even with you. Don’t even doubt it!” And she made her grand exit, pulling the door closed behind her with great force. Son of a fucking bitch! I turned to Richard, because I always turned to Richard in everything. Somehow I felt like I was partially responsible for what happened, even though logically I knew that I wasn’t. “What are we going to do?” “Nothing,” he replied, reaching out and stroking my cheek gently, as he calmed down. “Nothing to do. She won’t talk, and even if she does, so what? It’s not like it’s illegal or anything. Don’t worry, Max, she won’t talk. I promise you.” “What do you know about her that scared her so much?” A big grin spread across my Richard’s face. “Nothing,” he replied. “Nothing? But then why did she act so frightened?” “Because obviously there is something to know about her, we just don’t know what it is. She doesn’t know that, though. And as long as she thinks we do, I think she’ll leave us alone.” I guess that made sense, but still. I don’t appreciate being blackmailed, and I don’t like the idea that she knows about me. Not that I am ashamed, but basically it’s my business who I tell and when I tell. After all, it’s my fucking life, isn’t it? Richard pulled me to him and handily removed the towel from
278
Julie Lynn Hayes
around my midsection. “You didn’t really need that, now did you?” he asked softly. He looked me up and down hungrily, but with a good kind of hunger, not with the almost desperate looks I received from Amy. “I hope she ate her heart out looking at what she can never have,” he said, rubbing up against me, raising my cock from half-mast to full-fledged hard in a matter of moments. “It’s all yours,” I assured him as I pushed him toward the bed, my fingers reaching for his buttons, stripping him with wild abandon. With one accord we turned toward the bed, and I just knew we were picturing the same thing: the unappetizing image of a naked Amy spread out there. Richard swiftly yanked the despoiled bedspread from the bed and tossed it unceremoniously to the floor, leaving the sheets intact, which she had never soiled with her touch. “There, that’s better,” he declared. “Now, where were we?” And I gladly answered his question, continuing to remove his clothing….
AS WE pull into the parking lot of the King’s Regency, I get the worst feeling of déjà vu I’ve ever had. I want to turn tail and run, get out of here now before something truly bad happens. Take the coward’s way out—at this point I don’t even care. Let my mother yell. Let them all yell. Some things supersede others, such as serious self-preservation instincts. But do I act on these instincts? Of course not. As we get out of the car, Richard puts his arms around me. “Everything is going to be fine, Max,” he reassures me. He takes my hand and off we go, which reminds me of a line from Tennyson. “And into the valley of death rode the six hundred…” We may be only two, but the feeling is still there. Feeling kamikaze to the max, as if we are riding to certain doom.
To the Max
279
Chapter 23 Luna
TAKE a deep breath, take a deep breath—come on now, Max, just breathe—I repeat it to myself, over and over. Inhale, exhale, repeat. As often as necessary. Here we are, once again, after so many years. The hotel is intact and in business, and we are still together. Come to bid farewell to another troublemaker, a disturbance in the pool of our placidity, this one a relative of the first one from so many years ago. Can this be a mere coincidence? I think not. Serendipity? I’m afraid not. And will this one return in twenty years to bite us in the ass? I hope not. As we walk through the big wooden doors that lead into the lobby, the clock begins to tick, a countdown for a timetable which we cannot afford to let slide. Two hours and counting. In two hours, we should be back on the road, heading back to St. Charles and to our shelter in the woods, and even that is cutting it closer than I like. Perhaps I can get us out of here sooner, hopefully without a lecture from my mother on how very anal Max is or any snide comments on the same subject, but with a more twisted meaning, from her ungodly lover. Two hours. We approach the front desk and ask for directions to the Arthur affair and receive them. And more? Am I imagining things or is the clerk giving my Richard a rather appreciative eye? Damn, damn, damn! I clench my fist so tightly that the fingernails leave little crescent-shaped marks in my palm. I’ve never had an anxiety attack that I know of. Is this what they feel like? Like breathing has just become an impossibility, and if this feeling doesn’t stop soon I just might hyperventilate? Slow down, Max, slow down. Luckily, Richard doesn’t seem to notice as we head for the banquet rooms. This one is not being held in the same room as Amy’s party; I think if it were, I’d simply refuse to go.
280
Julie Lynn Hayes
We walk into the party like we are walking onto a yacht… no, no, no, that’s not it. My mind is reverting to old song lyrics for some reason, probably thinking of Morgan, ’cause he’s so vain, and I know it. My apologies to Carly Simon. Where is the little man, I wonder as we stand there for a moment, simply absorbing the atmosphere. We are far from the first to arrive. That I had expected. It may not be the same damn room, but the setup looks hauntingly familiar: the buffet, the band, even down to the table with Richard’s photos of Mr. Prissy set up to look like a damn shrine. I want to hurt him so badly I can taste it. It’s far too close to the moon for comfort, the wolf is hovering just beneath the surface, and my self-control is minimal. Richard slides his hand comfortingly along my arm, even as he leans in to me and whispers, “Love you, Max.” God, he can be so sweet. Where to first? What to do, what to do, what to do? I don’t want to go down the road once traveled already; it scares me. I know I should relax, but my heart is in my throat, and I am terrified that if Morgan gets a chance, he’ll use it to seduce my Richard away from me. It’s silly, I know. Richard has never been anything but professional with the simpering child, and yet… and yet…. Dammit, my mind is working in such strange ways, it refuses to let go of images, let loose of the past, when right now I should be concentrating on tonight, getting through that, letting the rest take care of itself. I almost jump out of my skin when a hand touches my arm, but it’s just Rachel, with Mark closely in tow. I don’t think it’s any coincidence that she has found a man who is very understanding of her and my relationship and never questions phone calls at three in the morning or the need we have to talk to one another about everything. I suspect she has terminated other relationships over the years that did not fit her requirements—or should I say our requirements?—although I would never request it of her, just as she would never ask me to give up Richard. But that doesn’t keep her from giving me her honest opinion of him and us. “Max, you look pale,” she criticizes. “Are you okay?” “I think he’s coming down with something,” Richard responds, “I told you we should have stayed home, Max.” “I’m fine, I’m fine,” I hastily interject, “but I could use a drink.” I
To the Max
281
turn to my lover with the question left unspoken. “Of course, be right back.” He kisses me on the tip of my nose, my gallant knight. “Bar is that way,” Rachel points helpfully. “I’ll come with you,” Mark offers, and the two men walk off together. I watch Richard’s hips ’til he disappears from view, and I turn back to my companion. Rachel is still eyeing me as if she isn’t happy with the way I look at all. “What, you don’t like the suit?” I quip. “Max, after tonight, it’ll be all over,” she attempts to reassure me. “I don’t see him coming back here once he gets a taste of life in the fast lane, do you?” But all I hear is it’s over… it’s over… it’s over… pounding like a death knell in my brain. Can’t breathe, can’t breathe. But I do, finally, draw a deep breath. Again. “Where is the twit?” I ask, exhaling all my unspoken presentiments in a small sigh. “Somewhere, him and Amy both.” “Yippee.” I can barely contain my enthusiasm, even as I begin to worry. What if he’s found Richard first? What if they are alone somewhere? Where is Richard, I fret, even though maybe three minutes have passed since he left my sight. Maybe I should have belled him? No, I’m being ridiculous. And very juvenile. And behaving as if I do not trust my lover… all right, let’s not go there, please…. “Has he asked about Richard?” “He hasn’t asked me,” she replies. “He and Amy have been together ever since they arrived, though, hanging out with your mother and Reverend Fisher.” “Oh?” Friends? Or conspirators? Or paranoia on my part rearing its ugly head? I think I’ll go for door number three at the moment and hold on to my options. “Max, we’ll get through this night, I promise.” She pats my arm and smiles at me with a knowledge born of long familiarity with me and the wolf both. “You know I’m always here for you.” “I know,” I acknowledge her words, “believe me, I know, and I
282
Julie Lynn Hayes
count on you, Rachel, probably far too much, but I do, and I always have, haven’t I?” “Yeah, but you can’t help it if you’re one of the weaker sex.” She winks at me as she leans in to kiss my cheek. “Hardy har, I can barely contain my laughter.” I feel a cold glass thrust into my hand—he is here, he is here, he is here—and I smile with relief and take a sip from the drink, not even noticing what it is. “Whiskey sour,” Richard says. “Thought it make take the edge off, but you’ll have to limit those, of course.” I nod my agreement, and everything is right again. For the moment.
ONE hour, forty minutes to go. Here come Cat and Sebastian, with Maggie accompanying them. Richard and I have made the circuit of the room already but have had the great luck not to run into the man of the hour. Good. Or my mother and her boyfriend. I already feel better because of it and decide to indulge in a second drink. Richard turns his watchful eye on me, tells me to take it easy, but makes no other objection. “Max, are you okay?” Cat asks solicitously. Sebastian laughs at her concern. “He always looks like that, pasty pale.” “Rather be pasty pale than have a fat ass,” I mutter half under my breath. “Surely you’re not referring to me!” he snorts, “’cause I have a very fine ass, well-toned for a man of my age, if you don’t believe me, just ask Cat—” “Yeah, sure,” I needle him. “Quit teasing Max,” Cat admonishes my cousin. She gives him a stern look, as if mentally reminding him what tonight is. Like he doesn’t know and hasn’t been fully aware of each and every full moon ever since he first was told the truth about me. And like he doesn’t call me on each and every one to make sure I am okay. She turns back to me. “Have you checked out the food yet?”
To the Max
283
“No, not yet.” I shake my head. “I’m not hungry. Richard, why don’t we get you something to eat, we won’t have time later—” “We have plenty of time, don’t worry, Max,” he reassures me, and to tease Sebastian, as well as to comfort me, he draws me to him and kisses me sweetly. “I trust you two have a room?” Sebastian asks dryly. Richard doesn’t bat an eye. “No, we don’t, so we’ll have to make out here, sorry.” Cat merely giggles. I return Richard’s kiss, and for a moment, time stands still.
FIFTY-FIVE minutes. The band that is playing is no better and no worse than the band that played twenty years ago. I honestly couldn’t tell you the name of either group. The major difference between them lies in the selection of music in their individual repertoires. But oddly enough, they do play some of the same tunes, which I tell myself I shouldn’t make too much out of that. They are popular songs, after all. We move gracefully together, still very much in sync even after all these years, our timing perfect. And in between our own dances, I graciously give my lover to both Rachel and Cat to squire them about the dance floor. And Maggie, too, of course. We have gotten exceedingly lucky. Although the greasy little git has been sighted, we have not had to talk to him once, as he was always been outside of our immediate vicinity. And our time is over half done. Maybe it won’t be so bad after all. I have seen my mother, of course. And him. For some odd reason, the Right Reverend Fisher is going out of his way to be uber-friendly to both of us, which in itself is odd. He even compliments Richard on his photos of Morgan. I look at the smug expression on his whiskered face, and I simply want to slap him and ask him what game he is playing. But of course I don’t. Mother wants to know if I’ll have time to come for lunch sometime soon. I tell her I’ll check my schedule and get back to her. What of Richard’s mother? Moonsong is gone, apparently, according to Juliet. She drove off just this morning, in fact. I know that she didn’t call and talk to Richard; I can see it in his eyes when he
284
Julie Lynn Hayes
hears the news, but I can see he also isn’t surprised or very much interested. Funny how the members of that family come and go without a thought or a by-your-leave or a—damn, I shouldn’t go there, not now, not now. I can’t help it; I clutch at his arm possessively. Of course he has no idea why, and he simply allows me to do so. Isn’t this night over yet?
FORTY minutes. I’ve never seen fifteen minutes go by so slowly. I look at my watch and groan. Diana has finally arrived, fashionably late as she calls it, and on her arm is a man I’ve never seen. She introduces him to me as Oliver. Sticks her tongue out at me behind his back, as if to say “you asked for it, you got it.” Little sisters! He seems friendly enough, about her age I think, and from what I can see of him, he likes my sister, but I am simply too distracted to delve into it too deeply. Any other night, I’d be grilling him thoroughly about his intentions toward her, so I guess in a way this is a good thing, at least for Diana. I’ve managed to talk Richard into sampling some of the offerings from the buffet table. And he has made me eat a little bit as well, even though I insist I’m not hungry. The bacon-wrapped water chestnuts are good, though, I do admit, once I actually eat them. Richard simply gives me one of his piercing glances and reminds me that if I want to make love tomorrow, after the change, I will need my strength. Damn, he surely knows all my weaknesses too well, doesn’t he? A major one being him, of course. I manage to sneak in another whiskey sour in a futile attempt to relax. Actually, my sister gets it for me, and although he clearly disapproves, Richard holds his tongue. I try to smile at him reassuringly, but I think he knows better. And I continue to cling to him like a barnacle on a sunken ship.
THIRTY minutes. Richard hasn’t left my side all night, other than the few times he has been dancing with the girls. He has been exceedingly attentive and affectionate, and even Sebastian seems to realize that there is this total bond between us, and he lets up on the snide remarks for once. I still think that is Cat’s influence; she is nothing but good for
To the Max
285
him. No contact whatsoever between Richard and Morgan. Could I have been wrong about what I thought I saw? I like to think so, but my paranoia cannot be assuaged quite that easily. We’ll just have to see, I decide. Maybe we can leave now? Get there early…. But just as I think this, I am handed a fluted glass of something bubbly, and there is a clinking sound from the front of the room and a clearing of throats, the kind that usually presages speeches or announcements. There stand my mother, Reverend Fuckface, and the pretty boy himself. Fisher is tapping his glass for attention, and of course he is getting it. “We’re here tonight to say farewell and good luck to Morgan Arthur, and to wish him well in his new career.” Light applause here. “We’ve had the pleasure of getting to know Morgan and to appreciate what a fine young man he is, an upstanding member of the church and of the community, and although we will miss him, we wish him only the best of luck!” More applause stronger. “Let us drink now to this fine young man!” Here he turns to face Mr. Prissy, raises his glass, while everyone dutifully mimics his actions. Other than me. I refuse to drink to him. No argument allowed. Richard catches my eye, sends reassurance my way. God, will this feeling in my chest never go away? A tightness around my heart that refuses to relent, no matter what I do or what Richard does. At least he’s up there, and we’re back here, even though that is too close for my taste.
FIFTEEN minutes. I’m about to jump out of my skin any moment now, dammit! I want to go and I want to go now! Richard lays a soothing hand on my arm, brushes his lips over mine. “Almost, my love, almost. We’ll be out of here and gone before you know it. I won’t let anything happen to you, pretty baby, don’t worry.” That isn’t what I’m worried about, but I merely sigh and bite my lips so hard that I draw blood.
SEVEN minutes. I excuse myself to use the facilities, and when I return Maggie tells me that Richard has left me a message: he has gone
286
Julie Lynn Hayes
outside to have a smoke—he has refrained the entire time we have been there—and will be back as soon as he gets some nicotine in his system. I have to admit he has been rather calm this night, considering, so I don’t begrudge him that. He is being considerate, knowing that I don’t like it around me; otherwise he would have just waited ’til we left. And by the time Richard gets back, it will be time to leave. I glance around automatically, as I have been doing all evening, searching for Little Lord Fauntleroy. But I don’t see him anywhere. But I do see Amy. Alone. First time tonight I haven’t seen them together, come to think of it. “Where did junior go?” I ask sarcastically. My blood chills at the answer. “He went outside, too, right after Richard did,” Maggie responds innocently. I swallow hard and have to remind myself to breathe. “Do you know where outside they went?” Maggie shrugs. “Sorry, I have no idea.” Gotta go, gotta go, gotta get out of here, now, immediately! I don’t know why, but I just know that is what I have to do. “Max, what’s wrong?” she asks me. Undoubtedly I look as if I have just seen a ghost. “Nothing,” I mutter in an attempt to stay calm. It fails miserably. “Just tell Rach where I went, will ya?” I call over my shoulder as I rush toward the exit. What do I expect to see? I don’t know, I can’t imagine. Okay, maybe I can imagine. I berate myself for having such an imagination, for being so mistrustful of Richard. But it’s Morgan I don’t trust, not Richard. Yes, but it comes down to the same thing, ’cause it takes two to tango, doesn’t it? After all, he doesn’t mistrust me even though Amy tries to wear me like a cheap suit every chance she gets. He knows how I feel about him, how faithful I am to him and always will be. Damn! That tears at my heart, even as I keep repeating rhythmically to myself, no, no, no, no, no…. Once outside the building, I glance up into the overcast night and shiver. Not yet. Not yet, but almost. We have to leave soon, get the hell out of here. I glance around, see nothing. Then I remember something: Richard left his pack of cigarettes in the car, just so he wouldn’t be tempted to smoke in the hotel. That’s where he must be. I turn my steps
To the Max
287
toward the parking lot. We’ve parked the Monte away from all the others, as is our wont. She sits in the shadows in a corner of the lot. Being black, she doesn’t stick out, either, but I catch the gleam of her chrome in the faint lighting that manages to creep back that far. And my lupine eyes see more than that now: a figure, no it’s actually two figures, standing by the side of our car. I had thought at first that it was one because of their proximity to one another. What the…? Everything takes on the quality of a dream at this point. I approach the car on silent feet, watching the terrible tableau that unfolds itself before me and feeling like every ounce of breath has been forcibly expelled from my body. It’s Richard and Morgan, together, literally, their lips so close that I can actually see the silhouette of their tongues battling for supremacy, and their hands—my God, their hands, like cock-hungry suckers—they are inside one another’s pants, visibly jacking one another off, before my very eyes, my very unbelieving eyes, these eyes that I wish I could tear out of my head, along with this heart of mine, which has just died a very horrible death inside my chest. They seem unaware of my presence, intent on their horrible rutting, until they raise their heads at the sound of a terrible scream which fills the night air, a discordant note in the otherwise silent night. It takes me a moment to realize that the scream came from my own lips. Richard turns, sees me, and disentangles himself from… what? His lover? Is that what he is? I don’t know. I mean, it’s one thing to think about things that might be happening with other men when he’s not with me, when he’s out of range, but to have it thrust into your field of vision, to actually see it, makes it all the more immediate and heartbreaking. He’s moving toward me now, his arms outstretched, in his eyes, what? I don’t know, I can’t tell anymore. “God, Maxie,” he moans, “oh God, I didn’t… I mean… I don’t know what… oh baby, I’m sorry….” He tries to put his arms around me, because he knows me, he knows how weak I am, how liable to simply fold and permit him his caresses, his apologies, whatever tender words are attempting to dance from his lips to my ears— But instead, I ball up my fist and I strike him squarely in the jaw. He is so surprised that he stops in his tracks, putting his hand up to
288
Julie Lynn Hayes
where I have struck him. “You fucking bastard!” I scream at the top of my lungs right before I hit him again. Same place. He recoils again. “You motherfucker!” “Max, wait,” he tries again, but I will have none of it, none of him. I’m not listening, not at all. “How the hell could you do this to me? You said you loved me, you promised me!” The wolf is too close now and the wolf is angry, very angry. And very hurt. Still he attempts to put his arms around me, as if he thinks he can pacify me in some way. And the whole time Morgan Arthur has not said a word, smiling smarmily, the fucking git. “Max, it’s not what you think, let me explain,” Richard begins again to fold me into his embrace, as if any explanation he can give can possibly take away the horrible images burned into my heart, as if there is any sensible explanation for what I saw other than the obvious. “It’s exactly what I think. I’m not stupid and there’s nothing to explain!” I push him away—the wolf pushes him away—he isn’t prepared for me to use such force on him, and he falls to his knees on the parking lot with a surprised oompf. I turn to face Morgan, and oh, how the wolf wants nothing better than to rip his very flesh with my teeth, my claws, to feel the warm blood flow from his main arteries, pulling his life force from him. But not now, not now. Now my only thought is to get the hell away from here, to put as much distance as possible between me and Richard Burke, as quickly as possible. Where can I go? I have no fucking clue. I glance toward my Monte, but I realize that he has the keys and damned if I’m going to ask him for them or for anything else. I throw back my head and howl, a sound filled with anguish and great despair, filled with the death of love and the death of a dream, and without a backward glance, I begin to run, simply run, into the blanket of the night, still howling. In pain to the max and watching my world crumble around me.
To the Max
289
Chapter 24 Binding the Wounds
I
SLOWLY come to consciousness with the sound of “Swan Lake”
ringing in my ears. What the hell? I partially open one eye as I attempt to determine just where the hell I am. I’m lying on the ground, damp grass a moist cushion beneath my body, that much I know by stretching out my fingers and tentatively feeling around me. A strange coppery taste fills my mouth, unpleasantly bitter. I spit it out into the grass and am very much surprised to see that it is blood. What can this mean? my foggy brain asks uncomprehendingly. The ringing persists, and it finally begins to penetrate into my mind that it is my cell phone I am hearing. I sit up, which only serves to evoke a groan from me, then it is that I discover that I am completely unclothed, as naked as the day that I was born. And my body is crisscrossed in angry scratches and welts like a Christmas ham that has been scored for the oven. I don’t have time to analyze this right now; all I can think of is stopping the music. My head is simply splitting. Glancing about me for the source, I find that my clothes are scattered around me. I reach for my pants, pull out the offending instrument from my pocket, and answer it, giving no consideration to who might be on the other end, which is foolish of me, considering who it might have been. “Hello?” “Max, thank God!” It’s Rachel’s distraught voice I hear, fraught with fear. What’s the matter with her? I wonder idly. I haven’t fully taken in my situation yet; everything seems to be off-key for some reason, distant, as if it’s happening to someone else. I am the king of aloof this morning. Assuming it is morning. “Max, I’ve been trying to reach you all night, honey. Where are you? How are you?” I look around me dispassionately. “I don’t know.” Answers both
290
Julie Lynn Hayes
questions, actually. I run my tongue around the inside of my mouth, wondering if I’ve bitten it somehow. No, doesn’t seem that way. Then I notice the blood on my fingers as well, but instinctively I know it’s not mine. “Hang on a second, Rach,” I say, setting the phone down so I can pull on my clothes, grimacing at the pain, just in case someone comes this way. Wherever I am, it seems secluded, but I’m not taking any chances on being caught in a vulnerable state. I have to search for a minute to find all the pieces, and then when I do, I make another gruesome discovery, one that causes me to double over in the grass and heave my guts out. It’s the corpse of a rabbit, brutally torn apart. Oh God, oh God, oh God, what have I done? This jars me from my uncaring condition in a rather brutal way. I pick up the phone, wiping puke and blood from my lips first. “Rachel, I need you,” I say simply, “I think I may have done something horrible. Where are you?” “I’m at the cottage. Richard asked me to wait here for you.” Richard. The last name I want to hear right now, as the events of last night thrust themselves into my mind’s eye in startling clarity. “Is… is he there?” I manage to ask. “No, he thinks you don’t want to see him right now. Max, what is going on? What happened?” I sigh as I begin to look around me in an attempt to get my bearings. I am starting to focus now and recognize my surroundings. I’m not all that far from home, just a little ways down 94, actually. I rise to my feet, stumble through the trees, damn near hitting my head on some low-hanging branches—just what I need, a concussion—until I find myself at the edge of a vacant field filled with tiny yellow and blue wildflowers whose name eludes me, beyond which I can see what appears to be an asphalt road. Yep, it is. “Rach, I think I’m almost up on 94 now, maybe two miles south of the house. Can you come get me, please?” I’m deliberately not answering her questions, but I know that I’ll tell her everything when she comes. I always do. “Of course, I’m on my way now.” We hang up, and I drag myself cross the field and carefully sit myself down along the side of the otherwise empty road, too weary to
To the Max
291
move any farther, too sore, both physically and emotionally. Simply drained. And I start to make a little sense out of my situation, bits and pieces are coming back to me, like an emotional montage of events. At least up to a point, that is. I’m not sure, once I left the parking lot of the hotel, how long it took before the realization really hit me that I needed to get home, and as quickly as possible, before the pull of the full moon began to take its toll on me. I wasn’t thinking rationally enough to call Rachel or anyone else, which would have been the most logical decision as they weren’t all that far from me at that point, but I did manage to catch a cab that had luckily just let out a fare on Manchester Road, although he looked at me askance at first and I thought he was about to refuse the fare. It wasn’t until I gave him the directions to the cottage and the promise of an extra fifty dollars if he got me there in record time that he relented and told me to get in the back. Maybe something about the wild look in my eye persuaded him, or maybe it was the color of my cold hard cash. Doesn’t really matter, does it? I think that I must have stared at the face of my watch the whole way, praying that I wouldn’t transform before I got there—that wouldn’t have been good for either one of us—and that Richard didn’t follow me. Which, come to think of it, why would he? Why would he want to? He was with Morgan now. And even if he did, for some odd reason, surely he would think that the last place I’d go… and it would have been, under other circumstances. My next memory is of reaching home, paying the driver and sending him on his way with the promised tip. I am sure he was glad to see the last of me as I had rebuffed every attempt at conversation he made, my mind too full of what was about to happen to me. Of course there was no Monte parked by the house, although I admit that I looked, but I had not expected there would be. At least I shouldn’t have. No doubt he was with Morgan. No doubt they were…. It didn’t matter anymore what they were or weren’t doing. I didn’t have time to worry about that at the moment. But at least I had made it. I was home, safely— Or was I? Oh no, not yet, it’s begun. I whimpered as I flew madly through the house, fled feverishly to the outbuilding behind it. I was almost there, almost… don’t let it start, don’t let it start….
292
Julie Lynn Hayes
But there was nothing I could do about it. I was too late. I felt the transformation begin once more as it had so many times before, although never under the direct gaze of the lunar orb itself, as my bones began to break and reform and my own cognizance began to drift in and out, lifting my head to howl in frustration at the selenic bitch, and then I knew nothing more until the sound of my own phone awakened me. Rachel pulls up while I am lost in thought, and before I know it, she is helping me into her car, but not before she hugs me, and I try not to wince too obviously. “Oh Max, you’re hurt. Let’s get you back to the house,” she says softly. Not until I am inside the vehicle do I realize it’s my Monte. “Where… how… did you get this?” I ask. She waits until we are safely at the cottage to reply. Helps me up the steps and onto the couch in the library—at the moment, I just can’t face the bedroom—and goes to the bathroom for a few necessaries: hydrogen peroxide and cotton balls as well as warm water and a cloth. When she returns she makes me strip, and first she sponges off the dried blood, gingerly as I wince, and then she dabs the cold peroxide onto my wounds with the cotton balls, watching as they bubble up, undoubtedly full of germs, before she answers my question. “I was talking to Maggie after she gave me your message, Max, when Richard came flying into the room, grabbed me, and pulled me out to the hallway. He thrust the keys to your car into my hand, begged me to get it back to you, and said he had to go, that you were upset with him and needed time to cool off.” “That’s an understatement,” I half-snort, half-moan as she tries to be gentle, but some of the gashes are deeper than others, and my muscles ache in a way they haven’t in years. I feel like I was in a fight, or more than one, even, which considering the fact that the wolf was allowed to run free last night is entirely possible. “Max, honey, what did he do to you?” She stops what she is doing, raises her head, and looks directly into my eyes. “Well, it’s not so much what he did to me, as what he was doing to someone else,” I spit out bitterly, seeing in my mind’s eye that horrid image of Richard and Morgan together in the parking lot. “Playing tailor, to be precise, and taking Morgan Arthur’s inseam measurements
To the Max
293
manually!” Rachel’s eyes blaze indignantly. “That bastard!” “That’s what I called him too,” I say, closing my eyes and simply sighing. “Rachel, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I mean, it’s one thing when I don’t see it, when he’s not here, but dammit, I saw it and how can I pretend I didn’t? And oh God how it hurts!” I can’t help it; the tears I didn’t have time to shed last night are falling now in hot drops that sear my eyes, and a pain fills my heart as if it is expanding to ten times its normal size. Why does it not just simply burst and put me out of my misery? She puts her arms around me, and I lean against her strength and simply sob. “Dammit, Rach, why do I have to love him so much?” “Sshh, sshh, Max,” she says as she attempts to comfort me, “don’t think about him now. Let’s get you back on your feet. I don’t care about him, only you. How did… I mean… how did you manage to lock yourself in last night?” “I didn’t, Rachel. I didn’t.” I can’t even face her now. “I knew I should have come back earlier, but I didn’t and I changed too soon, and God only knows what I did. But I killed, Rach, I killed something for the first time.” I turn my tear-stained face to her as I try to absorb the horror of what I have done. “How do you know that?” “I found a dead bunny near me when I woke up, and I think that it was its blood I tasted in my mouth. Rachel, I’ve worked so hard not to hurt anyone or anything. I should have gotten back here sooner, but after I saw… I just couldn’t… I took the coward’s way out, and I ran.” “Max, it’s not your fault. It’s his. I know you tried.” She attempts to soothe me, to assuage the guilt that consumes me in overwhelming waves, but I cannot be appeased. Maybe I did worse than that and I don’t even know it yet? Maybe there is a dead body lying around somewhere with my teeth marks in its throat? Maybe it’s just a matter of time ’til the villagers really do all rally together to kill the monster? Perhaps they are right to do so, perhaps I don’t deserve to live, since apparently I am a danger to others. I shiver a little; I don’t know if I’m cold or just upset. Rachel goes into my room, brings back my faded black comforter, the one we’ve
294
Julie Lynn Hayes
had forever, familiar and cozy, wraps it around me, and cradles me gently against her. Much as I try to stop it, I spit out the question that is burning in my mind. “Did you see them together, Rach? Richard and Morgan?” I don’t know why I ask. Do I really care? But the words have a mind of their own apparently. “No, but after Richard gave me the keys and left, Morgan came in shortly thereafter, and I noticed he had a black eye—whatever that means—and he didn’t seem very happy about it.” Rachel shrugs. I know she isn’t concerned with Richard’s welfare at the moment. So why am I? “Richard wasn’t hurt, was he?” “I didn’t notice any bruises.” “Okay,” I sigh. Just then “Swan Lake” begins again. I pull out the phone, glance at the ID—I’d know that number anywhere. It’s Richard’s. I flip the phone closed, not bothering to answer it, and when it finally stops, I look through my inbox and see a number of messages from Richard Burke. I delete them all without opening any of them and toss the phone away from me as if it were a snake. An apt analogy, I must admit. “Sweetie, you’re too good for him.” Rachel holds me closer. “Don’t think about it. Don’t think about anything. I’m here for you; I’m watching out for you.” Her arms feel good, and the warmth and love in her voice are just what I need as I lean against her, worn out, exhausted, and heartsore. Can’t think about Richard now, can’t think about the wolf, just need to sleep… My eyes begin to close of their own accord, and then I am gone. Wishing that I could turn my heart off, but feeling every little thing to the max, and not knowing how to cope with it.
To the Max
295
Chapter 25 Making a New Start
FOR all intents and purposes, Rachel has moved in with me, and she refuses to leave me although I tell her I’m fine and that she needs to attend to other things. Like Mark, for instance. God knows what he thinks of this; she doesn’t say, and I don’t ask, because to be honest I’m very glad she’s here. And I am actually far from fine, although I am reluctant to admit it, and I am grateful for her presence, especially at night when I spring up from the couch in a cold sweat, my heart racing, from the dreams which will insist on disturbing my slumber, variations on a couple of themes: either it’s the wolf, slavering and feral, bloodthirsty creature of the night, gone wild and rampant upon some sort of killing spree; or it’s Richard, which in its way is just as bad, and these run the gamut from the two of us making love to me finding him with Morgan Arthur all over again, reliving it time after time after bloody time. I won’t allow her not to go to work, although she has offered to take a leave of absence. I tell her that’s silly. After all I’m a grown man, aren’t I? So she goes every day, as she should, rather than argue with me. I can be quite stubborn, if you haven’t noticed. Very hardheaded, in fact. And it’s not like I’m alone during the day either, not with the loyal friends that I have. It seems as if the village is busy safeguarding their idiot, and yes, that is exactly how I feel, like the world’s biggest idiot. For letting him get away with it all these years and then having my nose rubbed in it. As I said once before, how do you spell stupid? M-AX! Cat and Sebastian come together as well as separately. I feel a little more comfortable talking to Cat alone, because some things a woman understands more instinctively than another man would. And let’s face it, Sebastian is more than happy to utter vile deprecations about my lover—I mean, my former lover—without thinking twice about it, and I really don’t need to hear that at the moment.
296
Julie Lynn Hayes
I wonder where he is staying. But why do I even care? Then I wonder how he is, and if he misses me. Dammit, I need to quit thinking about him, or if he has clean clothes to wear, or if he’s remembering to eat properly. It’s not my business now. But neither is it Morgan Arthur’s apparently, as he has left, right on cue, for Hollywood and stardom, black eye and all. So again I wonder, where is Richard staying? I know that he hasn’t followed the boy blunder because of the phone calls he places, to the same friends who are sheltering me from him, apparently looking for news of me. Why, I cannot imagine. And even though my brain responds that he can rot in hell, my heart continues to worry about him. “Max?” Cat’s concerned voice breaks into my thoughts. We sit together in the library. I haven’t slept in the bedroom since the last night Richard was here. I just can’t bear the thought of sleeping there at the moment, alone, so I let Rachel have the bed, and I camp out on the sofa, which is plenty comfortable for me. I look up at her, having forgotten the cup of tea in my hand, which by now must be stone cold, and I take a hasty sip, confirming my suspicions. “Um, sorry,” I reply, flustered. “I don’t mean to be inattentive.” “I know, Max. It’s okay.” She lays a sympathetic hand on my arm. “I was just thinking that something doesn’t make much sense, you know?” “No, I don’t know,” I am forced to admit, not even sure what we are talking about. She hesitates, as if she hates to even mention his name. “Richard and Morgan. I could have sworn that… well, I mean, it’s just that I’ve seen the two of you together for long enough to know that he really loves you, Max, I feel it so strongly. And I’ve seen him and Morgan together, and I’ve never seen any evidence of it, not on Richard’s end. You know what I mean?” “I guess he hides it well,” I suggest bitterly. Cat bites at her lower lip thoughtfully. “I don’t know.” She sounds doubtful. “What do you think, then? Morgan put him under some sort of enchantment? Forced him to put his hands down his pants and kiss him?” I can’t help but be sarcastic, and it shows.
To the Max
297
“Maybe,” she says, looking as if she knows I won’t believe her, but still she feels compelled to say it. “There’s something not right about Morgan that I can’t quite put my finger on.” “He’s a major league prick and a complete bastard.” I try to fill in the blanks, helpfully. “Does Richard still call you?” she asks, her blue eyes meeting mine. I shake my head. He did at first, all the time. But the calls have diminished gradually until they have fallen off completely. Not that I answered any of them or listened to any of the messages. But I have to wonder what that means, even though I shouldn’t give a big rat’s ass. “Has he called you?” “Just that once, that’s all,” she says apologetically. “But that one time told me a lot, Max. I mean, I could hear in his voice how upset he was, and how confused.” “Confused? What has he to be confused about?” My head aches just thinking about it. “I’m not sure,” Cat admits, “but I’d like to find out. Max, can I ask you something and not upset you?” “You can ask me anything, Cat,” I reassure her. “Can you tell me everything you’ve seen between the two of them?” she asked. “Every encounter that you remember, every detail that you recall? I know it’s a strange question, but humor me, please?” I shrug. What differences does it make now? I tell her everything that comes to mind, from the moment of their first meeting in this very house to the final scene at the King’s Regency. Down to the last painful detail. Cat listens carefully and makes no comment, storing all the facts in her mind for later perusal. Then she tactfully changes the subject. Cat is such a dear; she goes out of her way to avoid giving pain to anyone. “Max, you need to get out of the house. It’s not healthy being cooped up here all the time. Why don’t you go into the office, at least? Go in with Rachel one day, just give yourself a break. Maggie misses you.” “I miss her, too, but I don’t want to.” I am childishly adamant about that. I do miss Maggie, and I have talked to her on the phone, of
298
Julie Lynn Hayes
course. I know that she is very upset about Richard, and she defends him, insisting that I must have misunderstood something. But she didn’t see what I saw that night or she wouldn’t be saying that. I know how she feels about him, though, so I forebear from saying anything bad—or anything at all about him, actually. She’s not the reason I am avoiding the office; I’d rather not run into Amy right now and have to hear news of her fucking nephew. I don’t know what she knows, what anyone knows, and it’s easier for me simply to hide in my cottage, even with all the memories, to burrow into the sand and pretend the outside world—and Richard Burke—doesn’t exist. Call me childish. I don’t care. But that plan is all for naught when it is brought to me in my own home. Without calling first and even ascertaining that I am home— perhaps she talked to Rachel first, I don’t know—my mother breezes in one day with Amy in tow, ostensibly to check up on me. Am I being cynical about this, considering the level of her concern over the past few months? I don’t know. And yes, I do keep saying that quite a bit, don’t I? Frankly, right now I don’t know much of anything. She folds me into her arms as if nothing has happened between us, as if she hasn’t defected to the enemy camp and dedicated her life to eradicating the true nature of Maximillian Montague, cookie-stamping it into the new-and-improved heterosexual version. Amy sandwiches me between them—how uncomfortable!—and murmurs the appropriate words of sympathy and sorrow. How fucking hypocritical of both of them! And yet does Max say anything? No, Max does not, weakling that he is. Sometimes I simply despise myself. We sit in the library. Right now my whole life revolves around that one room, I think. My mother insists on making coffee for us, so I simply let her; it’s easier than arguing with her. While she’s in the kitchen, I sit uneasily with Amy, warily even. “Max, I’m so sorry,” she says, laying a sympathetic hand on my arm. I try not to be too obvious when I pull away from her, reaching behind her to straighten a book on the shelf. “I don’t know what got into Morgan. He’s not usually like that. I mean, well, I don’t know what to say.” “I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.” I try not to sound too stiff, but I have to question that she didn’t have some inclination of
To the Max
299
what was going on. After all, the bastard lived with her. Surely she saw them together at some time? Seriously. “I understand, Max.” She smiles at me, with those muddy brown eyes of hers looking at me like she is ready to pounce on me at any moment. Damn. I glance toward the kitchen. Where is my mother when I need her? Luckily, she has better timing than usual and brings in three cups of coffee on a tray. She sets the tray on the coffee table and takes her place on the other side of me. Once again I am sandwiched. “Max, I wish I knew what to say,” she says. Internally I am thinking “please don’t start, Mother.” “I’m so sorry, honey. I know you must be devastated. My poor baby.” She rubs my shoulders. It reminds me of when I was little and she would hold me in her arms after the full moon and tell me everything was going to be fine, and that she loved me. Honestly, I do love my mother, very much, even if I don’t seem like I do lately. And even if she sometimes acts like she is ashamed of me. But then she has to go and ruin the moment. “Terranova is concerned about you too.” Wrong thing to say, Mother. “We’d love to have you join us at church this weekend.” She hesitates for a moment. “There is something we’d like to discuss with you. Something important. You do know that Rachel comes every Sunday, don’t you?” Yes, I know that, but I also know that it’s not for any religious purpose. Rachel has been talking to Josiah King, in an attempt to ferret out information on the Right Reverend Fisher. Of course I don’t mention that. “I know. I’ll think about it,” I vacillate weakly, even though there is no way in hell I am ever going back to that church—at least not until Reverend T. Fisher is laid to rest there. That’ll be the day I’ll show up and do a victory dance around his coffin. And in the meantime I pray that she never brings him to my home, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her just that “I told Richard not to bother calling me anymore.” The abrupt change in subject startles me. “That you’re done with him and that he shouldn’t bother trying to come out here to see you, either.” “Mother, it’s still half his house,” I point out practically, though the idea of having to confront him leaves me both hot and cold at the same time. Why will my traitorous heart leap at the mention of his name one second, then fall broken and dying the next? I’m really
300
Julie Lynn Hayes
surprised that he has made no effort to get any of his things. All his equipment is here, so how can he be working? Not that I should care. And of course I don’t. I really don’t. How many times do you think I need to say that before I begin to believe it myself? Too many to think about…. “I knew it was a mistake back then, putting his name on the title.” My mother never lets anything alone. I sigh. “He helped pay for it; it seemed the thing to do,” I retort, wondering if the sarcasm will simply go over her head. “It was mostly your money,” she replies, and I don’t have the time, the inclination, nor the patience to argue with her, nor do I wish to produce financial records to indicate otherwise. It’s just not worth it. I know the truth, and so does Richard. Richard. Why do my thoughts continue to revolve around him when I should hate the very sound of his name, rather than grow weak at the knees when I hear it? I can’t even hate him properly, can I? Perhaps I should get lessons, take a correspondence course: How to Hate Your Ex 101. But then again, if I could, I guess I just wouldn’t be me. Le sigh. My mother rises suddenly and bustles out of the room again, saying she is hungry and will fix us all a quick snack. Amy takes advantage of her absence to place one of her hands on my knee, a bony arm around my shoulder, and I try not to show my repugnance at her proximity. She is just trying to be nice, isn’t she? Or is she? Does she have ulterior motives? Or am I simply too suspicious? “I want to help you through this, Max,” she is saying in what she probably considers to be friendly tones. I just think her voice is unpleasant, even though others have said she has a decent speaking voice. After all, she was once an actress. For what that’s worth. “I want to show you that I’m your friend,” she continues, “and always have been. Max, I want to be more than a friend to you.” Oh God, not again, does she never give up? I hear myself groan. What is it with her and her unhealthy fixation on me, an obviously gay male? “Don’t worry, I won’t rush you,” she reassures me, completely oblivious to my reaction to her declaration—how fucking nice of her. “Take your time, I understand.” And she pats the same knee in a most irritating manner that makes me want to slap her hand away. If Richard could see her, he would surely kill her, I know. Which only depresses me all the more,
To the Max
301
because he can’t. When my mother returns with a big bowl of popcorn and mugs of hot chocolate, she tells me not to be discouraged, the right person is out there for me, I’ll find her someday, etcetera, etcetera, emphasis on her, of course. I roll my eyes inwardly. Does she lead the Amy Banneker fan club now? Surely it’s not coincidental that they are singing the same theme song: how to change a gay boy into a straight boy with the use of the proper female. Do they think it’s just as simple as flipping a switch or getting up one day and announcing that henceforth I no longer wish to be known as gay? Once again I repeat: it is not a persuasion; it’s as genetic as hair color or eye color. The size of one’s feet or one’s intelligence. And it wouldn’t be a big deal if people didn’t make it out to be one. I often wonder, just what are homophobes really frightened of, anyway? And I am soooooooo tired of having to explain myself. Not to mention that I am just not in the mood. “I’m fucking gay,” I growl. “Mother, you gave birth to a gay child, face the facts. No more blind dates!” I abruptly exit the room, slam my bedroom door, leaving them open-mouthed and, at least momentarily, speechless. I can hear them talking amongst themselves – Mother making excuses and Amy protesting that none are necessary. They let themselves out, wisely remaining silent. Damn. At least I am rid of them at last. Maybe I shouldn’t complain; this is the longest time I’ve spent in my mother’s company in months where she hasn’t been ranting and raving at me and telling me that I am evil because I am gay. Then again, I have every right to complain, and I can’t say I’m sorry I did. I settle myself on the couch, my blanket around me, a book in my lap. What book? Hell if I know. After a few minutes of futilely staring at the page, I realize that I am not really seeing the words, that it is Richard’s image that obscures my vision, his face which fills my mind’s eye. I sigh and close the neglected tome, shut my eyes, and simply let my mind drift back to a certain blue-eyed blond. Max, you are so fucking weak. One minute you hate the man’s guts, the next you are sighing over him like a lovesick schoolboy. You say you never want to see him again, and yet who is on your mind every waking moment of every day, if not Richard Burke? Honestly! And after what he did to
302
Julie Lynn Hayes
you, after what you saw! Where is your pride, man? Have you no fucking shame? Luckily, before I can answer my own question, I hear Rachel pushing open the front door, her cheery voice calling out to me. “Max! I’m here!” She knows just where to find me, and it is mere moments before she enters the room and I am being caught up in her warm embrace. God, I don’t know what I’d do without Rachel. “Have a good day, sweetie?” she asks, although she is the one who has gone out into the real world while Max cowers in the safety of his home. “Mmmhmmm,” I respond, holding up the book to show her what I have been doing. “Guess who dropped in today?” She looks at me apprehensively, as if she is afraid to guess, so I fill in the blanks. “Mother and Amy.” She looks relieved; she was probably expecting me to say Richard. I so wish. No, I don’t. Yes, I do. God, I’m pathetic. “Did you have a nice visit?” she asks, curling up on the couch next to me, setting her briefcase on the floor beside the couch as she lays her head on my shoulder familiarly. “Yes, if by nice you mean talking about Reverend Fuckface and being invited to his church of torture for some big discussion on Sunday, and then being propositioned by the woman who can’t seem to get through her fucking head that I’m gay and if I weren’t, she is the last woman on earth I’d touch with someone else’s dick, excuse my French!” “Well,” she tries to laugh, “that wouldn’t be my definition of nice.” She reaches out and pats my cheek. “What do you feel like for dinner? Shit, I knew I should have been doing something other than sitting here daydreaming about the man who broke my heart! I make an attempt to rise from my place of hibernation, my leg muscles protesting at the unaccustomed movement as if they have no wish to support me any longer. “Don’t get up, Max. I’ll get it in a few minutes,” she protests, preventing me from rising. “Rach, I’m not crippled,” I point out, “and it’s not like I’m doing anything.”
To the Max
303
She just laughs at me as she adjusts the cushion she is leaning against in an attempt to make herself more comfortable. “Ouch, what is so lumpy?” she asks, frowning at something, and before I can stop her, she reaches behind the cushion and pulls out… “A shirt? What the heck?” I reach for it hastily and take it back into my possession, guiltily, as she gives me one of her infamous Rachel looks. “It’s one of his, isn’t it, Max?” she says knowingly. I nod slowly, holding it against me, not meeting her eyes, as if I’ve been caught doing something wrong. And yes, it’s one of Richard’s shirts, and it still has his scent on it, and I hold it at night and breathe him in. And yes, I know how pathetic that must sound, but there you go. “Oh Max!” Rachel sighs and just envelops me in her warmth. “Everything will work out, you’ll see!” I, on the other hand, am not so sure. Rachel glances at her watch. “Maybe I’ll pick up something on the way back,” she says finally, “I hadn’t realized how late it is. How does pizza sound?” “On the way back? From where?” “I told Josiah I’d meet him tonight, someplace not too far from the church.” “Why? What’s going on?” I frown. “I think he’s almost ready to tell me what we want to know,” she confides. “Cross your fingers, Max, that tonight is the night!” I dutifully cross my fingers for her, still clutching the shirt. She grabs at her purse from beside her briefcase and rummages in it to make sure her cell phone is still there. “Pizza okay?” she asks again. “Sure, sounds good,” I agree. “You should know what I like by now.” “I should, shouldn’t I?” She bends down and kisses my forehead tenderly. “I won’t be too long; we can watch a movie while we eat, so pick one out while I’m gone.” “Yes, ma’am,” I say obediently. She waves to me cheerily and flies out the door, and moments later I hear her engine start, and then she is on the road. I hope something comes of this. I would dearly love to know what
304
Julie Lynn Hayes
secrets lie behind the phony facade of Terranova Fisher. There is no doubt in my mind that he is as phony as a three dollar bill. And that somehow Amy and Morgan Arthur are suspect as well, I’m not sure why. Perhaps because they seem so thick. As thieves, as the saying goes. I settle back against the cushions of the couch, wrapping my comforter around me, hold his shirt up to my cheek, feeling the fabric texture against my skin, breathing in the traces of him that linger on it, and dream of what might have been. Still in love with Richard to the max. Why does it have to be this way?
To the Max
305
Chapter 26 Of Ministers and Men
EARLY morning. I am asleep on the couch, but I’ve worked myself into a position where I’m half hanging off of it for some reason, my arm draped over the side, my hand knuckle-dragging along the floor. Must be comfortable, I’m sleeping. But then my cell phone goes off, and it startles me so much that I end up rolling completely off and onto the floor. Good thing I have soft carpeting. I reach for it sleepily, without bothering to check the caller ID. I don’t function well when awakened unexpectedly, I’m afraid. “Max?” The familiar voice quickly brings me to full consciousness as I try to scramble back onto the couch, my heart thumping in my chest. I’d recognize it anywhere. For a long moment, I hold the phone to my ear, indecisive and very vacillating. Should I stay or should I go? “Max, it’s me. I’d like to talk—” The verdict is go. I quickly press the OFF button. Then wonder if I should have. Should I have given him a chance? Listened to his side of the story? I know how smooth he is; he can explain anything, given enough time. “Swan Lake” again. Here’s my opportunity. Do I take it or not? Not. I sigh as I simply turn the power off on my phone. I can’t do this. Not now. I’m just not ready. I wander out of the library, leaving the cell phone on the couch, clad only in my pajama bottoms, bare feet softly padding onto the porch, careful not to make too much noise with the front door lest I disturb Rachel’s slumber. I settle myself onto the swing, tucking my feet beneath me, curling up in one corner with my arms wrapped around the cushion, my chin on the armrest, gazing out into the woods that surround my home. The cheery song of the early bird fills the air as he seeks the elusive invertebrate. I envy him his happiness. I did what I
306
Julie Lynn Hayes
needed to do. Why then am I so unhappy? I am feeling old this morning, old and tired and very, very alone. I shouldn’t say alone, ’cause I’m not really. I have my friends and I have my family. I am just feeling sorry for myself, don’t pay attention to me. I’m not old. I’m not even fifty; I have a lot of years left in me, if I’m careful, even with my lycanthropy. But it’s just that I’ve been with Richard now for over half my life. He is so deeply ingrained in me, so imbedded in my heart, that… hell, I don’t know what. Just exactly why am I so upset with him? It’s not like I haven’t thought that scenes like that weren’t taking place when he was gone, that he wasn’t with strange men in strange places. What makes this time harder to bear? Because I know the other man? Because I actually saw them together, saw him with someone else for the first time? Does that actually make a difference in the scheme of things? Max, you’re weakening. I can see the signs. Why don’t you develop some self-respect? It isn’t right that he cheats on you, then comes back to you and carries on as if nothing has happened. Don’t you deserve to be treated with some respect, some dignity? Some fidelity? Have you ever cheated on that man or even considered the possibility? No, never. It’s not in my makeup, not part of who I am. Damn. I’m talking to myself. Perhaps I should just reserve a rubber room now, have a nice rest, no worries, no cares, no responsibilities. Who am I kidding? I would still think about him, even there. Why do I want him back so badly? Why do I just want to curl up in his arms and forget everything, forgive everything, and carry on with our lives? Take him back into our bed and get naked and sweaty and make love until I am sure that I am the only thing on his mind again, the only man in his life? To feel his lips on mine again, his arms wrapped around me, his body pressed up against mine… Max, quit it! Why am I torturing myself this way? I must truly be a glutton for punishment. Just because he has called me doesn’t mean that he is still in town, you know, or even still anywhere close by. After all, what is long distance for if not to reach out and touch someone? But somehow I know that he’s nearby; he isn’t far away, and if I would but give the
To the Max
307
word, he’d be here. It’s funny how sometimes when you think of your life with someone, the things you’ve done and shared together, how seemingly small things are magnified, how the times that you remember aren’t necessarily the major events or milestones, but just the little things, the silly things you did as a couple that the rest of the world wouldn’t even be interested in, but which are utterly fascinating to you. Like the time we were walking around the neighborhood in Webster Groves. We just wanted to get out of the house but didn’t have the money to go anywhere, and we came across a little girls’ handmade hopscotch game. Richard dared me to play it with him—how could I refuse? We laughed like escaped lunatics as we tossed small rocks across the colored chalk outline and made asses of ourselves all over someone else’s sidewalk. And then three little girls clad in jumpers poured out of the house, giggling, delighted to see us as they joined us in the game and showed us the finer points of hopscotch. Or the time we went to one of the many parks that grace St. Louis County and stood atop a footbridge that surmounted a small creek, enjoying the freedom of a temperate day in spring. We blew bubbles out of little plastic bottles, pursing our lips around little plastic wands and watching the iridescent balls float about in the gentle breeze as we tried to outdo one another to see who could blow the biggest bubbles, a strange sort of pissing contest indeed. And then there was the time we went to Chicago, just me and Richard, alone in the Windy City. Friday, March 21, 1980
SINCE our birthdays are only a day apart, we have always simply combined them into one date and celebrated them together. Logical, don’t you think? And since we’re together anyway, it has always worked out well for those people we’ve celebrated the occasion with. I still give him shit about being an entire year older than me, and he retorts that it isn’t an entire year as he was born on March 21, 1955, and I entered this world on March 20, 1956. I reply that it’s close enough to a year not to quibble about it. But he quibbles anyway.
308
Julie Lynn Hayes
For my twenty-fourth birthday, Richard’s twenty-fifth, my mother did something very unexpected. She gave us a joint gift: a weekend trip to Chicago. She paid for two airline tickets and reservations at the Ramada Inn on South Lake Shore Drive, within walking distance of the Museum of Science and Industry and a short drive from the Shedd Aquarium. She also gave us a little spending money. We were thrilled to death and delirious with excitement; neither one of us had ever flown before, we were getting to go to Chicago, something we had both wanted to do, staying in our own hotel room, and best of all someone else was paying for it! What more could we ask for? Mother booked us an early morning flight to give us more time to be there and enjoy the city, and she even drove us to Lambert airport herself so we wouldn’t have to park my car in the overnight lot. It wasn’t much of a flight between St. Louis and Chicago, maybe an hour in duration. But it was going to be one helluva hour ,we decided. Naturally, we couldn’t both get window seats, not and sit together, too, so we decided to take turns, flipping a coin for the privilege of going first. Richard won. Big surprise. I accused him of cheating, and he merely stuck out his tongue and told me not to be such a big baby. So what else could I do but pout? Which lasted all of two minutes, ’til he kissed my pout away. We then proceeded to settle ourselves on the plane, in our agreed-upon seats, gawking and rednecking at everything around us like we just fell off the damn turnip truck. There were three young stewardesses who were working that particular flight, and they were very sweet to us, as well as very attentive. Especially to Richard. I’d already noticed that women seemed drawn to my boyfriend like hummingbirds to nectar. Men, too, which didn’t sit as well with me. The women I could endure, knowing what I knew about my lover. The men were a different story, although to his credit he never acted as if he were interested in any of them or even noticed that they were attempting to gain his attention. He seemed to be rather oblivious to them, in fact. But I noticed. I sure as hell noticed. At this time of day, there weren’t a lot of people heading to Chicago, so the young stewardesses felt free to check on us a bit more often than might be expected for a one-hour flight. Can anyone say three-hour tour? If so, does that make me Gilligan? Or Mary Anne?
To the Max
309
And Richard Ginger perhaps? Okay, no sense in following that path, is there? After about half an hour of being in the air, discussing the things we intended to do when we got there, it was time to switch seats. Richard stood, moving over me so I could crawl under him and gain the window view, but instead of resuming my space, he kept going, turning to face me. “I’m going to the john,” he announced, rather unnecessarily, I thought. “Okay,” I replied, wondering if he was waiting for applause or permission. He caught my eye, motioning with his head toward the back of the plane, as if intimating that I should go too. “I’m good,” I insisted naïvely. Richard laughed, leaning over the empty seats between us so that I alone could hear him. “Wanna join the Mile High Club?” he whispered throatily. For a moment I just looked at him like he had taken leave of his senses. What the hell was he going on about? And then it suddenly came to me, and my eyes grew big. “You mean you want to… I mean… you and me… we….” “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. C’mon back, last one on the left.” He pursed his lips, blew me a kiss, and walked away without looking to see if I was following or not. Of course I followed him. Was there any doubt about that? He was already out of sight by the time that I got back to the aft compartment, or whatever the hell it is you call the back of the plane. When I knocked tentatively, hoping I’d picked the right door and that I wouldn’t be accused of being a pervert or something, it opened just enough for him to pull me inside the confines of the plane’s lavatory. And when I say confines, I am not exaggerating. I’ve seen pictures of prisons with bigger cells. The two of us barely fit in there together. I had to wonder how he thought we were going to do anything in there, but then I realized people did this all the time, so it must be possible. But desirable? To have sex in a bathroom? In an airplane? I was beginning to think that we had both gone ’round the bend big time, and perhaps this wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had, when he began to rub my crotch with the palm of his hand, catching my eye with his, and
310
Julie Lynn Hayes
suddenly I knew why I was there, and why I intended to stay. He caught my lips up with his; I surged against him, and in the youthful exuberance of our coming together we damn near fell over the chemical toilet. “Richard, you know you’re crazy, don’t you?” I managed to whisper, even as my cock grew harder at his touch, and I felt a rush of adrenaline from what we were doing, a sense of adventure in knowing that the other passengers on this plane were so close and so blissfully unaware of our activities. At least I assumed they were, not having paid any attention to who might have been looking when I wandered back. He ran his tongue lightly over my lips, and I grew weak at the knees, as usual, at his touch. I knew I would do whatever he asked of me, gladly, willingly, any time, any place—even in a cramped little bathroom thousands of feet in the air. I also knew we didn’t have a lot of time, as I did not intend to still be in there when the plane landed in Chicago. As if he read my mind, he unbuckled my belt, drawing my pants down around my knees, underwear, too, freeing my already stiff cock, which he began to stroke, at the same time one-handedly pushing his own pants down. There was a definite lack of finesse involved in what we were doing, nor time for any true preparation such as we were usually careful to do, but somehow I found myself being quite turned on despite that. “Turn around, babe,” he whispered, “I’m afraid we’ll have to forgo the missionary position for the sake of space.” Our favorite position, as we like to look into one another’s eyes, watch each other’s expressions. “Did you think to bring lube?” I questioned him as I turned away from him, bracing myself with my hands against the wall over the toilet. In reply, I saw him reach for the bottle of hand soap that sat on the edge of the tiny sink, and I could only imagine what he intended to do with it, which became most evident when I felt his slick cock begin to poke between my ass cheeks. He encouraged me to spread my legs a little more, leaning against me, his hand snaking around me to reach my own cock, which he continued to stroke, his fingers splaying around my balls. I tried to keep from whimpering too much, having no idea how soundproof this place was and not wanting to provide the in-flight entertainment.
To the Max
311
I felt the head of his cock probing about my love hole, so I pushed back against him, as if by dint of sheer willpower I could encourage it to find its way inside, and was rewarded when I felt the pop as it pushed past the ring of muscles of my sphincter. He thrust himself inside in one fell swoop, and I gasped, feeling the air suddenly leave my lungs as I took him in his entirety. “Oh yeah!” he breathed huskily into my ear, his breath so hot, his tongue so moist as he licked my earlobe. I leaned my head back against his, shivering at his touch, moaning softly. He bucked up inside of me, hard, so hard that I damn near lost my balance, and he had to grab my hips to stabilize me, not that there was any place to really fall, but it would have been painful nonetheless. Not to mention embarrassing. “Again!” I demanded breathlessly, and he obliged me. I twisted my neck so that we were face-to-face, and I took his lips with mine, nipping at his sharply, feeling the moisture bead lightly in the little cleft of his upper lip. It would have been a lot easier had we both not had our pants hanging down around our legs, hindering us, but there was also luckily nowhere to go. He pulled me back against his hips as he continued to plunge his hotness inside of me; with as little traction as he had, he was doing a damn fine job of it, to the point where I was becoming inured to our surroundings. He moved his hand back to my neglected cock, which was oozing pre-cum already, smeared it in his palm, and stroked it in time to the pounding he was giving my insides. I bit his lip so hard I drew blood, but neither one of us noticed as it trickled into my mouth. Harder now, harder—oh yes, oh yes, oh yes—more I wanted more, more, more! “Richard,” I moaned, his name a familiar repetition against his lips. I could tell he was becoming lost in the driving rhythm of our bodies as he continued to pound me mercilessly. I tightened my muscles around him, squeezed his cock tightly, which only set him off more. I knew I was close, and I knew that he was too; I already knew his body well enough to know the signs. “Oh baby, in me, in me, in me,” I began to chant as an encouragement for his release. Suddenly he exploded. I could feel the warmth of his ejaculation as his cock spasmed inside of me, releasing streams of his milky fluids deep within. He bit down on my neck as he came, smothering his usual need to cry out, and that drove me into my own release, all over his fist
312
Julie Lynn Hayes
and the tail of my shirt. Good thing we brought extra clothes, I remember thinking. We stood there for a minute, catching our collective breaths, not wishing to move. Not yet. Richard kissed my neck tenderly and licked the spot he had sunk his teeth into. “Congratulations, we are now both members of the Mile High Club.” I chuckled as I straightened myself up so he could withdraw from me, and then I pulled up my pants and did up the belt. “Congratulations to us,” I replied. “But we better get back to our seats before we land, don’t you think? And don’t think I don’t realize that I just lost my whole turn at the window, or that I won’t get it for the return flight.” “I thought we’d spend the return flight in the john,” Richard laughed. Regular comic, he is. I glanced in the mirror and set myself to rights as much as possible. The swollen lips I could do nothing about, but I doubted anybody would even notice. “Like hell,” I replied, even though I knew if that was what he wanted, that’s what we would do. “I’ll go out first, then you. Look casual, will you, not like the cat that swallowed the canary?” “But I didn’t swallow a thing,” he protested. “Not yet, anyway.” “Hardy har, you’re so funny.” I kissed the tip of his nose before I exited the lavatory, looking around carefully. No one was paying any attention. I walked casually down the aisle, as if I had been up to nothing more the usual bathroom business, slid into my seat, and picked up one of the magazines out of the pocket on the back of the seat before me. One of the stewardesses, a perky brunette who had been most attentive to Richard, approached and leaned over the seats to address me with her professional smile. “We’re going to make our approach soon, if you’d fasten your seat belt, please.” She glanced at the empty seat beside me. It didn’t take a Kreskin to figure out what she was thinking. “In the bathroom,” I volunteered. At that moment, up strolled loverboy, and she became very flustered, trying to get out of his way so he could resume his seat, turning quite red when she managed to press her boobs against his chest—accidentally, I’m sure. She almost tripped
To the Max
313
in her embarrassment. I gave Richard a look when he sat down. “What?” he asked innocently. “Nothing.” I shook my head. “Just buckle up before she offers to do that and tries to cop a feel.” He laughed but did as he was told anyway. As we were exiting the plane a short time later, the three young stewardesses individually passed him their phone numbers on slips of paper which, as soon as he entered the terminal, Richard tossed carelessly into the trash. To my complete satisfaction, of course. Chicago was fabulous, and the three days and two nights we spent there were incredible. The hotel was great; our bed was certainly comfortable. Or beds, actually, as we got a room with two double beds in it and slept in one each night, although I’m sure the maid realized we only used one at a time. Being alone and on our own was exciting, like discovering a new world, one in which only the two of us existed. It made us yearn even more for our own home, which, at that point, was only about a year away, although we didn’t realize it. We played games in our room, as you can well imagine, and we played games out of it. For example, the elevator game. There were four elevators, two and two, in a hallway near the main lobby. And thirty-three floors in the hotel. We would each take a separate elevator and push a floor at random, and then when the doors opened we would wait to see if the other one had chosen the same floor. Of course, with all the possibilities, that didn’t happen very often. But when we did, we got together again in one elevator, went down to the first floor, and then up to the top, kissing the whole time, before starting the game over again. We also went to the Museum of Science and Industry, which is a very hands-on place, and touched and fiddled with everything that we could find, and visited the aquarium, with its multitude of fascinating creatures, holding hands as we toured its dark interior. Not that we were afraid to show that we were together, but we were always aware that there those who disapproved of our relationship. Some were vocal about it, and we’ve been called a few nasty names in our time—faggot, queer, and pervert being just a few— while others simply glared their disapproval. And if you remember
314
Julie Lynn Hayes
anything about Richard, you’ll recall that he doesn’t back down from a challenge, and he gives as good as he gets, which has resulted in a few fights over the years. With others, I mean, not between ourselves. And luckily those have been few and far between. And at the other end of the spectrum there have been people like the little old lady who approached us as we were sitting together on a park bench one summer day, watching the ducks swim in the pond, feeding popcorn to the ones that were brave enough to come close to us. I had one leg looped over Richard’s, and my head was on his shoulder, our fingers twined together in one lap, very content and very happy, when she came and sat down beside us, a colorful sight was she, in a pink-striped dress with a frilly matching parasol, like she had just walked off the boardwalk of Atlantic City. She began to converse with us both, talking about her late husband and their lives together and asking us questions about ourselves. She smiled at us the whole time she talked, very warm, very gentle, and when she left, which we were sorry to see as she had been very nice to talk to, she exhorted us to always be good to one another and she hoped we would always be as much in love with one another as she could see we were now. We always have been. Even now, I still love him. I’m still hopelessly, madly, deeply in love with Richard Burke. If I weren’t, this wouldn’t hurt so bloody much.
I AM roused from my melancholy reverie by the sound of the screen door squeaking indignantly open. Rachel bursts out on the porch in her robe and slippers, orange hair sleep-tousled. “Max, there you are!” She sounds relieved. “I was looking for you. Get dressed. We gotta get going.” “Going? Where? Why?” I have no plans to go anywhere today, and as far as I know, neither does she. “Josiah just called. We’re going to pick up Juliet and meet him at the church.” “What the hell for?” I whine. All I want is to be left to brood, and I certainly don’t want to go to his church. “I don’t know, but I think this is what we’ve been waiting for.”
To the Max
315
Rachel takes my hand to get me to move off the swing. I grudgingly rise. “He said it will be well worth our while to go and to be prepared for anything.” I can’t imagine what “anything” might be. What, are they baking marijuana-laced goodies for bake sales? Torturing little animals? Conducting satanic rituals? But I can see that Rachel is determined, and when she gets like this, there is just no use in arguing with her. This better be worthwhile, I’m thinking as I pull on my clothes as quickly as I can, having told Rachel I can manage when she tries to follow me into the library, where I usually get dressed and undressed. And within a very few minutes I join her out front. She is already dressed and sitting in her car, the engine running, just waiting for me. I hop in and we take off. First stop, my mother’s house. I wonder what she thinks is going on and what she expects to find? And for the first time, I feel sorry for her, because I have a feeling this is not going to be pleasant for her at all. At least I will be here for her, and whatever it is, we can handle it together. I hope. When she opens the back door and gets in, I look at her in surprise. I had intended to give up the shotgun position for her, not to make her sit in the backseat. She waves me off, saying, “No, you and Rachel sit together, that’s fine.” What, Matchmaking: The Next Generation? Throw enough females at Max and maybe one will latch onto him like Velcro? Jeez! But I set that aside for now. No time to deal with that, nor inclination. Rachel drives like she is a pace car driver for the Indianapolis 500, like she is afraid that if we are too slow, we will miss it. Whatever it is. I turn to face my mother, but her features are impossible to read, and I have no idea what she might be thinking. I’m also afraid to ask. I can’t help but feel that one of us is going to be hurt here today, and it’s most likely going to be her. Unless I am totally wrong in my thinking about Terranova Fisher, and maybe he can explain away whatever we are about to see with his silver tongue. We’ll see. We park about a block from the church. Rachel says that it’s at Josiah’s instructions. We are to go into the church and go back to Terranova’s office, and the truth will be revealed. His words. So we approach the rented building stealthily on foot. Why am I reminded of The Dirty Dozen all of a sudden? Does that make Reverend Fisher the
316
Julie Lynn Hayes
insane Maggott? Step one, go to the church…. I shake the image and have a random thought that John Cassavetes is cute before concentrating once more on what we are doing. There are two cars in the parking lot, but at opposite ends of the asphalt, as if they have some sort of antipathy to one another. Or don’t wish to be seen together? Okay, maybe something is going on, something that bears looking into? We make sure we cannot be seen from the window we know houses the office of the Right Reverend Fisher—at least the one he is using temporarily—as we bypass the front door and end up at the back. Which is locked. Now what? But Rachel is not perturbed, not in the slightest. She reaches into her purse and produces a single key. “Josiah gave it to me,” she says softly, “last night. We’re to go to the office and not make a sound.” I nod my agreement. My mother says not a word, bobs her head, her lips pressed tight, as if she is waging some sort of inner battle of her own. I lay my hand on her arm, try to squeeze it comfortingly, catch her eye, and let her know that I am here for her. She returns my glance with one of her own and pats my hand, as Rachel quietly unlocks the door. And we enter. The Masonic Temple-cum-church is eerily silent, even more hushed than usual. Not even the heavenly choir is singing today, or any of the canned music he usually regales his congregation with. Rachel places her finger to her lips in the universal signal for quiet—as if we didn’t know that already—as we move with one accord in the direction of the office. The door is closed; we hadn’t expected otherwise. But luckily not locked as we discover when Rachel tries the handle carefully. How did she ever learn to do that without making any noise? Me, I would have signaled our presence by now. Or fallen over something. This is it, no turning back now. Either we walk in and catch Fisher in the act of something truly heinous, illegal, immoral, or just plain disgusting, or we make complete and utter asses of ourselves for walking in like this. One way or another, it isn’t going to be pretty, I think. I mentally prepare myself for anything and everything. I think I have considered all the possibilities in my waking mind a hundred times on the drive over here—
To the Max
317
Except for this. This surprises me as much as it does Rachel, and it certainly surprises my mother. Let me begin by saying that the office where the Reverend Fisher spends his time between sermons is on the small side, but suitable for his needs. It contains a desk, a couple chairs, a table, a file cabinet, a small bookcase, as well as a cot for those times when he spends the night in the church for whatever reason. I have never really understood why, myself, but frankly, I also don’t care. As I understand it, he spends most nights with my mother, and that, too, is too much information as far as I am concerned. When we enter the room the first thing we see is that no one sits behind the desk. Or at the table. Or in either chair. But the cot is quite occupied, yes, indeed, its occupants being none other than Terranova Fisher and Josiah King. Both stark naked. And, to put it as delicately as I can, they are joined together at the reverend. King is on the bottom, on his hands and knees, Fisher on top, his dark eyes closed—whether in concentration or so that he won’t have to look at what he is doing, I can’t say. But however you want to put it, he is fucking Josiah King, let there be no doubt about that. Looking like he is enjoying it, too, his usually impassive features seem contorted into a state that might even resemble ecstasy. To say that we are surprised is a decided understatement. Shocked doesn’t do it, either. My first thought is “You hypocritical bastard!” as my jaw drops to the floor. Then I think to look at my mother. She has blanched into such a colorless state that I am afraid she will collapse any moment. Her eyes, though, her eyes are blazing with a hellish light, as if a fire has suddenly been lit inside of her. Uh oh, I know that look, and it doesn’t bode well for the hapless Reverend Fisher. They heard us enter, but it’s a little hard to stop certain things in the middle without hurting oneself, this I know. But the reverend manages to pull himself out of Josiah’s ass—literally—make a grab for his black trousers, which hang nearby, and struggle to pull them on before he says anything. Josiah takes a light sheet from the cot and simply drapes it over himself. Of course he isn’t surprised—he arranged this, did he not?—and in his eyes I see a certain light of selfsatisfaction, even as I wonder what his motives are. “What the devil is going on here?” Terranova begins to bluster,
318
Julie Lynn Hayes
trying to gain the upper hand in the situation. Not happening. With one swift move, my mother’s own hand has risen to the occasion. She slaps that man. She slaps him hard, not once, but twice, for good measure. “You fraud!” she says in a voice I find amazingly controlled considering the circumstances. “You great hypocritical fraud!” “Juliet, let me explain,” Fisher says futilely, but he adds nothing else, holding his cheek as he attempts to assuage her. “Explain what? Explain that while you’ve been telling me how wrong and immoral my son is for his lifestyle, and how you want to help him, help us both, so that we can be a family, so that you can marry me, which you can’t do without Max being saved first, all this time you’ve been telling me how wrong Max is for being gay, and yet here I find you engaging in the same sort of behavior that you condemn him for? If it’s so wrong for Max, how can it be so right for you? That is hypocrisy of the highest order, and I can’t believe I’ve been blind to it all this time. And damn stupid.” At this point, the minister’s gaze turns to me. His eyes are angry and tumultuous, his face a fiery red. I return his look without flinching. I see no reason to say anything, Mother is doing just fine. Rachel obviously feels the same way, too, as she remains silent. This is Juliet Montague’s show now, no doubt about it. “I guess that I’m proof that there’s no fool like an old fool,” my mother continues. “You’d think I would know better, at my age, but I guess not. However, unlike others, I will learn from my mistake. As of this moment, in case you can’t guess, we are through. I don’t want to see or hear from you ever again. You will not call; you will not come to my home or bother anyone that I love ever again. Especially my son. He is worth far more than you’ll ever understand or appreciate. He, unlike you, is a good man, although you’ve managed to blind me to a few things over the past few months. Well, no more. I don’t care what you’re doing or why you’re doing it. Obviously, it is human nature, isn’t it, and not an abomination, as you so often told me? Which makes my son as human and right as you are. And if he’ll forgive me, I want to tell him how much I regret how badly I’ve treated him.” Here she turns toward me, and for the first time, her voice shakes with emotion and her eyes look moist. Of course I forgive her. I love her. She and I embrace, and all I can think of is that it’s over, it’s truly over, and
To the Max
319
maybe life can get back to the way it was. Well, mostly the way that it was. Still Richardless, I’m afraid. “Juliet, no, please, let me talk to you,” the right screwed reverend attempts, trying to come into the middle of this mother and son reunion, but she will have none of it. She finishes hugging me before letting go, gathers herself with dignity, and says to me and Rachel, “Let’s get out of here now, before I get ill.” And as the three of us exit his office, my little spitfire of a mother turns to face Terranova Fisher for the last time, and I will never forget her final words to him. Not words of great wisdom or humor or anything else, but raw emotion and very expressive: “Fuck off!” And then we are outta there. That’s my mom! I would love to be a fly on the wall and know what happens after we leave, but perhaps Rachel can get that out of Josiah later. Will they carry on where they were before the coitus interruptus? Or will Fisher realize that Josiah had something to do with what happened and ream him out for it? Ha ha, pun intended. And that is assuming that Rachel is even going to talk to Josiah anymore. After all, she’s accomplished what she set out to do; she has unmasked the reverend for what he really is, a bisexual male who merely pretends to be homophobic while indulging his appetite for members of the same sex, and yes, another pun intended. “Mother, I’m sorry,” I attempt to console her as we walk back to the car. “No, Max, I’m the one that should be sorry.” She stands beside Rachel’s vehicle while Rach unlocks it and faces me with an expression of deep regret in her eyes. “I haven’t been much of a mother to you, have I?” she says, her voice holding an edge to it I’ve never heard before. “No, that’s not true,” I protest, but she cuts me off. “Yes, it’s very true. All these years I’ve been trying to get you to change what you are, thinking I was doing it for your own good. But that’s not true. It was for me, because I didn’t understand you, so I tried to change you. I didn’t see what I have because of my own blindness. Max, you’re a wonderful son, a great human being, and I am so very proud of you and what you’ve done with your life. And you’ve got the most loving heart of anyone I know. I wouldn’t really want you to change for the world. And if that means your loving Richard, well, then
320
Julie Lynn Hayes
I wouldn’t change that, either, ’cause it’s who you are. And who he is. And the two of you belong together. Oh Max, I’m so sorry….” I don’t remember the last time I saw my mother cry, but the tears are spilling down her cheeks as if a sluice has been opened, and I hasten to comfort her, and I can’t help but cry a bit, too, and there we are standing on the street, sobbing together, while Rachel patiently waits for us to be done before handing us both Kleenex from her purse, and then we head back out to St. Charles once more. Wow. What a difference a day makes. Isn’t it ironic? Now Mother and I have something in common. We’ve both seen the man we love in the grip of another man. Small world, isn’t it? I can’t help but wonder what comes next? Or maybe I’m just being melodramatic here and life will go on, the same as it ever was. We got rid of Reverend Fuckface. Thrilled to the max and dancing around the fucker’s grave—well, mentally, that is!
To the Max
321
Chapter 27 What You See Isn’t Always What You Get…
MY MORNINGS normally begin with wet kisses from Principessa. I’ve placed her bed near my temporary haven in the library, and every day when she decides it is time for breakfast, she jumps up on me and lets me know it, at first with her tongue on my nose, but if that doesn’t seem to sufficiently gain my attention, she has no hesitation in becoming vocal. I’ve learned that it’s no use at all to ignore her; she only grows louder, so now she has me trained to just get up and give in rather than prolong the inevitable. I stumble to the bathroom, clattering spaniel in my wake, do my business, then go straight to the kitchen to fix the princess’s meal, a mixture of rice and dry food. I make the rice myself in large quantities which I only have to reheat to take the chill off it, add a little gravy for flavor, and stir it into the kibble. She wags her perky tail in appreciation, and I then proceed to brew myself a pot of coffee to get my own heart started. Rachel is usually gone by this time, and there is often a note for me next to the clean cup she leaves out for me on the kitchen table, telling me her schedule for the day, reminding me to eat and to call her at some point, and invariably ending with “I love you, Max.” She makes me smile in spite of myself. Then once I am sure that I am fit to face the world, I am off to work. Well, to my laptop, anyway. As much of the world as I see any more, hiding out here in my cottage in the woods, sure that I am safe from unwanted intrusion from quarters best not heard from. But I am so very wrong. I log onto the Internet, type in my e-mail information. Okay, how many new pieces of mail today? On an average day, I can accumulate five to ten overnight, which isn’t too bad, as I don’t give this address out to very many people. But today I see fifty! What the hell? I don’t recognize the return address, so I open one, and then it hits me. Three guesses who it’s from. Who they are all from. He’s merely
322
Julie Lynn Hayes
assumed a number of aliases to get under my radar, but they all contain the same basic message: Max, I love you, we need to talk, please…. Oh dear God, what am I going to do? Please, please, please, give me strength and wisdom. Should I, should I, should I… Should I respond? Should I agree to talk to him, hear him out, take a chance on having my heart stepped on again? I want to, I really want to, but I am so afraid. I am still too weak, too fragile to resist. I’ll bend before him like the spineless creature that I am, give in to everything, forgive everything, and never make myself heard, never say the things that need to be said that eat away at my soul on a daily basis. I have rights too. I have a heart. Am I ready to have him break it again? I take a deep breath, and I count to ten. And then I simply click delete and send all of his messages crashing into the trash bin, where they cannot haunt me any longer, although I know they will anyway. I have a stack of mail that Rachel has brought home from the office the day before, and I sit in my fortress of solitude—a.k.a. the library—coffee close at hand, as I read and sort them into piles for answering, assigning them priority codes. A=top priority, B=urgent, but not as, C=handle soon, D=whenever I have the time, and L is for the loonies who don’t really have a problem but are making random observations, anything from comments on previous writers to proposals of marriage. I save these in a file for the police—in case anything ever happens to me, they should check out these people first. I’m not kidding. Some of them are downright scary. Left to my own devices, I would lazily lounge about in my pajamas, but around here, especially lately, you never know who might drop in unexpectedly, so I dress each day as if I am going to the office, but casually. Jeans and T-shirts, most likely. I sit in the big comfortable armchair in the library—Richard’s favorite chair, if truth be told, where we’ve spent many an hour squeezed together, engaged in various pursuits—and read over the letters, formulating answers in my head before I go to the computer to type them in, format my column, and send it to Rachel. I am invariably ahead of myself, and I keep track of what I have sent her, prioritizing each day which letters to send out. I do the same with all the other papers I am syndicated in. Actually, Rachel takes charge of that for me. She acts as an unofficial agent for me. “Unofficial” in that I don’t pay her anything, not like she would
To the Max
323
accept it, but official enough that she can negotiate terms for me, which she has done and which is why I am doing as well as I am now. Which is very comfortably well, indeed. Between me and Richard, we have more than enough income for our needs and to enable us to play when we like, such as to take our trips to our favorite spots around the world, particularly Greece, and to spoil one another to our heart’s content. Well, that’s the way that it was, obviously, not the way it is. I can’t seem to keep from talking about Richard, can I? Or thinking about him. Down to business. First letter. This one’s from a woman who has gotten rid of her faithless lover, yet misses him so much she is thinking of taking him back and wants to know if she is being foolish. Damn. I drop the letter in my lap and sigh. I can’t even concentrate on work. Everything reminds me of him. All roads lead to Richard. I am interrupted in my somber musings by a knock at the front door. Who now? I wonder as I begrudgingly answer it, only to find a floral delivery person holding a bouquet of blood red roses in a vase, surrounded by delicate baby’s breath. She regards me with a cheery smile. “Max Montague?” she asks. “Yes, that’s me.” She hands me the flowers and tells me to have a good day, whistling as she returns to her delivery vehicle and exits the scene. Curiously, I look at the flowers, spotting a small white envelope in the midst of the blooms, which I pick up and peruse: “Max, I love you.” Nothing more. But I would know that handwriting anywhere. I carry the vase back into the library. Did you really think that maybe I’d just throw it away? Be serious. I find a place for it where I can regard it from my throne, keeping the card, as if through it I can feel the essence of him that he left there when he wrote his brief missive. Yes, I do know how to spell pathetic—M-A-X—you don’t need to tell me. Okay, I need to concentrate now. Maybe another letter. This one is from a man who just found out his lover has AIDS, and he isn’t sure if he’s been faithful to him or not and wonders if he should be tested. Damn. I throw that one down, too. It brings up too many unanswered questions, and it’s something that Rachel has mentioned to me before.
324
Julie Lynn Hayes
She tells me that considering Richard’s track record, I’d be foolish not to be tested. And yet for some obscure reason which even I don’t understand, I never have. And I never discussed it with him, even in the abstract. But I know that all gay men should; it’s just a part of life. Damn him anyway, for putting me in this position to begin with. What the…? The door again. I lay the letters down and answer the knock. A different delivery truck is parked outside, and a young man in uniform is holding a dozen tulips, queen of the night, in fact. He hands them to me and makes a speedy departure. I withdraw into the house, find the card. “Max, I need you.” My heart lurches in my chest. What exactly is he up to? Whatever it is, it doesn’t stop any time soon. This same scene is repeated at various intervals throughout the day until the house begins to resemble an elaborate flower shop. Flowers of all color and description from roses to carnations, tulips to lilies, and even birds of paradise—how hard those must have been to find, I’ll grant him that. Each with a card containing variations on a theme in my Richard’s own fine scrawl: “Max, I [insert here: need, want, love, have to talk to, want to see, can’t live without] you.” I swear if I get just one more bouquet, I am going to scream. There goes the door, right on cue. I hold back the scream until I see what kind of flowers these are and throw open the door in exasperation. Then I swallow whatever I was going to say, for it’s Cat, not any delivery driver. And in her hands is not flowers, but candy. A big, big box of chocolate candy. “Mind some company, sweetie?” she asks. I hug her tightly before letting her in. “If it’s you, any time,” I reply. She gawks at all the flowers that have accumulated in the living room alone. “Wow, what did you do, rob the Brinks floral truck?” “No,” I sigh, “let’s go to the library, and I can show you more. Want something to drink? Coffee, soda, tea?” “Tea, please,” she says, and I leave her to make her own way there while I get her tea and my coffee. By the time I get back, she has gotten a good look at the blossoms that simply fill the room—to the max—and has found the pile of
To the Max
325
Richard’s cards where I have left them. Sad little me, reading and rereading them, as if by doing so and by dint of wishful thinking, it would cause my lover to magically appear before me, a variation on rubbing the lamp and out pops the genie, I guess. But she makes no snide observations. Cat would never do anything like that. “Max,” Cat says abruptly, no preamble, turning to me as she takes the tea from my less than steady hand. “I think you should see Richard.” This is totally unexpected. Other than Maggie, everyone else has advised me to keep as far away from Richard Burke as possible. I wave her to the couch and sit down beside her. “Why?” “Because I think there has been a terrible misunderstanding here,” she begins, laying her unoccupied hand on my knee gently. “Misunderstanding? I know what I saw, Cat. How could I have misunderstood him with his hands down that little bastard’s pants and their lips pressed together as if they were trying to swallow each other’s tongues, for Christ’s sake.” I frown as images of the scene come unbidden to my mind. Nothing I really wish to recall. Cat hesitates, as if fearful of disturbing me. She always has such a kind heart. But she continues inexorably. She has a point to make and she is determined to make it, whether I wish to hear it or not. For my own good, I know, as that is ever her way. “Yes, but appearances can be very deceiving, Max.” A thought crosses my mind. “Have you talked to him?” I tremble even as the words leave my lips. “Have you seen him?” “Not seen him, no, but talked to him, yes,” Cat admits. “I called him, in fact.” That surprises me even more. “You called him? Why?” Not that she doesn’t have the right to talk to anyone she wants to, of course. But it is standard etiquette when a couple splits that friends tend to side with their original friends, and I consider Cat first and foremost my friend, not Richard’s. I know. It sounds even more childish as I write it. “Because I wanted to compare his perception of what happened with yours,” she says simply, “and then I talked to anyone and everyone that ever might have seen them together, as well as those people that I could find that actually know Morgan, so I could get the
326
Julie Lynn Hayes
big picture.” “What big picture did you get?” I ask, my heart aching terribly. “Max, I don’t think Richard had any idea of what he was doing,” she blurted out, like she wanted to get the message through to me as quickly as possible. “What?” I can’t think of anything better to say at the moment than that, I’m afraid. Her words make no sense to me, although would that they were true. She takes a sip of the tea while it is still warm, sets it aside, and takes both my hands in hers. “Max, I’ve been doing some research. It’s what I do after, all, you know, besides working at the bookstore and taking care of Sebastian. And what is my specialty, Max?” she asks, as if she is giving a lesson to a student. “Ancient Greece, myths and legends,” I promptly reply. “Yes, it is,” she praises me gently. “Okay, so bear with me, because there are some who might find my story a little fantastic. You, on the other hand, Max, know better than many that there are people in this world who are not what they seem to be.” Her eyes meet mine. My heart is simply pounding a mile a minute. “Of course,” I state the obvious, thinking of my lycanthropy. And the vampires I have met. And I am sure there are other beings beyond my ken that I have yet to meet. “I know that you know who the Muses are, of course.” “Of course.” I nod, wondering where in the world this is leading. “Be patient, Max, please, I’m getting there.” Almost as if she can read my mind. “There is a legend that says that Calliope, the muse of epic poetry, mated with the sea god Phorcys and that the result of that union were creatures known as sirens.” She pauses to give me a chance to catch up, and I nod that I am familiar with what she is talking about. “The sirens were supposedly a race of birds who possessed the bodies of women. They lived at sea and would lure unwary sailors to their deaths, calling to them, enticing them with their beautiful, intoxicating music. One of the most famous examples of the sirens can be found in the Odyssey. Odysseus stopped up the ears of his crew with melted wax that they not succumb to the sirens’ alluring cry, but he had himself lashed to the mast of his ship that he might listen to them, and
To the Max
327
once he heard their call he desperately tried to jump into the sea to reach them. Luckily his men prevented his doing this, and as the ship drew farther and farther from the source of the sound, Odysseus, too, was released from their spell.” She pauses again, waiting to see if I have any questions thus far. I confess I am totally baffled by now. “I’m pretty sure Richard hasn’t been to sea lately,” I say with a lame attempt at humor. “Max, that’s not what I was getting at,” she gently reprimands me. “I’m sorry, please go on,” I say contritely. “As you well know, myths and legends often contain enough real information that if you search hard enough you can find a kernel of truth in the midst of the drama. The more I listened to you, and then to Richard, and to the others, it just seemed to me—especially after that scene in the kitchen at the Fourth of July—that Richard wasn’t himself. I mean, Max, he’s loved you for over twenty years, honey, hasn’t he? Except for those times when he is absent, has he ever given you cause to doubt him, reason to mistrust him?” “Other than those times? No,” I say, a trifle hesitantly. Weren’t those times bad enough? “He says Morgan wasn’t in the kitchen with him, and yet you saw him?” I nod. “Yes, I damn well saw him. How could he not? He was right there, and yet he seemed to be telling me the truth….” “As he saw it?” Cat finishes my sentence. I nod once more. “Okay, bear with me a little while longer, please, Max?” Her eyes beg my indulgence. How can I not give it? “As you know, there are people with perceptions of things that go beyond what is normal for most of us. ESP and the like? And some evidence suggests that their abilities might even be a genetic trait which is passed down in certain families, like intelligence. Or lack thereof.” She grins at this, and I can’t help but smile a little bit at her humor. “While there may be no real ‘bird’ sirens, there are people who possess a certain power of attraction which is greater than most people, almost like a talent which they can turn off and on at will. These people
328
Julie Lynn Hayes
often manifest these so-called powers in various ways, and they are often to be found in walks of life such as modeling, sales, and even prostitution, and film. Evidence suggests that some of them use hypnosis as part of this attraction and through generations of practice have the ability to use it as adeptly as other people play the piano or sing. It becomes second nature to them, and they can wind other people about their fingers with ease, so to speak.” Cat is in full lecture mode now, hitting her stride. “Cat, what are you trying to say?” I think I see the point, but it sounds so fantastic that I want to hear her say it aloud. “I am saying that I think Morgan Arthur is such a one—a siren— that he comes from such a family, and Amy is one, too, but a weak one, while he is an adept siren, and that he hypnotized Richard into doing what you saw,” she concludes, watching me for some sort of reaction. To say that I am stunned is putting it mildly. I feel as if I have slipped into a sudden state of shock. Richard might not be responsible for what I saw? It might have actually been against his will? Then why not say so? Because you haven’t even talked to him, my sensible mind suggests, you’ve pushed him away ever since it happened, never given him a chance to say one word…. Oh dear God, am I totally in the wrong here, when I was positive that I was the aggrieved party? Have I condemned my lover unjustly? In all fairness, I had the evidence of my eyes to support my allegations. But suddenly these do not seem like near enough. “But why?” I demand to know. “For what reason?” “Max, remember when Amy set you up all those years ago in that hotel room?” Of course I do. “Yes, but that was Amy, and that was me.” I don’t understand. “Yes, well, I think after all these years she’s changed her tactics. She realized she had to get rid of Richard first, so that you would be alone and vulnerable, maybe turn to her for comfort. So who better for the job than her own nephew, who just happens to be…?” “A siren?” I finish her sentence for her. Cat nods. “It’s been Amy calling the shots from day one, I think. She recommended Richard to Morgan to take his portfolio, made sure
To the Max
329
that they got together. Probably promised that it would be worth his while to help her, I don’t know. Maybe she said he could have Richard, if he wanted. The point is, she did it to get to you. The same song and dance she’s been doing since she first met you, isn’t it?” I swallow hard. Thoughts whirl through my brain in an utter confusion. Amy, why does it always come back to Amy? And why does she seem to want me so bloody badly? I don’t get it. I honestly don’t. “Oh Cat,” I moan softly, “if what you say is true, then I’ve done Richard a great disservice. I don’t know what to say or do.” “Talk to him, listen to him,” she suggests, “and then let your heart be your guide.” She reaches out and folds me into her arms, and I sob my heart out, thinking that I have hurt Richard, and very unnecessarily. Feeling shitty to the max. Is this true, and if so, what am I going to do about it?
330
Julie Lynn Hayes
Chapter 28 Max’s Odyssey
MY FIRST impulsive inclination is to take the Monte and search for Richard. Fall at his feet and beg his forgiveness. Plead with him to take me back. Swear my undying allegiance to him, and to us. To our relationship. But that is an impractical notion at best as I have no idea where he may be. Besides which, it isn’t quite that easy. There are more issues involved here than this, issues that have to be dealt with first, for once and for all. Okay, so maybe he’s innocent here and now, but what about the other times over the past twenty some-odd years? What about those? Nameless, formless men that haunt my heart and cause me great pain, not to mention raise vast amounts of self-doubt within my psyche. Can he explain those away to my satisfaction? And more importantly, will he? Secondly, I need to think long and hard about this. I need to be more rational, tell my heart to stand aside, and let my brain come into play. For once in my life. And tell my second brain to simply calm down. I can’t let my future be decided on the whim of my libido, for crying out loud. Why is life so bloody difficult? I sit back in the chair that we used to share, close my eyes as if to keep the world at bay, keep the wolf safe inside, safe from harm, safe from intrusion. Images of Richard flicker in my brain, firing across the synapses and neurotransmitters, as if the man himself is hard-wired inside of me. Dammit, I simply want him so badly, want him at any price. Whatever it takes. Twenty-five years of being together floods my soul, and I am whimpering softly, painfully, as I find myself falling asleep, hibernating in a form of self-preservation, an attempt to turn off my questing mind, to protect it from these unanswerable questions. An attempt which fails miserably.
To the Max
331
FOR now I find myself suddenly thrust onto the set of a well-known television game show. Camera, lights, crewmembers, cables snake everywhere around me, and an unseen audience can be heard following the cues of some stagehand who is prepping them for the main act, directing them when to applaud or when to laugh or even when to shout encouragement as needed. At what? I find myself wondering curiously. Just then I realize that I am not alone; I am part of a team of players. There are two teams, in fact. One team consists of me and Maggie and Cat, while the other team is comprised of Rachel and Sebastian and Mother. Each team stands behind a sort of counter or divider, diametrically opposed, while a man with distinguished gray hair stands in the middle, his back to us, at the fore of everything, facing a large board at the top of which large flashing letters read Family Feud. The man turns, a professional smile dancing upon his lips, and of course I recognize Richard Dawson—who wouldn’t? A stack of notecards in his hand, he greets both players and crowd in his patented game show host manner. “’Ello, ’ello, and welcome to a special edition of Family Feud. The “To The Max” edition, in fact. Richard Dawson here, of course. I’m glad you all could be here with us tonight. And I hope you’re all having a marvelous time! Yes? Well, let’s get right to business, then, shall we? This is the first and also the last question of today’s show, so please pay special attention here. A survey was recently taken of our studio audience asking the question, ‘What are the top five reasons that Max Montague should take Richard Burke back into his life?’ Let’s see what our contestants can make of that question.” He walks over to greet the other team, beginning with my mother. “Hello, Mrs. Montague.” He kisses her in that trademark Dawson manner. Juliet giggles, but she doesn’t bother to correct him. I just roll my eyes. “What is your answer, love?” “Because he’s gay?” Mother asks. Good Lord, I just want to strangle her sometimes. Dawson turns back toward the board. “Survey says!” he calls out in his broad English accent. A buzzer sounds. “Oh, sorry, love, no match,” he says apologetically, as he turns next to Sebastian.
332
Julie Lynn Hayes
“Hello there, Sebastian, isn’t it?” he greets him. My cousin nods, giving him a look which plainly says if you try to kiss me, I will hurt you, so the host refrains. “What do you think the members of this survey might have said?” “Frankly, any reasons they could give would be wrong,” my cousin pontificates. “But I’ll play along and guess,” he hastily adds, being on the wrong end of a glare from Cat. “Because he is lonely?” “Survey says!” Dawson yells, and suddenly we hear ding ding ding ding as a piece of the board flips over, and the number five reason is revealed: Because Max is lonely. The audience dutifully applauds. On to Rachel now. “Hello, love.” Dawson kisses her, and I hear her, too, giggle. Why do women act so goofy on national TV? “Hello, Richard.” “Yes, we have two Richards here, don’t we?” the smarmy host schmoozes. “And what does Rachel have to say about the other Richard? What do you think our audience found to be the top reason for Max to take him back?” “Because Max thinks he’s sexy?” she suggests. Ding ding ding ding! More applause as the second reason graces the board: Max thinks Richard is sexy. Well, they’ve done their part; now it’s up to us. Here comes the genial English host, closing the space between the two teams. First he addresses Maggie, who is at the other end of our line. “Hello, sweetness.” He kisses her as well, and Maggie blushes. “Have an answer for me, love?” “Yes.” She nods. “Because he is innocent.” “Because he is innocent!” Dawson yells at no one in particular, and once again the crowd goes wild, and over flips the third reason. Only two more to go. Cat’s turn now, and she is ready with her answer. “Because Max is an honorable man,” she says once she receives her obligatory kiss. Which is the fourth of the top five reasons. Only one left. It’s strictly up to me. If I get this right, we win. Or is it that I win? I can’t be sure. Dawson stands before me now. “Hello, Max. No pressure, mate, no pressure,” he reassures me, “but if you get this, you’ll win the grand prize, and I think you know what that is, don’t you?” Of course I know,
To the Max
333
and I feel like everything that I have ever dreamed or hoped for is at stake, riding on my answer. “What do you think the top answer is to the question: What are the top five reasons that Max Montague should take Richard Burke back into his life? What do you think, Max? I mean, surely you have some insight into the matter?” And he winks at me most roguishly. The audience begins to chant, “Max, Max, Max, Max!” As do all my family and friends—they have materialized suddenly from nowhere; they are all here now, including Diana and Jackson and Nathaniel, even Moonsong, encouraging me to reply. Have to think, have to think, have to think—but do I really? Surely I know the top reason why I should take him back. Without further ado, I blurt out, “Because I still love him!” The crowd goes wild! Confetti falls from the sky in mysterious shredded waves of color, and noisemakers are ratcheting loudly while a band is blaring, everyone is cheering, and a lone spotlight falls into the center of the audience. I watch, mystified, as a figure detaches itself from the rest and begins to move toward the stage, closer and closer now, until I can see a familiar silhouette, and then suddenly I know who it is, and my mouth goes dry, and I turn hot and cold at the same time. He’s almost there now; I can see his handsome face clearly as he reaches for me, and I reach for him, and our fingers just begin to touch….
I WAKE with a start, still sitting in my chair, still in my own home, still quite alone. And more than a bit shaken. This can’t go on, I decide. I have to do something. And I have to do it now. The dream, though, has definitely given me an idea. I intend to take a survey of my own, of my closest friends and family. Beginning with my mother. Who better than the woman whom I began my life with? I shake my head to clear away the last little vestiges of my odd dream. For some inexplicable reason, I feel the need to change my clothes, so I search through my closet and I come out bearing a suit—one of Richard’s favorites in fact, and mine as well—a soft, fawn three-piece which has many lovely memories associated with it. It is like I am girding myself for battle. Maybe I am in a way. A
334
Julie Lynn Hayes
battle for my life. And the love of my life. Onward to Webster Groves now. Ever since we outed my mother’s boyfriend—ex-boyfriend I should say—she has been as good as her word and has had no communication with him. Her choice, of course. She simply closed that chapter of her life and moved on. He, on the other hand, either in a fit of rage or having figured out that Josiah played some part in what occurred at the church, has let him go. What a compassionate man. But Rachel, having the kind heart that she has, has found employment for him at the Tribune and is allowing him to stay in her apartment temporarily, since she is basically living with me, just until he can get on his feet again. So for all concerned, all’s well that ends well. Mother doesn’t talk about him, and things between us have gone back to the way they were before. But even better. No more blind dates. No more jabs at Richard and I, either singly or together. It’s a shame this couldn’t have happened while we were still together. I pull the Monte into the drive, assuming she will be there, which she is. I waltz into the house, bursting with a nervous energy that I just can’t seem to shake. “Mother!” I call out. “Where are you?” “Here, Max.” She is coming down the hall from the kitchen. “No need to yell, I’m right here.” She greets me with a hug, then looks at me critically. “Are you all right? You look paler than usual.” “Yes. I mean no. I mean—” I grab her hand and gaze earnestly into her eyes. “Have you talked to Cat?” “Cat? Yes.” A knowing look steals into her eyes. “She told me her theory about Morgan.” “And? What do you think?” I look at her anxiously. “Max, I don’t know,” she admits. “I know what you want to hear: that this makes everything all right, ’cause he didn’t really do anything, it wasn’t his fault, right?” I nod, saying nothing. “Max, maybe I don’t have a right to speak, but I do love you, and I want what is best for you, you know that, don’t you?” Again I nod. “Then I have to tell you that only you can decide what is right for you. You’re the one that has to live with what you decide. Not me, not
To the Max
335
Cat, not anyone else. What I think doesn’t matter. I love both of you, despite evidence to the contrary. And whatever decision you make, I’ll respect, honey.” She takes me into her arms. It feels good to have my mother back again—the new, improved Juliet Montague. “Okay, I’ll accept that,” I say. So far, one neutral opinion. “So, what’s the occasion?” She smiles. “You’re looking very nice, by the way.” “No occasion,” I maintain. “Laundry day?” She laughs. “I know you better than that; you’re never out of clean clothes. Okay then, Max, I can tell you’re on a mission of your own. It’s just too obvious. Call me later and let me know what happens?” “I will,” I promise as I kiss my mother good-bye and move to the next stage of my quest. Next stop is the St. Louis Tribune. I can kill two birds with one stone here. Hopefully avoid Amy in the bargain. Not that I am afraid of her, mind you, or whatever she might be attempting to do to me. But I am so very angry with her, because she has brought this about with her witless machinations, her need to have someone who has never had a thought for her beyond simple friendship. It is so totally inane and pointless, that it’s frightening. I take the elevator to the third floor and disembark. Maggie is where I expect to find her, at reception, and she has a big hug and a kiss for me. “Max, I didn’t know you were working today; Rachel never said a word,” she says. “I’m not. I just decided to come in,” I return. “Um, Maggie, have you talked to Cat recently?” Maggie nods. “Uh huh. She told me all about it.” Good, that saves long explanations on my part. “What do you think I should do?” I look at her most earnestly. “I think you should take him back,” she says promptly, predictably. “Since you’re asking. I mean, he didn’t do anything, Max; it wasn’t his fault. And he misses you terribly. I know he does.” Her big doe eyes look into mine, pleading my lover’s cause. “Have you seen him?”
336
Julie Lynn Hayes
She nods. “Once. He came into the office, hoping you were here. I’ve talked to him on the phone, though, a few times.” “Do you know where he is staying, Maggie?” I’m almost afraid to find out he’s living with old friends, boyfriends even. “Some motel, I think. I’m not sure.” That’s better than what I was afraid of, anyway. “Max, sweetie? Everything okay?” Rachel’s voice. I look up to find her striding toward me, concern written in her eyes. “Rach, I know you know everything. What do you think I should do?” I ask anxiously. “Max, I don’t know. I mean, okay, maybe he and Morgan weren’t together in the way that you thought they were, and maybe you misjudged him that one time. But what about the other times? You have to be honest with yourself. Surely those other times weigh on your mind? Of course they do. You need to discuss those with him before you allow him back into your life again. Let him know that he can’t do that to you anymore. If he’s coming back, he’s coming back to stay. Period. Tell him you don’t run a hotel where he can check in and out whenever it’s convenient to him.” I can’t deny the truth in her words. But do I have the strength to do that? Talk to him about what is bothering me, what’s been bothering me for years? If I had that kind of strength, wouldn’t I have done it before now? And do I really want to hear about those other men? What if he decides to come clean and confess to everything? Can I handle that? Or will it hurt more to hear the intimate details, the things which I can only guess at now? “Max,” she continues, “you have to do what’s best for you. It’s your decision, honey. Whatever you do, you know I’m here for you, don’t you? Always have been and always will be.” “Me too,” Maggie echoes. My eyes mist as I regard my two dear friends. What would I ever do without them? I don’t even want to think about it. I get hugs all around, make my farewells, and once more I am on my way. One for, one against. One more person to see, and then I need to think. I already know Cat’s opinion.
To the Max
337
I call my cousin and end up meeting him at a gas station which is actually on the way back to my house. He is in between stops himself, which is why we are meeting here. Not that I can’t go to his home or office, he just happens to be very busy. Whatever. It works for me. I pull my Monte in behind his SUV, and we converse as we fill our tanks. “I know Cat told you about Richard,” I begin, “and what happened between him and Morgan Arthur.” “Of course,” he says, watching the numbers flip quickly by on the pump. Ridiculously quickly, in fact. “We keep no secrets, Max. We tell each other everything.” I know that, of course, and that’s fine with me. Cat knows everything about me, has known for years. Sebastian is free to discuss anything in regards to me, as far as I am concerned. “So, let’s cut to the chase. What do you think?” I ask point blank. “What do I think? I still think he’s not good enough for you. I don’t care about that other stuff,” he says bluntly. “Frankly, I think you can do better. Why put yourself through it? How long has this been going on, Max? You never know when he’s going to disappear. You can’t rely on him; he’s just not dependable.” His pump clicks off, and he pulls the nozzle out of his gas tank, repositioning it on the pump as he waits for the receipt. “But he didn’t do anything with Morgan,” I point out, attempting to play devil’s advocate. Sebastian shrugs. “Okay, so one time he wasn’t guilty. Big deal. Don’t you want someone you can rely on all the time, not just sometimes?” He opens the slot, removes the slip of paper. “But it’s up to you, Max, it’s your decision. You have to live with it, not me. I would never dream of giving up Cat because you asked me to, and I don’t expect you to give up Richard for me.” “I wouldn’t ask you to do that. Cat’s a wonderful person.” “Well, there you go.” He smiles archly and gives me a hug. “Gotta go, I’ll talk to you later.” And he takes off while I finish gassing up my car, grimacing at the ridiculous price of gasoline. Once I’m done, I’ve nowhere to go but home, so I do. There’s so much to think about now. Serious thinking. In-depth thinking. The kind I’ve been avoiding for years. I’m the bloody king of avoidance, I am. But see where it’s got me? I have to think about it
338
Julie Lynn Hayes
anyway. This should have been resolved a long time ago. Maybe I’d have saved myself a lot of unnecessary suffering. Or maybe I’d have lost Richard earlier? I wish I knew. I greet my princess with the proper hugs and kisses and let her outside to romp. She is happy to see me, but she is even happier to be able to run free. I merely stand there as if I have been turned into a lycanthropic piece of statuary while she frolics in the grass, chasing the butterflies as they flitter and barking at the birds which threaten her so viciously. Silly puppy. So, what have I learned from this impromptu survey I’ve taken? I know what they all think now, what their advice to me is. But ultimately, it is my decision to make, and I know it. So many years, so many memories. I have no intention of replaying them all right now, like this is the final chapter in my life, time for the recap, the totaling of the score, the tallying of the points to see who has come out ahead in this game we call life. At this moment, I don’t see it as a matter of winners and losers. That isn’t what is important. People are important. Love is important. And Richard has always been the most important person in my life. So what am I questioning? And what the hell am I going to do? Are his physical infidelities important enough to lose him over permanently? To give up the love which unquestionably lies between us because of a few indiscretions? Okay, I don’t know that it’s a few. I have no idea what the number is, and I don’t want to know. I do know that he loves me; I don’t think I’m mistaken there. And I do know that we have something that few people ever achieve in their lifetimes, a certain harmony of spirit and soul, a balance within ourselves that transcends everything else. But at the same time, isn’t fidelity an important point in a relationship? Doesn’t it also have to do with respect for oneself as well as for one’s partner? The comings and goings, the uncertainties have preyed upon my mind for years. Not to mention the question of AIDS, which is a life or death issue, unquestionably. Doesn’t that count for something? Shouldn’t he be made to at least account for his actions, if not explain them? I’m back to square one, and no better off than when I started. Principessa has gotten hold of one of her toys that she sometimes leaves outside and has settled down to contentedly gnaw on it. I hear
To the Max
339
the crunch of tires on gravel from the front of the house and wonder idly if Rachel wants to go out to dinner, seeing as she’s worked all day. I don’t really want to cook, not right now. Maybe later. Principessa barks, throwing her toy aside, and she scampers past me as if I’m not there. That dog loves Rachel very, very much. I can’t help but smile at the wild excitement with which she greets her, as if she hasn’t seen her in ages, instead of just this morning, her barking rising to a fever pitch. And then I hear it. “Max.” It’s not Rachel. I should have known from the reactions of my princess; she is far too excited. It’s Richard. He’s here. Behind me. Right now. I turn around, and my heart is fighting to escape my chest at the mere sight of him. Oh my God, how incredibly handsome he is, and so very sexy, and how much I want to throw my arms around him and smother him with my body, tell him I love him, beg him to stay, to never leave me again. But my common sense holds me back. I know, you’re questioning that I even have any, but apparently I do, ’cause it’s got me locked in place at the moment, simply staring at him, drinking him in with my eyes. There is something different about him, even as I realize that he looks the same. His eyes are the same midnight blue, but they are subdued, and I see a few fine lines I hadn’t noticed before in his forehead. His eyes, so beautiful, so expressive, and yet they seem to be filled with pain at the same time. “Richard.” And then I notice that he is wearing his three-piece suit, the one he got when I bought this one, except his is a pale brick color that accentuates the blond of his hair. And it looks damn good on him. Kathump, kathump, kathump. If it gets any louder, I’ll have to scream to make myself heard over the beating of that monstrous heartbeat. Not that I am saying anything anyway. Merely looking. And wishing. And hoping. Why am I always hoping? What is it exactly I am hoping for? A miracle? Or merely to be saved? “You look well,” he says softly.
340
Julie Lynn Hayes
“So do you.” Both liars. I know we both look like we’ve been to hell and back. Even as we speak, we step closer to one another, as if we are polarized, one to the other. Step by simple step. Until he halts his forward momentum, stops where he is, as if he is determined to speak first. What do I mean “first”? I think you know what I mean. Isn’t this where Max gives in and allows himself to be used again? To bend over and simply take it? To allow the prodigal son back into the fold? Or is that sheep? My brain isn’t functioning at the moment; I don’t know much of anything right now. “Max, I wanted to talk to you, because, well, because there are things that we’ve never talked about,” he begins. Kathump! I think it’s going to explode now. Get ready to pick up the pieces, everyone. Dear God, what now, what now, what now? “There’s something I have to tell you, to try to explain to you.” This is it. This is the big speech where the hero lets down—what, the other hero?—gently, as gently as possible, the big send-off, the kissoff, the “I love you, Max, but…” speech. But there’s someone else, or there isn’t someone else but I need space. Or just I don’t need you. Why don’t I just listen and find out, rather than speculate futilely? Because I am scared to death, that’s why, and not sure I want to hear this. “Max,” he says, “I know that over the years, I’ve abused your trust in me something fierce.” He holds up a hand to still any words I might have, which at the moment are none. “I come and go without a word of explanation or any sort of apology, and yet you continue to take me back into your heart each and every time, without question.” He pauses for a moment, and I am simply confused now. He takes another step toward me. I can barely breathe. “Max,” he says softly, “I know I don’t deserve you. I know I’m not nearly good enough for you, my love. And every day I wake up, I’m afraid that you’re going to figure that out and tell me to go fuck myself. And I just can’t bear the thought. So, instead, I leave you. I hurt you because I’m afraid that you’re going to hurt me. I know that doesn’t make much sense, but I can’t explain it any better than that.” To my amazement, I see that Richard’s eyes are actually wet.
To the Max
341
Richard Burke is really crying. Over me. I am speechless. “I love you so much, Max, that it hurts. You’re so beautiful, so incredibly beautiful. I’ve never felt this way about anyone else before. Never. Max, it scares me how much I love you.” Oh God, this is it. I feel it. This is the time. I hear myself ask as if from a distance, “Then how can you leave me, saying you love me, and go off and fuck someone else? Lots of someone elses?” I can’t believe I am actually asking him that question, the one that has haunted my heart for all these years. “Max,” he says, his head slowly turning, his eyes meeting mine, his so dark and filled with something… foreboding? Fear? What? “Max, I lied,” he says simply. “I’ve never been with anyone else. Not once. Not ever. Not since I met you, that is. All lies. All stories. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to do it.” I think I quit breathing at that point. Literally. Everything in my chest tightens, my head is swimming, and I feel very foggy. I close my eyes and everything goes black, until I open them again to find myself on the ground, cradled in Richard’s loving arms, and the wetness I feel against my cheek is from his tears— And I reach out in a totally unexpected motion on my part and wallop him so hard on the side of his head that I find myself thumping to the ground. “You… you… lied?” I repeat incredulously, the words both thrilling and appalling me as my brain processes what this actually means. “You fucking lied, all these years, let me think you were fucking other people, broke my heart over and over and over again… for what?” He makes no move to retaliate in any way or to hit me back; he simply accepts it as I lie there in the grass and stare at him for a moment, ignoring the instincts that say forgive him, and quickly. “I’m sorry, Max, so very sorry,” he murmurs, reaching for me, pulling me into his arms, his lips caressing my brow, my cheeks, my lips. “Please forgive me, my love, let me make it up to you. Let me show you how much I truly love you.” He rocks me in his arms, and I find myself unwilling to fight his caresses, bringing my breathing back to an even keel as I nestle against him, his gentle voice reverberating against my cheek.
342
Julie Lynn Hayes
“I’m tired of running, Max. I don’t want to run any more. You’re the one, the only one. I love you more than life itself.” His lips, so soft, so tender, so wonderful, are peppering my face with baby kisses. “I want to marry you, Max, to be with you always, if you will have me.” If I will have him? If I will have him? If I will have him? The words expand inside my head, filling it so completely that I can’t hear or think of anything else until I utter the only reply I could ever give. “Of course I’ll marry you, Richard.” And his tears are mingling with my tears, and they’re our tears now, but they’re tears of joy as we cling together, and our lips simply devour one another in our eagerness to be together, to share what we have missed ever since our separation. We are drinking a toast to one another with our lips, a farewell to days past and a welcome to happy days to come, born of a new understanding and a strengthening of the tie which binds us. Engaged to be married, in love and happy, to the max.
JULIE LYNN HAYES was reading at the age of two and writing by the age of nine and always wanted to be a writer when she grew up. Two marriages, five children, and more than forty years later, that is still her dream. She blames her younger daughters for introducing her to yaoi and the world of M/M love, a world which has captured her imagination and her heart and fueled her writing in ways she’d never dreamed of before. She especially loves stories of two men finding true love and happiness in one another’s arms and is a great believer in the happily ever after. She lives in St. Louis with two of her children and two cats, loves books and movies and role playing on the Internet, and hopes to be a world traveler some day. By day she does payroll and accounting, by night she writes and is also a copy editor and reviewer for comicsonline.com. Her family thinks she is a bit off, but she doesn’t mind. Marching to the beat of one’s own drummer is a good thing, after all. You can contact Julie at
[email protected].
Paranormal Romance from DREAMSPINNER PRESS
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
