Bastards and Pretty Boys Page 5

  “Are you bi?” I asked. I’d all but convinced myself he was straight, and I was still adjusting my perception of him.

  Booker chuckled as he drew two fingers over his eyes. “There’s nothing ‘bi’ about me. You?”

  “The same,” I said, oddly relieved. “It just took me a while to admit it to myself.”

  Growing pensive, Booker touched the cleft of my upper lip. “Happens that way a lot. Not as much as it used to, but still more than it should. I’m sorry you had to go through that part. I’ve known about myself since I hit puberty.”

  His compassion touched me. It was all the more genuine for not being mawkish. I liked this man. I liked his lack of pretense.

  “How did you manage to see me with Kenneth?” I asked. “I thought we were pretty well concealed out there.”

  Booker shrugged the shoulder he wasn’t lying on. “I was at my work table and just happened to glance out the window. There you were. Kissing.” A hint of a smile. “Save the blush. I kind of like kissing men myself.”

  Well, I figured, if he could poke around in my life, I could poke around in his. “What’s the rest of your name?” More questions stood in line, but that one seemed the most important at the moment.

  Sighing, he rolled up his eyes. “Can’t you just call me Booker?”

  “Yeah, I can do that. But I still want to know the rest. So, is Booker your first name or last?”

  “Last. Fuck, why do you have to look so good?”

  I frowned at him. “Why do you? And what does that have to do with anything? Why are we talking about—?”

  “Hosea,” he said.

  Hose. Hoser. No. It was Hosea.

  “And don’t tell me how ‘biblical’ it sounds,” Booker added. “I’m well aware.”

  Oh, touchy. “You’re not Amish, are you?”

  After a second of stupefied silence, Booker spluttered into laughter. It was the first time I’d seen or heard him laugh. A joyful noise. Infected by it, I joined in. We ended our comic interlude with a long, joyful, savoring kiss.

  “I could get real used to this,” I said, spearing my fingers into his hair. It was thick and silky and subtly fragrant.

  “Before you do,” he said, “there’s something you need to know about me.”

  “You’re gay.”

  Booker snorted. “I didn’t think you’d have a sense of humor, Charlie.”

  “Why?”

  “You look like you walked straight from Yale to yuppiedom.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “What do you for a living, anyway?” Booker asked.

  “I own a brew pub. You know, like a mini-microbewery attached to a—”

  “Fern bar,” he said with a grin.

  “No, not a fucking fern bar.”

  Gradually, the amusement drained out of Booker’s face and he turned down his eyes. I wasn’t sure why, but I immediately thought of that man who kept showing up. Karl.

  “So,” I said, “what is it I need to know about you?”

  Booker hesitated. My hand was on his chest again, and I felt his heart thumping against my palm. “I just got out of prison,” he said.

  Blinking, I gaped at him. That warm bunting of passion in which I’d been wrapped began to disintegrate. I sat up. Letting out a long breath, Booker flipped onto his belly. He set his elbows into the mattress and covered his face with his hands.

  “Here we go,” he muttered.

  I didn’t know what to say. You gotta tell a guy these things before his dick gets lost in your ass. No, that wouldn’t do … although, in a crude way, it summed up how I felt. Jesus. I’d just fucked an ex-con. What was worse, I’d been getting all moony over him.

  “Don’t break into a cold sweat,” Booker said wearily. “I didn’t do anything violent. And I’m not a thief. Or an arsonist. Or a pedophile.” He cocked his head to face me, and his tone became acerbic. “Oh … and I wasn’t anybody’s ‘bitch’ while I was in there, either. I kept a low profile, minded my own business, and did my time. So don’t start assuming I’m filthy with felon germs.”

  That was something of a relief, petty as my relief made me, but I still didn’t know how to follow up on this revelation. Should I ask what he was in for? And how long a sentence he’d served? Did I even want to know?

  Before I could formulate a sensible question, Booker dragged himself out of bed and started getting dressed. He shook his head and muttered, “Zander told me to avoid pretty boys and bastards.”

  That prompted me to speak, finally, but I sounded stupider than I probably looked. “What are you doing? And who’s Zander?”

  “You know, Charlie, you’re the first guy I’ve risked telling this to. Hell, you’re the first guy I’ve been attracted to.”

  “Ever?” Oh, Christ, somebody slap me!

  Booker gave me a snotty look. “No, not fucking ever. Since I got out.”

  I knew what he’d meant, of course, but his implication made me feel like a jackass and only compounded my confusion. I’d let him down. He’d taken a chance on me and trusted me, and I’d turned into the uptight, upscale, prissy little white boy who’d never set foot on the other side of the tracks.

  Shit, I’d turned into Kenneth.

  Tossing me a glance, Booker snapped and zipped his jeans. It was a simple but conclusive act that infused me with longing. I still wanted him. Only I didn’t want to want him.

  “I gotta leave,” Booker said. “I don’t need you looking at me like that. Thanks for a nice time, Charlie. I won’t bother you anymore.”

  He wheeled out of the bedroom. I heard his footsteps move through the living room. One of the double screen doors leading to the deck whisked open and whisked shut. The end.

  I numbly got out of bed. After a stop at the bathroom, I shuffled into the kitchen, flipped on the light, and grabbed one of Booker’s beers out of the refrigerator. Still naked, I sat at the table and drank.

  I’d found and lost the perfect lover in a matter of hours. Wasn’t life grand?

  My vacant gaze lit on the floor tiles. They’d been sparkling clean after Carolyn’s Kitchen Coddling yesterday—so clean, I’d even stopped on my way in with Booker and kicked off my shoes. Following my lead, he’d done the same. That could’ve been a common practice around here, since it was easy to track sand and mud and bits of vegetation indoors.

  I went to the door and looked outside. Sure enough, my shoes and his still laid in a scattershot pattern around the threshold. Booker had gone home barefoot.

  A chill shot down my arms and back, lifting the hair at the nape of my neck.

  So why the hell were there large, dusty shoeprints on my otherwise spotless kitchen floor?

  Chapter Six

  Even with the doors locked, I slept worse that night than I had the night before. Before the sun rose, I got up and showered and made breakfast. I stepped carefully around the footprints I couldn’t explain, as if they were evidence I couldn’t destroy. But evidence of what, if anything, I had no idea.

  I’d have to tackle the mystery later. Paying Booker a visit topped my agenda.

  Whether or not we stood a chance of becoming lovers, I couldn’t let that final scene last night determine the course of my relationship with him. Booker deserved better from me. He’d done absolutely nothing to arouse my suspicion or earn my disrespect. Just the opposite, in fact. He’d made all the first moves, as a neighbor and a suitor. He’d been courageous and forthright but never pushy. At the very least, I owed him an apology and an open mind.

  My wits securely gathered and Booker’s shoes in hand, I made the short journey to his house just as the sun rose. The day promised to be another scorcher. I approached the front and entered the screen porch that faced the lake.

  It was tempting to snoop around. Old metal hooks attached to the outer wall of the house supported fishing gear, binoculars, a few soiled orange lifejackets, faded overalls, battered sunhats, and a rain poncho or two. All kinds of other lake-cottage necessities hunkered in cor
ners, leaned against walls, or huddled together on a shelving unit with a noticeable starboard list. The porch had an outdoorsy tapestry of scents—oilcloth and bait buckets, yellowing paper and dust—and seemed like a small, rustic museum.

  I rapped on the inner door. “Booker? It’s me, Charlie. May I—”

  The door swung open. Immediately, an internal shower of hormones made me lightheaded. The lord of the manor wore nothing but black boxer-briefs, snug in all the right places. The rest of him was every bit as inviting. Tall, dark, and just-got-out-of-bed sultry gorgeous. I wanted to nuzzle his neck and inhale the sleep smell.

  “Damn, you look good,” I whispered, unable to control my eyes.

  “So do you,” Booker said flatly, without a wisp of feeling. He lifted his shoes from my hand. “Thanks. I was going to come over and get them.”

  The door began to close. I put a hand against it. Booker coolly regarded me. Those eyes…

  “I need to talk to you,” I said. “If you don’t mind.”

  He pulled his lower lip between his teeth, tapped the shoes against his thigh. Everything he did was seductive. To me, anyway. My dick stirred helplessly, wanting to get at him. I imagined it pouting, fixing to throw a tantrum within its denim straitjacket.

  “No, I don’t mind.” Booker motioned toward the space behind me. “Have a seat. Want some coffee?”

  “Yes, please. With a little milk or creamer or … whatever.”

  Nodding, he turned and went back into the house. I sat at a round wood table draped in a faded, checkered cloth. A citronella candle and gnarled piece of driftwood sat in its center. When Booker returned, he set down two mugs and sat across from me. I was sorry to see he’d put on a short terrycloth bathrobe.

  “I apologize for last night,” I said straightaway. “You caught me off guard.” I drank some coffee. It was strong, the way I liked it, and lightened with real cream.

  Booker lowered his head for a moment and fingered his coffee mug. “Yeah, I suppose I did. But I haven’t really had any practice bringing up that subject.”

  Shit, I felt like a heel. “I didn’t mean to be unkind.”

  “I know,” he said quietly.

  “It’s just that … whenever I see or hear something that stuns me, or maybe hurts me, I tend to seize up. Like the other day, when Kenneth told me he’s been sleeping around.”

  Booker’s eyebrows shot up. “Sleeping around on you?”

  I smiled. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who asked stupid questions. “Who else but me?”

  “No, I meant … you know.” Booker suddenly seemed self-conscious. He again turned his eyes down. There were matching pink swatches on his cheekbones, although the color could’ve been from sunburn. “Why would anybody want to?” he mumbled, as if to himself.

  I assumed I’d just been complimented, and it made me feel like I’d gotten an award. “I guess one dick isn’t enough for him. Or two, if you count his own.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  We both drank our coffee, trying studiously to ignore our attraction. An unresolved issue still hung between us. I felt it was up to me to resolve it. After all, that’s why I’d come over.

  “So what were you in for?” I asked.

  Booker finally looked at me again. “Possession with intent.” He gave the answer in a matter-of-fact way, as if he were telling me his birth date. No shame or swaggering pride, no self-pity or anger.

  “Possession of what?”

  “Marijuana. I sold it to my friends, people I’d known at Holyard.”

  “Wait,” I said. “You mean, Holyard as in the Holyard School of—”

  “Art and Design. Yeah. I have a degree from there.”

  “No kidding.” I was thunderstruck. Mere dabblers couldn’t get into Holyard. It had a reputation for taking in and turning out only top-notch, innovative talent.

  “When I lost my job,” Booker said, “selling pot helped keep me in school and throw some money my dad’s way. After I graduated, I still had a shitload of expenses. Loans to pay off, supplies to buy, a household to keep running, a sick parent to take care of. It’d gotten easy by then just to keep dealing. Believe me, it isn’t something I’m proud of.” Taking a deep breath, he lifted his hands and dropped them. “So there you have it. I spent thirty months of my life at Reese-Houghton for being the Druglord of Ditchweed. If you don’t believe me, look it up online.”

  “Yeah, I suppose it’s a matter of public record.”

  “Probably. Hosea Booker. One case, one conviction.” He dropped the side of his left fist into his right palm, as if stamping a document. “Debt to society paid in full. Or it will be, when I’m off paper.”

  Again, the lingo had me stumped. Booker could probably tell from my befuddled expression.

  “I’m still on parole,” he said.

  “Oh.”

  “See? You can rest easy now. You don’t have a psychopath living next door.”

  “I’m really sorry, Booker.” I gave him a sheepish glance. “I’ve never understood why pot’s illegal. Hell, I’ve smoked my share.”

  According to some documentary I’d seen, its criminalization in the 1930s was spurred by racist sentiment toward African-Americans and Mexicans. Until then, weed was widely available both for medicinal and recreational purposes. Its medicinal uses, in particular, were significant.

  “I can tell you this much,” Booker said. “There’d be no problem with prison overcrowding in this country if the drug laws were revamped.”

  I didn’t doubt he was right. The rate of violent crime would take a dive, too, along with national and state budget deficits. And people suffering from a host of illnesses would have their conditions eased in a safe and inexpensive way.

  “When did you get out?” I asked.

  “About two months ago. I came straight here. The institution’s only forty miles away, so at least I didn’t have to travel far to be in a place that felt like home. I’ve spent a good part of every summer on Cloud Lake since I was born.”

  “For what it’s worth,” I said, “I’m glad you’re here.” Anyway, I was pretty sure I was glad. I’d probably still have Carolyn check him out—she was a sheriff’s department dispatcher in the county where we both lived—but I didn’t anticipate any nasty surprises. From all indications, Booker had been truthful with me.

  “So … what does that mean?” he asked tentatively. “That you’re glad I’m around.”

  “It means I like being with you.”

  Again, he seemed to want to smile but not know how. “Care to tell me more about your fuck-around boyfriend?”

  “There isn’t much to tell,” I said, “considering he’ll be out of my life before next weekend.”

  “Really?”

  The decision had just come to me, solid and irreversible. “Yeah. I’m going to call him as soon as I get a chance. We’ll have a longer talk when I get home, and that’ll be that. The whole thing’s been a sham pretty much from the start. There’s no sense in prolonging it.”

  I knew beyond a doubt I didn’t want Kenneth at Cloud Lake next weekend. Or ever again. Chances were I’d never want to see him anywhere. I would’ve felt bad if it hadn’t been for his impromptu confession, or at least felt worse than I did, but now I just wanted to make a clean break and have done with it.

  “So who’s Zander?” I asked.

  The question left Booker stymied for a moment. He must have forgotten last night’s mumbled comment. And then he remembered. “Irving Alexander, an older guy I met at R-H,” he said. “A gay guy. He sort of took me under his wing.”

  “Which wing?”

  Booker’s brows drew together. “Are you being facetious again?”

  “Not entirely.”

  “We talked,” Booker said. “That’s all. I meant it when I said nobody made me there.”

  I got off my chair and knelt in front of Booker’s chair, which he’d angled away from the table. Somberly, he gazed at me and said nothing.

  “May
I touch you again?” I asked.

  My attitude made him uncomfortable. “For chrissake, Charlie, get off your knees.”

  The poured concrete floor was hard, but I had a point to make. “May I?” Slowly pulling both sides of Booker’s robe away from his body, I was careful not to let my fingers graze his skin. His boxers had begun to tent out. “Booker, may I?”

  His buff chest more noticeably expanded and contracted. Molding my fingers to the rounded ridge in my jeans, I stroked it—a leisurely, indulgent stroke, down and up and down, so Booker’s gaze could enjoy it as much as my cock did. Then I lowered my zipper and reached inside. Booker not only followed the movement of my hidden hand, he occasionally glanced at my eyes. It excited him to see me caressing my hard-on as I stared at his.

  “Yes,” he said thinly, “you can touch me.”

  I gave him a coy look. “I’m not sure I heard that.”

  Booker’s hand finally moved to his crotch. Straining against the black cloth, his erection lit a sparkler inside me. Bright slivers of heat showered from my groin to my thighs.

  “Are you going to make me beg?” Booker asked, his voice thickening, getting husky.

  “I can’t ‘make’ you do anything. And I wouldn’t want to. And I’d never, ever expect you to beg.” I rose from my haunches, pulled the jeans down my hips, and freed my dick. Its head caught for a second on the elastic of my briefs, and the feel of that resistance stimulated another surge of excitement. I was hard, ready. “I’ve always been impressed by manners, though.”

  “Please touch me again, Charlie.” Booker pulled his tall, stiff cock over the waistband of his boxers.

  I scooted closer to his crotch. “No pretty please with sugar on top?”

  “Now you’re pushing your luck.”

  “Oh that’s right.” I simultaneously grasped his solid shaft and my own. “You were told to avoid ‘pretty.’” I leaned forward and made that delicious length of manflesh disappear between my lips.

  “Thank you,” Booker gasped.

  It was glorious, having cock fill my mouth again. Having Booker’s cock fill my mouth. Cradling it with my tongue, I gave it a protracted, welcoming suck. Booker responded with a protracted, grateful moan. His hips swayed forward.