Luther lapses into silence. He slumps near the door frame, and Owen realizes with a jolt that Luther
does
want him, but he’s also not going to stop Owen from leaving. Not if that’s what Owen wants.
“You—but—you were pissed that I was there!” Owen finishes, lamely.
“Owen—” Luther says. He sounds like Owen’s words hurt him, and Owen feels something twist in his gut at the expression on Luther’s face. It’s open, and honest, and almost as vulnerable as Owen feels. “I’ll never be pissed off because you’re here.” Luther’s voice is so low that Owen can barely hear him.
Then Luther steps forward until both his palms are pressed against Owen’s chest. “I didn’t want to go to that party.” Luther speaks slowly, carefully, like he’s terrified Owen might misinterpret his words somehow. Owen’s not entirely sure Luther’s wrong about that. “Not after I saw you.” Luther swallows, and looks away. “I—Jesus, Owen, I hoped you’d come. Dreamed—” Luther makes a face. “Why
else
would I put a menorah in the windowsill, Owen?”
Owen stares. His heart is beating rapidly in his chest and he has a feeling Luther can hear it. What’s strange is how little he seems to care.
“The menorah’s for me,” Owen says. It’s not a question, but Luther answers him anyway.
“Duh,”
he says, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. Then Luther reaches up and flicks Owen’s nose, lightly, with his thumb. If it were anybody else, that would piss Owen off. Instead, he tilts his head, leaning in toward Luther until they’re almost within kissing distance.
“And the tree?” Owen asks. His breath tickles Luther’s eyelashes and he watches as Luther closes his eyes and breathes in, deep.
“Lot of trouble to go to if there’s not gonna be anybody else around to enjoy it.”
“You waited,” Owen says, bewildered. “You—why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t you?” Luther counters.
“Point, sir.” Owen reaches for Luther’s chin with one hand and wonders what it says about him that he’s still surprised when Luther doesn’t pull away. Luther makes this noise when Owen kisses him, soft and needy, and Owen lingers over the kiss for far longer than he intends to. Owen kisses Luther until Luther moans, long and deep. Then (and only then) Owen pulls away.
“I—I didn’t get you anything,” he says. Owen’s chest is heaving and it hurts to breathe, but it’s okay, because Luther’s gazing up at him with wide, lust-blown eyes, and he looks—he looks
in love
. The realization makes Owen’s words stutter and die in his throat.
“Owen.” Luther’s smiling, but Owen could swear he sees a slight sheen of moisture in Luther’s eyes through the mingled glow of the candlelight, and the rising sun that’s slowly turning from red to gold on the horizon. Luther looks amazed, like he can’t quite believe what he’s about to do. Then, he leans forward, standing on his tiptoes to reach Owen’s ear. “All I want for Christmas,” Luther whispers, so soft that Owen can barely hear him, “is you.”
STRANGERS FOR THE NIGHT
T. R. Verten
H
e awakes with a start—the daily jolt of
shit, dinnertime, shit, bath time, shit, bedtime, shit
,
parenting
—but no, they’ve gone to their grandmother’s, where they will stay for the whole weekend—oh, wonderful,
glorious
, sweet relief—and so flops back down into the pillow to snatch back the quickly unraveling threads of his dreams. An hour or so later, the rumble in his stomach stirs him a second time; he stretches unhurriedly.
As he rubs the tendons of his neck, he gropes his way into the hallway, eyes cloudy with grit. He trips over Michaela’s elaborate Lego castle and knocks over a turret in progress, one of the yellow pieces embedding itself in his bare foot.
The inside of the fridge makes him regret skipping the weekly Trader Joe’s run for sleep. The doors are stocked with low-acid orange juice, Horizon 2%, San Pellegrino, and Reisling Kabinett. The shelves hold cartons of yogurts, unfinished fruit and vegetable purees, prewashed carrot sticks. There is turkey, at least, and the end of a loaf.
He clears away the medical journals cluttering the kitchen table to eat his sandwiches. The bread is too dry, he decides, should have toasted it first. He eats, though, and exchanges texts with Cathy. Yes, she confirms, the kids are fine. Guilt pangs Shawn’s stomach, and he refills the water glass with cold white from the fridge.
He can’t always be there, and hell, he may be a parent, but he has needs, too. That’s what tonight is for, for him, for the itch he has to scratch. It’s early yet. The club scene now comes alive after eleven, crowded with guys from beyond the city limits. Those who will come from the far stretches of the South Side, like he used to, a route he could probably still navigate through a drunken stupor: Jackson local to the green line, an outdoor transfer to the red, back down below the belly of the city, a walk up piss-scented stairs to surface at the lights of the city center.
He could end up at a place with flashing lights and pulsing bass; he can play at being nineteen again. But early, this early on, he opts for a shower. Shawn makes it a scalding hot one because he’s got it all to himself, unlike yesterday morning, and plans his outfit under the steam. A fitted shirt, he decides, to show off his arms. Soapy water sluices down his back and legs. Before he shuts off the taps, he rinses his balls with a cupped hand, and then drips his way into the bedroom. Button-down shirt—without the possibility of spit-up he can wear white, plus it sets off his skin, jeans—no, too casual—trousers are better, a soft charcoal twill. He slides black boxer-briefs up over his narrow hips, puts the rest on. Wallet, keys, phone now dim with no one to text.
He walks five blocks to the red line and sits under a broken heat lamp. The 9:47 train’s delayed by ten minutes, and when it rattles in, his car turns out to be packed with shouting teenagers. Shawn pretends to study the ads for dentists and community colleges while they whoop and shout, hanging off their seats, passing a crumpled water bottle filled with the product of creative siphoning from parental liquor cabinets. They leave, thankfully, at Belmont, leaving him with late-shift hospitality workers and drunks who’ll ride the line to the end. The air outside isn’t much of an improvement from that underground, but he catches a whiff of the thawing lake, the burned smell of tar and stone coughed up by the afternoon’s construction projects. The potholes of winter are being filled in, orange cones directing traffic into one light-clogged lane.
“Evening, sir,” the doorman nods, as he enters the lobby. Shawn tilts his chin in acknowledgment as he unwraps his scarf, shoving it in his pocket. He glides past the foyer, with low-slung seating, artfully arranged single orchids, small groups of women stirring swizzle sticks. Beyond another door dim yellow lights and the seductive clink of glassware beckon. He scans the room, seeing straight couples canoodling in booths. Not the kind of place he’d have picked. The drinks list is printed on translucent rice paper. Shawn has experienced this before, at an outlandishly spendy seventh-anniversary dinner at Alinea. Served with a flourish, the waiter murmured in reverent tones that the menu itself was their amuse-bouche. He shudders at the memory.
“Can I explain the cocktail menu?” a bright-eyed mixologist asks.
“No,” he tells her, as he rubs it between his fingers, swallowing away the remembered taste of glue, “I’d rather you didn’t.” Her eyes narrow, trying to suss him out—hammered, asshole, business traveler, shitty tipper, what? He orders a Crown and Sprite. The first sip jolts his tongue awake, the next spreads warmth down his neck.
“Are you staying at the hotel?” she asks each customer who bellies up to the bar, and he, in turn, flicks his gaze to them, so as to establish his presence without overt interest—a man in dark purple cashmere, who’s working on a laptop and orders a 312, a cute blond glued to a cell phone, who covers the mouthpiece to order vodka, two twentysomethings in sloppy business casual, pastel shirts untucked, who order rum and diet soda and bleat their evening plans to all who will listen. The bartender shares his smile of relief when they’re poured into a taxi by the doorman, away to terrorize the town’s improvisers at the second set.
“Another?” she asks, indicating the empty glass. Shawn nods his assent. She sweeps away the crumpled napkin and salted pistachio shells. He drums his fingers on the bar, keeping tempo with her as she pours, shakes, strains and places a fresh drink before him. He pulls out his phone, resigned to wait as long as it takes. Which, as luck would have it, lasts for only two games of Tetris and a scroll through Twitter. Nothing from Cathy, but he keeps the ringer switched on, just in case.
“Are you staying at the hotel?”
“Yes,” says a crisp voice, “Room 502.”
“I’ll charge it?”
“Thank you.”
Shawn’s attention snaps into place. He looks up from the political bickering of his timeline with relief; here he is, the one he’s been waiting for. That melodious voice belongs to a man of middling height and dark red hair, whose average features cohere like a discordant symphony. Shawn’s fingers clench the slippery stem of his martini glass.
Tanqueray and tonic
—he hears him order—
lemon, please, not lime
.
Shawn drinks him in: his sinful mouth, curved around the lip of his glass, the teasing flick of his pink tongue, as he licks the gin from his upper lip; his slow-spreading smile to the bartender as she hands him his own tiny silver dish of pistachios. He catches Shawn’s eye and holds the stare that beat too long, then walks his drink and his dirty, angelic, dick-sucking face over to a corner table. His tight shirt was a bad idea, he thinks, since sweat is suddenly gathering in his armpits.
Shawn undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, twisting as he does so to watch him walk away, but the seat lies just beyond his range of motion. The windows, fortunately, reflect the man back at him, and he takes full advantage, tracking the quick motions of his hands as he cracks open the nuts, the delicate purse of his lips as he licks salt from his fingers.
He tips, then, with his ass falling off the leather, a graceless flail of limbs and momentary loss of his center, before he grabs the edge of the counter and rights himself. Shawn sits very still and wills himself to look at the counter, the bottles, the bartender, but he can’t help it, he’s too adorable, his mouth is obscene, he would destroy it given half a fucking chance… his breaths come quick and shallow, the drive to look already turning his head once more—
—and Tanqueray has sidled his way over, seeping his way into Shawn’s orbit. Their shoulders brush, electric.
“You look like you could use a drink.” The ice clinks as he fishes out the wedge of lemon and brings it to his lips. Sweat drips down his own glass, which has managed to empty itself once more. The room tilts a fraction and his cheeks grow hot. He could use that mouth on his balls, to start. He could use every piece of this guy, fill every hole he has and then some. Hell, he almost says so. Jesus, he’s old, if two drinks can send him sideways. Shawn blinks, yellow spots pop up behind his eyes. His throat is thick and dry.
“Maybe,” he manages. “I’m getting there. She,” Shawn nods at the bartender, “pours a good cocktail.” Not his best line, but better than sitting there stupid and silent. Those red lips split into a naughty smile. “I’ll have to catch up to you, then—” He signals her for one more.
“Same again?” she asks Shawn.
“Could you get us a bottle of Pellegrino? One more of these,” the redhead says, ice rattling in his empty glass, “and that’s on me.” He turns to Shawn, “I’ve got a table.”
Yes
, Shawn tries to say,
I saw you come in. I was watching. You’re beautiful. I’d very much like to fuck you
. What comes out: a garbled: “Yes, I can see that. There you are.”
“You get the glasses.” He picks up his fresh drink and the green bottle; Shawn follows, watching his ass bounce gently in crisply pressed gray dress slacks. The pants follow the curves in the front as well, clinging to lightly muscled thighs and up the inseam…he can almost taste the wool, how it would fuzz up his tongue and suck the moisture from his mouth. Swallowing, he finds he still has spit. Tanqueray breaks the seal on the water and pours.
“These are new trousers,” he tells Shawn. The bubbles tickle his nose. “I’ve been out shopping today.”
“You’re visiting?” Shawn asks, dumbly. God, he’s
awful
at this.
“Mm. Ducked out of my conference and went to Saks. It’s naughty, I know.”
“Oh?” For eleven years he’s been out of practice with pickups, the flirting and innuendo, but he clears his throat nonetheless. “They’re very nice, it’s—erm, shit—you look nice.”
“Nice?” He tuts into his drink. “Not quite the reaction I was hoping for when I bought them, but I’ll take what’s on offer.”
Shawn can do this, he’s danced these steps before. All he has to do is remember how. “I mean, the pants are—good. They look tailored. Expensive?”
Oh, that’s totally the wrong thing to say, they’ve only just met, they’re strangers, they don’t share a bank account and fight over money, but the other man smiles all the same.
“Very,” he replies, mouth curving upward. He then lobs another question over, his a smooth backhand in contrast to Shawn’s own clumsy, unpracticed strokes. “Do they suit me, do you think?”
A hint of a smile plays around his lips. Surely he can see how Shawn’s affected by him, drawn like metal to a magnet. Do they,
fuck
. His voice prickles the back of Shawn’s neck. When he speaks again, his own voice wells up thick in his throat, alien to his own ears.
“I’d have to take a closer look,” he says, “to be absolutely sure.” Gaining confidence from the other man’s rising blush, he continues, making the words gravelly and intimate. “I didn’t see much, but those pants, however much they may have cost”—the stranger’s eyebrows go up at the mention of money—“they are worth every single cent.”
“Yes,” the man breathes out with a happy sigh, “I was hoping you’d think so.”
Glass emptied, Shawn reaches across the table to touch him, rubbing tiny circles into his wrist with his thumb. The stranger bites his lower lip, and Shawn wants to take it between his own teeth to taste the blood and feel the sting. The man clears his throat and says, “I saw you looking, before. When you were sitting alone. At the bar.”