Best Gay Romance 2013 by Richard Labonte Page B

mysterious chemical spark had flared the moment they’d first shaken hands in the warehouse. Hell, he hadn’t pumped his cock thinking about anyone else for months, hadn’t slept with another warm body for much longer than that, was sustained only by his fantasies because contrary to what Kevin and the others thought, Lyle wasn’t the kind of guy who slept with a different dude every night. He was a romantic at heart—and his heart had been captured by one man and one man only, Mike Logan.
    Sometimes, Lyle would do a crazy trick he’d performed when he was younger: lay in bed with his spine braced against the headboard and his legs over his head, jerking his dick until he shot into his open and hungry mouth. In those moments, he pretended the juice was Mike’s as he devoured it, jealous and
envious of every mouth that had tasted the legit thing in the real world.
    But as much as he lusted after Mike’s body, he also really liked Mike, the human being. And being a good friend meant helping a person out when he was down, even if he hadn’t asked for it.
    Lyle grabbed the bag containing a six-pack and a package of cookies off the passenger seat and tromped up the brick stairs to the door, his heart pounding in his chest. He found the right apartment and buzzed, then waited. After several interminably long seconds, the squawk box squawked.
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œHey, Mike,” Lyle said, his already-dry mouth draining of the last of its spit. “It’s Lyle. From work.”
    He added the last part in haste—quantifying his identity spared him from how he knew it would feel if Mike asked Who? Then he thought, How many Lyles can the man know?
    The intercom died. The squeak of a door’s hinges from somewhere deep in the apartment building’s dark interior sounded, alerting Lyle to a flash of motion from beyond the security door’s glass. Mike. He appeared and opened the door.
    â€œHey, man,” Lyle said, smiling widely.
    â€œDude,” Mike greeted him, indifferent.
    It took the greatest effort not to stare at Mike’s clean white T-shirt, blue jeans, and bare feet. Lyle did, however, notice that Mike’s puppy-dog eyes looked even more wounded than usual.
    â€œHope you don’t mind me dropping in like this.”
    â€œWhy are you here?” Mike growled.
    Lyle shrugged. “Thought you could use a friendly face. The baseball game’s coming on, and I brought beer.”
    Mike smiled, but the gesture contained little humor. “You know?”

    Lyle nodded.
    â€œI’m off the beer for a while.”
    â€œI also brought cookies.”
    Mike drew in a deep breath, his annoyance—hell, his anger—obvious, barely contained. But just when Lyle figured he’d made a mistake in coming here, Mike’s furry mouth curled into a smile that was more convincing than its predecessor. “What kind of cookies?”
    â€œChocolate chip. The soft, squishy kind, from the bakery,” Lyle said. “Only the best for you, man.”
    Â 
    The apartment was a typical bachelor’s cave, with mismatched furniture. A soft and overstuffed chair in front of a widescreen TV hooked up to the usual gadgets and games, a baseball poster tacked to one wall beside it. Mike’s familiar work boots sat just inside the door, a discarded pair of sweat socks bunched inside them. Several pill bottles littered the top of the kitchen table, along with stacks of unopened mail and a stroke magazine.
    â€œSo how are you doing, big Mike?” Lyle said, drawing in a deep breath of the Mike-scented air.
    â€œHow do you think?”
    Lyle shrugged. “Probably not too good.”
    â€œNo, probably not,” Mike said.
    Lyle set the bag down on the counter and pulled out the cookies. “I wanted to bring you something, but I didn’t peg you as the flower or fruit basket type.”
    Mike snorted, slumped into his big chair, and