Fugly by K Z Snow Page A

used to, at least on the right side, and it sure as hell hadn’t been that way when he’d left the house.
    Funny, that was the side of his face he’d nuzzled against Gabe’s.
    “Would you like to have lunch,” Gabe said, “and see where things go from there?”
    Todd turned away from the mirror. The invitation made his reflected image unimportant. “Yes, I’d like that. I’d like it very much.”
    Simultaneously, they smiled. Todd would’ve bet anything the funeral home had never been filled with such warmth.

Chapter Seven
    Jake had no idea what he was going to say when he opened the door to his condo. He stood nearly eye-to-eye with David, who smelled delectably of that triple milled, citrus-and-cedar soap that was one of his rare indulgences, and suddenly, Jake wanted to hold him and kiss him as if they were long-lost lovers.
    Why have I been resisting? What have I been resisting?
    David smiled uncertainly.
    “Hi,” Jake said, trying to be casual. For both their sakes, he wanted to keep the drama to a minimum. “Thanks for coming over.”
    “No problem.” David definitely wasn’t his usual easygoing self. He must’ve known something was up. They almost always met at the office.
    After he closed the door, Jake led David to the conversational grouping of couch, loveseats, and chairs before his fireplace. “I just made some lemonade. Fresh squeezed.
    Want some?” A tray bearing a pitcher and two tumblers already sat on the cocktail table.
    “You don’t have to treat me like a guest, Jake. I can serve myself.” David peeled off his jacket and sat on one of the loveseats. His gaze immediately went to the thin sheaf of pages lying near the tray. “Is that my story?”
    Jake cleared his throat and poured himself a drink. “Yeah.”
    “Have you read it?”
    “Yes.”
    “Is that why I’m here?”
    The ice cubes clinking in Jake’s glass seemed to mimic the pattering of his heart. He sat in the chair beside the loveseat and took a quick drink. “That’s why you’re here.”
    After a moment of utter stillness, David rose and also poured some lemonade. When he resumed his seat, he took a swallow then stared into his glass, cradled loosely in both his hands.
    “The story is very good,” Jake said. “Of course.”
    “Thank you.”
    The tension in the room wound tighter.
    “By the way,” Jake said, “how does my face look to you today?”
    David, cheeks flushed, slid him a glance. “Worse, actually. I didn’t want to say anything. I know it upsets you.”
    “According to your theory, then, I’m lusting after you.”
    David chuckled. “That’s nothing new. You always lust after me when you haven’t scored a piece of ass in a while.”
    ‘“I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.’”
    After taking another drink, Jake slid his glass onto the coffee table. When he sat back, he noticed David’s face was nearly as red as his own. “Short stories don’t normally come with epigraphs. I didn’t know you were a fan of Edna St. Vincent Millay.”
    “I’m not,” David muttered, “particularly.” He spoke to the drink in his hands.
    “I’ve never known you to write autobiographically, either. Those college friends in your story—they sounded a lot like us.”
    “Why are you playing this game?” David fired a look at Jake. The distress on his face was heartrending.
    “I’m sorry,” Jake whispered, his urbane detachment swept aside. What made him think he could sustain it? Suddenly, his throat felt clotted. He reached for his glass and sipped, buying time he had no idea how best to use. “Maybe because I feel the way Neil Gaiman does about love.”
    He’d outed The Word. It sat between them now, like a stubborn kid who refused to be ignored.
    “I’m not familiar with his views,” David said to his right shoe. The foot it encased rested on his right knee. He curled his free set of fingers over his hidden toes. Obviously awaiting some