something maybe a little better, interesting to nobody, not even to himself.
More than anything, he wished he could have spent these days with Nico in San Jose. Or better yet, on the beach in Manuel Antonio, where they’d first met. Costa Rica had become a kind of symbol in his mind, a shorthand for forgetting everything about his past and living the way he wanted to, with the person he wanted to. But he couldn’t afford to go there now. He was too tense, for one thing. Nico, who could read his moods like no one who’d ever known him before, would intuit something was wrong. Also, for now, Larison preferred not to cross international borders. He wanted his remaining few contacts with the government to come from a variety of entirely random eastern seaboard locations, including the last contact, when he would instruct them on how to deliver the diamonds. After that, he would vanish like smoke.
For a moment, the thought of vanishing made him feel almost giddy. Because it would seem like vanishing only from his enemies’ perspective. From his own standpoint, it would be more like … more like being reborn, like his real self finally stirring to wakefulness. And once that part of him, the real him, the self he’d denied and obscured and hidden for so long, was awake, the dreams would stop, wouldn’t they? Yes, that would be one of the best parts about waking up, that the dreams would finally end. They’d belong to someone else then. They couldn’t touch him in Costa Rica.
He’d gone there for the first time five years earlier, while on temporary duty training the Honduran government’s praetorian guard in intelligence gathering and interrogation. He’d heard of Manuel Antonio, supposedly a gay paradise on Costa Rica’s Pacificcoast. It was a short flight to San Jose, and from there, a short drive to Manuel Antonio. Of course he hadn’t told anyone where he was going, he was just taking a few days to himself. He was married, and people naturally assumed he was being tight-lipped because he was chasing whores and wanted to be discreet. No one cared about that sort of thing. Getting a little strange tail was considered one of the perks of temporary duty and was ironically protected by its own informal “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. He was happy to have people think it of him. It wasn’t so terribly far from the truth and was therefore perfect cover.
Manuel Antonio lived up to its billing: white sand beaches framed by swaying palm trees to one side and blue surf to the other; dozens of lively bars and clubs and restaurants; nothing but young, toned men, all relaxed, fearless, looking to hook up. He remembered thinking the moment he arrived he would have to find a way to get back, it was that good.
He’d met Nico on Playita, one of the surfing beaches. Nico was riding a board in and then paddling it back out, sometimes with some other surfers, other times alone, and Larison was watching from the sand, admiring the way Nico got the most out of his waves, enjoying the occasional flash of brilliant teeth against smooth, cappuccino-colored skin, the lean muscles that stood out whenever he cut back against a wave or moved his arms to recover his balance. A few times, as he got close to the beach, Nico caught his eye and smiled. Larison smiled back, wondering. He guessed Nico was at least ten years younger. Some guys liked hooking up with someone older, more experienced. Some didn’t. He knew which he hoped the gorgeous creature on the surfboard would be.
After about a half hour, Larison had walked down the hot sand and stood with his feet in the cool, clear water. He watched Nico surfing in, glad to see he was heading right in his direction.
Nico rode in about twenty feet from the beach, then slowly sank into the water as the wave’s force depleted. He picked up his board and waded over to Larison, smiling, rivulets of water runningdown his skin, his chest and shoulders broken out in gooseflesh.
“You
More than anything, he wished he could have spent these days with Nico in San Jose. Or better yet, on the beach in Manuel Antonio, where they’d first met. Costa Rica had become a kind of symbol in his mind, a shorthand for forgetting everything about his past and living the way he wanted to, with the person he wanted to. But he couldn’t afford to go there now. He was too tense, for one thing. Nico, who could read his moods like no one who’d ever known him before, would intuit something was wrong. Also, for now, Larison preferred not to cross international borders. He wanted his remaining few contacts with the government to come from a variety of entirely random eastern seaboard locations, including the last contact, when he would instruct them on how to deliver the diamonds. After that, he would vanish like smoke.
For a moment, the thought of vanishing made him feel almost giddy. Because it would seem like vanishing only from his enemies’ perspective. From his own standpoint, it would be more like … more like being reborn, like his real self finally stirring to wakefulness. And once that part of him, the real him, the self he’d denied and obscured and hidden for so long, was awake, the dreams would stop, wouldn’t they? Yes, that would be one of the best parts about waking up, that the dreams would finally end. They’d belong to someone else then. They couldn’t touch him in Costa Rica.
He’d gone there for the first time five years earlier, while on temporary duty training the Honduran government’s praetorian guard in intelligence gathering and interrogation. He’d heard of Manuel Antonio, supposedly a gay paradise on Costa Rica’s Pacificcoast. It was a short flight to San Jose, and from there, a short drive to Manuel Antonio. Of course he hadn’t told anyone where he was going, he was just taking a few days to himself. He was married, and people naturally assumed he was being tight-lipped because he was chasing whores and wanted to be discreet. No one cared about that sort of thing. Getting a little strange tail was considered one of the perks of temporary duty and was ironically protected by its own informal “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. He was happy to have people think it of him. It wasn’t so terribly far from the truth and was therefore perfect cover.
Manuel Antonio lived up to its billing: white sand beaches framed by swaying palm trees to one side and blue surf to the other; dozens of lively bars and clubs and restaurants; nothing but young, toned men, all relaxed, fearless, looking to hook up. He remembered thinking the moment he arrived he would have to find a way to get back, it was that good.
He’d met Nico on Playita, one of the surfing beaches. Nico was riding a board in and then paddling it back out, sometimes with some other surfers, other times alone, and Larison was watching from the sand, admiring the way Nico got the most out of his waves, enjoying the occasional flash of brilliant teeth against smooth, cappuccino-colored skin, the lean muscles that stood out whenever he cut back against a wave or moved his arms to recover his balance. A few times, as he got close to the beach, Nico caught his eye and smiled. Larison smiled back, wondering. He guessed Nico was at least ten years younger. Some guys liked hooking up with someone older, more experienced. Some didn’t. He knew which he hoped the gorgeous creature on the surfboard would be.
After about a half hour, Larison had walked down the hot sand and stood with his feet in the cool, clear water. He watched Nico surfing in, glad to see he was heading right in his direction.
Nico rode in about twenty feet from the beach, then slowly sank into the water as the wave’s force depleted. He picked up his board and waded over to Larison, smiling, rivulets of water runningdown his skin, his chest and shoulders broken out in gooseflesh.
“You
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