One for the Gods (The Peter & Charlie Trilogy) by Gordon Merrick Page A

He took a step forward and Jean-Claude shrank back.
    “What’s—you—” he mumbled, his eyes staring.
    “Take your time to wake up.”
    “I’ve been up. I must’ve gone to sleep again.” He lifted his other hand and ran it through his hair.
    “Waiting for Peter?” His eyes shifted to the lubricant and back.
    “I don’t understand. What—”
    “I thought it was about time for me to take charge.”
    “Take charge? Does Peter know you’re here?”
    “I don’t know. He might guess. I’ve come to see you.”
    “But why? I don’t—”
    “Why did the maid tell me to come right up?” He summoned up all his control. The urge to smash the boy’s face was almost too great to contain, but he knew now that that would be letting him off too easily. “Don’t you think it’s natural for me to be interested in somebody who’s been going to bed with Peter?” His stomach heaved but he had a firm grip on himself.
    “But that’s crazy. You don’t think—”
    “It’s all right. You don’t have to deny it. I know all about it. You met him in Nice last week.”
    Jean-Claude studied Charlie for a moment. He seemed reassured by what he saw and relaxed visibly. “He wanted me to. I’m in love with him,” he said defensively.
    “That’s apt to be a pretty painful experience for you.”
    “I don’t care. I want him with me. I want to take him away from you.”
    “You are ambitious. And what does Peter think?”
    “I don’t know. He’s fighting it.”
    “I wonder why he’s doing that.” He felt a lessening of tension as he reconsidered his course of action. His eye was able to make a solid composition of the figure on the bed. The elements were good—the big, ruddy, copper torso curving up to heavy shoulders propped up by the column of arm, the expanse of white sheet he was sprawled on, the other white sheet that covered his legs and cut him off at the waist. The legs made an interesting pattern of the sheet. The other arm lay along them. The arch of his brows was quite magnificent. The big eyes and heavy mouth were darkly inviting. He was a fine figure of a youth, a painted statue; all the lines flowed softly into each other like Hellenistic work, faintly hermaphroditic. The smudge of hair in the middle of his chest didn’t belong. “Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?” he asked.
    “Oh, yes. Of course.” He shifted his legs slightly.
    Jean-Claude’s eyes dropped to Charlie’s shorts as he moved toward the bed and sat on the edge of it. He sensed a soft compliancy in the boy, which made the lubricant on the bedside table a jarring note. What had they been up to? “Tell me about it. Why do you think you can take him away from me?”
    “He loves me. I know it.”
    “He doesn’t say so?”
    “No. But that’s because he’s fighting it. I give him things you don’t.” He dropped his eyes.
    “Such as?”
    The eyes lifted defiantly. “He likes to fuck me.”
    “I see,” Charlie said. So that was it. This big, voluptuous youth had aroused some dormant masculine urge in Peter. It mitigated his guilt to some slight degree. “That’s not surprising. You look highly fuckable.”
    Jean-Claude looked startled. “You mean, you—?”
    “I mean just that. What was all the excitement about last night?”
    “You know about it? I was losing out of my mind. Is that right? Everybody heard what you did with Peter yesterday. I wanted to make him know I would fuck him, too.”
    “By tearing his clothes off? I didn’t like that.” The murderous rage flared up in him again. Looking at the boy, feeling him melt toward him, he realized what a tenuous hold he had on reality; he could drive him insane. After that, he would take care of Peter. He forced a suggestive look into his eyes. “I thought you were interested in me when we first met.”
    Jean-Claude’s big eyes softened. “I was. I was in love with you both at first. You were not interested in me.”
    “How do you know? I don’t always