where dancing with men was safe. He had thanked
his friend at work for helping him out—and when Ray asked how
his boyfriend was doing, he answered, “Better. But I’m still worried.”
When a girl overheard the conversation and said, “Aww, man—it
figures,” and rolled her eyes, he’d managed to grin at her, like he’d
known he was gay his whole life.
G iven all that, it was very easy—far easier than he ever would
have imagined, that painful afternoon spent with his ex-girlfriend—
to close the space between him and his dream boy and kiss him
softly, then touch foreheads with him, there in the open green in
front of the school health building.
“I promised,” he said seriously. “Now come on, Talker. I love
you. Let’s go live up to your name.”
They had made love almost every night—but Tate was still
self-conscious, and Brian stil had to gentle him into being touched
and looked at.
What were you going to do, Talker? Pierce it? Tattoo it? It’s
yours. I love it. Let me touch it.
Your body is so beautiful, Brian. Don’t tel me you don’t see
the difference.
The difference is you’re my dream boy. If I was my own dream
boy, I’d be an idiot. And probably real y boring. Now here… (kiss,
lick, suck) doesn’t that feel good?
Ahhhh… do… no… oh G od, don’t stop….
Brian wanted so badly for Talker to believe he deserved love,
right down to the most elemental form of it: touch. He looked
anxiously at Tate, studying that masked face and the transparent
heart beneath it, hoping to see cooperation.
Talker | Amy Lane
91
Talker nodded, final y, and Brian sighed in relief. C lutching
hands tight enough to turn Brian’s fingers blue, they turned toward
the counseling office.
“Brian?” Talker asked as they got to the door. “You’l sit on my
right, okay?”
Brian’s heart bled, and he closed his eyes and had a little faith
that this would help the two of them make the bandages they
needed.
“Always, Talker. I promise.” It was apparently the right answer.
Their hands clenched in faith, they walked toward a future together.
About the Author
AMY LANE teaches high school E nglish, mothers four children, and
writes the occasional book. When she’s not begging students to sit-
the-hell-down or taxi ng kids to soccer/dance/karate—oh my! she
can be found catching emergency naps, grocery shopping, or
hiding in the bathroom, trying to read without interruption. She wil
never be found cooking, cleaning, or doing domestic chores, but
she has been known to knit up an emergency hat/blanket/pair of
socks for any occasion whatsoever or sometimes for no reason at
al . She writes in the shower, while commuting, while her classes
are doing bookwork, or while she’s wandering the neighborhood at
night pretending to exercise and has learned from necessity to type
like the wind. She lives in a spider-infested and crumbling house in
a shoddy suburb and counts on her beloved mate, Mack, to keep
her tethered to reality—which he does while keeping her cel phone
charged as a bonus. She’s been married for twenty plus years and
stil believes in Twu Wuv, with a capital Twu and a capital Wuv, and
she doesn’t see any reason at al for that to change.
Visit Amy’s web site at http://www.greenshil .com. You can e-mail
her at amylane@ greenshil .com.
Also by AMY LANE
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Also from D RE AMSPINNE R PRE SS
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Copyright
Talker ©Copyright Amy Lane, 2010
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
4760 Preston Road
Suite 244-149
Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art by Reese Dante http://www.reesedante.com
This
his friend at work for helping him out—and when Ray asked how
his boyfriend was doing, he answered, “Better. But I’m still worried.”
When a girl overheard the conversation and said, “Aww, man—it
figures,” and rolled her eyes, he’d managed to grin at her, like he’d
known he was gay his whole life.
G iven all that, it was very easy—far easier than he ever would
have imagined, that painful afternoon spent with his ex-girlfriend—
to close the space between him and his dream boy and kiss him
softly, then touch foreheads with him, there in the open green in
front of the school health building.
“I promised,” he said seriously. “Now come on, Talker. I love
you. Let’s go live up to your name.”
They had made love almost every night—but Tate was still
self-conscious, and Brian stil had to gentle him into being touched
and looked at.
What were you going to do, Talker? Pierce it? Tattoo it? It’s
yours. I love it. Let me touch it.
Your body is so beautiful, Brian. Don’t tel me you don’t see
the difference.
The difference is you’re my dream boy. If I was my own dream
boy, I’d be an idiot. And probably real y boring. Now here… (kiss,
lick, suck) doesn’t that feel good?
Ahhhh… do… no… oh G od, don’t stop….
Brian wanted so badly for Talker to believe he deserved love,
right down to the most elemental form of it: touch. He looked
anxiously at Tate, studying that masked face and the transparent
heart beneath it, hoping to see cooperation.
Talker | Amy Lane
91
Talker nodded, final y, and Brian sighed in relief. C lutching
hands tight enough to turn Brian’s fingers blue, they turned toward
the counseling office.
“Brian?” Talker asked as they got to the door. “You’l sit on my
right, okay?”
Brian’s heart bled, and he closed his eyes and had a little faith
that this would help the two of them make the bandages they
needed.
“Always, Talker. I promise.” It was apparently the right answer.
Their hands clenched in faith, they walked toward a future together.
About the Author
AMY LANE teaches high school E nglish, mothers four children, and
writes the occasional book. When she’s not begging students to sit-
the-hell-down or taxi ng kids to soccer/dance/karate—oh my! she
can be found catching emergency naps, grocery shopping, or
hiding in the bathroom, trying to read without interruption. She wil
never be found cooking, cleaning, or doing domestic chores, but
she has been known to knit up an emergency hat/blanket/pair of
socks for any occasion whatsoever or sometimes for no reason at
al . She writes in the shower, while commuting, while her classes
are doing bookwork, or while she’s wandering the neighborhood at
night pretending to exercise and has learned from necessity to type
like the wind. She lives in a spider-infested and crumbling house in
a shoddy suburb and counts on her beloved mate, Mack, to keep
her tethered to reality—which he does while keeping her cel phone
charged as a bonus. She’s been married for twenty plus years and
stil believes in Twu Wuv, with a capital Twu and a capital Wuv, and
she doesn’t see any reason at al for that to change.
Visit Amy’s web site at http://www.greenshil .com. You can e-mail
her at amylane@ greenshil .com.
Also by AMY LANE
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Also from D RE AMSPINNE R PRE SS
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Copyright
Talker ©Copyright Amy Lane, 2010
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
4760 Preston Road
Suite 244-149
Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art by Reese Dante http://www.reesedante.com
This
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