go.”
“No, no. Get out of those wet things.” Philip
shucked his jacket and began to strip. Sprakie smiled. “For every
boy, there’s a toy. In the scheme of things, you can either hunt
one down, or lasso the herd — fast and disposable. And while they
pass through, dearie, you make them pay.”
“And me? Will I need to pay?”
Sprakie pouted. “Well nothing’s free. But I think
you’re a keeper.” He patted Philip’s bare ass. “You can stay here
until you find something better. And since you already know the way
to my bedroom, I’ll meet you there after I wash up the mud.”
4
“And you’re with him still,” Thomas said.
“I slept with him that night,” Philip said. “We
actually slept. We’re sisters. And I rent my little cubby from
him.”
Thomas hugged him. Rocked him.
“My brave little soldier. The world has been harsh
to you and still you show it your best face.”
Philip turned, the tears streaking down his cheeks.
“Not always,” he whimpered.
Thomas tried to dry the tears, but they would not be
assuaged. He hugged him again. He rocked him again, like a child in
want of something more than deep love in the dark — a lost child in
want of his mother.
Chapter Nine
Safe Harbor
1
The rising sunlight flooded the bedroom. Neither man
had slept, the journey taken keeping them far from the shores of
slumber. Still, the weariness nipped at the margins, an urge to nap
creeping on cat paws. Thomas disengaged. He lumbered to his feet
and stretched, his well-toned body rippling in the light that
tumbled through the vertical blinds.
“How does Belgian waffles sound?” he crowed. “With
strawberries and cream.”
Philip was snagged back from drowsiness. He
stretched, his feet as pointy as a prima ballerina’s.
“And some hot coffee,” Philip purred.
“I thought you never touched the stuff.”
Philip sat up. “I lied. I should write novels.”
Thomas gazed down at the silk-skinned angel that had
graced his bed. “You’re a little devil, you know.”
“I thought I was your angel.”
“Same thing.” Thomas left for the kitchen, not even
bothering to don his robe. “Same thing.”
Philip felt strange in this bed. He had been in
strangers’ beds before. Two years had notched his belt with a score
of nifty conquests. However, this didn’t feel like a morning
after . Perhaps it was the lack of sleep and the deep drift in
the conversation. He hadn’t visited these events for some time —
difficult to ponder and never spoken . . . until now. He wasn’t
sure if it was right to dump so heavy a cargo on the attentive Mr.
Dye, but it felt good to do it. In fact, Philip sensed a buoyancy
he never had known. This bed was strange, but it was the best port
in which his vessel weighed anchor. A safe haven. Or was it the man
who was his harbor. Philip sat up. The sun was good. He played with
the light streams, his long tapered fingers stirring the motes into
a bolero.
Philip stood, and then followed Thomas’ path through
the door. He honored the precedent and remained unclad. The morning
chill braced his skin and prickled his nipples. The rug kissed his
toes as he crossed into the living room with its airy charm and its
eclectic furnishings. Chippendale. He heard Thomas whistling
in the kitchen, clattering bowls and scraping plates. Philip spied
his backpack resting on a hassock and he immediately prodded around
inside, assuring that the book was still secure in its
harbor.
Books . The shelves were high and deep and
packed tight with bindings. Philip brushed his fingers across them.
He recognized a few like Tom Sawyer and Oliver Twist .
Then he came to a copy of the book . It was much like his own
— the binding a crispy tan and embossed. He wrenched it from the
shelf, opening to the first page. Unlike his, this one had a slight
stain under the 1851 date that sailed low on the
margins.
“Careful with that,” Thomas said as he crossed from
the kitchen. He was whipping the batter in
“No, no. Get out of those wet things.” Philip
shucked his jacket and began to strip. Sprakie smiled. “For every
boy, there’s a toy. In the scheme of things, you can either hunt
one down, or lasso the herd — fast and disposable. And while they
pass through, dearie, you make them pay.”
“And me? Will I need to pay?”
Sprakie pouted. “Well nothing’s free. But I think
you’re a keeper.” He patted Philip’s bare ass. “You can stay here
until you find something better. And since you already know the way
to my bedroom, I’ll meet you there after I wash up the mud.”
4
“And you’re with him still,” Thomas said.
“I slept with him that night,” Philip said. “We
actually slept. We’re sisters. And I rent my little cubby from
him.”
Thomas hugged him. Rocked him.
“My brave little soldier. The world has been harsh
to you and still you show it your best face.”
Philip turned, the tears streaking down his cheeks.
“Not always,” he whimpered.
Thomas tried to dry the tears, but they would not be
assuaged. He hugged him again. He rocked him again, like a child in
want of something more than deep love in the dark — a lost child in
want of his mother.
Chapter Nine
Safe Harbor
1
The rising sunlight flooded the bedroom. Neither man
had slept, the journey taken keeping them far from the shores of
slumber. Still, the weariness nipped at the margins, an urge to nap
creeping on cat paws. Thomas disengaged. He lumbered to his feet
and stretched, his well-toned body rippling in the light that
tumbled through the vertical blinds.
“How does Belgian waffles sound?” he crowed. “With
strawberries and cream.”
Philip was snagged back from drowsiness. He
stretched, his feet as pointy as a prima ballerina’s.
“And some hot coffee,” Philip purred.
“I thought you never touched the stuff.”
Philip sat up. “I lied. I should write novels.”
Thomas gazed down at the silk-skinned angel that had
graced his bed. “You’re a little devil, you know.”
“I thought I was your angel.”
“Same thing.” Thomas left for the kitchen, not even
bothering to don his robe. “Same thing.”
Philip felt strange in this bed. He had been in
strangers’ beds before. Two years had notched his belt with a score
of nifty conquests. However, this didn’t feel like a morning
after . Perhaps it was the lack of sleep and the deep drift in
the conversation. He hadn’t visited these events for some time —
difficult to ponder and never spoken . . . until now. He wasn’t
sure if it was right to dump so heavy a cargo on the attentive Mr.
Dye, but it felt good to do it. In fact, Philip sensed a buoyancy
he never had known. This bed was strange, but it was the best port
in which his vessel weighed anchor. A safe haven. Or was it the man
who was his harbor. Philip sat up. The sun was good. He played with
the light streams, his long tapered fingers stirring the motes into
a bolero.
Philip stood, and then followed Thomas’ path through
the door. He honored the precedent and remained unclad. The morning
chill braced his skin and prickled his nipples. The rug kissed his
toes as he crossed into the living room with its airy charm and its
eclectic furnishings. Chippendale. He heard Thomas whistling
in the kitchen, clattering bowls and scraping plates. Philip spied
his backpack resting on a hassock and he immediately prodded around
inside, assuring that the book was still secure in its
harbor.
Books . The shelves were high and deep and
packed tight with bindings. Philip brushed his fingers across them.
He recognized a few like Tom Sawyer and Oliver Twist .
Then he came to a copy of the book . It was much like his own
— the binding a crispy tan and embossed. He wrenched it from the
shelf, opening to the first page. Unlike his, this one had a slight
stain under the 1851 date that sailed low on the
margins.
“Careful with that,” Thomas said as he crossed from
the kitchen. He was whipping the batter in
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