Bombora (4 page)

“Nice to meet you, Phel.”

“Likewise, Nate.” I nodded at our surroundings and nudged him with my shoulder once he finished sipping his drink. Our faces were very close together, and a slow tendril of heat curled through me when I caught him watching my mouth as I spoke. “What moved you to grace Foxley’s with your presence this evening?” I asked.

“Curiosity, mostly.” Nate must have noticed my back stiffen, because he quickly added, “I’m not from here, so this is all kinda new to me. Didn’t know Columbus even had a gay scene. I live about an hour northeast of the city—little town called Mount Vernon. You ever been there?”

“Can’t say I have,” I admitted. Clearly that was a mistake on my part, if the rest of Mount Vernon looked anything like Nate. “You picked the right place, anyway.… Most of the other gay bars around here are either lame, or skeezy, or both. At least Foxley’s is halfway respectable, and Adam likes to mix ’em strong.” Mouth twitching, I suggested, “Maybe you should
start
a gay scene in Mount Vernon. With a face like yours, people might actually pay attention—and I’m sure you’re not the only fag in the suburbs.”

Nate gave a careful pause I couldn’t interpret, which he attempted to hide behind his glass of Scotch. “That probably wouldn’t go over so well,” he answered tautly. “Besides, I like Columbus. It’s nearby, and a helluva lot more interesting than Mount Vernon.” With a smile and a glint in his eye, he added, “Plus, you’re here.”

Unable to help myself, I rolled my eyes at the cheesy line, earning a laugh. Good to know Nate had a healthy sense of irony, or didn’t mind a little teasing. As someone who’d been accused of being too literal and serious on multiple occasions, I appreciated someone who wasn’t afraid to laugh at himself—or me, since I probably needed to lighten up.

It was too early to tell whether Nate would understand my biting brand of sarcasm, so I settled on sauciness instead, it being the more obvious—though not necessarily less dangerous—route. Something my father taught me at a young age was to never undervalue your talents, be they few or many, great or small; as such, I have always valued my intellect and strategic reasoning. I am also, however, quite adept at using tone of voice to my advantage. I inherited my father’s deep growl, something that surprises a lot of people, given my relatively slight frame. Nevertheless, it’s effective at getting people to listen to me, if not flat-out obey.

In a split-second decision, I elected to turn it on Nate, lowering my voice to a much quieter decibel as I slid a hand around to the small of his back and murmured, “What do you plan to do with me, now that you’ve got my undivided attention?” He all but had to press himself against me to catch the words, his breath hot against my jaw as he brought his ear closer to my mouth. His warmth made me shiver.

The question caught Nate off guard—I saw that much in the quick lift of eyebrows and the blush that suffused his cheeks, making that smattering of freckles stand out even more. He hid it quickly, however, and once recovered didn’t shy from the challenge of close physical proximity with a near stranger. If anything he seemed relieved, perhaps happy to be back on even footing, certain of my interest.

At the brush of his lips against my ear, I couldn’t disguise my shudder or the quick puff of breath I expelled in his direction. Compared to a lot of straight folk, gay men make agreeing to sex a pretty painless and straightforward transaction. The anticipation gave me a feeling like someone had started a motor in my belly, tiny vibrations growing stronger until they were indistinguishable from a racing heartbeat. “I’ve got a hotel room nearby,” Nate informed me.

I stopped to consider the offer. Nine times out of ten, a hotel room is my preference—so much easier than having to consider the alternatives, like if bringing a trick home is the best way to safeguard my anonymity and my possessions. I’ve never had anything bad happen, but you hear stories, especially in the God-fearing Midwest or southern states, about unsuspecting gays who invite the wrong sort home. A few drag queens and transvestites have lost their lives this way, even in quiet Columbus. The promise of safety gave me a moment’s pause, even though I’m normally a good judge of character. Nate didn’t set off any warning bells. Most pressing of all was the sudden desire I had to see him amidst my possessions, drinking from my favorite mug, lounging on my sofa. His head against my pillow.

“N-no,” I answered slowly, and for a split second our mouths were so close I couldn’t have licked my lips without licking his as well. “My apartment is just down the street—I’d very much like to see how you look in my bed.” The sight of Nate laid out on my sheets was an afterimage I’d be sure to keep long after his scent faded away in the wash. Tricks weren’t something I tended to hold on to, but I had this feeling, this nagging suspicion Nate would be different. I expected those intelligent green eyes to haunt me for a while; already I had a hard time looking away. “Besides, we can make as much noise as we want without worrying about the other guests.”

Apparently this reasoning was sufficient for Nate, his expression gone soft and heavy-lidded at my words, and we each finished our drinks in silence before he threw a few bills down on the bar for Adam. I was barely conscious of the men milling around us, pressing close in their effort to navigate the bar or attract Adam’s attention. I didn’t care about anything but Nate.

“I’ll do my best not to disappoint you,” he murmured into my ear. He gave a cheeky tug on my tie, fingers lingering against my breastbone for a half beat. “Lead the way.”

The promise implicit in the statement made me flush and harden slightly in my pants, my mind already racing ahead of us down the street to my apartment. I saw us hurrying out of the bar, Nate’s arm around my waist beneath my suit jacket. We wouldn’t stop to kiss the whole way there, not even when the elevator doors slid closed and we were totally alone. No, I wouldn’t get to feel that mouth against mine until my apartment door closed behind us and I turned to see Nate unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt, a man getting down to business.

He didn’t disappoint me at all, not that night. In fact, he so far exceeded my wildest fantasies that I never drove to Chicago the next day, content to bend to the suggestion to put the weekend to better and more creative uses. It’s not that Nate was some spectacular hard body with a ten-inch cock or a tongue that could work miracles (well, maybe that last one); I’ve had those types before, and they never lingered in memory longer than a few hours. No, Nate was an average man with a heartbreaking face and a slight air of mystery to him, prone more to observation than talk, like he’d lived his whole life with a silence so deep he couldn’t possibly see how words could fill it. There was so much passion in him, however, that for a minute I reconsidered what I was getting myself into. The way he touched me, the way he fucked me, the way he looked into my face afterward like he didn’t quite know what to make of the whole thing… it made my skin tingle and burn like an ant beneath a child’s magnifying glass.

Dozens of men have warmed my sheets before, but Nate was the first to make me want to stop the whole ride and think about how I’d feel when he walked off, never to be seen again.

Like I said, he didn’t disappoint me. Not in the slightest. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much when he finally betrayed me; I don’t know. Hugh’s probably right in saying I was lucky to get out when I did, but I must have developed a wicked case of Stockholm Syndrome; breaking up with Nate felt like cutting off my own arm, tearing away what had become a part of myself. I still check myself for scars sometimes, as though I should see his name branded on my skin when I look in the mirror. Let’s just say the fall back to Earth was a hard one. Small wonder, really, I wound up in Cardiff with a suitcase full of Valium and more baggage than a luggage car.

But. That’s all in the past now, isn’t it?

After yoga and the second shower of the day, I throw on jeans and a T-shirt and grab my wetsuit from where it hangs drying over the bathtub, and shrug off Nate’s memory and the foul mood it never fails to put me in. Time to head over to Hugh’s.

I’m looking forward to surfing today—Mondays are always best, the beaches quiet and free of weekend crowds. Sometimes I think I’m really starting to get it—I might not be ready for the Suckouts yet, but weather patterns have taken on a new significance that extends beyond “rainy” or “sunny” or “windy.” I used to favor bright summer days with gentle breezes and low humidity, but now find myself excited by overcast skies and the threat of precipitation. Beyond a doubt, that’s where the best waves come from, and Hugh’s now comfortable letting me tackle a few of the bigger tubes off the reef. With that much water splashing you in the face, a little rain is immaterial.

I set out determined to have a good day and not waste more time dwelling on Nate fucking Fessenden. Lucky for me, Hugh lives within walking distance of my little house on the Palermo Springs compound. While far from being a hotbed of excitement, Cardiff is such a beautiful town that it’s hard to be in a snit with the smell of the sea in the air and a touch of eternal summer in the breeze, even during overcast days, the palm trees swaying in the wind like perpetual motion machines.

There’s a laid-back atmosphere to the whole place I’ve never experienced in the Midwest or the East Coast. People very much seem to take life in stride here, which I suppose is the perfect quality for a rehabilitation setting. If you walk around long enough, some of that sense of calm starts to rub off. Surfers are a pretty relaxed group at the best of times, but in Cardiff they actually seem… happy. I can see why Hugh settled down here. Once my program at Palermo is finished—soon, now—I think I’ll use what money is left to me from the sale of my Columbus and Chicago apartments, and buy something in the neighborhood. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t sometimes think about how much Nate would like it here, because he’s certainly got the right constitution, but then again, I kind of like that Cardiff is just
mine
and Hugh’s, not anyone else’s. Funny how much changes in a year.

As I round the corner onto Cape Sebastian Place, past where it veers off from Manchester, a few young guys are making their way to the beach, wetsuits already half-unzipped to their navels, shortboards tucked beneath their arms with easy pride. They can probably tell the weather’s going to churn up some nice waves too. We nod at each other in passing, and I wonder if we’ll all end up chasing the same tubes together before day’s end, or chatting in a floating circle as we wait for the next swell. A couple of them are exceptionally handsome, even to my jaded eyes, and some old part of me halfheartedly hopes we’ll see them again. Hugh’s house is the third down from the left, so with any luck we’ll join them soon.

Sebastian Place is a lovely street, one of the prettiest in Cardiff, in my opinion. It’s set at the top of a hill that leads down to the water, and there’s a great view in every direction, the ocean to the east and San Elijo Lagoon to the south. No matter how much Hugh wishes otherwise, his house is like an oceanfront palace. There are too many windows and angled terraces, and the Land Rover in the driveway is a quiet reminder the owner isn’t short on cash. He said he tried living in a more unassuming house when he first moved to Cardiff, but was hounded by curious townsfolk until he caved and moved to a private corner lot with a single neighbor. Still, the overall effect is one I like. Somehow it doesn’t scream ostentatious wealth like some of the residences I’ve seen around the area, which is to say, Hugh’s house is gorgeous, but not the nicest one on the street.

What disturbs me is that Hugh appears to have a visitor: a huge black motorcycle is parked next to the Land Rover, gleaming in the pale sunlight and reflecting the sky back a darker shade of gray. The make and model I recognize instantly—it’s a Ducati Sport Classic 1000, beautifully maintained but with an irrepressible attitude. I knew someone who drove a Ducati once, and I swear to God that machine was more precious to him than a child. He called her Lucy and would talk to her in the mornings as though she might actually answer back and wish him good day. All the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand up at the sight of that bike, and it’s the first time I start to worry, seriously worry, there’s something else afoot besides mere coincidence. Swallowing, I mount the front steps.

I ring the doorbell, resisting the urge to walk right into the house the way I always do. My heart is hammering so hard in my chest that my ears ring and my cheeks tingle. Panic. It’s just a fluke, I tell myself adamantly—there are plenty of hot bikes in this part of California, where rich folk like to throw money away on something flashy to drive around on the weekend. It doesn’t mean anything at all, except maybe I’m not as recovered as I first thought. There’s no way, none, that this Ducati is the same one Nate Fessenden used to drive back in Ohio, because that would just be fucking
crazy
.

Shit.

I hear Hugh’s booming laugh echo from inside the house. There’s a scuffle to get to the door amidst Callie’s barking, like the occupants are wrestling to see who will get there first. The answering voice is so instantly familiar, I have to fight my body’s immediate fight-or-flight response, which, since I’ve never so much as punched another person, would probably translate to me puking, then passing out. The door opens as I’m darting my eyes around, palms clammy, throat tight, trying to find the nearest escape.

On the other side, with his hand poised above the doorknob, Nate freezes. No better word for it. Whatever smile brightened his face a second ago disappears like someone slapped it off him, his whole body going so still the rest of the neighborhood seems to quiet in response. Even the birds fall silent, or at least that’s what it feels like. All I can hear is blood rushing past my ears as my heart jackhammers a frantic tympani rhythm. For a second neither of us says anything. We don’t even blink. Then from behind Nate, Hugh exclaims, “Oh, shit, Phel—I forgot!” in his dopey, clueless way.

Nate doesn’t turn to acknowledge his brother’s statement. He’s still caught staring at me like he’s just seen a ghost—which I suppose he has. I think a part of me died the second that door opened and I saw him standing there, like a vision from my worst nightmare.