Crossing Borders

• Warning
  
• Dedication
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• Chapter Twenty-One
  
• Chapter Twenty-Two
  
• Chapter Twenty-Three
  
• Chapter Twenty-Four
  
• Chapter Twenty-Five
  
• Chapter Twenty-Six
  
• Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
• Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
• Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
• Chapter Thirty
  
• Chapter Thirty-One
  
• Chapter Thirty-Two
  
• Chapter Thirty-Three
  
• Epilogue
  
• Z. A. Maxfield
  

This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id® e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

* * *

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by

Loose Id LLC

www.loose-id.com

Crossing Borders

Copyright © July 2008 by Z. A. Maxfield

All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.

ISBN 978-1-59632-738-2

Printed in the United States of America

For Marri, who slid over one seat during
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
(so we could talk) twenty-five years ago, and has been right beside me ever since.

It seemed unimaginably sudden when Tristan decided this was the last day he'd look at some guy out of the corner of his eye and think, maybe,
yeah
, that would be so…damn. He'd been feeling it all along, the nagging and awkward insistence of his brain over the ease of his body getting lucky. There wasn't a girl in his circle of friends who didn't come on to him, but lately his body had been vibing more insistently in a different key, and with every month that passed and every insipid date with his girlfriend Tiffany-call-me-Viper, he'd realized it wasn't something he could run from anymore. Because when Viper stood him up, Tristan looked at her brother, whatever
his
name was, when he answered the door all embarrassed and thoughtful and guilty somehow, and he thought,
Damn, I should have asked you out instead
.

“She's gone out with another dude… Sorry,” Viper's brother said. Like that was a bad thing. “I think she's kind of over you, you know?” He hung on the door a little, and Tristan noticed right away that he was aroused and trying to hide it. “Sorry, man,” he said again.

Tristan held his hand out and smacked the door, stopping it as it was closing. Mesmerized, fascinated, and trying not to look at the spot of moisture growing against the faded blue of the man's jeans, he said, “Hey, wait—”

But then what's-his-name looked behind him at a girl with blonde hair and seriously kissed lips. She slid her arms around his waist under his shirt. Tristan turned to leave. “Never mind,” he added as he carefully stepped down the brick stairs to the sidewalk. “Tell Viper I said 'bye.”

“Sure thing,” said Viper's brother as he closed the door.

Jeez…
Viper
. Tristan felt bad about feeling nothing at all.

So even though the decision seemed sudden, as he boarded up and down the large rolling hills on State College Boulevard, Tristan was aware that the choice he was making today came from a long and sometimes Byzantine series of personal dialogues. If Viper didn't do it for him, it wasn't going to get done. He felt relieved somehow, unencumbered. He felt the wind blow through his hair and through his life as it wafted out all the garbage he'd been doing for years that meant nothing to him.

Viper was cool and funny and sexy and willing, and he couldn't care less. Because he wanted Viper's brother, or more precisely, the leaking, sweet-as-candy cock that tented his faded Levis, even though it was probably making its way into the blonde chick even as Tristan thought about it. And he thought about it a lot. So, okay, once he admitted he wanted it, the next logical step was figuring out where
the hell
to get it.

Tristan pushed off the ground hard, sorry again that he'd loaned his car to his sister, Lily. It was hard climbing the hill that crested at the State College intersection with Bastanchury Boulevard, where on clear days you could see the LA downtown skyline. Worth it though, because once he topped that hill, he would freefall all the way down to Imperial Highway, then turn right, and after a block or two, cross the street to go to Borders, because that was
the plan
.

Being nothing if not thorough, Tristan had worked on
the plan
in his spare time, day and night it seemed, since Viper had called to officially dump him. Still, there didn't seem to be an actual
viable
plan until he heard two girls talking about Borders in Art History class. He'd deliberately listened in as they chatted together amiably about using books as bait to lure and trap unwary men in the bookstore café. If he hadn't already decided he'd be better off with dick than pussy, their predatory attitude would have put him off for life anyway. How crafty. How Machiavellian.
How marvelous
.

The plan
.

Tristan kicked the back of his skateboard so the front leapt into his hand. The move was as natural to him as breathing, something he was doing now in an unnatural, anticipatory way. Coming down that hill, his muscles bunching, the board rocking, the force of gravity and the wind pushing him was exhilarating, but not the cause of his rapid heart rate. Not the only cause.

Tristan entered Borders, getting a feel for the place, trying to figure out the best way to case the layout. It wasn't the largest Borders he'd been to, but he nevertheless found one shelf of gay lit sandwiched between a corner of African American literature and two shelves of what looked like lesbian romance novels. Right there, right in the damn front of the store, albeit back in the corner, but still…damn.
Right in the front of the store
.

Tristan had printed off a number of titles, a laundry list of must-reads he'd gotten off an Amazon reviewer's Web site. He picked up three books, two contemporary novels, and Armistead Maupin's
Tales of the City
. He searched around in the poetry and literature sections and found Allen Ginsberg's
Howl
and a book by Keith Hale called
Clicking Beat on the Brink of Nada
. Whatever. He hoped he didn't have time to read them. He just wanted to use the books to start a conversation that would end with him getting laid. He hedged his bets by grabbing a guide to gay Las Vegas nightlife on his way through the travel section and adding it to the pile he set on a table, staking out his territory. He ordered a cup of coffee and a rice crispy treat. He was going to sit glued in that seat, all day—all night if he had to—until somebody talked to him or kicked his ass out. That was
the plan
, and Tristan was all about
the plan
. He was sure his intentions couldn't have been any more obvious if he'd brought a box of Twinkies and unwrapped them, shoving them into his mouth and licking the cream out one by one. But
obvious
was a large part of
the plan
.

On the way over, it did occur to Tristan that this might not be the sanest moment of his life, but he couldn't allow lack of information or common sense to get in the way of true desperation. He knew it was crazy and ruefully acknowledged the fact that no normal person would try something like this. He'd grown up not ten minutes from here, and someone he knew was bound to show up. In life there were lookers and leapers. Tristan had to admit he was a leaper.

Tristan had toyed briefly with warning his mother beforehand, but thought he'd like to at least have a homosexual experience before bringing up the whole “I'm gay” thing. Like his tongue piercing, his mom always found the bright side quicker when things were a fait accompli. He played with the bead on his tongue now, a nervous habit of long standing. He willed himself to relax his shoulders, picked up the contemporary novel
Chemistry
by DeSimone, and started to read.

After a few minutes, Tristan chanced a look around, checking all the men out in the near vicinity…
and froze
. Standing in line for coffee was the last person he wanted to see today. Really, the last person he wanted to see ever. Up until now, things had gone smoothly enough. Maybe too smoothly, because he'd had absolutely no warning he was about to see the ubiquitous Officer Helmet. And damn, he was wearing civilian clothing, as though he didn't just sleep in his stinking cruiser, lying in wait to give out those without-a-helmet tickets to kids on skateboards. Tristan eyed him warily. He wore khaki cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, with Vans and those little short socks you could hardly see. He had brown, tanned legs with a tribal tattoo around one ankle. In normal clothes he looked younger; his bedhead hair was golden blond, and he needed a shave. He had really shocking blue eyes. Jeez. Officer Helmet was…