Crossing Borders (18 page)

Michael looked back at him perplexed. “Yeah,” he said evenly. “I did.”

“Holy crap, that's some gorgeous woodwork. I thought it was original to the house. The leaf carvings on the mantle and the moldings are really, really beautiful.”

Michael picked up the basketball, blushing like a kid. “Think so?”

“Yeah,” said Tristan, crouching to play as Michael dribbled. “My dad and I used to tour historic homes. I just thought…” he said, going for the ball, which Michael effortlessly pulled out of his reach behind him, hooking it into the basket, swish, nothing but net.

“Me too,” said Michael. “I like going through the places with a lot of carvings best, like the Queen Annes in old Corona on Main Street or by the circle in Orange. There's a lot there to admire, and the renovations are gorgeous.” He snatched the ball away from Tristan again and hooked a shot, right in for two. “Hey, basketball's not your game, is it?”

“Nope.” Tristan slammed the ball on the ground and dribbled it soccer style, going through Michael easily and playing him, making him come after the ball again and again until they both knew it was hopeless. He used the toe of one foot and the arch of the other to launch the ball in the air, hitting it with his head past Michael.

“Ow, you need a soccer ball. Note to self: Basketballs hurt.” He rubbed the heel of his hand on his forehead.

“That's going to leave a mark,” teased Michael.

Tristan jumped on him from behind like a monkey, wrapping his arms around Michael's neck and his legs around his waist. “I'll show you a mark.” He laughed, his lips fastening on Michael's skin.

Michael staggered under Tristan's weight, walking like Frankenstein's monster to tease him a little. He turned when he heard his mother's voice and stood still, a little embarrassed.

“Hey, baby,” said his mother, who stood on the back porch of her house in her pajamas and lit up a cigarette.

“Hey, Mama,” replied Michael, as though he always walked around the yard with a redheaded boy on his back. “Did we wake you? Sorry.”

“Nah, I was on my way up anyway.” She took a big drag from her cigarette and exhaled slowly. A sweet, spicy fragrance filled the air.

“Mama, I thought you quit,” said Michael, his voice tinged with exasperation.

“I did, honey, I quit smoking tobacco. This is a clove cigarette, smell.” She blew out another puff. “See? All natural.”

“Mama.” He helped Tristan down. “A forest fire started by lightning is natural, but it's still not smart to breathe in the smoke.”

“Oh, you. You won't be happy until I become a Republican,” she said, good-naturedly, as though they had this argument every day.

“Well, that's not strictly true, either, is it?”

She grinned at him. “Who's your friend? I dated a boy with ginger hair like that once. He wanted to be a priest, until…”

“Whoa, TMI,” said Michael. “This is Tristan.”

“Hi, honey,” Michael's mother said. “Call me Emma.”

“Thanks.” Tristan smiled back helplessly.

“I need your helmet, Mama. Can we borrow it?”

“Sure, baby.” The tip of her cigarette sparked like a firework, almost catching her pajamas. She brushed off the ember.

“Um, Emma?” said Tristan, hesitantly. “I think you should know that those things spark a lot, the clove ones, you know? And, well, once one of my friends lit himself on fire and tried to douse himself with a vodka drink, and if we hadn't been playing beach volleyball at the time and rolled him in the sand, he'd have lost some body parts. Those things come from Indonesia, and they dry out…wow,
whoosh
, you know?” He mimed going up in flames.

“That's why I smoke them on the porch, honey; thanks for the tip, though,” she said. “I like the way they smell. They remind me of the early days of the punk movement. I was like, the biggest Sex Pistols groupie, and—”

“The helmet, Mama?” said Michael, smiling.

“Oh, yeah, hey…sure.” She left the burning cigarette on the porch railing and ran inside, coming out a few seconds later with a helmet emblazoned with stars and stripes like
Easy Rider
. “You need the bike too?”

“Sparky, do you have a valid motorcycle license?” Michael asked.

“Nope,” said Tristan, rolling his eyes.

“Okay, no, Mama, thanks, though.” He took the helmet from her and gave her a kiss on the cheek she leaned over the porch railing to claim.

“'Bye, baby, drive safe,” she said.

“'Bye, Mama, you be careful.” Michael turned off the sprinklers and locked the back door. He punched a code on the garage door, which rolled up to reveal an amazing woodworking bench, complete with all kinds of great tools, a weight bench, and a Harley Davidson Electra Glide Classic.

“Oh, shit,” said Tristan, with an expression that could only be described as lust. “Toys,” he sighed. “You have the best toys.”

“Yep.” Michael handed him the helmet and went toward the bike. “It's good to be me today.”

“Oh,” sighed Tristan. “It's red. Shiny and all chrome-y…I'm going to cream,” said Tristan. “Seriously. Right here, right now.”

“I have a rival.”

“Oh, yeah. I…seriously, are you shitting me? You're going to take me for a ride on that?” He grabbed the front of Michael's shirt. “Don't play with me, man; my heart can't take it.”

“Sure, baby,” said Michael. “Really, let's ride.” He looked at Tristan then, seeing the delight on his face. That he could put that happiness there made him feel amazing.

“Oh, with my legs around that and my arms around you, I think… Yep, I'm really going to cream.”

“Get a grip, Sparky,” Michael whispered, biting his neck. “My mama's still watching.”

Tristan whipped his head around to look, but she was gone, and Michael was wheeling the huge bike out of the garage.

“Made you look,” he said, taking his helmet off the handlebars and placing it on his head. “Come on, up you go.” He helped Tristan onto the back seat of the bike.

Tristan was looking at all the pipes and touching the leather seat with reverent hands.

“Helmet,” said Michael, sighing.

“Oh, yeah,” Tristan said. “Wait a minute.” He dug into his pocket and took out a rubber band, braiding his hair quickly at the back and securing it. “Here.” He put on the helmet. “What do you think?”

“It'll do,” said Michael, loudly so he could hear. “It gets cold; I have jackets.” In anticipation of taking Tristan riding, he'd actually purchased a used motorcycle jacket that week in a boutique store on Harbor Boulevard that sold new and used clothes. It was a lucky find, because Michael thought he'd have to buy a new one, and while he would have done it, he didn't want it to look obviously new. This way he could just pretend he had it on his bike all the time just in case.

“Ooh, like leather?” asked Tristan, grabbing the front of Michael's shirt. “You mean I can be your hot leather boy-toy?”

“Um, well.” It was Michael's turn to blush. “If you want to look at it that way.”

“Bring it on!” He held out his hands. “Gimme.”

Michael laughed and tried to kiss his lips despite the helmets. Which didn't work, exactly. He pulled out the jacket and got his own. “Here.”

“Oh, it's great, I feel tingly.” He put on the jacket, slipping his hands in the pockets. “Oh, there's something in here.” He pulled out an ancient, desiccated condom, which had evidently been used. “Ick. Not so tingly anymore. Somebody must have left in a hurry.”

Michael took it from him, not moving a single facial muscle because, really, what could he say? He took it to the big black trash bin next to the garage. When he came back he said merely, “Long story,” and cursed himself for not checking the pockets.

“Oh,” said Tristan, biting his lip.

“Anything else in there?” said Michael, hoping that was it, but seriously, what kind of a person saves a damn condom?

Tristan checked the rest of the pockets and came up empty. “That's it, boss, your last boy just left you a sweet reminder, I guess. I promise to leave cash or something for the next guy so it's not so traumatic.” He'd intended it as a joke, but seeing Michael's face, he knew it fell flat. He wondered if Michael had cared about the boy who left the condom, and oddly, that caused an alien aching sensation in his chest.

“You're my last boy, Tristan,” muttered Michael, getting on the bike.

Tristan could say nothing in reply, the thunder of the motorcycle preempting any further conversation. As the unfamiliar forward momentum of the bike altered his balance, Tristan found his hand rests and held on, the sensation of riding along behind Michael heady and exciting. He found he loved the feel of the wind as it caught at his clothes and tugged his hair loose from his braid.

That tiny frisson of fear that jerked and yanked at his stomach as the bike leaned this way and that made his heart pound like great sex, and he had Michael, who was great sex personified, to hold on to if he wanted to. He wanted to throw his arms in the air and shout for joy as they took the Carbon Canyon road out toward the 71 Freeway and Norco, the winding, twisting two-lane road an undulating playground where cars and other bikers buzzed around for a Saturday drive.

After a while, Michael dropped down the 71 Freeway east toward Riverside and traveled for a while to the apple country, out by Yucaipa where he'd purchased the apples and the pie the day before. About two hours later they came to rest, finding a parking space in front of a picturesque little tourist destination with a definite apple motif.

Tristan's legs shook when he got off the bike, and he held on to Michael, laughing and talking as he removed his helmet. He latched it onto the seat in back and removed his jacket. “I can't believe we actually did that. It was so awesome. That was the best ever,” he gushed.

Michael shoved the jackets into the hard bags and locked them in. “Let's get some lunch, Sparky, I could use some coffee.”

“Me too.” Tristan looked around. Several other bikes dotted the parking lot, but none could compare with Michael's. “Your bike is so gorgeous. How long have you had it?”