Crossing Borders (19 page)

“This one? About three years.” Michael led him across a wooden sidewalk of sorts to the end of the row and a restaurant called Apple Annie's. He told the hostess his name and how many, and they walked back outside, prepared to wait. Everything about being here with Michael was magical for Tristan. The motorcycle ride gave him an adrenaline rush. Michael looked gorgeous and watched him with a kind of slow, burning sensuality that made Tristan's hair tingle. The air smelled like mountain and pie and coffee.

They made their way through the crowd of people who were waiting for a table. Most were families or seniors traveling together. He saw kids with their faces painted and balloon animals and people milling around with purchases from the rustic little shops or fresh-baked pies.

“This is great,” said Tristan. “I came here with my folks as a kid, but I only barely remember it.”

“I came here a lot with my mother when I was younger. She used to bike with a club, and I'd ride with her.” He seemed to be imagining it; his eyes were closed, and he had a sweet smile on his lips.

“That sounds like fun. I liked your mom. She's…” Tristan searched for the word.

“Yes, she is, isn't she?” said Michael dryly. “She's always been good to me, though, and I like her more and more as I get older. What's your mom like?”

“A mom,” said Tristan. “Really a great mom, but mom-like. Smart, funny, serious, loving. She had this hierarchy of stuff, you know, God and family first, education second, music and sports third. Nothing could get in the way of those things. When my dad died, she had to go back to work. It bothers her, I know, that she can't be home for every little thing. It's taken some of the sparkle out of her.” He looked away. “I stayed home so I could help, but she still has to go to all the parent-teacher stuff, the recitals, and the soccer games. No substitute for moms, I guess. I help haul people around, and when I can be, I'm there when they get home from school.”

Michael smiled. “I'll bet your mom has no idea that you worry about her as much as you do.”

“Nope, she'd box me up and mail me to Stanford if she knew I got in. I don't dare let her know I think about any of this, or she'd have me gone in a second.” He rested his elbows on his knees. “My youngest brother is a freshman in high school, so by the time he's out, I'll be nearly twenty-five. I'm planning on a graduate degree anyway, and like I said, free room and board doesn't suck.”

Michael just gazed at him, perfectly relaxed with his hands clasped between his knees. “See what I mean?” he asked quietly. “So very
shiny
.” He looked at Tristan with something Tristan couldn't quite define in his eyes, yet he soaked it up like a sponge.

“Michael?” said a deep, rich voice from behind him. “Hey! How the hell are you?” Another man in full-on bike leathers held out a hand to shake. “Haven't seen you. Where've you been?”

Michael looked up at the newcomer coolly. “Around. Sparky, this is Ron, a friend from my mom's riding club. Ron, meet Sparky.” Tristan couldn't understand the exchange, or why Michael's behavior changed, but he held his hand out and Ron shook it heartily.

“Sparky, eh? I guess the hair has something to do with that.” He turned his attention back to Michael. “I've missed seeing you around,” he said quietly. “Don't you ride with your mom anymore?”

“Sometimes,” said Michael, again vaguely. “Lately I've been doing a lot of remodeling on an apartment building.”

“Oh, hard work,” said Ron, and for some reason, the way he said
hard
set an alarm off in Tristan's head. He looked at Ron closely. Ron was a very attractive man, with salt-and-pepper hair and dark brown eyes. He had a craggy, lined face, but not in a bad way. He looked like a cowboy from the movies, except in biker clothing. He was watching Michael intently, like a bird of prey. It seemed to be making Michael uneasy.

“Nothing wrong with work,” said Tristan, seeking to ease the tension. “Michael does some great cabinetry, really first rate.”

“I know,” said Ron. “I taught him all about working with…wood.”

“Ron,” warned Michael.

“Michael here,” he said to Tristan, “didn't know the first thing about wood when I met him.” There was something about the way he said it that made Tristan squidgy. Nothing overt, but if this man had been speaking to either of his brothers, Tristan would have shut the innuendos down immediately. “The thing is, he didn't seem to realize that when you work with
good
wood, sometimes you gotta really work it, you've gotta master it.”

Tristan blinked up at the man, appalled. Nothing was veiled there, and something Michael had said the first time they had talked clicked into place.
Something about people who don't care about using you
. Was this the man that had made Michael feel that way? He looked like a normal guy, but the hand he currently had on Michael's shoulder, while it looked perfectly benign, tensed in an attempt to squeeze Michael painfully.

Oh, hell no, you do
not
do that
, thought Tristan angrily.

“The thing with wood”—Tristan reached over and removed Ron's hand from Michael's shoulder—“is that as it ages, if it's properly cured, it gets stronger. But if it's brittle and weak, it's best to discard it entirely in favor of newer and greener wood. Wouldn't you agree, Michael?” he asked, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Oh, yes,” said Michael, visibly relieved, the twinkle coming back to his eye. “Green wood is good and strong. Makes you
want
to work with it. Makes you proud when you get it in shape and can take a good, long look at it.”

“Yep. Michael here has been using exclusively green wood for his latest projects, and they've been phenomenally successful. Astounding, really.”

“Yes, sir. I'd never go back to old wood. It's so…dry.” He looked at Ron pointedly, and Tristan assumed there was a story there he wouldn't want to hear if his life depended on it.

“Yeah,” said Ron, making a “tch” noise, like a pop can opening. “Well, I guess I'll be seeing you and
Sparky
around sometime.”

“Yeah.” Michael held out his hand to shake. “Sure, see you.”

Tristan shook Ron's hand when it was his turn. Ron turned and left, walking around the corner where they couldn't see him any more.

“Awkward,” said Michael, who didn't look at Tristan. “Not exactly how I wanted to spend my day with you.”

“Then don't let him ruin it. Look at me,” said Tristan.

Michael looked at him.

“Oh, good, that's better.”

“What?”

“What, what?”

“Didn't you want me to look at you so you could lecture me?”

“No, I just wanted you to look at me because it makes me hot,” sighed Tristan.

Michael started laughing. “You are one of a kind. New wood, old wood, I thought I'd die.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes. “Well, no one is going to hurt you on
my
watch.”

Michael pulled the Harley back into his garage at around three in the afternoon, tired and dusty from riding, but happy.

“That was the coolest thing! I could just get on that and go with you forever,” Tristan said. “Do you ever take it on road trips?”

“Sure, all the time. Not long ones since I was a kid, but to Vegas and sometimes New Mexico. I'll tell you, though, sometimes you miss the truck, especially in an electrical storm when you're in the desert, and you're the tallest thing out there.”

“Oh, yeah, I guess that would be a little intimidating.”

“Yeah, but it's gorgeous,” said Michael. “Hey, Sparky, I need to work tonight, so…”

“Oh, I see. Maybe I'll just get my stuff and go.”

“No, I…” Michael bit his lip. “I wondered if you'd like to take a nap with me. I mean, wow, how exciting, right? Taking a nap. But I need to sleep a bit, and I…don't want you to go just yet.”

“No, well…I don't want to go, either.” Tristan held his hand out for Michael. “A nap would be great. I'm tired from the ride anyway.”

“Okay,” said Michael. “Okay.” Together they walked to the house, and Tristan thought he'd never make it to the bed he was so tired. He stripped down to his shorts, as did Michael, and they slid between the sheets together, this time in Michael's bedroom. Tristan tried to remember the last time he'd gotten into bed with anyone when sex wasn't the major motivating factor.

“Hey, you know what?” he asked. “I've never just slept with someone, for sleep, you know?”

“Really? Why else would you sleep with someone if not for sleep?”

“For sex? Duh.”

“Yeah, but then you're not sleeping.” Michael tucked him in under his arm, spooning up to him. “When you sleep, you're not having sex, are you?”

“Well, no, but I've never just gone to sleep with someone,” said Tristan, turning to look.

“And alas, this still remains the case, even though it's what you're supposed to be doing right now,” Michael reminded him.

“Oh, all right,” Tristan growled. “I just wanted you to know that everything I'm doing with you seems sort of new and lovely and wonderful, that's all, don't mind me…”

“Hush, love, and I'll blow you later,” said Michael.

Tristan made himself silent as the grave and woke up two hours later, blissfully aware of a condom on his cock followed by a mouth that could suck the Starship Enterprise into hyperspace.

“Oh,” he moaned, his back arching and his hips undulating without his informed consent. “You…baby…go…” he said. Swallowed literally by sensation. He stroked Michael's soft blond hair, knowing by its dampness that the man had already showered.

“Oh, no fair, you got all wet without me,” he sighed. Michael merely nodded and continued to suck Tristan's cock, sneaking a lubed-up finger into his ass.

“Oh, Michael,” said Tristan, slightly sore from the night before but still so needy. “Way to wake up…oh…
so good
. We need to invent alarm clocks that do this…”