Crossing Borders (5 page)

“Nah, it was a pleasure,” said Michael. “See you around, kid. Wear a helmet, man, really.”

“Oh, yeah, maybe…okay,” said Tristan, starting the climb down from the tall truck. “Hey, thanks for everything.”

“Sure thing,” Michael said, and Tristan closed the car door.

From that moment forward, Tristan's brain seemed to work in slow motion. Michael threw the truck in reverse and backed slowly out of the driveway, safe and sane as always, driving away at the perfect speed for Tristan's suburban street. Tristan watched Michael's truck crawl away with its lights already on in the gloomy dusk exacerbated by the trees overarching his street as if it had nothing to do with him.

It wasn't until Michael's truck was about fifty meters away that a series of emotional aftershocks slammed through Tristan, and before he knew it, he was running down the street, chasing that truck, slamming his skateboard beneath his feet and building up speed until he caught the fender on the passenger side.

Once there, he couldn't help but just enjoy the ride for a minute, knowing that when Michael glanced in the passenger-side mirror, his life was probably over. What seemed a too-short time later, the truck slowed to a stop, and the driver's side door opened and then slammed shut with a loud
ka-blam
that reverberated through the quiet neighborhood.

“Tell me,” said Michael, pinching his nose like he was trying to stop a nosebleed, “that I didn't see what I just saw.” Tristan noticed the vein throbbing on his temple and had second thoughts.

“Well, I…um.” He couldn't explain that he'd had a blast of something he'd never felt, like all his cells jumping, like a magnetic wave that pushed him and pulled him toward that truck at the same time. Something like
wanting
, but that word was so shallow, and what he felt was so deep. “I wanted to catch you, you know, before you left.” How could he not have noticed how soft Officer—Michael's hair looked and how the stubble on his chin looked golden in the dying light? How blue his eyes were in his tanned face?

Michael crossed his arms. “Say it,” he said implacably.

“It,” said Tristan, snarky, and Michael turned to leave. “No, wait. Yeah,
yes
. I wanted to catch you. You…fish. Me…reeling you in.”

“Fair enough,” said Michael, with a half smile. “But we're going to work on your communication skills.” He walked around to the passenger side of the truck and politely held the door open for Tristan, who numbly got in, skateboard in hand. “Do you need to do anything at home? Get anything?” he asked.

“Uh, no,” said Tristan, just staring, hardly daring to believe all the new things he was doing this day.

“Quick stop first,” said Michael, who said nothing more until they pulled up in front of Play It Again Sports. Michael got out and came around to him.

“What are we doing here?” asked Tristan.

“You are getting a helmet that you will wear every damn time you board from now on because my heart just can't take the strain.” Michael held his hand out to help Tristan down from the truck, but Tristan ignored it and leaped lightly down by himself.

“Dude—” he began, but Michael cut him off.

“No. Don't 'dude' me—it's not negotiable.” He pushed Tristan against the door of his truck. “I don't do this; I don't just pick up guys. I've chased you and watched you and wanted you for two years now, even though I felt like some kind of loathsome pervert because you're younger than me. If you want anonymous, this isn't it. Make up your mind. I like your head, and I want you to protect it.”

“Jeez,” said Tristan. “Stop barking at me. I can't think when you bark.”

“Sorry.” Michael's lips quirked a little.

“I was kind of looking for anonymous, but maybe you could just blindfold me or something?” he asked.

“Oh, Sparky,” sighed Michael, taking his arm and marching him into the store. “The things you say.”

They settled on a black, nondescript helmet of the variety that every self-respecting professional skater wears and every smart-ass skater loathes. “There,” said Michael with a satisfied grin. “That's done. I didn't think it would take offering my body, but I am a dedicated peace officer, and whatever works, since public safety is job one, right?” He led Tristan back to the truck, but turned when Tristan stopped. “What's up?” he asked.

“This just feels weird,” Tristan admitted.

“I know.” Michael's smile reassured him. “Come on, let's go.” He handed Tristan up into the passenger seat before walking around and getting in himself. He put the key in the ignition. He started up the truck and turned on the radio, and Tristan was shocked and relieved to find they had the same taste in music. He allowed the quiet between them to continue, even though it was in his nature to fill up gaps in a conversation, choosing instead the safety of silence. He noticed they were driving through the older part of Fullerton, by the city college, where there were picturesque Craftsman-style houses on streets with big trees and bigger roots tearing up the sidewalk. Here and there, places with weird rooflines that made them look just like Snow White's dwarves' cottage dotted the suburban landscape. The houses looked like they were built in the twenties or thirties, and he wondered what kind of place Michael had.

They pulled into the long driveway between two small identical houses, both Craftsman-style, with steps leading up to wide, welcoming porches. In the back there were two stand-alone garages. Michael pulled in front of the one on the left.

“This place is so great!” said Tristan enthusiastically as they walked around the house and up the front porch steps. “You said it's yours? Did you win the lotto?”

“No,” said Michael. “I started buying and fixing up these old places in high school, when the market sucked and people were selling them for nothing. At first I got my mom involved because—would you believe?—realtors didn't want to show property to a sixteen-year-old. I've been buying and selling ever since. Of course, now the market is so inflated, I'm kind of standing pat, but I have income property, so that's fine with me. It means less construction work on my off hours.”

“Wow,” said Tristan, as Michael unlocked the door. The place, to his eyes, was perfect. The focal point was the wood, the highly polished floors, painted white crown molding, and built-in cabinets bearing workmanship so fine, it was some of the best Tristan had ever seen. “Oh, this is…it's so detailed.” He ran his hand over the molding around the door leading to the hallway from the living room. “My dad was an architect; he would have loved this. Not because the design is genius or anything; this was probably built back in the thirties, wasn't it?” Michael nodded. “But the workmanship is so fine.”

He went with Michael for the tour, down the long hallway, living and dining room on the left, two bedrooms with a bath between them on the right, kitchen and service porch, as Michael called it, in back. “Awesome,” he said, “You did it perfectly. So many people get these places and trick them out with clutter everywhere, 'home sweet home' and all that charming crap, but here”—he spun in the middle of the living room—“the house is the star.”

“Thank you,” said Michael quietly. “That's nice…thank you.”

“It's beautiful.” Tristan went to the fireplace and traced the woodwork on the mantle. “Especially this,” he said, noting the delicate carving, the way the moldings were layered and built up together to create an intricate pattern.

Michael rolled his eyes. “My mom's would make you cry. It's so cutesy it looks like Smurfs live there. Moms. What can you do?” He smiled and walked back toward the kitchen, Tristan following.

“Speaking of moms, I'm going to leave a message with mine,” said Tristan, going out to the small back porch, noticing the Dutch door with delight as he exited. “Great touch,” he said. “The door.”

He turned and left a message, saying he was at a friend's and didn't know when he'd be back, or if… He nervously looked behind him to see Michael reaching into an old-fashioned fridge for a beer. He snapped his phone shut and returned to the kitchen.

“What did you tell her?” asked Michael. “Listen, do you have a curfew…or…”

“No, I don't,” said Tristan quickly. “Not really, I'm, uh—I told her I'd be back, or maybe not. She knows she can reach me on the phone. She trusts me.”

“Does she have any idea that you do this? Does Viper? I hope you always use protection. What does Viper say when you go cruising for cock? Doesn't she mind that you walk both sides of the street?”

Tristan's head spun, and his face burned. “Well, sure, I use protection,” he answered that question first. “Jeez. As for Viper, she actually…um…she dumped me. But it's not exactly like I'm busted up over it.” He nodded at Michael's beer. “Aren't you going to offer me one?”

“No,” said Michael flatly, giving him a look that said, “duh.” “But I have soda, juice, and lemonade. Which do you want?”

“Lemonade,” said Tristan. “Do you have a fresh lemon?”

“Yeah, hang on.” Michael went out the back door, returning minutes later with some lemons. He got a knife and an old-fashioned bar juicer down from one of the cabinets and turned to Tristan. “Make yourself useful and juice these while I make the sugar syrup.”

“Okay.” Tristan cut the lemons and placed them into the metal container before pressing the large lever to squeeze the juice into a bowl.

Michael took out a saucepan and added water and sugar to it.

“I didn't mean for you to have to go to all this trouble,” he murmured under his breath as Michael lit the old-fashioned stove.

“This isn't trouble, Sparky, this is domestic foreplay. The syrup has to cool, and while it does, I'm going to suck you dry,” Michael said in his rich, melodious voice. “Going to make you scream, baby, and when you land, the lemonade will be—”

The knife clattered out of Tristan's hand, and he cried out, “Shit!” He grabbed a paper towel and wrapped it around his cut finger, murmuring “Ow, ow, ow. Lemon juice. Ow.”

“Oh, here.” Michael came over and placed his hand under the faucet, running cool water over it and studying the cut on Tristan's finger carefully. “Not deep. I'll get a first-aid kit. Don't move,” he said, and Tristan stayed right there, feeling like an asshole, until Michael came back.

“Here,” said Michael, moving Tristan under the light while he put antibacterial ointment and a good, tight fabric Band-Aid over the cut. “Careful not to get lemon juice in that,” he teased.

“Ya think?” said Tristan.

Michael moved then, suddenly, and took Tristan's head between his hands, stroking his hair and bringing him in for a long, slow kiss. Tristan relaxed into it little by little, first opening his lips to Michael, allowing the other man to invade him with his tongue, and then tentatively sending his own tongue out to play, exploring. He stepped into Michael's body, into his embrace. Tristan felt the strength there, the hard muscles, the anxious cock pressing against his own, and also the gentleness with which Michael wielded all that strength, and fell in love. Well, seriously
in lust
, for the first time, and he thought,
oh, crap
.