Serenading Stanley (12 page)

Stanley looked slightly shell-shocked. “My God, I were.”

“Where’d you get them?”

“They were hanging on my doorknob.”

“
And you ate them?
”

“Well, yeah. They were from Sylvia.”

Now it was Roger’s turn to stick his fist on his hip. “Sylvia wouldn’t leave marijuana-laced brownies hanging on your door. Besides, she can’t cook anything but Toll House cookies.”

“Well, then, where the hell—?”

“It had to be ChiChi. He’s trying to get in your pants.”

“Well, good. I’m glad somebody is.” And after a beat, Stanley added, “I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

Roger spit up a sad little chuckle and tousled Stanley’s hair. He found himself combatting an undeniable urge to scoop Stanley into his arms and give him a reassuring hug. He was quite sure he had never seen anybody who needed one more. But instead, he took Stanley’s hand and dragged him toward the kitchen. He pointed to a chair and said, “Sit.”

Roger had a very nice oak dining table with matching chairs, Stanley noticed. Stanley had a chrome and Formica number straight out of the fifties with rusty legs and chairs that didn’t match.

“Nice table.”

“Thanks. I bought it with my first paycheck from the hospital.”

“Oh.”

Roger laid the watermelon on a newspaper in the middle of the table and was about to slice it to ribbons with a twelve-inch bread knife when Stanley cleared his throat really loud.

Roger froze with the knife in midair. He looked over at Stanley and saw a lone tear sliding down Stanley’s cheek.

“What in the world’s the matter?” he asked.

“You’re going to kill it,” Stanley answered with a trembling chin.

Roger looked down at Stanley, sitting there in front of him with that trembly-ass chin and looking cuter than hell. He was also looking more stoned than anyone Roger had ever seen in his life. Good Lord, the guy was a mess. Then he looked down at the watermelon.

“Would you rather I give it a bowl of water, name it Frank, and take out adoption papers on it?”

“Would you?”

That did it. Roger found himself incapable of resisting the urge another minute. He set the knife aside, reached out to take a fistful of Stanley’s inside-out T-shirt, and pulled him across the table. Very sweetly, and with his eyes wide open, Roger pressed his lips to Stanley’s mouth. He watched, fascinated, as Stanley closed his eyes, accepting the kiss, savoring it, like a man eating his very first jelly bean.

Roger pulled back, wondering what was going to happen next. Even he didn’t know. All he knew was Stanley had really sexy legs underneath those shorts he was wearing, all tanned and sprinkled with golden hair. It was all he could do to pry his eyes off them.

Stanley licked the taste of Roger’s kiss from his lips, and both men plopped down on their chairs. As soon as Stanley managed to open his eyes again, they stared at each other across the table.

“Golly,” Stanley said. “You taste better than I even imagined you would.”

Roger stroked the watermelon like it was a Corgi. His eyes were welded to Stanley’s face. His knees were shaking, and he was really turned on. He wondered if Stanley was. “You’ve been imagining how I would taste?”

Stanley could feel his heart bouncing around inside his chest like a basketball. It wasn’t a scary bounce. It was an excited bounce. And his hard-on was back. That was a little exciting too. Thank God he had the table to cover it.

“Maybe,” he said, once again poking his tongue from the corner of his mouth to test any lingering residue of Roger’s kiss. “Does that make me weird?”

“No, Stanley. It doesn’t make you weird at all. At least I hope it doesn’t. Because I’ve been imagining the same thing.”

“You mean wondering how you would taste?”

Roger laughed. “No, dipshit. Wondering how
you
would taste.”

Stanley’s eyes opened wide. Dilated as they were, Roger thought they looked like two eight balls.

“Really?” Stanley asked. “You wondered how I would taste?”

“Really.”

“But why would you be thinking about me? You’re beautiful. I’m just… me.”

Roger snagged Stanley’s hand off the tabletop and held it firmly between his own two hands, as if daring it to try to escape. “Don’t call me beautiful, Stanley.”

“Why not?”

Suddenly it was Roger who could not hold eye contact. He gazed down at Stanley’s hand. Stroked the hair on the back of it with his thumb. Felt Stanley’s fingers resting against his palm, all warm and soft and compliant. “Because tomorrow you’ll remember what you said, and you’ll be embarrassed. Then you’ll start sneaking up and down the stairs to avoid me again, and I really, really hated that.”

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you.”

“You do?”

“Yes. God, you’re a nimrod, Stanley.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Oh.”

Roger lifted Stanley’s hand to his face and pressed his lips to it. And still holding Stanley’s hand to his lips, he stared at Stanley’s face. “I’m going to get you a big glass of milk to wash down all those brownies. Then we’re going to plop our asses down on the sofa and have a chat. Will that work for you, Stanley?”

Stanley considered the question. “It isn’t nonfat milk, is it?”

Roger’s mouth twisted into a smile, and since he still had his lips pressed to Stanley’s palm, Stanley could feel it. It was the very first smile, other than his own, he had ever
felt.

“No, Stanley. It isn’t nonfat.”

Stanley still had to think about it for a minute, only because his brain seemed to be short-circuiting for some reason. Maybe because all the blood that kept it fueled had headed south to fill up his dick. “Good,” Stanley said. Then he said, “I forgot what we were talking about.”

Roger threw his head back and laughed. “Jesus!”

“Where?” Stanley asked, looking toward the window. Roger shook his head, hauled himself to his feet, and tugged Stanley out of his chair. Before dragging him off to the living room, he snaked his long, muscular arms around Stanley and held him close. With Stanley’s cheek against the softness of Roger’s shirt, and the hardness of Roger’s chest beneath it, it was suddenly Stanley’s turn to smile.

“You smell good,” Stanley said.

“So do you,” Roger answered. Now his lips were in Stanley’s hair. For once, Stanley’s hair was soft and unslathered with hair gel. “And I like your hair like this, Stanley. It’s really sexy. Stop spiking it up.” Then he thought that sounded a little bossy. “I mean, if you want to.”

Since Roger was about half a head taller than Stanley, Stanley had to look up to say, “You think I’m sexy?”

Roger’s breath was sweet. Stanley could have stood there and smelled it all day. “Yes. I think you’re sexy. I have a thing for kind, sweet people.
And that’s you all over. Kind and sweet. Your shyness is kind of sexy, too, but it’s probably something you’re not too happy about.”

“You think I’m shy?”

Again Roger laughed. “That’s why I call you Little Mouse. Scurrying up and down the stairs on tiptoe so I won’t know you’re around. I assume you’re doing that because of me. Are you?”

“I was. But I won’t do it anymore.”

“You promise?”

And at long last, Stanley built up the courage to wrap his arms around Roger’s broad, strong back, reciprocating for the way Roger was holding him. He laid his head against Roger’s chest and closed his eyes, enjoying the closeness. Relishing the man he was holding—and the man who was holding him.

“Yes,” he said. “I promise. No more scurrying. No more tiptoe.”

Softly, his breath stirring Stanley’s hair, Roger said, “You’re hard. I can feel it.”

Stanley had to swallow a couple of times before he could get his own words out. When he found the strength, he said, “I know. So are you.”

And ever so gently, Roger tipped Stanley’s chin up with a fingertip and pressed his mouth to Stanley’s lips for the second time in his life. This time Stanley was ready for him. Ready and eager.

They stood in the kitchen, wrapped in each other’s arms, as the kiss went on and on. Ten seconds—twenty—thirty—

When Stanley finally pulled away, Roger was reluctant to let him go. He liked having this weird little guy in his arms. He really did. And he couldn’t remember the last time he was this turned on. He was just beginning to wonder about the moral implications of making passes at a guy who was stoned out of his mind and consequently not exactly responsible for his actions, when Stanley asked, “Where’s my milk? You promised me milk.”

Laughing, Roger gave him an exasperated look. But even Stanley knew it was just for show. He knew it because even as they stood there in each other’s arms, one looking all innocent and the other looking all exasperated, their two hard-ons were still bumping heads down below.

Roger cupped Stanley’s face in his hands and looked closely into Stanley’s eyes. Yep. Still dilated. Taking Stanley’s hand, he pulled him into the living room and pointed to the couch.

“Sit down right there,” Roger said. “I’ll get your milk. And don’t even think about scurrying away. It’s time we got to know each other.”

Stanley wondered if Roger meant what Stanley
thought
he meant. God, he really hoped so.

Didn’t he?

R
OGER
handed Stanley a tumbler of milk and sat beside him on the sofa.
Close
beside him. So close their thighs were touching, and Roger’s arm was draped sort of casually, but not too casually, across Stanley’s shoulders. Once again, it was all Roger could do not to lay his hand, not so innocently, on Stanley’s furry leg.

Roger watched in amazement as Stanley downed close to a quart of milk in five seconds flat. He must have been thirsty. He tried not to chuckle when Stanley burped. Politely, he plucked the empty glass away before Stanley dropped it in his lap. The guy didn’t seem to be tracking too well. Roger wondered if he was beginning to come down off his high, and if he did come down, Roger wondered how he would react. Roger hoped he wouldn’t leave. This was the most fun Roger had had in months.

And he liked Stanley. He really, really did.

But he had been serious when he had told Stanley he wanted to talk.

He put the glass on the coffee table out of the way and turned toward Stanley, taking Stanley’s hand in his, while his other hand still rested on Stanley’s shoulder. This time, as he held Stanley’s hand, he did manage to rest his forearm on Stanley’s bare leg, and the heat of Stanley’s skin and the bristly leg hair brushing against the inside of his wrist almost made Roger swoon. He had to force himself to remember the words he wanted to say. Finally, they came.

“A while ago you started to tear yourself down, Stanley. After you told me I was beautiful, you told me you were just you. I’d really rather you didn’t say that again. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t say either one of those things again. I don’t want you to see me for what I look like. I want you to see me, and like me, for who I am. And I don’t want to hear you running yourself down because you think you don’t measure up in some cosmic intergalactic beauty contest. You’re sexier than you think you are. I know you don’t believe it, but it’s true.”

Roger waited to hear what Stanley had to say to all that. As usual, Stanley surprised him.

“You talk too much. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Yes,” Roger said with a smile. “Constantly.”

“And did you really get Charlie his job back?”

That came out of left field. “Who told you I did that?”

“Sylvia.”

“Oh. Well, yeah. If you must know. I did. Charlie’s okay. He just has to remember to take his medicine. Kleptomania’s a disease. It’s like your being shy. Only when Charlie sneaks up and down the stairs, it’s not to avoid me. It’s because he just swiped something and he’s trying to get home before he gets caught.”

“Who says I’m shy?” Stanley asked.

That one stopped Roger cold. “You do
know
you’re shy, don’t you?”

“You do know you’re beautiful, don’t you?”

And they both laughed.

“How many brownies did you end up eating, Stanley? Medically speaking, I’d just kind of like to know what to tell the paramedics if they have to come and pump your stomach.”

“Nine. I think. I’ve never been stoned before. I kind of like it. Got me down here, anyway.”

“That it did. God bless ChiChi.”

“And his secret ingredient,” Stanley added.

Without warning, Stanley reached up and pressed his hand to the top of Roger’s head. He stroked it all around, from ear to ear, from forehead to nape. “I’ve been wanting to do that since I first met you.”

“Have you?” Roger asked. “So how does it feel?”

“Good. Softer than I expected. Warm.”

“Body heat. No great mystery there.”

“It’s more than body heat,” Stanley said. “I think maybe you’re kind of…
magic
.”

Roger blinked, studying Stanley’s face, considering Stanley’s words. Finally, he said, “It’s the marijuana talking.”

“No,” Stanley said. “It’s the marijuana
allowing
me to talk. There really is something magical about you. And I don’t think it’s just because you look the way you do. You know. The B word. People in the building talk about you all the time. Did you know that?”

“Friends, Stanley. They’re just friends. Friends say nice things about their friends. That’s what people do.”

“Am I a friend?” Stanley asked, eyes wide like a child.

The innocence of the question, the simple honesty of the man asking it, and the need in those four little words, touched Roger’s heart.

As he stared at Stanley’s open, elfin face, a gentle smile made the dimple in Roger’s cheek deepen. Stanley longed to plumb its depths with his tongue.

“Yes, Stanley, you’re my friend. I’ve liked you since the first time I saw you. You were so scared when Arthur was sprawled out like a corpse in front of you. Not that I could blame you. It would’ve scared anyone.”

“He’s too fat. And he shouldn’t smoke. My mother smokes all the time. My father died of it.”