Serenading Stanley (13 page)

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that about your dad. It’s a terrible habit. I see the effects of it at work every single day. I’m surprised your dad smoked since you told me he was a nurse. You’d think he would have, well, known better.”

Stanley shrugged. It hurt to talk about his father, but somehow talking about him stoned wasn’t quite as bad. “He spent the last few years of his life trying to quit, but I think the damage was probably already done by then. He was a nice guy. I miss him.”

“I’m sorry.”

And Stanley smiled a shy little smile. “I know you are. And you know what?”

“What?” Roger asked, his dimple deepening again at the sparkle of humor that suddenly lit Stanley’s eyes.

“I’m still not convinced it was smoking that killed him. I think it was putting up with my mother. She could kill anybody.”

Roger laughed. “A character, huh?”

“Oy.”

Roger looked down at Stanley’s hand still resting in his. Stanley’s hands were smaller, but they were a luscious golden brown. And if the word “magic” could be used for either of them, Roger thought, it would be for the feel of Stanley’s skin next to his. Again he stroked the back of Stanley’s hand with his thumb. Stanley responded by turning his hand over, rather like a dog flipping over for a belly rub. So Roger smiled and stroked his palm instead.

When Stanley closed his eyes, Roger studied the lazy look of contentment on Stanley’s face.

“You like that,” Roger said. “Having your palm stroked.”

Stanley dropped his head to the back of the couch, eyes still closed. A smile now parted his lips. He looked—
wantonly relaxed—
as if every inhibition had simply and suddenly vanished. “Feels good,” he muttered. “I like you, Roger.”

“I like you too.” Roger felt a rush of emotion thunder through him when he spoke those words. It was almost as if they were words that had begged to be said for a long, long time. A reality that suddenly needed to see the light of day.

A little stunned by his own feelings, Roger was tempted to lay his mouth over Stanley’s lazily parted lips. And he was tempted to do other things too. But poor Stanley was pretty much helpless at the moment. He was stoned out of his gourd, certainly. There was no denying that. Roger was pretty sure how Stanley would react
tonight
if Roger made a pass, but he wasn’t sure how Stanley would feel about it tomorrow. Would he think he had been taken advantage of? Would even Roger think he had taken advantage? Would it destroy what little progress they had already made in getting to know each other?

But his hunger for Stanley was beginning to decide the question for him. Just touching Stanley’s hand made Roger hard. Thinking of Stanley naked in his arms made him almost keel over, like poor Arthur on the landing. Looking at Stanley’s tanned, fuzzy legs made Roger long to press his face into them. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so
hungry
for another human being.

Lifting Stanley’s hand, he pressed it to his lips, inhaling the scent of Stanley’s skin. Feeling the texture of it against his face. Longing for so much more.

This shy little guy was the most fascinating person Roger had met in a long, long time. There was something special about him. Maybe it was his kindness, which constantly showed itself even through his bouts of shyness. And he liked the fact that Stanley was drawn to him too. He liked that a lot. He only wished Stanley would understand how drawn Roger was to
him.
He only wished Stanley could set aside his inferiority complex and
believe
Roger could be interested in him. As a friend. And maybe even more than a friend.

Well, Stanley was here now. And God knows this might be the last opportunity Roger would have to do something about it. Stanley’s shyness was liable to kick back in tomorrow morning, and Roger might never get him alone again.

Mind made up, Roger leaned in to kiss those temptingly parted lips. And at that precise moment—Stanley began to snore!

Roger sat back and stared at him. Good Lord, the guy was out like a light.

Roger ran a hand over his face and groaned. Then he grinned. Then he groaned and grinned at the same time.

Easing himself off the sofa, he gently swung Stanley’s legs up onto the couch. He took a moment to run his hands over the hair on Stanley’s thigh, closing his eyes at the rush of passion that surged through him at the touch of Stanley’s naked skin.

Then he forced himself to pull his hand away. Carefully plucking Stanley’s glasses off his nose, he laid them on the coffee table out of harm’s way. He shook out an afghan and neatly spread it over Stanley as he continued to snore like a water buffalo. Jeez, the guy could
snore!
And he was so cute while he was doing it!

Happy and sad at the same time, since Stanley was near but not near enough, Roger turned off the light and quietly left the room.

Leaving his bedroom door ajar so he could hear if Stanley needed anything in the night, Roger sprawled out on his bed, still dressed, and tucked his hands under his head as he stared up at the ceiling, waiting to fall asleep.

He waited a long, long time.

And when he awoke, just as the first rays of dawn began to brighten the sky outside his window, he no longer felt the presence of another heartbeat inside his apartment.

He knew without looking Stanley was gone.

F
OR
one of the few times in his life, Stanley ditched classes the day after waking up in Roger Jane’s apartment. He knew he would never be able to concentrate on his studies anyway. Might as well be a slug and eat and ponder and regret his way through the day with a minimum of distractions. Because frankly, after being stoned last night and skipping dinner, he was not only starved, but he was also feeling more than a bit hung over. On top of that, he was still pondering how he could have been dumb enough to take Roger Jane that stupid watermelon. And he was regretting, most of all, that the evening had ended the way it had—with Stanley waking up in the middle of the night alone on Roger’s couch.

He suspected he knew the reason, of course. Gods and mortals. That’s what it was. Gods and mortals.

Even if Stanley hadn’t conked out from all the marijuana he had ingested and made himself look like a desperate slut by practically throwing himself at Roger Jane, it would still have ended the same. Roger would have found some courteous way to send Stanley home before anything untoward could take place. And he would do that, it was obvious, because he simply did not find Stanley worthy of his attentions.

And the saddest part of all, and Stanley admitted this freely, was that Stanley whole-heartedly agreed with the man. Stanley
wasn’t
cute enough, or smart enough, or special enough to be accepted into that world. Into those arms.

And it was right there—
in those arms—
where Stanley most wanted to be. He had found the courage to at least admit that much to himself. Jeez. Unrequited love really
is
a bitch. Just like all the songs and stories say it is. Being on the wrong end of unrequited love is like trying to eat a truckload of gravel, one horrible, tooth-shattering spoonful at a time.

It sucked is what it did. It just fucking sucked.

This morning Stanley was
glad
he was on the top floor and thrilled to
death
he didn’t have a peephole in his front door. If his apartment had been situated
below
Roger Jane’s, Stanley would have been glued to the peephole, waiting for Roger to saunter down the stairs on his way to work. Just to get a glimpse of the man. One little glimpse.

Stanley was so wracked with guilt over the stupid way he had approached Roger last night, he was actually considering moving out of the building. The thought of living with his mother again was the only thing that kept him from acting on that consideration. He supposed it boiled down to the fact he would rather avoid Roger Jane for the rest of his life than look at his mother every frigging morning.

Who the hell wouldn’t?

And speaking of his mother, he wondered how
she
was feeling about herself this morning. A little hung over as well? A little guilt-ridden maybe, concerning the fact she now resembled a punk princess, and at her age too! Did she have green hair or pink? Stanley was dying to know. But not dying enough to actually call and ask. He had his own problems, and he was so depressed about those problems, he couldn’t even dredge up a snarky chuckle at his poor old mom’s expense.

Stanley sat at his crappy-ass Formica dinette set, forking up a humongous plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. Every once in a while, when memories of last night came flooding in to inundate his thoughts, he would feel himself blush, still mortified by how the evening had panned out.

Who did Roger Jane think he was? Brad Pitt? Actually Roger Jane was cuter than Brad Pitt, but what did that have to do with anything? What made him think he was so high and mighty he could push Stanley Sternbaum aside like that? One minute acting all sweet and concerned and interested, and even
kissing him,
for Christ’s sake, then the moment Stanley passed out, just walking away and toddling off to bed. Without Stanley!

God, Stanley would never live down the humiliation. He mustn’t forget, there was a reason he chose a profession that left him dealing with dead people instead of live ones. It was because he had proven time and again that in social situations, he was apt to make an ass of himself, no matter how hard he tried not to.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap. Maybe he really would have to move after all.

A knock on the door interrupted Stanley’s morose self-pity party. As always, his first inclination was to ignore the knock. His second inclination was to once again wish he had a fucking peephole. And his third inclination was, as always, to simply open the door and see who it was.

At least he knew it wasn’t his mother. It was way too early in the morning for her to be up and about. She was probably still standing, shell-shocked, in front of her bathroom mirror, wondering what the hell had happened to her hair.

On the third, and most desperate, flurry of knocking, Stanley stood at the door and pressed his ear to it. A voice was speaking low so as not to bug the neighbors. Apparently Stanley was the only one the voice intended to bug.

“Come on, Little Mouse. Open the door. I know you’re in there. I could hear your little mouse feet walking around above my head.”

It was Roger. Christ! Hadn’t the man inflicted enough damage on Stanley’s already damaged psyche? Was he here to finish him off completely?

Again, Stanley thought of ignoring the bastard standing outside his door, but his inherent politeness wouldn’t let him. Hating himself for it, he watched as his hand unlatched the door and pulled it open. Jesus, Stanley couldn’t even control his own appendages.

“Yes?” Stanley asked, as if he didn’t already know who was out there. When his eyes came to rest on Roger Jane’s face, he administered what he hoped would be considered a stunning declaration of callous disinterest. “Oh, it’s you.”

Roger laughed. “How many other people call you Little Mouse?”

Roger was in scrubs and obviously on his way to work. He looked sparkly clean, and as always when the man was wearing scrubs, Stanley found his eyes drawn to those strong, hairy arms and the beautiful, pale biceps peeking out from the short blue sleeves. When his heart couldn’t take staring at those luscious arms another second, Stanley dragged his eyes back to Roger’s face.

The man had obviously just showered and shaved. His short hair was still damp, and Stanley’s heart did another aching thud to see the blue tinge of his heavy beard still shadowing his chin. No matter how closely or often he shaved, it seemed to always be there.

He smelled of Ivory soap.

“Wanted to make sure you were okay,” Roger said, his words slipping softly through the smile on his lips. “The last time I saw you, you were a little, shall we say, under the weather.”

Stanley’s answer was snipped to within an inch of its life. “I’m fine.”

Roger considered Stanley’s response. And he considered it like a man who didn’t care for it much. “Then why are you mad?”

“Who says I’m mad?”

Roger’s smile faltered a bit. “Body language, Stanley. I’m a nurse. I can read body language.”

“I’m an archaeologist. I can read hieroglyphics. What does that have to do with anything?”

Roger’s smile faltered a little more. “If you can read hieroglyphics, then surely you can read the concern carved on my face. I was worried about you. Wanted to make sure you were okay. Why aren’t you ready for school? When’s your first class?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

“My breakfast is getting cold.”

This time when Roger said, “Oh,” even Stanley saw the hurt in his eyes. “I’m sorry I bothered you, then.”

“No bother,” Stanley said, taking a firmer grip on the door. The cool disinterest on his face was tantamount to saying “Good-bye” and Stanley knew it. He was really being a bitch, and he knew that too.