Astounding! (3 page)

Guilt sat like a weight on his chest as he completed a little more work. He was relieved when it was finally late enough to go out.

Just as he had a favorite coffeehouse, Carter also had a favorite bar. It, too, was within walking distance—ten blocks rather than seven—which saved on taxi fare when he was drunk. It didn’t have a clever pun for a name, just
Lou’s
on a simple painted sign. It shared a quiet block with an upholstery shop, an insurance sales office, a dry cleaner, and a weedy gravel parking lot. If it weren’t for the cars, the entire scene could have been lifted straight out of the 1950s.

The interior of Lou’s was old-school too. Dim lighting, a few flickering neon beer signs, a long dark bar, tables and booths with seats padded in ancient greenish Naugahyde. Sometimes the television over the bar showed sporting events, and sometimes it was tuned to a news channel with the sound turned off. In either case, Lou’s was never crowded or noisy. People—mostly men—came there to drink. And although no rainbow flags hung on the wall and a goodly percentage of the patrons were straight, a substantial minority most definitely were not. Gazes might lock, an eyebrow might rise or the corner of a mouth might twitch, and two men would quietly pay for their drinks before making their slow but deliberate way to the exit.

“Gin and tonic, Murphy,” Carter said to the bartender, a squat, dour man with unsettling gray eyes. Carter didn’t know whether Murphy was the guy’s first name or last, or indeed whether it was his name at all. But everyone called him that and he never complained.

Murphy grunted and filled Carter’s glass.

“I’ll run a tab,” Carter said. He didn’t wait for an answer—Murphy was not the chatty type—but instead walked to his favorite booth in the back corner. The upholstery crackled slightly as he slid in.

Freddy had discovered Lou’s, back when Carter and Freddy still shared a bed and a future. Carter was working on his master’s degree, and Freddy was trying his damnedest to make it as a writer. They both scrambled for whatever crap jobs they could find to pay the bills, and they spent nearly all their free time nurturing their newly birthed magazine. Back then they’d had great hopes for Astounding! Their little mag was going to change the literary world.

Sometimes they worked together at home, but the apartment became awfully claustrophobic after a while. Then they would head to Perk Up if it was daytime or Lou’s if it was night, and they’d feel like genuine grown-ups, like big shots. They were publishers!

Even after they broke up, when Freddy’s career began to climb and Carter’s stalled, they still met at Lou’s now and then to talk over old adventures and new plans. Even if he was a tiny bit jealous, Carter was genuinely happy at Freddy’s success. He enjoyed seeing his former lover light up with joy and enthusiasm over publishing contracts, book tours, fan mail. After a while, Freddy was talking movie and TV options. And right around the release date for the first film based on one of his books, he took his nice fat checks down to southern California, where the sun always shone on his ocean-view villa. He invited Carter to visit. But Carter stayed in Seattle, where he went to Lou’s by himself. Sometimes he left with another man—but mostly not.

Tonight Carter sipped his gin and tonic and brooded. After a while, Murphy replaced the empty glass with a full one. Carter ran a finger through the moisture ring on the table, creating designs that quickly dispersed.

Halfway through the third drink, Carter noticed the man sitting on a barstool near the door. He was probably a little past forty, but he was trim and handsome. The man caught Carter staring and smiled at him.

Carter quickly emptied his glass. Then he slid out of the booth and crossed the room to stand very close to the man, but without touching or looking at him. “I’m ready to close my tab, Murphy,” he announced.

“Hey. I’ll get it.” It was a slight breach of Lou’s protocol—men generally paid their own tabs, even if they were about to hook up—but Murphy seemed content enough to take the guy’s cash, and Carter wasn’t about to bemoan saving some money.

After giving his benefactor a nod, Carter shrugged into his jacket and left the bar. But he waited a few minutes out on the sidewalk, rubbing his hands together for warmth, until the door opened and the man stepped out.

“I’m Rob,” the man said, not offering to shake. He was shorter than he’d seemed while seated.

“Carter. And thanks for the drinks.”

“My pleasure. Want to go someplace else? I know a great joint in Belltown.”

“Not really,” Carter said, looking him straight in the eyes.

Rob’s grin looked slightly predatory. “I have a room at the Marriott. Come with?”

Carter didn’t especially want to, because it meant that afterward he’d have to get a taxi home, and there would go the money he’d saved on drinks. But he certainly didn’t want to bring Rob to his apartment, and he couldn’t face just heading home to a night of solitude.

They didn’t talk as Rob drove them downtown; they really didn’t have much to say to each other. Carter was mildly curious whether Rob was from out of town or a local, but it wasn’t as if Carter was expecting any long-term commitment from him. He just wanted sex.

The hotel lobby was as bland as he expected, and although the sixth-floor room probably had a nice view when the curtains were open, the interior was unremarkable too.

“Home sweet temporary home,” Rob said, tossing his coat onto a chair.

“Love what you did with the place,” Carter joked back.

Chuckling, Rob dug around in the suitcase that was open on a stand, making a small sound of triumph when his hand emerged clutching a couple of rubbers and a small bottle of lube. He set his prizes on a nightstand, then clicked off all the lights except a dim one near the door. “Do you want a drink?” he asked as he began to unbutton his shirt.

Carter had to think about that for a moment. He wouldn’t have minded a little more booze, but he was suddenly overcome with an urge to simply get things over with—to get off, get dressed, and get home. He shook his head. “I’m good.”

“A man of action. I like that.” Rob came closer and proceeded to strip in an orderly, businesslike manner. His chest was only slightly hairy, and the bush at his groin was neatly trimmed. His slender, cut cock was partially erect. “See anything you like?” he asked with a grin.

Still fully dressed and not even slightly hard, Carter nodded. “You work out.”

“I bike. You?”

Carter sighed. “I climb stairs.” And because waiting any longer seemed rude, he took off his clothes too and stood awkwardly, self-conscious about the pudge around his middle. Just as he became sure Rob was going to reject him, Rob took a few steps closer and crushed him with a very manly embrace. “I’m glad you came here with me,” Rob murmured into his ear. “I’ve been lonely.”

And that pretty much did it for Carter, probably because he’d been so lonely too. It didn’t matter if Rob was lying; his words resonated in the empty place deep inside Carter, finally awakening his desire.

They made out for a while, kissing deeply as they groped each other. Then Rob surprised him by dropping to his knees and taking Carter’s cock into his mouth. Nobody had given Carter head in a long time, and the warm suction felt so good that he couldn’t judge whether Rob was especially adept or Carter was just especially grateful.

Carter felt an orgasm building and managed a guttural warning. Rob pulled away and looked up at him, his wet lips parted in a wide smile. “Ready to take this to the bed?”

“Yeah.”

The hotel comforter bunched uncomfortably under Carter when he sprawled on his belly. Rob rolled on a condom and applied a healthy dollop of cold lube to Carter’s ass, poked around with a finger or two for a minute, and then dove right in. Not exactly record-breaking passion, but better than Carter’s solo right hand. Carter came quickly, a brief flash of pleasure and release.

Rob, however, wasn’t done. Carter gamely kept his ass raised high and listened to Rob’s grunts and the slap of flesh against flesh. He heard a television laugh track too, probably from the next room, and he wondered if the occupants could hear him and Rob fucking. Then Rob answered that question by uttering a loud, triumphant shout. He froze deep inside Carter, took several unsteady breaths, and slowly pulled out.

“You okay?” he asked after standing up straight.

Carter tried to sound enthusiastic. “Yep. That was great. Just what I needed tonight.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but close enough.

“Want to go down to the bar and get a drink?” Rob asked as he tossed the condom into the trash.

“I’m going to call it a night. I have to work in the morning.” Another untruth, seeing as he could keep whatever work schedule he wanted.

While Carter got dressed, Rob fussed with his suitcase, moving a few things around and readjusting the stand. For some reason, those actions struck Carter as the most endearing things he had done all night. Carter hoped Rob’s next pickup would be someone less hopeless than an impoverished magazine editor.

Still in his underwear, Rob walked Carter to the door. He gave Carter’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “Thanks. I had a nice evening.”

“Me too.”

“I’ll look for you next time I go to Lou’s.”

“I’d like that,” Carter said. He gave Rob a little wave before making his way to the elevators. He hoped he didn’t have to wait too long for a cab.

F
REDDY
’
S
STORY
was fucking amazing, of course. They nearly always were. As promised, he had tackled a space opera, only his hero was a transwoman who rescued a brutalized male slave from the clutches of an evil android emperor. And the entire story somehow managed to be a clever commentary on American political apathy—while still being entertaining as hell.

“I hate you, Freddy,” Carter grumbled after he finished reading the story. Not because of his ex’s stubborn inability to decide whether to use the Oxford comma, nor because Freddy had an irritating tendency to overuse em dashes. Really, his manuscripts were quite clean, and editing them never caused Carter to sweat blood. No, he hated Freddy because the guy could
write
and because he could toss off a fantastic story like this in a matter of days, then afford to give it away to a dying magazine. It was as if a direct connection ran from his brain to a whole gaggle of muses, and it wasn’t fucking fair.

“Good job, Evans. Have a jealous conniption over the hand that feeds you.” He rubbed his temples slowly. The real problem was that no matter how magnificent Freddy’s new story was, it wouldn’t feed Carter for long. Freddy had hordes of die-hard fans who’d probably pick up the next copy of
Astounding!
even though the story had nothing to do with their beloved Stonesfire Saga. And maybe a tiny percentage would end up subscribing, either because they fell in love with the magazine or, more likely, because they hoped for more of Freddy’s stuff. But that tiny percentage just wouldn’t be enough.

Carter fired off a quick e-mail to Freddy—
Got it, you brilliant bastard. Thx.
—and shut down his computer. It was barely past noon, and with his whiskey holdings recently restocked, he was sorely tempted to get really drunk. But no, he needed to cut back on the drinking. The weather was gorgeous, one of those rare gifts of a spring day when the sun sparkled and everyone renewed their acquaintance with Mount Rainier. The parks would be full of people skipping work to soak up a little vitamin D, and everyone would be saying, “See? It doesn’t always rain in Seattle.”

He decided to take a walk.

He didn’t stop at Perk Up, even though the scent of coffee wafting out the open door tempted him mightily. He didn’t stop anywhere, in fact, at least not until he reached a little green park and realized his feet ached. Then he sat on a bench for a while, not thinking about much of anything, just watching the newborn leaves flutter in the slight breeze and eyeing a flock of starlings that conversed noisily over a patch of grass. The sun was warm on his head and shoulders. Not southern California warm. Not sitting on your oceanfront balcony and chatting with movie producers warm. It was… Washington warm. Enough to dry him out a bit and make him think of laughter.

Carter took the long way home, meandering down unfamiliar streets. Sometimes he stopped to admire a particular house. He used to dream of owning his own place. Maybe a nice little Craftsman bungalow with a porch out front and a little yard in the back. He could get a dog or maybe a cat—he hadn’t owned a pet since he was a kid. He liked to picture himself puttering around the place, doing small fix-it chores, perhaps planting a few veggies in back and some roses out front. But he didn’t know how to garden or do home improvement, and he could barely pay his rent. Even when the magazine was relatively flush, he had never come close to saving enough for a down payment. Any mortgage lender in the world would laugh at the thought of lending him a dime.

“Stop with the self-pity,” he mumbled. Then he looked around quickly to see if anyone had caught him talking to himself. Bad enough he looked slightly off, with his messy hair, unshaved face, and rumpled clothing. He didn’t need to
act
slightly off as well.

Time to go home, he decided. Before he forgot altogether how to behave like a regular human.

The mail carrier was just leaving his building. Carter held the door for her and the little wheeled cart. “Out enjoying the weather?” she asked.