Only Make Believe (27 page)

Bud kept his eyes on mine, not blinking, hardly breathing, his mouth a line of wonder. I ran my free hand through the hair on his chest, fingered the hard nipples, watched him blink and swallow as my hand moved lower, down and around the scar on his side, skirting his ass.

“I love that,” he finally groaned. “Love you, love what you do to me, how you know every goddamn inch of me, know where to do me the best. Best ever. Best ever.”

He lay back flat on the carpet and I moved to cover him, not quite resting on his body, our hard cocks nuzzling like inquisitive ponies.

“We can’t go this long again, Sarge. We’ve got to figure something out. I want every inch of you all the time. I dream of you, being on you, inside you, you inside me. This is crazy. We’re together all the time and we’re not.”

He reached between us, gathered our cocks together in one fist and humped upward lightly. “Yeah, together. You with me? That OK? You like that?”

I leaned forward and kissed him lightly. “OK? Wonderful. Nothing better. You do everything I like. Don’t ever stop.”

“Dan, maybe—fuck—maybe I got to.” He released his hand. “This is too good.”

“Don’t shoot off yet. Take a breath.”

“Yeah. But—no, I’m OK. I meant—whew, wow—I was never scared like this in the Pacific. It was just me—me and the squad, the grunts, the other sergeants and Captain Westover. I had no secrets, every man was kind of a part of me, and me them. Die for each other if the Japs somehow or other turn it around. Last man standing carries the bodies home. Course it didn’t never come to that.”

I reached between us. He was hard as stone. When I stroked him he muttered “Yeah, yeah, do that.”

The South’s a different kind of battleground, Bud
.

“They’re not going to get us.” I kissed his ear. “Not the Klan, not the gossips and busybodies, not the crooked lawyers. We’re strong. Army of two. Remember?”

“Korea might be safer, Lieutenant. You ever think of getting your commission back? Touch my balls some more for me, OK?”

“I want you here with me. Just like this.”

“On my back? Like some Philippine whore? Yeah, yeah, do that.”

“Like you are, Sarge. Every way you are. However we can be together. This still OK? Don’t you know how much I love you?”

“Don’t you know how much I hate being scared like this?” He suddenly sobbed and covered his face with his arm. “You saw that shit in the paper. We’re as good as exposed as queer perverts. Both of us. They could run us out of town, send us to fucking prison. Wreck my life before it even gets going good.”

Fear can be contagious. Bud’s cock remained hard but mine wilted. I rolled off him, onto my back. Sure, inside my head, I knew we were safe—knew that in booming, bribe-blind Florida, money and influence and muscle worked wonders. But my body wasn’t always so sure.

Nothing lasts forever. Permanence is an illusion. I don’t claim to be a philosopher but at that moment I realized that the Diva’s death was a warning bell, shrill and loud as the call to battle stations. I’d made a mistake. Another could cost more than one mixed-up man’s life. Ralph Nype had threatened to publish an article naming names and stating facts. The sheriff could turn honest, raid the Caloosa and throw Bud and me in jail. The Klan could burn the hotel to the ground, not just torch a kerosene-soaked cross in the parking lot. Doc Shepherd, Wayne Larue Barfield, Colonel Woodworth, the Sloan twins and dozens like them would resign their memberships if all the Caloosa’s secrets were exposed. The business would go bankrupt faster than Carmen could mix a Manhattan.

This was a crossroads. At the end of the war, with the
Indianapolis
, Mike Rizzo and nine hundred shipmates on the bottom of the Pacific, I figured I had nothing else to loose. When I resigned from the Navy and came home to work for Asdeck as a civilian, I saw myself as one cold-hearted, risk-taking, loose-hanging son of a bitch. And then I met Bud, and got to feeling that my lucky streak might last.

But at that moment, on the rug in Bud’s rented room, I had to admit that I needed his courage as much as he needed my brains and Asdeck’s money and the sheriff’s cooperation. So I said the first thing I could think of—the truth, for once: “Don’t you know how brave you are? Being here with me like this? Don’t you know there’s men in the world, millions of men, that want what we have together—and won’t ever have it, not once? Their lives’ll never get going. They’re dead meat, or might as well be. They might as well spill their guts in a frozen trench, like you said.”

I clutched Bud’s hand. He squeezed me back. “Gregg and Spud,” he whispered. “Poor bastards. Men like them.”

“Nobody’s going to bother you, Sarge, nothing like that, not as long as I’m alive. Myers—the world—can go to hell. We’re a team. I know you’re always there to protect me. And love me. And hold me. Yeah, do that. Be on me, in me, with me. Like this. Yeah, yeah.”

As I spoke, Bud climbed on top of me. Breathing heavily, his eyes again seeking mine, he kissed my face, then my arms, my chest and stomach, the head of my cock, the sticky shaft. He took me in his mouth, licked and sucked until I was hard. Then he finally moved upward again, his mouth at my ear.

“Right. Yes. Fuck the world. It’s just me and you. Just me and you. Just me and you.”

He was on his hands and knees, over me, letting me stroke him with both hands. He was vulnerable yet also a shield, the best kind of man.

Slowly he leaned back, stroking my wet cock with one hand and cupping my balls with the other. “Just me and you,” he whispered, each word separate, a sort of chant. “Just … me … and … you.”

I was starting to lose track, riding the pleasure and Bud’s words, his touch, our mingled aroma of sweat and need. “Fuck the world. Fuck me. Love me, you and me, you and me.”

Bud humped into my hands, his eyes still locked on mine. “Just … me … and … you … Lieutenant. You’re … my man. You’re my man. You’re my coach. You’re my man. My life.”

“Yeah, I can’t last much longer. Yeah, are you about ….”

Bud’s eyes were shut tight. “You’ll be OK, Captain. You’ll be OK. Only don’t leave me. Hold on, sir. We’re OK now. Medic’s here. We’re safe, sir. Japs are all dead, sir. Medic’s gonna fix you right up, sir. You’ll be OK, Captain Westover, you’ll be OK, you’ll be fine. Just don’t go to sleep. Yeah. Dan’s here. Dan’ll help. Just don’t go to do sleep, sir. Yeah, yes sir. Right there, there. Oh goddamn, there. Oh God. Dan, Dan.”

Shouting now, half crying, shaking all over, Bud began shooting into my hand and onto my chest and belly. “Goddamn, yes. With me.” His arms were around me, seizing and holding me as if he thought I’d try to get away, his mouth on mine, kissing me as hard and as deeply as he ever had. “You. Yes. Oh goddamn. Yes.”

Beneath him, I joyfully exploded.

Fallen soldiers live forever in the memories of their comrades. After Bud and I came to, it seemed best not to bring up his inclusion of the dead officer in our lovemaking. Hell, I knew I’d mentioned Ensign Rizzo way too often in conversation—and probably called out to him in my sleep more than once. Both of us had had other men in our lives. The war would never entirely fade away. Our dead would always be on duty, faithfully awaiting orders.

But also the living. Playing back the scene in my mind, I had to admit that Chuck and Mike Rizzo had been right there on the rug beside me, sweating and humping, crying out and moaning—at least at the outer edges of my fantasies. Both boys were dark, compact, muscular and athletic. Given a few more years between them, Bud and Chuck
could
be father and son, Mike and Chuck uncle and nephew. Sexy devils, all of them. I figured I’d better watch myself around Chuck.

Needless to say, I kept my mouth shut about that.

The boy was on both our minds when we showered together, though, kissing, laughing and horsing around. As I soaped Bud’s back, I examined his neck. No teenager’s pimples there, but a similarly solid column of tan skin and hard muscle set off by dark hair, buzzed on the nape and furry below. Setting the soap aside, I wrapped my arms around Bud’s waist and cupped his genitals. Idly, I wondered what Chuck looked like down there.

Bud put his hands over mine. “I bet you’re hoping Chuck’s gonna turn out to be one—one of us.”

“He hasn’t mentioned a girlfriend, just his best friend and the friend’s cousin.”

“With the Diva behind him, God knows how long it’ll take him to sort things out.”

“You gonna coach the boy? I have to say you’ve got the technique down pat.”

Bud cut me a Bronx cheer. “One man’s enough for me. Or are you suggesting we work up to an army of three?”

Are you turning kinky on me?

“Remember what I told you? About the Kinsey Report? Thousands of men, American men, service men, single men, married men, young boys, old codgers—maybe millions that are alive right now—have done what we did today. Done it more than once. Often. A hundred different ways. And come back for more.”

Bud turned and took me in his arms. “None of ’em had it as good as we did just now. That right?”

I let him pull me close.

“Anyhow, young Chuck’s got school to finish, college, maybe. Boy’s got plenty to check out before he decides what branch to join, which team to play for.”

“He looks a lot like you—like you must have looked when you were taking showers with Coach Andy, before you graduated high school and joined the Marines.”

“Ha. Can’t assume nothing. Looks don’t mean a thing.” Bud slapped my butt. “Millions, huh? You got big ideas, Lieutenant.”

“You’ve got a big idea pushing against my leg, Sarge.”

“Thought we was finished. Looks like we’re not. Want to trade?” He reached for me. “Feels like you do.”

I did, and we did.

Later, alone in my own bed back at the hotel, contented and spent, happy but exhausted, I tried to make sense of how anger, love, fear, desire, courage and male-male competitiveness fit together. I knew the combination worked for Bud and me—most of the time. I knew there was some rational basis for it, and I was confident that I could figure it all out. But, like I say, I’m no philosopher. Before I even began to consider the various ramifications, I fell fast asleep. And I didn’t dream at all. It was the best night’s sleep I’d had since Christmas.

On Monday, I swam two miles before breakfast, shaved and dressed in the locker room, picked up coffee and a banana in the kitchen and was at my desk before eight. The morning report was discouraging—three no-show room reservations over the weekend, club receipts down twenty percent and a series of threatening telephone calls that started about the time church let out on Sunday.

I wasn’t worried. Bud and I were solid again. The hotel was overbooked for February and March. It was only a matter of time before we nailed Nick DiGennaro’s assailant.

As I read over the upcoming week’s special requests file, it crossed my mind that a discreet, cautionary note about cross-dressing should be added to the club’s code of conduct. I was drafting a memo for the boss’s consideration when Emma Mae strolled into my office. She had a greeting card in one hand and a newspaper in the other.

“It’s Mr. Patt,” she said, holding out the card. “He got hisself beaten up Saturday night. His old Aunt Ida Nell asked me not to mention it. But I couldn’t resist this here get-well card I saw at the Rexall. Figured his friends at the hotel would want to sign it. And I figured
somebody
would kick in petty cash for flowers.”

I reached for my wallet and pulled out a five dollar bill.

She handed me the card to sign and flipped open the
News-Press
. “Thanks, boss. Hmm, no, nothing about it in the paper that I can see. Regular crime wave going on, though, what with this and …” She pointed her thumb upstairs. “All that.”

I signed the card and handed it back. Patt Cope seemed like the last man on earth to be involved in Saturday night fighting.

“Pore little thing,” Emma Mae continued. “This ain’t the first time he got his sweet butt in a jam. Doesn’t attend to his ah, well, his needs enough—like some I could name. Then he gets needing it bad and takes chances. Like going down to that truck stop south a town like he did. He ought to get him a friend, that’s all. Keep hisself safe.”

I asked how often this had happened to Mr. Patt.

“Oh, three or four times, far as I can remember. Myers is just not a good place for him. Town’s always been rough on people that’s a little too different. Ida Nell told me he’d have shook the sand off his shoes long ago except he’s got his poor old mother to take care of.”

Click.
“Three or four times?”

“Yeah, boss, Why?”

I phoned the sheriff’s department. Bud agreed to meet me at Patt Cope’s house on Woodford Avenue in twenty minutes.

The two-story frame house was neatly painted, the tin roof in good repair, the ground floor front porch a Babylon of potted plants and wicker furniture. A fluffy, yapping dog patrolled the fenced yard. Mr. Patt spotted us from inside and was down the front steps before I could unlatch the gate.