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100 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2010

His disinterest in women made him a must-have. And he could be had, because the women were safer than the guys. He hadn’t met a guy who was to die for.
Back when Tom and Wells had been lovers, Law had invaded Tom’s apartment and ordered both of them to get blood tests. Tom remembered Wells bridling at the command. “You can’t order me—!“
“The hell I can’t,” Law cut him off. “Both of you. Or I hire a hit man. Results on my fax or e-mail before I ship out.” He had pointed at them, his hand in the classic bang-you’re-dead pose.
Tom remembered telling Wells after the door shut behind Law, “He’s bluffing.”
But Wells had gone awfully quiet.
And Wells and Tom both got blood tests.
Law glanced aside at him. “You know how vengeful those homosexual types can be.”
He wasn’t accustomed to leaving work at noon and being the one in the bitch seat of a sexy vehicle.
Law strode over to Tom’s mattress, turned round, and let himself drop back onto it. He lay with his hands clasped behind his head. “Am I going to catch something social or viral on this?”
Wells demanded, “Why are you here?”
“Cynthia sent me to find out where you were slumming. She said you were with some blue-collar homosexual.” Law sat up, planted his feet flat on the floor and rested his elbows on his knees. He looked up at Tom sideways. “Got AIDS?”
“No,” Wells said.
“Been tested?” Law asked.
“You both thought you were the man,” Law said. “You’re the bitch.”
Damned Wells had to go and blab the specifics of their love-making to this man. Tom wondered if this straight prison guard type sadist meant to show the faggot how a real man does it.
Law sensed his fear. Tom could see the gleam in Law’s dark eyes behind the edge of his dark lenses. Tom could tell Law was laughing.
Tom said, “Just so we are clear on this, I am not submissive.”
"Family may call me Laurie,” Law said serenely. “To you, I am Law.”
“You just hold that thought, Laurie.”
“You’ll notice it’s only the girls who call me that,” Law said. “I guess you may as well call me Laurie.” He gave Tom a fiendish wink.
Ira told Tom, “Just remember, when they start the dancing, keep at least one elbow lower than your ears.” And Ira winked as if he had just given Tom an insider tip.
Tom smiled, bewildered. “Why?”
Irene explained, “When a man dances with both elbows higher than his shoulders, it supposedly means he’s gay.” She gave a shrug. “Ira always tries to get the photographer to dance with his arms over his head.”
As Law pulled back his chair, he spoke offhandedly, “Cat fight. Nine o’clock.”
Tom looked to his left, where Law was purposefully not looking.
Cynthia had Alana cornered. Cynthia’s blond head was lowered like a hissing goose, her earrings shaking.
Tom took refuge at the bar, where he found a cluster of men to shoot the shit with.
The pack of them parted to let a busty bridesmaid through. She was a brazen young woman who thrived surrounded by studs. She zeroed in on Tom. “Hey. You’re Lawrence’s wingman. Is that Lawrence’s Lamborghini out front?” she asked, her heavily crusted eyelashes dropped come-hither low.
All the young men answered for Tom. They told her yes, yes the wicked car was Law’s ride.
The woman toyed suggestively with the neck of one of the bottles on the bar. “You know I’d fuck him for a ride in a Lamborghini.”
Tom said, “I got a Harley. Would that get me a blow job?”
Her eyes went as big as bottle bottoms, and all the guys laughed loud. The bridesmaid stalked away fuming.
Tom’s ears burned hot. Squirming embarrassment gripped him all the way down to his oysters, while down below, the two made an odd, compelling tableau, the bull and his mother under the spreading tree. The majestic figure of great power who was Law became a tame beast facing the woman who bore him.
But she knew Tom had been Wells’ lover. She knew. And Alana’s knowing left Tom feeling as if he’d swallowed a live muskrat.
To Tom’s surprise, Alana sought Tom out and hugged him, too. She spoke softly into his ear, “I am so happy to meet you.” She sounded as if she meant it, and she kissed him on the cheek before sinking back down from tip-toe, affection shining in her dark eyes. Tom wondered if she wasn’t high, because she didn’t smell drunk.
Law knew what the going rate for a ride in a Lamborghini was. It was no comfort that Wells had told Tom—twice—that Law was straight. And Tom never doubted it. But he knew for damn sure that sex wasn’t always about desire. Sex could be a weapon. It was about dominance. And did Tom happen to know anyone who needed to be the master of everything?
The passenger door lifted. The beast slid into the passenger seat, a sexually threatening presence.
Tom never saw Law as anything but a bully. A big bully. But there was something else now. Something more. Intensely threatening. Tom responded with fear tainted with desire.
Fear rose up in a blank white wall and hot stab of desire. His blood effervesced. Terror gripped his throat and shook hard. Tom met Law’s hard gaze and the world stopped.
Some preternatural being that feeds on fear was feasting here. Tom couldn’t figure out how it had come to this. He hadn’t heard Law follow him up the stairs. Tom knew he’d shut the downstairs door after him. Yet here Law was. “How did you get in?” Tom’s voice sounded weak to his own ears.
“There’s more than one thing you can do with a credit card.”
He lost his nerve. Bolted for the door. Tried to.
Law caught him by his arm, just above the elbow, and pulled him back. “Wells was all wrong for you.”
“I found that out—wait!” Tom’s spinning thoughts tripped over the impossibility of what Law just said. “You said Wells was all wrong for me. As if I was the one that mattered.”
Law drew him in forcefully, Law’s face over his, their lips barely apart. Tom tasted Law’s breath.
“As if.”
"No.”
Law’s hand withdrew. He took a small step back.
Immediately, Law turned Tom around and pushed him at the couch hard, bending him forward over the back of it. Tom caught himself, his palms sinking into the cushions. Tom tried to stand up, but Law shoved him back down. Law kicked Tom’s legs apart and stood between them. Tom struggled as Law reached around Tom’s body, groping for Tom’s zipper. Tom cried out.
Something dropped down onto the couch next to Tom’s hand and bounced once on the cushion.
Cell phone. An unspoken dare to call 911 if he really meant no.
And there it was. His bluff had been called—and Tom hadn’t even known he was bluffing.
Tom thought he didn’t want this. The image of the phone moved up and down before his eyes as Law pushed him rhythmically against the couch with a dry humping at Tom’s clothed ass. The motion rocked the couch, and the phone edged over closer with each bounce of Tom’s hands on the cushions until it touched the outside of his little finger. The phone now brushed against Tom’s hand with Law’s every thrust.
Law nuzzled his ear. “Still think you’re the man?”
Tom touched Law’s hair, a strange realization penetrating his muddled senses and emotions.
He’s gay.
"My first time bareback,” Law offered.
“Really. Was I to die for?”
“You might be. But you were safe.”
“I am. But how did you know?”
“When you were having your trousers measured, I found four condoms in the hip pocket of your jeans. That’s a careful—not to mention energetic—young man. I only ever carry one. I keep the box in the car.”
Tom woke to the pounding baseline from speakers shaking the whole block. It was still night.
Law got up. Tom ghosted him to the front of the building to look out a tall window.
A long, low-riding car bouncing on its double whoa jimmies had stopped in front of the furniture store. Some bloods were climbing out to circle the Diablo under the streetlight.
Law got up, showered, shaved, dressed. He dropped a few bills on the heap of clothes on the floor next to the couch.
“Cab fare?” Tom said, sitting up in the bed. “I may have to murder you.”
“For the cleaner. These look like you’ve been mugged by a salad.” There were oil spots all over Tom’s new clothes.
How could he go back to women now?
He didn’t love them, and they didn’t love him. He never took the women up to his apartment. They were less likely to expect him to eat them if he didn’t have a place to go.
"Why did you go to Afghanistan?”
Law answered straight back. “Kill Osama Bin Laden.”
"I’m not going to change just because you’re putting out for me now. I’m not going to turn into your lapdog.”
“Good,” Tom said. “‘Cause that would be icky.”
Law returned, kicked his shoes off, and finished undressing Tom, then slathered suntan oil on him. All over him.
Law’s cock pushed between Tom’s cheeks, thoroughly oiled and in no danger of burning.
And oh God in heaven, he was in.
Law went into the house. He came back out, lay back on the blanket, smug, his cock pointing up, hard. “Show me what you can do.”
Tom crouched over him. He smelled liquor on Law’s sex. Droplets of brandy dappled the dark, coarse hair of Law’s groin.
Tom’s life was in upheaval. Law rewrote everything Tom thought he was. It hit him a lot harder and deeper than he could have imagined. He sensed a change in Law, too. His caresses were slower, gentler, sweeter. Tom caught in deep breaths on the verge of sobbing. He felt Law’s lips on the side of his neck, Law’s hair brushing his skin, Law’s palm gently around his throat. Law couldn’t possibly miss the quivering in Tom’s body. But there was nothing abusive coming.
With his last shred of pride—Tom was surprised he had any by now—he pulled off his socks for himself. He was not getting fucked again wearing only socks.
Confused and fearful as he was, this one thing Tom knew for certain. No man ever took another man’s balls in his mouth to mock him.
With a grunt of surprised passion from Law, Tom guided Law’s sex to his hunger.
Law growled. A sudden surge of liquid fire released inside Tom. He cried out in a sudden flare of passion. He convulsed again, harder. Flames leapt toward the sky, spreading through his core. Pleasure lanced out to his fingertips, his eyelashes.
"Fuck this.” Law turned on the bike’s headlight and dismounted. He stepped into the light.
Tom saw Law’s giant silhouette, his long shadow thrown out before him as stalked up to the car, which had stopped, waiting for him. Law approached with his arms out to his sides, his hands open, holding nothing.
Tom saw the driver’s side window rolling down.
He heard a barrage of hateful obscenities in a raw male voice daring Law to come closer. Law drew alongside the window.
Tom saw the gun.
This was a worldwide pants down. Jesus Christ, his mother surfed the internet. The guys at work surfed. Not that the guys would ever do a search on Tom Russell, but if they ever saw that video, the police would be dragging Tom’s carcass out of Lake Erie—badly beaten with tire irons and wrenches.
Maybe it was the sight of two men in the saddle that set this guy off, but he was roaring full throttle up the dark road with a double hatred--riders and queers. This guy was on a mission.
Tom’s insides jumped and crashed, caught between the depth of expression, the honesty of it and—and what?
Getting outed? It wasn’t like there was a Midwesterner alive who could shock a room full of New Yorkers.
Her dark eyes studied his face, her brow knit. “Why?”
Law took her shoulders. “Mother, he’s the one.”
When Law lifted him off the tabletop onto his unsteady feet, Tom left a clear ass print and a white smear of come that had escaped Law’s hunger.
The tip of Law’s forefinger landed in the center of the white wetness, and he drew his bold signature in it.
"If no one else comes here, why is the shower built for two?”
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
"You had your helmet and your leather jacket beside you in the grass, so I knew the motorcycle in the parking lot was yours. You had your eyes shut, the sun on your face. You looked free as the wind.”
“We call that unemployed,” Tom translated, struggling to sound flippant, overwhelmed by the intensity of emotion in his words.
"I’m giving up this place. I need to establish a new state of residence. Do you like Connecticut or New Hampshire? I’m never home.”
Tom blinked, stunned not to be having sex right now. He stammered, “Those are the choices?”
It caught up with him as soon as he said it. Those were states that recognized gay marriage.
I’m only going to carry you once, Law had said.
He meant over a threshold.
“What?” Law asked Tom’s silent look.
Tom said, “Say exactly what you mean.”
Law looked dumbstruck, almost angry. He breathed, “Son of a bitch.” And to Tom’s surprise, Law got down on one knee and took his hand. “Tom, you beloved bastard, I love you. I need you in my life forever. I cannot imagine existence without you. Will you—God please say yes—grant me the honor and the privilege and save my life and marry me?”
"My sweet love,” Law moaned into the back of Tom’s neck, his sex deep inside Tom. Tom was Law’s, and Law was Tom’s. To have and to hold, and to touch and kiss and ride and fuck.

That sexual thickness pushed inside him for an extended moment that stretched to eternity. His body ignited with a spear of sexual heat. The unexpected sensation left him thunderstruck, dazed and soaring. It was a revelation, as if a veil had been stripped away and suddenly he could see color. His body melted into fiery sweetness.
Law nuzzled his ear. “Still think you’re the man?
I am not going to crumble like a virgin girl. I’m a guy. This is just sex.