Irregulars: Stories by Nicole Kimberling, Josh Lanyon, Ginn Hale and Astrid Amara (9 page)

“Afterward.” Gunther stepped out of his shoes and unbuckled his belt.

With a weird mix of pleasure and fear, Keith realized Gunther wasn’t joking. He said, “I don’t have anything…for that.”

“I do. Inside pocket of my overcoat.” He dropped his pants. Even in white boxer-briefs and black dress socks, Gunther looked amazing. He didn’t keep either of those on for very much longer, though. Nor did his undershirt remain in place. Naked, Gunther’s pale body seemed like it could have been cut from paper. His legs were heavily roped with muscle. Though his chest was mostly bare, a fine line of dark hair ran from his navel to his groin. His cock, like the rest of him, seemed perfectly proportioned. Long, uncut, and resting on a pair of the most even testicles Keith had ever seen.

Gunther stepped closer. Keith set his ice pack aside and rested his hands on Gunther’s hips.

Gunther shuddered and murmured, “Chilly.”

“Sorry.” Keith ran his palms up over Gunther’s abdomen, then around to his back, sliding down over his round ass, the tips of his fingers lightly brushing the tender inside flesh.

Keith watched Gunther’s face as he gently explored Gunther’s body. “You really were perfectly made.”

“Through no effort of my own, unfortunately. But thank you.” Gunther rested his hands on Keith’s shoulders, spreading his legs slightly, allowing Keith greater access. Gunther’s cock was fully erect now, the head bobbing very near Keith’s face. He nuzzled the shaft, cheek pressed against Gunther’s abdomen.

Gunther said, “I hope you will invite me into your bed soon.”

“In a minute.” Keith caught the head of Gunther’s cock, sucking it, tasting it. Now that he knew Gunther was trans-goblin he half expected some vile Zippo fuel flavor to assault his senses and kill his desire. But Gunther tasted just like he had before. He tasted just like he looked—perfectly human, while simultaneously being inhumanly perfect. Gunther arched into him, just slightly.

Keith stood and nibbled Gunther’s lower lip, sampling that flavor too, though he’d never truly forgotten it. How could he? Spicy, fragrant, rich, and slippery. Luscious as drawn butter. Gunther’s lips parted, soft and passive to Keith’s explorations. His hands rested lightly on Keith’s sides, as if they were waiting to receive a permission slip before even attempting to touch Keith’s chest.

Keith supposed that that was exactly what Gunther was waiting for, given Keith hadn’t even loosened his tie. Cheek pressed against Gunther’s throat, he said, “Lay down with me.”

Gunther said nothing. He merely climbed onto the mattress and stretched out on his stomach as he had numerous times in the past.

At the small of his back, Gunther had a tattoo. A small triangular blackwork design with a point that dipped down toward the cleft of his ass. It was just about the last thing Keith expected to ever have the pleasure of seeing again, but once he did, he could not get his clothes off fast enough.

Face resting on his folded arms, Gunther watched. He said, “I have a condom in my inside jacket pocket.”

Keith picked up the jacket, felt inside the pocket, and laid the foil packet on the bedside table, along with a small tube of lube. He lay down next to Gunther and ran his hand along the other man’s back till he reached the tattoo. He traced the inked lines, wondering what, if anything, they meant.

Keith had tattoos of his own. He’d never met a chef who didn’t. His were slightly more embarrassing, though piecemeal, work that dotted his body like pictures scattered from a scrapbook. On his right shoulder, a Jolly Roger from his pirate phase—on his left, a Celtic maze, and on his inside left forearm, a line of black stars stretching from his wrist to inner elbow—a remnant from his club period.

“I always liked this.” Keith gently traced the lines of Gunther’s tattoo.

“It’s goblin script.” Gunther looked slightly embarrassed. “It’s how you write the word ‘love.’ I got it on my eighteenth birthday.”

Keith chuckled, ran his hand down over the curve of Gunther’s buttock. “And you say you’re not rebellious.”

“It’s my one and only display. I’d seen a picture online of a man who had a tattoo right there and I thought it was beautiful so that’s what I got. Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be called a tramp stamp.” Gunther smiled up at him from under his lashes. “Will you still kiss me?”

“Why not?” Keith bent to press his mouth against Gunther’s. The other man’s lips were hot and soft and supple. Keith didn’t think he’d ever kissed a man who seemed so relaxed and willing to let him take the lead. The very compliance seemed suspicious. Why in the world had Gunther taken his ludicrous bait? Had their positions been reversed, Keith would never have offered his own body—especially not to a guy like himself, with such questionable views and obvious anger issues. It seemed impossible that they should be here together this way. And yet, here they were.

 By nature Keith was not a rough or aggressive lover. He never had been. He’d played at it, sure. Lied about it to the straight guys he worked with who didn’t really understand that being gay wasn’t about plundering ass after ass after ass—not to him anyway. He’d bragged with some bravado over slaying this or that twink at the bar. But inside he’d never thought about sex that way and he couldn’t think about it that way now. He gave it his best, turning the ritual of condom and lube into teasing play, taking time to make sure Gunther was comfortable, relaxed, and overall eager to accept him into his body. Keith murmured small compliments, telling Gunther how beautiful his body was—how hot inside—as he lay, chest pressed to Gunther’s back, fingers entwined with his temporary partner’s, hands flexing and contracting, mirroring the push and pulling of their bodies.

Gunther responded with more generosity, if it was possible to supersede the hospitality of allowing Keith within his body.

Keith wound his arm around Gunther. Feeling Gunther’s questing hand, he laced their fingers together once more.

Friction became slick heat and he could no longer tell where his skin ended and Gunther’s began. Dizzying scents and sensations flowed through him. The carnal pleasure of Gunther’s skin far exceeded anything he’d ever known before or since he’d last had this man. Whether it was a trick of his goblin flesh or actual love, Keith did not know and he did not care. He thrust into Gunther’s responsive flesh, kissing and consuming him as if he’d been starved and alone for years only to stumble upon some lush, wild bacchanalia.

No number of kisses or fevered thrusts seemed adequate to slake Keith’s craving. He longed to consume Gunther utterly, selfishly. Gunther bucked back against him, then began a tense and shuddering climax. The beauty of seeing Gunther’s pleasure, feeling the other man’s delicious hunger, drove Keith to the blinding, inarticulate edge of sheer avarice. Then all at once ecstasy was upon him, rolling through his taut muscles, drawing tears from his eyes.

Afterward, Keith lay alongside Gunther and drifted, waking only briefly when Gunther rose, collected his clothes, and silently departed.

Chapter Seven

Keith was up and out the door at six the next morning. As was his habit, he walked the block and a half to Whole Foods and bought a doughnut. But rather than returning immediately to the hotel, he found himself, for the first time, pacing the aisles. Soon he had an armful of ingredients—eggs, heavy cream, milk, butter, spinach, nutmeg, gruyère, which he toted back to the hotel in a newly purchased green reusable bag. Without allowing himself to think about what he was doing, he began to cook. First came the crepes, completed one at a time and layered with sheets of waxed paper to keep them from sticking together. After that he prepped creamed spinach filling and grated gruyère. He brewed coffee. He waited, surfing through television channels until his proximity alert informed him that Gunther had exited the elevator. Then he bounced to his feet and began to assemble breakfast, filling the first crepe before he heard a knock.

Gunther’s manner was exactly the same as it had been the previous day. No casual observer would have suspected from looking at Gunther that they had made love less than twelve hours ago in this very bed.

Really, the only person displaying a change of behavior was himself.

Keith decided not to think about that at all.

“Want some breakfast?” he said. “I made crepes.”

Gunther smiled. “Yes, please.”

“Do you like spinach?”

“I’ve never really had a spinach crepe before, but I probably do. So far I like everything except banana pudding.”

Keith folded filling into the four remaining crepes and handed the plate to Gunther, along with a fork.

“Aren’t you going to have any?” Gunther asked.

“I already had a donut.”

“So you made these specially for me?”

“I wanted to cook something this morning.” Keith knew that this wasn’t really an answer, but he wasn’t ready to actually think about an answer either. He didn’t want to plumb the murky depths of his own motivations. It was perfectly reasonable to want to make breakfast for a man you had sex with the previous night. The urge toward hospitality contained no special significance. And yet, he found himself carefully scrutinizing Gunther’s reaction.

Again, nothing special. He was a chef. Chefs all wanted to know how their food had been received. He paid no special attention to Gunther, nor should he.

If he told himself this enough times, Keith thought, certainly he would eventually believe it.

Suddenly, Gunther glanced up, noting Keith’s stare. “These are amazing, but I really feel awkward eating them all alone.”

“I’ll get myself some coffee.” Keith rose, poured himself a cup, and to change the conversation, asked, “So do you know many other gay goblins?”

“Trans-goblins,” Gunther corrected, then added, “No, hardly any. During the transformation process virtually anything can be determined about a baby. Few parents want to give their child an orientation that will make their human lives less easy. My parents were the exception to this rule.”

“Are you telling me that you were made gay on purpose?” Goblins, Keith thought, truly were a breed apart. Apart from common sense, mainly. But then he caught himself in his own disturbing condemnation. Why shouldn’t parents want a gay child? Goblin or not?

“My parents thought my godfather was the ideal human, so they wanted me to be as much like him as possible. I joined NIAD to follow in his footsteps. You’ve probably heard of him. Half-Dead Henry?”

“The Undead Bum?” The words leaped from Keith’s mouth before he could jam his foot in to stop them from escaping. “I mean—”

“No, you got it right: the Undead Bum.” Gunther took a forkful of crepe and chewed it thoughtfully. “You remind me of him, somewhat.”

“How’s that?” Keith tried to keep his tone neutral, but he couldn’t help but be slightly offended by being compared to a famous hobo.

“Your tattoos. The way you don’t seem to be able express yourself emotionally. And your terrible diet. Henry eats cold chili right out of the can. Are you sure you won’t have this last crepe? They’re very good.”

Keith hesitated, on the edge of turning back from a second refusal. Again that unthinking inspiration struck and he just said, “I would, but I’m too lazy right now to lift a fork.”

“I could feed it to you,” Gunther said. “That’s what you want me to do, isn’t it?”

“God, no. I’m not a little kid. Give me that.” Keith took the plate and fork and ate the crepe in six bites. It tasted better than he expected. He wiped his mouth and, finding Gunther staring at him, leaned across the table and quickly kissed him.

“Are you—”

Keith held up a silencing hand. “I haven’t changed my mind about talking about it.”

“I didn’t think you had. I was about to ask if you wanted to question Bullock now.”

“I think it’s about time. Is she still at PPB or was she moved to the NIAD detention facility?” Keith asked.

“I’ll call.” Gunther did so. Keith listened absently, while finishing the dishes. He heard Gunther say, “I see.”

Gunther’s tone alarmed him and Keith turned back to see that his partner’s expression had grown dark. He said, “What is it?”

“Bullock was dead in her cell this morning. Suicide. I guess she knew the penalty for cannibalism after all.”

Chapter Eight

While Gunther spent the day visiting homes and interviewing members of the local trans-goblin community, Keith remained in his hotel room, staring at his own laptop, sifting through tens of thousands of pieces of text.

Looking.

Searching for any connection.

Keith made grilled cheese, brewed coffee.

Around ten p.m., Gunther returned. “Find out anything interesting?”

“Samantha Evans, the booker from Lulu’s Flapjack Shack, has gone missing. Her mother reported her disappearance to the PPB and they sent out an officer to investigate, but according to the PPB report, her boyfriend says it’s not uncommon for her to take off for a couple of days without telling anyone,” Keith said. “What about you?”

“I had to drink seventeen cups of tea, but I did manage to catch up on every piece of trans-goblin gossip for the last fifteen years. Lancelot, our goat-seeking goblin musician, has recently lost both his parents in a boating accident.”