Scrap Metal (37 page)

Fraser seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts.

It took a while for the dull, shuffling noise behind us to register. In fact, I don’t know that I would have registered it if Fraser hadn’t stopped walking.

“Did you hear that?”

“What?” I stopped too.

“That.”

I listened. I could hear the power lines buzzing softly overhead, leaves scratching along the sidewalk…

“I don’t hear anything.”

“It’s stopped.”

I expelled a long breath. “Not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be funny. I heard something.”

“Like what?”

“Like…something scraping, no…dragging along the sidewalk.”

I shook my head and started walking again.

Fraser caught me up in a few steps. “I’m serious!”

“No, you’re not.”

“Wait.” He hooked a hand around my arm, halting me. “Listen.”

Once again I listened. Once again there was nothing to hear but the whine of the power lines and the wind shaking the trees lining the street.

I made a sound of impatience. “
Not funny
, Fraser.”

“I’m not being funny!”

“You’re right about that.” But then I heard it too. A sound like a bag of wet cement being dragged along the sidewalk.

“Hear that?” Fraser exclaimed. “You hear that, right?”

I nodded.

We both stared through the tunnel of trees. The shadows wavered across the sidewalk. Moonlight and shadows…

The shuffling sound was moving toward us.

Fraser murmured, “What the hell.”

I shook my head, wanting him to be quiet. My eyes strained to see through the gloom.

“There.” I pointed at the pale form shambling toward us. “What the…”

“Hell,” finished Fraser, and launched himself at the thing.

At the mummy thing.

Okay. At the mummy. The glowing-red-eyed, bandage-trailing mummy that was apparently following us down the quiet residential streets of Walsh, Wyoming.

As Fraser pounded down the sidewalk toward it, the mummy turned and sprinted away with un-mummy-like sprightliness. I raced after Fraser.

“Fraser!”

He gave no indication he heard, barreling along ahead of me like a TV cop in pursuit of a felon.

Where the hell were they going? What did Fraser plan on doing if he caught the thing?

The mummy cut through the trees, darted across a neatly trimmed lawn, flew down a driveway and scrambled up and over a wooden fence. I’ll be damned if Fraser didn’t fly right after him.

“What the hell are you doing?” I shouted after him.

Once again, if Fraser heard me, he gave no sign. He disappeared over the fence. I reached the gate a few seconds later, totally out of breath. I tried it. It swung open and I went through. I was in a backyard. An ordinary backyard with a large Doughboy pool and a lot of trampled flowerbeds.

From the other side of the brick wall at the back of the yard I could hear crashing sounds. I added my footprints to the flowerbeds and heaved myself up, scrambling over the wall as lights in the house behind me went on.

The lights were already on in the house next door. House lights and backyard lights blazed brightly, illuminating the bulky white form disappearing over yet another wall—and the soles of Fraser’s Converses diving after in close pursuit.

I swore and raced after them. The back door to the house slammed open. A voice bellowed, “You kids get the hell out of here before I call the cops!”

Imagine trying to explain this to the cops?

He was still yelling as I cleared the next fence.

I found myself in an alley. Weeds grew through what remained of the cracked pavement. Opposite me was a junkyard fenced by chain link. A particularly unfriendly dog was throwing itself at the fence and offering its unsolicited opinion of my behavior.

“Who asked you?” I told it.

It responded by trying to chew its way through the fence.

The alleyway ended in a tall brick wall without windows or doors. It opened onto a street. Fraser stood in the middle of the street swearing.

I went to join him.

“He got away,” he said by way of greeting.

“Where would he go?”

He shook his head. It was a good question though. The street was made up of storefronts. Mostly closed for the night, though a couple had Out of Business signs in the darkened windows.

In fact, the only thing open was a dive-looking bar called the Blue Moon. A neon cocktail glass containing a blue crescent moon blinked on and off above the battered door.

“There,” Fraser said. He elbowed me and started across the street.

“What? No way.”

“He sure as hell didn’t go in there.” He nodded at the junkyard where the Hound of the Baskervilles was still trying to saw through the fence. “So where is he?”

I looked up and down the empty street. Other than a few parked cars outside the bar—and us—there was no sign of life. No mummy fleeing down the sidewalk in either direction.

“He’s hiding.”

“He’s in
there
. I’m telling you.”

I caught up to him. “Did you see him go in there?”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“I would love to believe that something,
anything
tonight, makes sense, but I find it diffi—”

I was talking to myself. What else was new?

I followed Fraser inside the bar. It was dark and smoky—although no one had smoked there for years—and surprisingly crowded. Crowded with what appeared to be regulars, because everyone stopped talking and turned our way.

Okay, maybe everyone didn’t stop talking. Maybe it just felt that way after Fraser burst out, “Did anyone see a mummy come in?”

There was a pause—even the jukebox seemed to pause in the middle of a Patsy Cline song—and then all those hard, weather-beaten faces began to roar with laughter.

To seal their bond, they must break the ties that bind.

A Private Gentleman

© 2012 Heidi Cullinan

Painfully introverted and rendered nearly mute by a heavy stammer, Lord George Albert Westin rarely ventures any farther than the club or his beloved gardens. When he hears rumors of an exotic new orchid sighted at a local hobbyist’s house, though, he girds himself with opiates and determination to attend a house party, hoping to sneak a peek.

He finds the orchid, yes…but he finds something else even more rare and exquisite: Michael Vallant. Professional sodomite.

Michael climbed out of an adolescent hell as a courtesan’s bastard to become successful and independent-minded, seeing men on his own terms, protected by a powerful friend. He is master of his own world—until Wes. Not only because, for once, the sex is for pleasure and not for profit. They are joined by tendrils of a shameful, unspoken history. The closer his shy, poppy-addicted lover lures him to the light of love, the harder his past works to drag him back into the dark.

There’s only one way out of this tangle. Help Wes face the fears that cripple him—right after Michael finds the courage to reveal the devastating truth that binds them.

Warning: Contains wounded heroes, bibliophilic tendencies, orchid obsessions, a right bastard of a marquis, and gay men who get happily-ever-afters.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
A Private Gentleman:

Deprived of his glasses, Michael strained to take the man in: the great height of him, the contrast of his coat and cravat, the color and shape of his hair still damp at the edges from his bath. His short boots peeked out beneath crisp trousers. From this far away, Michael could not see his face, but even with the lord’s proper posture, his body movements belied his nervousness.

Belatedly, Michael realized he was not posed evocatively on the pile of pillows he’d spent fifteen minutes arranging, choosing instead to greet his lover dangled over the edge of the bed, banyan rucked up oddly around him and one foot lifted into the air for balance.

Damn.

He rolled to his side and tugged at the edge of the banyan as best he could as he carefully assumed a casually seductive pose. Fortune favored him at last, for his left nipple exposed itself all on its own, as well as a generous portion of his abdomen. Though he still couldn’t see Albert’s face, he saw his patron’s body posture quicken.

Michael smiled.

“My lord. We meet again.”

Across the room, Lord George Albert cleared his throat. Michael heard the careful intake of breath that meant he was getting ready to speak. “G-g-good day, Mr. V-Vallant.”

Michael’s pulse hammered so hard he felt it in the base of his throat. “Call me Michael.”

Another breath. A pause. “C-c-call m-me Alb-b-b-b—” Albert gave up and sighed.

He was very nervous, if that much preparation still led to that much of a stammer. Michael longed to put him more at ease. Of course, it would be nice if someone would return the favor.

“Albert.” He let his fingers slide into his hair and reached out his other hand to beckon to Albert. “Come here and sit on the bed.”
I want to see you.

But Albert seated himself in one of the chairs by the fire—well outside of Michael’s sight range. Michael swore at himself silently. If he hadn’t worn his glasses so much lately, he could have seen at least a little. Now he couldn’t even read Albert’s face. While reading the faces and body movements of people was usually a handy skill for maneuvering them into the place you wanted them, with Albert it was essential for simple communication. So here they were, blind and mute together.

The depths of potential disaster expanded endlessly around them.

“Wh-why am I h-here?” Albert said at last.

Michael combed his tone for clues. Caution, nerves still, and a great deal of reserve. He tried to relax him with humor. “I thought that was obvious.”

The pause was lengthy. It took Albert three breaths before he was able to speak, and his first two attempts were nothing but sputters of consonants.

Michael gave in and softened. “Relax, darling. Relax. Deep breaths. There’s no reason to be nervous.”

Albert barked out a rueful laugh.

Michael echoed his smile. “Very well, perhaps there is a little reason.” He stroked the sheet, mimicking the touch he would have given Albert, could he have reached him. “Take your time.”

Albert’s sigh made Michael shiver. Two more breaths, and then: “D-did you ask f-for m-me?”

Michael couldn’t help a frown. “Ask?” He watched Albert’s shape tense and spoke quickly. “Darling, no—don’t, please. I’m sorry, it’s my fault I don’t understand. Did I ask what for you?”

Albert held very still. Michael could read nothing, damn it all to hell.

“D-did y-you ask him t-t-to br-bring m-me h-here?”

“Bring you?” Michael’s eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. “Do you mean—Rodger
brought
you here? Against your will?”

The pause nearly killed Michael. “N-not p-p-p”—a sigh—“p-precisely.”

How could Rodger not precisely bring him? Either he did, or he didn’t. Michael started to ask this, then stopped. “Oh—he did bring you, but not precisely against your will?”

A soft laugh. Very soft. “Y-yes.”

“But partially.”

While Albert paused, Michael shifted nervously in his chair. “H-he p-p-promised t-to b-blackmail m-me if I d-did not.”

Michael clamped a hand over his mouth in horror and sat up. “He didn’t.”

“He d-did.”

Michael felt ill. “I’m so sorry. Please—if you want to leave, I promise I’ll make him—”

With what was clearly great effort, Albert overrode him, his voice coming out in a sharp breath. “I s-s-said only p-p-p—” This time his sigh was so frustrated it was almost a growl. “Only p-partially.”

I’ll kill him. I swear, this time I really will kill Rodger.
Michael ran his hands down his face. “I
am
sorry. I had no idea. I never would have asked for this. Not like this.”

The shape of Albert leaned forward. “But d-did you ask? F-for m-me?”

Heat rose in Michael, the sensation suspiciously like a blush, which was almost as horrifying as the thought of Rodger blackmailing Albert into having sex with him. He tried to give a coy smile, but he wasn’t sure it worked. “Does it matter, darling?”

“Yes.”

The short, clear word, delivered with no pause, cut straight into Michael. He felt dizzy, confused and afraid. And aroused. Between the distance, the stammer and the revelation of Rodger’s meddling, he hadn’t been able to read the question at all. Was Albert simply curious? Was he amused? Was he besotted? Was he suspicious? Was he planning on reveling in the thought that a whore had asked for him particularly?

And while he was wondering, why did Michael care about any of this?

Because even with the stammer, he could hear Daventry in Albert’s voice. Because more and more every day the dark clouds of the past closed in on him. Because somehow one night of sex with Albert had managed to take away everything he’d built in sixteen years, and now that Albert was in the blue room with him, he wasn’t sure that trying to fuck him again would do anything but make matters worse.

Michael could bear no more torture. “Come to the edge of the bed,” he demanded.

He watched Albert’s shape like a hawk, watched him hesitate, watched him rise slowly, watched him smooth his clothing. He watched the blurred figure move closer.

When Albert stepped into Michael’s field of vision, it was as if he stepped through a magic portal, morphing from shaped blob into man, into the man Michael remembered, only he was here now, not a memory but real. Dark hair, neatly combed, conservative clothes. Tall, wide frame. Same jaw as his father. Long, almost pretty nose.

Lips, parted and wet, revealing a hint of teeth.

Hands, strong and smooth, resting on his hips, fingers curved inward.

Soft, beautiful brown eyes trying so hard not to let Michael get the better of him, hoping so hard this would not be a disaster.

Michael stifled a sigh of relief.

Albert’s chin came up. “D-did you ask for m-me?”

Proud. So proud. So tender and gentle, yes, but proud, and so very strong.