The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (46 page)

Fletcher was proved wrong again. He’d assumed Albert would want to pack up and check out, return to Denver, take the next flight to Washington. He’d thought Albert would walk past him, carry on alone to his own room without a word. But, no - Albert followed Fletcher into his room, closed the door behind them and took Fletcher into his arms.

Fletcher had assumed that, in the improbable event of being offered such an embrace, he’d respectfully decline it, as was only right and proper. No - he almost whimpered in relief, and held on tightly around Albert’s waist.

“I’m sorry,” the younger man whispered with his face buried in Albert’s neck. As Fletcher was slightly taller than Albert, this was an uncomfortable but necessary posture. “I  mean, I’m sorry for hurting you.”

A hand settled on Fletcher’s head, began stroking through his hair, the fingers tangling in the unruly thick waves and then patiently extricating themselves. It felt like forgiveness. A  timeless while later, Albert placed a hand either side of Fletcher’s head, and raised it for a kiss. The kiss felt as sweet as love.

Moaning into the man’s mouth, Fletcher indulged himself for a moment, but then tried to pull away. “I  want to be fair to you,” he said, finding the courage to look directly at Albert. The dark eyes were mysterious, unreadable. The expression, however, was almost grim in its determination.

Another kiss, brisk this time, then the hands dropped to tug the T-shirt out of Fletcher’s jeans, to draw it up and off over his head. The mouth targeted Fletcher’s right nipple and began a teasing game with teeth and tongue, while an arm wound firmly around his waist just in time to save Fletcher from losing his balance as he arched back, the lips following him effortlessly. The free hand caressed his buttocks and the back of his thighs through the denim.

“No,” which was really only a token protest.
He knows I’m a slut, he’s always known.
How could Fletcher have forgotten this precise, knowing, generous loving? “You’re too good at this,” he said. “It shouldn’t be this perfect.”

No reply, of course, other than the demonstration of intimate knowledge. Though there was something remote about Albert when he did this, something so in control. Fletcher responded to it with yearning loneliness. So it was both a wish for greater connection with Albert, and a need to hurt him more, when Fletcher tried to explain, “He’s imperfect, but he’s passionate. You choreograph it all, you work on my pleasure. He dances beautifully, though he steps on my toes, and he takes his pleasure, too.”

Apparently refusing to be put off, Albert withdrew a little but only to untie and pull off Fletcher’s sneakers, slide off the jeans and shorts and socks. In turn, Fletch tried to undress Albert as well, but only got as far as unbuttoning the suit jacket before he was stopped. Albert, it seemed, intended to remain fully dressed. He led Fletcher over to the bed, and sat him down.

“I want you to understand,” Fletcher said, with a tone of desperation. It seemed he wasn’t even being listened to, let alone having any effect. “With you, it’s like art. With Xavier, it’s like flashfire.”

Albert knelt between Fletcher’s legs, hands stroking in tantalizing patterns up the inside of his thighs, encouraging them wider. “Is that what you want?” Albert asked, mocking, though continuing the caress. “A  natural disaster?”

Almost laughing at this retort, Fletcher said, “Yes. Won’t we ever share that kind of passion, Albert?” No reply. It seemed hopeless. “Why are you doing this?” He recalled Xavier moving over him, relentless, promising, powerful. Possessing. Fletcher asked, “Are you trying to make me yours?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ash,” Albert replied, his gaze direct. “I  have no interest in owning you.”

“So what the hell are you doing?” But, again, no reply.

The continuing confusion had robbed Fletcher of an enthusiastic response, so Albert bent to nuzzle at the quiescent genitals. The tongue lapping at his penis, or the mouth gently sucking by turn at each of his balls, while the fingers busied themselves between his thighs, soon provoked the required erection.

“I trust you practice safe sex with Lachance.”

Fletcher let out a breath, winded by this sardonic comment, so cold and blunt. And actually saying Xavier’s name for the first time in such a context. Fletcher almost bit back,
Yes, he uses a condom every time he fucks my ass
. But perhaps he could measure how much Albert had been hurt, by how badly Albert now tried to hurt him. Instead, Fletcher gently said, “Yes, I  do. You’re safe.”

Albert returned to his task, mouth providing a haven for Fletcher’s penis, one hand reaching up to tease a nipple and push Fletcher onto his back.

“I love you, Albert,” Fletcher offered as he lay down, letting the man continue. His body was too attuned to Albert’s skills for further protest. Yes, this might be choreographed, but the dance was precious and beautiful, the variations in each stanza intriguing, every move elegant and stimulating. Fletcher groaned as Albert brought him to exquisite completion. “That was perfect,” he whispered.

“You prefer imperfection.”

“No,” Fletch demurred, reaching to draw Albert up beside him. “But a little honest passion wouldn’t hurt us.”

“This is what I provide. If you require something else, then do what you will.”

“That’s what you want, me continuing with both of you? How can we make that work?”

Albert sighed, impatient with him. “If you could avoid seeing our relationship as a bourgeois marriage, we might well make it work.”

“It sounds so tawdry and difficult.”

No reply. Albert stood, rearranged his suit, briefly brushed it down. Fletcher longed for one of his pubic hairs to cling there, somewhere socially unacceptable. Albert said, “Shall we meet for dinner in the hotel restaurant or would you prefer room service?”

An evening alone with this cold and remote being? “The restaurant,” Fletch said.

“Then I’ll meet you there in an hour.” And Albert left.

Fletcher curled up on the bed, wanting to cry with disappointment. None of this was right, none of this was good. He wished for Xavier’s wholehearted loving, no matter that outside of the bedroom the man was more manipulative than Fletcher and Albert put together.

But then, as Fletcher considered exactly what had transpired out at South Park, and here in the hotel, he began to realize something of the truth. Albert had been hurt; Albert had been made to see Fletcher’s betrayal as a serious defection rather than as something casual that could be safely ignored; Albert nevertheless wanted to continue with Fletcher if at all possible; but, to do so, the relationship needed to be redefined as merely convenient sex rather than as a marriage, and Albert’s barriers needed to be rebuilt stronger than ever. What a ghastly mess. Something inside of Fletcher was weeping with frustration, but it wouldn’t surface or give him any relief.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

COLORADO

MARCH 1985

“Welcome back, lover man,” Lachance greeted Fletcher as he opened the front door.

“Thanks,” Fletcher said, dredging up a smile without too much difficulty.

Xavier led him into the kitchen. “The coffee’s on. You’re a few minutes early, so you ruined my plans. You were going to find me exactly where you want me  …”

The smile became more spontaneous as a few provocative ideas flitted through Fletch’s mind. “And where exactly is that?”

“In bed, naked, with a mug of black coffee in one hand and a whole box of condoms in the other.”

“It’s certainly an attractive idea, Xavier.” Instead of leaning against the kitchen bench, as he usually did, Fletcher hauled over one of the stools to sit on.

“What’s the matter, sweet man? All this finally caught up with you and you’re tired, right? After I gave you last night off, as well.”

“I’m damned tired, sorry. There’s a lot going on at the moment. And I missed you last night, I’m not used to sleeping in my own bed anymore. What was so important on a Monday night that you couldn’t see me?”

Xavier shook his head, and tried for what was presumably a resolute expression. “Interrogate me all you like, Agent Ash, but I will not say a word.”

Fletcher almost laughed. “We’ll see about that. I  learned some pretty interesting interrogation techniques at Quantico, you know.” They shared a speculative grin before Fletch admitted, “I’m only kidding.”

Pouring Fletcher a mug of coffee, Xavier asked sympathetically, “Was the weekend with your man really terrible?”

Silence for a while as Fletcher reconsidered the whole mess yet again. “You know what I thought the worst thing would be?” he mused, more to himself than his companion. “I  assumed we’d be finished as lovers but we might salvage something of our friendship. Because I suspect we’re the only best friends either of us have ever had. Pathetic, isn’t it?”

“You’re important to each other.” Xavier shrugged. “Nothing wrong with that. In fact, it’s a good thing - how many grown men in this society can say they have a best friend?”

“Well, I don’t think I can anymore. That was my worst case scenario, but it’s turned out the other way around. I  can’t see that we’re still friends but he insists we remain lovers. If
lovers
is the right word.” Fletcher looked across at Xavier. “I  wanted to tell you, so there’d be a minimum of misunderstandings. I  know you don’t expect me to be faithful or anything, but that’s the way it is.”

“You look miserable, sweet man. Want to talk about it?”

“No, thanks all the same.” Fletcher shrugged. “I  mean, I’d like to, you might even make sense of it for me - but it doesn’t feel right telling you anything about him, because he’s such a private person. Talking about him with you is betraying him more than having sex with you is. So for once I’ll shut my big mouth. Or at least put it to better uses.”

“You do that,” Xavier murmured encouragingly.

Nevertheless, Fletcher didn’t make a move towards this lover. “I’m beginning to think I’m the only one around here who values honesty. I  must be a good old-fashioned country boy after all. I have my boss counseling me, in so many convoluted words, to maintain discretion  -”

“Why? Did you tell me too much about those Klan bastards?”

“Well, I did, a bit, but she doesn’t know that. The problem is that I think she’s added up a few clues and has her suspicions about me and  -” It didn’t even seem right to use Albert’s name. “-  me and my man. But she told me she’d turn a blind eye as long as I keep it sane. Or I assume that’s what she was telling me. You know, I’d rather she and I just said it all out in the open and then got on with whatever we have to do.”

“Lover man, you’re skating on thin ice. Be careful.”

“I’m trying to be. It’s just that my boss and I have worked closely together for years. We’re not friends as such, but she knows me well enough to see things that others don’t. And that’s meant to be our second most important characteristic, isn’t it? An FBI agent has to be untouchable first and incredibly observant second. That’s about the only thing the movies do get right.”

“She doesn’t suspect you and me as well, does she?”

“I don’t think so. I really doubt it.” Fletcher frowned at the man. “That bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, and it should bother you even more.” Xavier suddenly grinned. “Unless you’re willing to chuck the job, and work on becoming First Lady to a black President.”

It was such a crazy and delightful idea that Fletcher laughed. “Actually, there are times when I wish that was a serious proposal.”

“Patience, lover man.”

Fletcher sighed. “Patience, you say, when you’re the only thing I have any enthusiasm for.” He took another mouthful of coffee. “You couldn’t mind my boss possibly knowing about us half as much as my man would mind her definitely knowing about me and him. I  didn’t tell him on the weekend, for the simple fear he’d kill me. And I thought he’d call it quits anyway.”

“Surely he’s more forgiving than you make him out to be.”

“You haven’t met him  … He’s perfectly capable of insulting me to death.”

Xavier laughed, richly amused. “No wonder you love him so much.”

“Do I?” Fletcher asked, wanting it to be either true or false. Anything but this confusing in-between sort of love, where he could hurt the man so badly but then share his pain, where he could love the man so much but need more than Albert would give.

“I think he matters to you a great deal.”

“Well, of course he does. It’s just so impossible to make the relationship work.” Fletcher said bitterly, “You know, he’d assumed I was still seeing women, having casual sex, and lying to him about it. It seems he’d prefer that to me seeing you and being honest with him.”