It's Not Shakespeare (17 page)

“No,” James said, trying not to let his heart sink too far. “Does this mean you don’t want to go?”

“Naw, man. It means my hands are shaking too hard to drive.” The car made a hard right into a small fast-food drive-thru. The building had a pointed roof and a white face with red and green trim. James had seen them popping up in Sacramento and the suburbs but had never thought to eat there. “I’ll get us carne asada burritos—they’re the best things.”

It wasn’t until the Charger was idling in a drive-thru line that Rafael looked at him, reaching across the seat to cup his face and stroke his cheekbone with a work-roughened thumb.

“You really want to take me to meet your family?” He hadn’t been kidding about shaking hands. James put his uninjured hand over Rafael’s.

“Yes. I really want you to meet my family,” he said softly. “I love you, Rafael. I love you more than I’ve loved anybody. And I was trying to hold off, because it’s been like, a month, but… but I don’t care. I’ve spent the last three years hating life. Even if we crash and burn, I’d rather be happy while we’re together than fucking miserable without you.”

Rafael looked at the drive-thru line with one eye, moving forward a car length and then putting the car back in park. Then he leaned forward and cupped James’s cheek again and pulled him in for a kiss. He pulled back, and it was time to move the car forward again—they were almost at the speaker.

“We’re not going to crash and burn, Jimmy,” he said with confidence, and James’s tummy was buzzing from the kiss and from having him back and from thinking that the future was a wonderful thing.

“How do you know that?” he asked fuzzily, and Rafael’s grin actually made spots dance in front of his eyes.

“I had Noni read my cards for me. She says we’re gonna be the ten of cups. We’re gonna be so much in love, we spread the love, we make the world a better place, and the people around us, they’ll be happier just because we’re happy. That’s a powerful card,
papi.
And you know this already….” Rafael trailed off, and James filled in the rest of the sentence.

“Don’t fuck with Noni’s cards. Yeah, Rafi, I think I’ve learned that.”

Rafael’s grin turned shy. “I think I like it when you call me Rafi, Jimmy. You can maybe do it some more.” He didn’t give James a chance to answer that because he had to order their food, but it didn’t matter.

James smiled happily all the way home after that

Chapter 9

Autumn

J
AMES
had always liked autumn. It was part of the reason he’d wanted to teach, really. It had always seemed as though when the year was dying around him, the world in the classroom had been gearing up for life already. It had seemed proactive and optimistic and like the world could renew itself based on will and will alone.

He’d spent his life in love with all of autumn’s various ensembles—the decadent, slutty golden sunshine, the pure, virginal blue sky, the dignified tattering cloak of dying leaves—he loved them all. The one thing he really did
not
like about the area he lived in was that, most years, the pretty cloak of leaves didn’t come out until nearly Thanksgiving, and the slutty sunshine was the underwear-model-in-Miami variety: scorching hot, made everyone sweat, and wouldn’t leave until the party was long over.

But Saturday morning, he had hopes that the heat wave that was October finally had died and outside might actually be bearable after twelve in the afternoon. It was with this faith that he decided to treat himself to a little lie-in with a good book and Marlowe chewing on his toes.

Rafael was at class. He’d enrolled in a local business school, the kind that catered to people who already had jobs and were trying to move their way up. James had looked the place up when they’d gotten back from Maine in the summer, because Rafael’s lack of education seemed to be the one thing that had bothered him when they were staying at James’s folks. James had suggested a business degree without the excess humanities bullshit (his words, actually, not Rafi’s) and Rafael had been able to relax for the rest of the three-week visit.

It had been wonderful.

Rafael had been a big hit with James’s nieces, with James’s sister, and with James’s mother and father. Maybe Pop had some reservations when they’d first gotten off the plane—Rafael was wearing what he always wore, including the tank top (which James refused to call a “beater”) and the plaid shirt that matched the oversized jeans, and Pop’s eyebrows had gone straight up and stayed there for two days. Then Mom had finally asked about the cast on James’s wrist (it was more of a wrap-around splint by July) and Rafael had entertained the family with the story, and at the end, Dad’s expression had been far more affectionate toward Rafael than it had ever been toward Austen. James didn’t have to ask why. Finally, James had someone he’d get angry over. It was a bonding moment between repressed white men, and James would treasure it.

Marlowe, of course, was thrilled when they got back and Rafael moved in with them. It wasn’t much of a move. Sophie had been right: Rafael’s place had been a shithole at best. They’d given the bed frame to Sophie so she could move out, threw the mattress away, and given the couch to a thrift store. About all that remained after that was Rafael’s impressive wardrobe (he had an astounding number of matching jeans/overshirt combinations, and, yes, an entire drawer full of tank tops and sleeveless T’s.)

That was okay. James still hadn’t lost the desire to take care of someone, and having Rafael move into his nice home in a nice neighborhood, where James could take care of him—that felt good. This go-round, he was just thrilled to find that the man by his side took care of him right back. Rafael had started by making him get rid of the Volvo and helping him find a 2001 Acura that Rafi swore would not die on him. James bought it and was very happy—not because it looked a lot sportier than James was used to but because Rafael would fix the car if it did die. James liked knowing someone was co-daddy. He didn’t know how he’d ever had a relationship with anything less.

This day, James was lying on his bed in the thick October sunshine, thoroughly enjoying the angst that was
The Kite Runner
and looking forward to when Rafael got home, because they were going to take the Acura up to Apple Hill and maybe buy a pie or maybe get a pumpkin to carve or maybe just keep driving until they hit Tahoe and spend the night some place they could sneak Marlowe in if they weren’t allowed to pay for him.

He was startled from his book coma by the front door opening, and he rolled over in time to watch Rafael take off his plaid snap-placket shirt and drape it on the back of the couch. He had his customary tank top underneath it, and James had a thought about maybe kicking Marlowe off the bed and taking that off too.

“Got bad news for you, Jimmy,” Rafael was saying as he walked into the bedroom, the books still under his arms, “it’s still fucking hot outside.”

James frowned. He hadn’t even realized the air conditioner had kicked on. Oh… there went fantasies of driving down the highway with his windows down and Marlowe sitting on Rafi’s lap and cool fall air coming in through the window. “Awww….”

Rafael stood in the doorway and grinned. “Gonna have to get used to it, white-boy-from-Maine—we don’t get fall here like you remember.”

James grinned back, because, well, he just couldn’t look at Rafael’s smile and not. “Well, maybe we can find something else to do,” he said, thinking that Rafael looked mighty good in that tank.

“Yeah, Jimmy, for some guy who says he’s an old man, you sure do have that idea a lot. You sure you’re not taking little blue pills or something?”

Rafael moved as he spoke, dropping his books on the chair by the closet and pulling his shirt over his head. He came to the bed still wearing his jeans, and James wrapped his arms around Rafael’s thighs and cupped that tight, still-under-thirty ass in his hands, sticking his tongue out to taste the slightly salty skin next to Rafael’s belly button.

“Don’t need little blue pills to keep me young,” he murmured, hearing Rafael’s gasp and nibbling some more. “Just need you, even when we both get old.”

Rafael’s hands came down to his shoulders, and he pushed, subtly, for James to start pulling his jeans down, and James did.

“We’ll never get old, Jimmy. We’ll keep each other young, okay?”

Rafi was naked now and kicking out of his jeans and tennis shoes, and James kept that grip on his ass and looked up his lean brown body to that beautiful face.

“Mission accomplished, Rafi. Now stand still so I can blow you.”

Rafael chuckled and then gasped, his hands knotting in James’s hair as James used all of his old-man’s tricks to keep his lover happy. It was great that he didn’t need them—but that didn’t mean they weren’t going to come in handy for quite some time.

A Bonus James and Rafael Story

You Can’t Make an Omelet

J
AMES
did not like the WASP bitch on his porch even enough to learn her name.

“I’m sure you can understand,” Mrs. Whatever was saying with a white-capped smile. “The neighborhood committee has simply asked that we all give out the same sized candy, roughly proportional quantities. Otherwise the children get upset when there is inconsistency. Do you understand?”

James blinked at her. “I’ve got two doctorates in English literature and composition. Yes. I do understand the basic spoken word. What I don’t understand is why you’re telling me now! According to your neighborhood committee flier, trick-or-treating starts in half an hour—I mean, really?”

“What’s the problem, Jimmy?” Rafael came padding from their bedroom, his hair wet from the shower, and wearing nothing but oversized jeans, belted tightly at the waist. He was pulling a tank over his head as he spoke, and James narrowed his eyes as the woman at the door got an eyeful of caramel colored skin and red and black dragon tattoos.

“She says our candy’s too big,” James muttered, and Rafael laughed.

“She wants us to get our house egged? That’s not very neighborly.”

Mrs. Whatever (Simpson? Sorenson? Smythe? It sure as hell wasn’t Saldavar or Santiago, that was for sure!) narrowed her eyes.

“I do not know where you are used to spending your Halloweens, Mr.….”

James tried not to grin cruelly at her discomfiture—he decided to add to it instead.

“This is my partner, Rafael Ochoa—he moved in about two months ago, remember? You left a rather pointed note about the trucks that were parked in front.” Rafael’s friends and family had helped him move his few possessions into James’s house. Apparently Mrs. Simpson/Smythe/Sorenson didn’t understand a move without a moving van and serfs to help with the process.

“Your… uhm… Mr. Ochoa. Of course. I’m… I’m uhm… I’m so glad you finally managed to get your car in the garage.”

Of course, putting the electric blue Dodge Charger in the garage meant that James’s little yellow Honda was parked in the driveway, but apparently that was more acceptable. James privately hoped it gave Mrs. Whatever and her coven intestinal blockage—he was finding he wasn’t kind in his middle age.

“Yeah, I’m glad too. Didn’t want any of your little white hoodlums making off with my hubcaps.” Rafael was beautiful, with liquid dark eyes, a narrow face with high cheekbones, and practically a snub nose. He looked about twenty-three (he’d just turned thirty) and made women practically eat out of his hand—if he cared to. Apparently Mrs. Simpson/Smythe/Sorenson was not on his happy list either.

“As I was saying, the children in our neighborhood do not participate in any unsupervised Halloween activities,” she huffed.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” James said equably. “That means that when we give them the big candy bars instead of the little tiny ones, nobody’s house will get egged, and we can all be happy.”

Apparently Mrs. Simpson/Smythe/Sorenson had dealt with enough social unpleasantness, because about all that got them was a tightening of the jaw and, “Well, I trust next year we can all be on the same page.”

James slammed the door shut just as Rafael snapped, “I doubt it, you tight-assed twunt.”

James winced. “Seriously?”

Rafael moved in to press his lower body against James’s as James leaned back against the door. “She’s a twunt—Jimmy, she practically invented the word.”

Oooh… he smelled so good—all fresh from the shower, with most of the traces of motor oil and engine grease washed away. And his mouth was so pillowy. James bent his head and kissed it, sighing, sinking into the man he’d fallen for practically at first sight, even if he’d been too cynical to recognize it at first. That pillowy mouth parted for James’s lean one, and Rafael opened for him, as comfortable and happy in James’s arms as anyone James had ever held.

Except unlike all those other people, Rafael wanted James just for himself, and James would fight to the death to spare Rafael things like that nasty little snob who’d just shown up on their doorstep. Honestly—with the gigantic population of Hispanic citizens in California, you’d think that sort of snobbery was a thing of the past! But Mrs. Simpson/Smythe/Sorenson was, thankfully, a minority in the anti-minority department. The rest of her coven simply didn’t like James because he tended to be absentminded and forgot to put the trash out, or left Rafael’s flashy car in the driveway instead of his more low-key vehicle, or because sometimes Marlowe barked at them without stopping when they visited.

James looked over to the corner of the living room, where Marlowe was sleeping in a black and white puddle of Boston terrier. James had spent a good hour and a half wearing the little dog out so he wouldn’t get too excited with all of the visitors, and Mrs. Simpson/Smythe/Sorenson had apparently been a good test. Well, good. Something would go right this night.

James fell into Rafael’s kiss a little more deeply, tasting spice, warmth, and sweet iced tea, because that’s what Rafael had been drinking before he’d jumped in the shower. Rafael “hmm’d” and thrust his swelling groin up against James’s, and James whimpered.