Queermance Anthology, Volume 1 (7 page)

'So, we'll be together forever,' I said. 'And you'll be my lover?'

'Unless… you, know, water,' he replied, resting his cheek against mine.

I stretched luxuriously. I was more alive, for a given sense of alive, than I had ever been. And
since Spectre could not survive water - and I couldn't swim, anyway - we retained the
ability to die, if we wanted to, if the centuries tired us out. Already his essence was saturating
my cells. I was becoming my lover, and he was becoming me. For some reason I could smell apples, a
hot orchard scent.

A quote from the second mate's 20th century films came to mind.

'Spectre, this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship'.

His laugh was like sunlight.

The scene is sharp, transparent as ice.

It's late one Friday, the dancehall's makeshift.

Outside there's snow, and a long old war.

Piano notes and cigarettes thicken the air

like the hundred soldiers in their damp uniforms,

like the perfumed shopgirls in flowery dresses

throwing back their heads to bite at the night

with their lipsticked laughs and their feverish eyes.

A young lieutenant leans into the fug,

rolling a glass between his palms and staring

at the room's far edge, where a captain sits.

I watch the lieutenant as he crosses the floor

to stand wordlessly beside the captain's table,

and reach for his hand and pull him into his arms

and without ever speaking the men begin to dance.

And yes, at first the other dancers gawp,

but soon the hardest of us stand aside

as if the sudden beauty of these men

has somehow wiped the meanness from our lips.

Then the orchestra dissolves, with all the onlookers,

and a new private music beyond my range

seems to move the soldiers, unhurried and turning.

The lieutenant's chin on the rough serge

of his captain's shoulder, the captain's whiskered cheek

rests against his partner's. Turning, turning,

their lit faces, first one then the other

sweeping the room's dimmest corners like beacons.

They've closed their eyes and they hold each other

as you would hold a woman, and

without one single hair of manliness lost.

They hold each other as though they've crossed the earth

instead of just a dance floor to reach this moment.

I've remembered this scene; glittering like ice,

but unlike ice, it never melts.

His hair is blond and soft. All of him is soft. There's just enough fat in the
layer over the muscle to smooth the planes of his body, to replace the lean lines with yielding
flesh. His lower lip is plump. His eyes are dark and made all the more striking by their pale
lashes, and his apricot-and-cream complexion.

He's dressed simply in dark blue denim jeans, a white t-shirt, and Converse sneakers. I'm much
the same, though my shirt is blue and collared, and my shoes are cream. We could be variants of one
another, if it weren't for the sharpness in my features, the slightly darker cast to my skin and
brown hair that makes me tan beside his peaches and gold. Everything about him is vulnerable.
There's been nothing vulnerable about me in a long time. But aside from that, we look alike.

'I'm Sam,' he tells me, voice as soft as the rest. I think he's perhaps twenty-two. Twenty-three
at the most. I'm twenty-one but my eyes make me look older. There's something knowing in my gaze
that I've had since almost before I can remember.

'James,' I tell him in turn.

The bumps of the bones in his wrists are worn raw on both arms. His pretty skin is red and torn,
the wounds only just beginning their slow knit. A savage anger crackle up my spine at that, a desire
to hurt that has nothing to do with sharing pleasure. This young man trusted someone, and they
violated that trust. Every careful part of me is jagged with rage on his behalf. Whoever they were,
they weren't worthy of him.

Sam's eyes widen, the dark brown of the irises going even darker as his pupils dilate. His pretty
lips part just a fraction. The prey part of him has caught scent of the predator in me and is
responding with deference and desire.

Instinct tears against itself inside me. One part wants to protect him, to spirit this
almost-virgin away from the dangers lurking all around in a grimy club like this. The other part
wants to drag him home as well, but not to protect him. This other part of me wants to tighten loops
of smooth leather over that raw skin, to see if that quiet voice can be made to yowl and scream.

'It's easy to get in over your head in a place like this,' I warn him. My words apply to myself
as much as anyone else. I want to take him home and break him slowly. I want to put him back
together in my arms and then watch him sleep the contented rest of the sated and cared-for. There's
a streak of romance in my soul, even now.

Sam gives a rueful half-smile, the crooked expression giving his sweet face a worldly cast for a
moment as he glances down at the hurt places on his wrists.

'I know,' he replies.

'And yet you're here again regardless,' I point out. Sam shrugs.

'I guess I'm just a glutton for punishment,' he offers, with a second little smile that's verging
on a smirk. It would take a better man than I to pass up a blatant invitation like that. But I have
rules. I like to do things properly.

'I don't play on first dates,' I say to Sam, deciding that I might as well be up-front. No sense
in wasting our time, even if he's just the kind of man I'd gladly waste time with any day. 'And
meeting in a bar hardly even counts as a first date. If you come home with me, we're vanilla for
tonight, got it? Mutual oral, anal with me penetrating, masturbation. With condoms, no
exceptions.'

My voice is firm, businesslike, and Sam practically sways on his feet with the force of his
instant compliance. His head bobs in a nod. The frisson of warring impulses splinters through me
again, and I take his hand to lead him through the crowd.

'Come on.'

He's quiet in the cab to my apartment and I worry, briefly, if maybe I'm the one who's in over
his head. A slightly-damaged rookie who drops into subspace at the first stern word is hardly the
safest partner to take to bed. But my fears are put to rest when we're standing on the sidewalk
outside my building and I see that his reaction in the club was lust, not submission. The smile he
gives me is hesitant, maybe even shy.

'I don't really do this,' he admits. 'I mean, I've tried, but it didn't… it hasn't always
ended well.'

The thumb of one hand rubs at the marks on the opposite wrist, apparently unconsciously.

I take hold of each of his forearms gently and move them apart, stopping the motion. Then I lean
in to give him a slow, light kiss, keeping it scarcely more than a brush of lips even when Sam opens
his mouth wider and licks at the edge of my front teeth. I want to be careful with him, to treat him
like something delicate. He's something that should be cherished. If I can't do that, I don't
deserve to have the chance to shatter him.

Eventually we make it inside, upstairs, into my bedroom and out of our clothes. There are fading
bruises mottling his lovely chest and thighs, but the restless clawed animal inside me is calmer in
the face of these old injuries now. The past doesn't matter. Sam is here now, with me. Safe.

My bed's a king-size, but I've slept alone against its bank of pillows for longer than I care to
remember. Sam's pale hair looks perfect against the forest-green hues as he lays back, his spine
arching up a little as I ease slick fingers into him as if I've got all the time in the world.

Even when I slide into him the first time, slow and easy as I can manage, he doesn't demand I go
faster, give him more. As a reward for his obedience I speed up gradually, increasing the intensity
of my movements bit by bit.

Before very long his hands are scrabbling helplessly at my shoulders, his mouth open and a little
sound escaping with every thrust. There are bright, hot tears at the corners of his eyes.
Desperation glitters there as I roll my hips again and this time the angle pushed me in a little
deeper. A hoarse moan rips out of Sam abruptly. I open my own mouth and a string of words falls into
the air between us as I hitch his leg higher and shove in again and again.

'Want to see you with a gag,' I bite out, my words gasping out as I pick up the pace of our
movement together. There's no thought of slowing now. 'Black silk, wet at the corners of your lips
because I've kept you on edge so long you're drooling for it. Your mouth watering. But I don't care
how much you want, how much you beg, because all that matters to me is giving you what you need, and
what you need is this, isn't it? My cock filling you up, leaving you helpless and writhing. I'll tie
your wrists as well, with more silk. Or maybe with my lambskin cuffs. They're so soft, baby. They'll
never hurt your pretty wrists. But they've got steel under the sheepskin. You'll never get free
until I let you free. I could leave you trapped on my bed for days, using you like a fucktoy
whenever I wanted and then leaving you alone when I'm done. I could blindfold you as well. Leave you
helpless, floating in the dark, unable to move or speak, with no idea how long you've been there.
Would you like that? Do you want that?'

'Please. Please,' Sam chokes, blinking. The sparkle of saltwater catches on his lashes, making
his eyes shine as he stares up at me. There's a hectic blush across his smooth, soft face, and I
lean in close to kiss that bloom as our movements lose rhythm and become erratic. We race towards
orgasm with unstoppable force. My lips smear against his cheek. I'm clumsy with passion and unable
to find the finesse for proper kisses now.

The force of my climax whites out my vision, but I'm cognizant enough to wrap a hand around Sam's
dick and jack him quickly. I move my mouth closer to his ear and whisper, 'Come for me now, baby.'

He does. He comes so I feel his thighs shaking against my sides. His head is tipped back and
thrashing on my pillow. I can't restrain myself from putting my mouth over the pulse in his throat
and sucking hard. I'm marking what we both already know is mine.

Lethargy hits us as forcefully as coming, knocking all our energy away and turning our limbs
leaden. I curl around Sam, one arm and one leg thrown over his body as he spoons back against me.
It's as if we're in the wild, and I can protect him from the things waiting in the dark.

'Thank you,' one of us whispers to the other, but in my already half-asleep state I'm not sure
who. It doesn't really matter, anyway. There'll be time enough for us both to say it in the morning,
and in the days to come.

The morgue: an interesting place to work, never dull. But the last place I thought
I'd find true love.

Weekends - my shifts - always meant the nights were busy. Death comes out to play on
weekends. A kaleidoscope of corpses would arrive between midnight and dawn.

This routine of death had been mine for two years.

I enjoy it. I like the dead.

All was well, until Rosalie showed up. Trouble with a capital T from the instant I unzipped her
body bag.

Fine, red lips made her pale skin glow. Raven black hair hung to her shoulders, saturated from
the rain. A simple purple t-shirt stuck to her slim body. Her white shorts were streaked with
running dye. Toenails painted inky black made the elegant sliver toe ring shimmer. She was
barefoot.

Oh God, she was beautiful. In every way. Her soft curves where those of a young woman not yet
exposed to the rigours of life. So delicate. I wanted to hold her, feel the softness of her skin on
my face.

Her eyes were wide open. I stared back and fell in.

Time slowed. Light flickered over her on the cold stainless bench top. I brushed wayward stands
of hair off her face, fighting the urge to kiss the perfection of her mouth. I removed the black
body bag. It was ugly against her. So wrong.

Anger shifted deep in me. Blood surged; my heart pounded and my hands trembled.

Rosalie had done that. Made me feel again, care about someone.

I held her hands in mine, caressing her fingers down to her nails. She had supple fingers: the
faint tingle of life energy yet to fade away. No rings, just what she wore on her toe.

I stood in the odd light of the morgue, transfixed by her hands. I'd held thousands of others
before. None had been like Rosalie. Warmth flared in my chest and crept downwards like a spider. I
couldn't leave her here, all alone. Not my Rosalie.

She'd come in at 9 o'clock, unusually early for a Saturday night. This meant I only had a few
hours before the ordinary dead started to roll in. My time alone with her would be short.

I locked the door and went to work, drying her face with a soft white towel and savouring the
feel of fine, scented hair across my fingers. Then I dried the rest of Rosalie's clothes and skin
with a hair dryer. The warmth made her hands mottle as the blood pooled. Good.

By the time I had her dry, an hour had passed. Loathe to leave her, I stretched out and snared
the clipboard with her paperwork.

Rosalie had been twenty years old; single, with no record of living relatives in the area.

Fate had snared me.

I pulled a towel out of the microwave and spread it over Rosalie. Time was in short supply, but
hurrying was not acceptable. When you love someone you do your very best with the time you have.

Love. There, I felt it. I had never experienced love like this before. It hurt.

I needed music. Forcing myself, I let Rosalie go and raced to the CD player. The morgue's cold
silence flooded with Celtic rhythms; soothing sounds of love and passion I had never truly
understood, until now. I ached to share my emotions with her.