《Hypotheticals》


 Chapter One

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 Chapter Two

    When he awoke in the morning, it was cold, but he¡¯d slept soundly through the night as the temperature had slowly fallen from the lack of crowds and candles. His head didn¡¯t ache, a pleasant rarity, and the opportunity to fully stretch out as he slept had done wonders for his back. He could only describe how he felt as peaceful, and he almost lamented the loss of night as he slipped into his shirt and fastened the buttons.


    ¡°Morning.¡± A gruff voice sounded from the door, and Anson couldn¡¯t help but jump slightly. He turned to see the chef at the door and relaxed at the sight of the obviously drowsy form.


    ¡°Morning.¡± He replied, also a little hoarse. Heath shifted wordlessly behind him, and he saw him step over to the many percolators on a nearby shelf. Anson stood then, crossed the room, and went into the bathroom to take a piss. As he washed his face with cold water, he wondered if the old place even had a water heater, it being so ancient and in need of a generator just to run a fridge. But he looked at it as more a delightful quirk than a fault, and was sure the restaurant¡¯s patrons did the same.


    When he stepped out, he found his tie and coat hung on a chair at one of the tables, and put said coat on full of relief at the chance to warm up. He threw his tie around his neck and turned to look out to the sea, grey and foaming and looming like some terrible giant. It was tenacious in its efforts against the cliff, and all Anson could hear was the clinking of china from the next room and waves crashing into rock. It was the world¡¯s most formidable foe, yet still so comforting, so familiar.


    He heard the kitchen door open, and turned to see Heath holding a pair of little blue mugs, and he put them on the counter silently and headed back into the kitchen without a word. Anson got the gist and pulled up a barstool, then the chef returned, percolator in one hand, a bottle of cream in the other. He set them both down, then pulled a sugar bowl from beneath the counter, and they prepared their coffee in silence.


    As Anson took a sip of the warm, strong brew, he couldn¡¯t help but realize that that would be the last meal the chef made for him before he set out on the road again, and in his gut he felt a surprising punch of disappointment. He wasn¡¯t one for attachments, and he rarely stayed in one place for very long, and he wanted to tell himself that any feeling of attachment was short-lived.


    He glanced over the rim of his mug and watched the man seated across him with an almost furtive expression, mindful of himself yet more mindful still of his curiosity. He couldn¡¯t understand why he wanted the chef to say something, to open his mouth and start a conversation, any conversation, but the desire was there nonetheless. Heath, of course, was a quiet man, and he said nothing. And some part of Anson told him to be the one to speak first, but when he racked his brain, he found nothing to comment on.


    What was there to say, after all. They were strangers, they¡¯d only met a moment and shared a single meal, and now one was off into the real world and another was back to his regular life, and that was that. It was mundane, really, nothing special to say of it, so Heath didn¡¯t speak, and Anson didn¡¯t speak, and neither took a second cup of coffee.


    ¡°I oughta get going.¡± Anson finally said after a few minutes. Heath nodded slowly.


    ¡°Yeah, you oughta.¡± He replied in a casual drawl. ¡°Beat any traffic.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± Anson mumbled, almost more to himself, and set down his mug. He sat for a moment longer, to prolong the inevitable, but it was a farce and he knew it, so he stood and stretched his legs, and Heath awkwardly stood as well.


    ¡°Thank you for the meal and cot.¡± Anson said.


    ¡°Thank you for doing the dishes.¡± Heath replied, and Anson gave him the smallest grin. ¡°Good luck on the road.¡±


    ¡°Thanks. Good luck in the kitchen. You don¡¯t need it.¡± Anson said, his grin a little wider, and Heath returned it.


    Without another word, he stepped out of the little shack, and found the weather as cold as it was inside. The sun was hidden yet again, and the thick white clouds gave no warmth to his cheeks, so he folded his arms and walked briskly to his car. Once inside, he rubbed his hands and breathed hot air into them, then turned on the engine of his beloved Ford Victoria with a pleasant whir. He sat just a moment longer, but felt foolish for lingering, and drove out of the lot, albeit slowly.


    He couldn¡¯t help but chastise himself as he drove down the highway. Why take his time, why pause when no one ever paused for him. Surely, he was wildly overreacting, and soon this place would be nothing but a grievance in the back of his mind.


    The town grew larger on the horizon. He could see ships casting off from port, and knew they were aiming to fish all they could before the sun set, so the fisherman aboard could end their day inside that little Italian restaurant. He imagined sullen faces, wet and cold and reeking of salt water, and the way those expressions would just dissolve upon arrival at that little shack, then be replaced with joy or relief or a deep and soulful satisfaction at a bite of bolognese or tiramisu.


    Those were his imaginings, of the chef and the little waitress and what joy they could bring, and they filled him for a few passive minutes before he sighed, internally cursed himself a fool, and turned right, into the town.


    He drove slow on the main road, not quite sure what he was looking for, but a looming old building slowed him further. Tall and narrow, with a small lot surrounded by dying plants without flowers, which seemed more due to lack of care than the impending cold of winter. On the worn out picket fence there rested a sign, the words Cliffside Hotel painted in thin, peeling letters.


    Anson felt his face grow warm. He knew this wasn¡¯t something he should consider, maybe not for any specific reason; he was in no rush to journey forward, he had a nice bit of money from that last sale, and he was safe and secure with friendly folk nearby. But that hint of friendliness was the problem, after all -- he didn¡¯t want to let himself be charmed by something that would eventually disappoint him.


    And yet, he was charmed. Charmed by the faded white picket fence of this mysterious little hotel, charmed by the dirt roads and the dock and the smell of the air and the thought of enjoyable company, something he hadn¡¯t experienced in far too long.


    ¡°You idiot.¡± He mumbled to himself, then turned into the parking lot and switched off his car. He walked from the side of the building to the front, hands in his pockets and breath foggy in the chilled air, and swung open the dark oak door.


    The insides were not so humble, and Anson couldn¡¯t help but be temporarily awed by the austerity of the foyer. The building was clearly old and unkept, with dust on every surface and the scent of it heavy in the air, but beneath the temporary ruin there was a deep red carpet, a grand staircase immediately ahead, with a water fountain tucked beneath the circling stairs. A chandelier caked in grime could barely glitter, and in the gloom he saw details of finely carved wood, intricate little flowers atop every doorway and all along the banister.


    He was startled by the sound of a man clearing his throat, and looked to his immediate left to see a reception desk. Just as finely detailed, and the man stood behind it wore an impeccable suit. He was pale and thin, his hair dull and eyes distant, a bored expression on his face.


    ¡°Checking in, sir?¡± He asked, and Anson stilled.


    Was he? Was he so charmed that he could overlook how great a fool he was, how greatly he would be hurt later? He stood and stared at the man, who was his own age but somehow looked as though he¡¯d been stood in that time and place for an eternity. The style of the building told him it had sprung up in the 1910¡¯s, maybe the twenties, but with the stillness of the air, something felt archaic about the place.


    ¡°Checking in, sir?¡± He heard the voice again, a little irritated this time, and stepped forward at that.


    ¡°Yes.¡± Anson answered, and fumbled with some change in his pockets.


    ¡°How long, sir?¡± He asked, and when Anson paused, unsure, the clerk gave him a knowing look, as though he was quite used to watching travelers finally settle. ¡°I¡¯ll put down ¡®indefinite.¡¯¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡± Anson said, and placed some coins onto the counter as he glanced to the man¡¯s name tag. ¡°Robert.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± The clerk replied easily, and the strain in the room fell forgotten. ¡°Welcome to Cliffside.¡±


    ¡°Is that the name of this ol¡¯ town?¡± Anson asked with a glance around the darkened room.


    ¡°This town has no name.¡± He responded, and Anson felt an unexpected chill on his spine, and attempted to distract himself.


    ¡°How do y¡¯all send letters?¡± He asked jokingly, but the look the clerk gave him forced his smile away. They didn¡¯t send letters. They didn¡¯t communicate with the rest of the weary world. They fished, they ate Italian food, they stood in dark little hotels, and they did so in solitude. And yet Anson felt no rush to leave.


    ¡°Room eight.¡± Robert said after a moment of writing, and took down a key from the old brass hangers and handed it to Anson. He stared down at it in his palm a moment and admired the way it was just as intricately crafted and finely displayed as the rest of the place.


    ¡°May I show you to your room, sir?¡± Robert asked, and Anson nodded.


    The man walked ahead, and as Anson followed, he saw the fountain more closely. It was marble, the genuine thing, and the sculpture depicted simple flowers and angels all intertwined. Below it, the fountains sputtered water into a small marble pool covered in golden tiles, old and cracked, but still obviously exuding wealth.


    Robert continued onto the stairs, and Anson followed and noted the dust on the railings. He concluded that the place was as empty as it first appeared, and wondered if anyone else was staying in the other rooms, or even lived there. Certainly, it was something he would find out, as he¡¯d now dedicated himself to staying there awhile.


    They stopped at the first floor, though the stairs continued on, and Robert lead Anson down a narrow hallway. The dark red carpet remained, and with no windows, only an occasional sconce crafted finely from steel lit the way. At the end of the hall, they halted at another dark wooden door, with flowers and butterflies carved into the oak. A brass eight was nailed to the front.


    ¡°Your room, sir.¡± Robert said, though of course it was obvious. ¡°The washroom and showers are at the end of the hall.¡±


    ¡°Hotel¡¯s that old, huh?¡± Anson attempted a slight laugh again, and Robert only nodded humorlessly.


    ¡°Cliffside was built in 1901.¡± He said. ¡°By enterprisers, who thought this land would be worth more.¡±


    ¡°So the hotel came before the town.¡± Anson mused, but the clerk shook his head.


    ¡°There was always someone out here.¡± He said. ¡°Fisherman, miners. There is a shack on the edge of town that must be at least a hundred years old. Might I recommend you dine there, sir? They serve excellent Italian.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯ve had it.¡± Anson said with a little grin. ¡°It is excellent indeed.¡±


    ¡°Enjoy your time here, sir.¡± Robert said as he turned away. ¡°Let me know if anything is required.¡±


    Anson nodded, but the man was already down the hall and headed back to the stairs, so he instead turned the key with an echoing click and opened the door to his room. When he entered, he noted first the smaller size of it; there was only room for a queen-sized bed, an armoire, a set of drawers and a writing desk. There was one small window in the room, with barely any grey light flowing in, but when he flicked the switch next to the door, he was greeted with an orange flicker from a cobweb-covered chandelier.


    It was then that he truly noticed the beauty of the room, as filthy as it was from the lack of care. The headboard, more dark oak, was carved with angels, that chandelier beaded with crystal and pearl, the armoire clearly old and well made, the writing desk small but firm, the dresser large enough for his full wardrobe.


    He stepped in, closed the door behind him, and began to inspect the room in closer detail. When he stepped towards the cylinder desk he saw an oil lamp sat on top, and upon opening it, found several fine fountain pens, a pad of yellowed paper, an ink well and quill, and a pack of playing cards. Even something as small as the playing cards were old and fine, and the outer package detailed gold foil and hand-painted royalty.


    He moved along to the armoire and opened it to find several wooden hangers and, sat at the bottom, a bag of dried petals. Miller¡¯s Flower Shoppe, read the tag on the ribbon, and Anson could only guess that a local florist had provided the potpourri. In the dresser he only found a bible, small and leather bound and far below the kind he sold, and he briefly wondered if there was an owner to this place around and interested in a deal.


    The bed was covered in a velvet duvet, red to match the carpet, with crisp white sheets and pillow cases beneath. He sat down and sunk into the mattress as he gazed out the window. Despite being called the Cliffside Hotel, it wasn¡¯t that close to the water, and though he could see the docks from the distance, he saw small buildings around him first. Little and old, with crumbled brick or warped wood. It felt so distorted from reality, so odd and out of place, yet it was just another small town, just more Americana. He¡¯d become so accustomed to hay bails and corn on his trek about the country that this old fisherman town was almost an adventure.


    But he didn¡¯t have adventures anymore, not when his whole life now was moving and selling, moving and selling these damned bibles. He was content with that, and had never been keen on stopping, but in this particular town, there was a difference. A friendly face that he couldn¡¯t find among the barns or the mountains or the big cities in his previous travels.


    He no longer felt himself a fool. It was reasonable to want companionship, but even more reasonable to stay in a lavished room in a pretty little town just ripe for bible selling. No, he could stay here and profit awhile, and when his want for a friendly face was sated and the townsfolk tired of him and his bibles, he¡¯d take his leave again, simple as that. He just had to wait for all these foolish emotions to run dry, and make a little cash in the meantime.


    With that, he stood and decided to shower and change and left the room, went back down the stairs, and out past Robert to his car. He opened the back door and grabbed the small suitcase on the floor of the car, which contained all of his clothing, as his trunk was too filled with books to place any personal belongings.


    When he walked back in, he declined Robert¡¯s offer to carry his bag, and bounced up the stairs, though he made a note to himself to explore the ground floor of the hotel later on. Back at his room, he removed his coat and tie and laid them down on the bed, then picked out a new suit, grey instead of black, and a new tie, thin and black again, and another crisp white shirt, well folded to avoid a need to iron.


    He took them all to the thick oak door at the end of the hall marked ¡®Powder Room¡¯ in golden letters, and opened it slowly as to not catch any other patrons of the hotel unawares. But the light was off, and when he found the switch and flipped it he found extravagance in the empty room; another chandelier of crystal and pearl, several sinks along the wall embedded in a marble counter, floor tiles flecked with gold. Opposite the sinks there was a line of toilets, not in stalls but water closets for the sake of privacy, and Anson knew it was a very polite gentleman who¡¯d planned this room so long ago.


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    He stepped in further and found he could step left or right into two identical rooms with claw-foot tubs and showers. The room on the left provided bubble bath, lady¡¯s soap, and bottles of perfume, so he took to the right room and found shaving foams and brushes beside razors and bottles of soap and cologne. Pleased at the accommodations, he hung his shirt on a hook and set the rest of his clothing on a stool beneath it. Though he knew he was alone, he was unsure of who would step in, so he closed and locked the door.


    He pulled off his shirt and attended to the traveler''s shadow Gin had so kindly teased the previous day; it felt good to clean himself up and feel presentable again. Once his stubble was gone, he stripped down and turned the bronze knobs of the shower. The water was clear and hot, and he enjoyed feeling refreshed as he lathered soap all along his body and ran shampoo through his hair. He stood in that shower a long while, reluctant to depart from the steam, but finally knew it was time to exit and so stepped out.


    He grabbed a soft towel from a pile next to the shower and dried himself off, then examined himself in a mirror before he changed. His hair was no longer coated in gel, and became downy and curled as it dried. He was as thin and always, though more pale than he liked what with all his time on the road. Still, with his bare cheeks and hygienic form, he was satisfied and dressed without complaint. When he unlocked the door and exited the room he found the rest of the bathroom undisturbed and could only assume he was the only person on this level, a thought that relaxed him.


    He returned to his room and deposited his filthy suit into a hamper by the door, then stepped up to the window and glanced out; it was cold near the glass, and the sun was still tucked behind the clouds. It was only midday and Anson didn¡¯t want to rush back to the Italian restaurant so quickly, nor did he want to waste such lovely weather, so he decided to set out and explore the town instead.


    He exited his room and walked down the grand staircase, past Robert at the clerk¡¯s desk, and out in front of the hotel to his car. From the passenger¡¯s seat he grabbed his tan wool overcoat and black leather gloves and pulled them all on before he walked down what could pass for a street. The main road was paved stone, not dirt but not asphalt, with a large ditch on either side of the road as he¡¯d seen plenty of times in the more rural parts of the country. The land wasn¡¯t so flat as a corn farm or prairie''s, but the ditches were still nearly filled with rainwater and he suspected the autumn storms had been more than frequent here.


    He walked past a few nondescript buildings, all old and tired, their wood graying and brick crumbling, and he assumed none had electricity. He passed something that may have been a fisherman¡¯s shop with tackle in the windows, then an automobile repair place with a large garage door open and an old Model T inside. One gentleman in a pair of denim overalls was inspecting the engine, and the other beside him held a toolbox and handed a wrench or bolt to him on occasion. Neither paid him any mind; to see someone settle here must have been a normal affair, one that had to tire them as young as they were.


    He continued on to see a small white store with a little sign on the front ¨C Miller¡¯s Flower Shoppe, to match the potpourri in his closet. He stepped closer to look into the window and saw small glass dishes filled with dried rose petals and smiled a little at the quaintness of it before he heard a bell and saw the door open.


    ¡°Like to take a look, mister?¡± A blonde woman asked him. ¡°I¡¯ve got a beautiful selection.¡±


    He hesitated, a little surprised and a tad shy and awkward, but it was cold and the woman had a kind air about her, so he nodded and shuffled in. The warmth of the place hit him first, then the heady scent of jasmine and lilac, plus hints of orange and cinnamon. It was a cramped little room, the floor occupied by house plants of all varieties, with one wall lined with empty vases and another with small linen packets of dried petals like those in the windows. There were arrangements, too; vases full of cheery shades of yellow and orange to match the season, romantic red roses, and piles upon piles of carnations in every shade of pink.


    ¡°Are you interested in anything specific, sir?¡± The woman asked, and he turned to her. She was pretty and at ease, pale with brown eyes and donned in a simple red circle dress. ¡°A boutonniere won¡¯t do too well in this weather, but I can give you a case and you can put it on once you¡¯re inside.¡±


    ¡°No, I ¨C¡± He shifted awkwardly. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, doll, I¡¯m just new to town. I was looking ¡®round all curious.¡±


    She nodded in understanding, and he saw again that this was not an uncommon occurrence. She didn¡¯t make him feel unwelcome for it and so he decided to indulge her and stepped further into the shop. The arrangements were all very nice, and the place was kept far cleaner than the dusty hotel he¡¯d just left. The warmth seeped into him, and he was grateful for it as she shut the door behind him.


    ¡°How about a flower for a lady, hm?¡± She asked, and he shook his head. ¡°Come on, a handsome gentleman such as yourself has to have a dame.¡±


    He blushed and instinctively flatted his mess of curls.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been on the road.¡± He said by way of explanation, a rather convenient excuse.


    ¡°Some dried petals, then.¡± She seemed eager to make a sale. ¡°I sell to every man in town, little packets to hold in their pockets so they don¡¯t have to breathe in the seaweed all day.¡±


    Anson smiled a little. That had to be where the bulk of her business came from; he couldn¡¯t imagine there were many weddings around there.


    ¡°Where do you get all the flowers?¡± He asked as he stepped further in to inspect some pinecones covered in glitter.


    ¡°They grow on the mountain. Around.¡± She answered simply. ¡°I could hitch a ride down to the big farms down the road sometimes, but that¡¯s quite the trip.¡±


    He nodded, though he should have known that answer. For all the beauty in that small room, there weren¡¯t many flower varieties to be had. All local, all what she could gather or what a nearby gardener could produce. He studied the pinecones again, and she looked eager still.


    ¡°Or if you¡¯ll be around awhile you can stop at the library.¡± She began, and he perked up. ¡°Sophia sells coffee and teas inside, I grow some of the leaves, dry some of the petals.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a library? With a teashop inside?¡± He asked, and she nodded. She had been kind, so he smiled a little and pointed to the wall of packets. ¡°Maybe I¡¯d like my pockets full of posies.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve got wildflowers.¡± She stepped over to the wall, quick with excitements. ¡°Or something rosy. Or verbena!¡±


    They stood at the wall and she took down bag after bag to make him sniff until he finally settled on something earthy and sharp. Moss, she¡¯d explained as she rung up his product. And sage leaves, burnt cedar, cloves, and a bit of orange peel.


    ¡°You have expensive taste.¡± She said, and if it was a jibe or a compliment he smiled and nodded either way and handed her two dollars. ¡°Have a good day, sir. I hope to see you again soon.¡±


    ¡°And you as well.¡± He said as he slipped the potpourri into his pocket. ¡°Say, where¡¯s that library?¡±


    ¡°The biggest building, ¡®sides the hotel. All brick and closer to the shore. You can¡¯t miss it.¡± She directed, and he nodded his thanks and set out back towards the hotel, then past it until he found what she was referring to.


    It was big, that was true enough, and old as the devil. The bricks were all mossy, and the wooden stairs at the heavy mahogany front doors were near collapsed. When he approached, he peered through a window only to find the whole place dim from nothing but candlelight. The door creaked as he opened it, and when he stepped in he was greeted with a grim nod from a man sat at a front desk who seemed more focused on his reading than kindly introductions. David, the sign on his desk read, but Anson didn¡¯t trouble himself with it and entered the establishment in silence.


    It was the most populated part of town he¡¯d seen thus far, if the Italian place were excluded. There were a few old men there, no doubt retired from the sea, and some housewives with one or two children. He went in further and scanned the books casually, all the way down to the end of the building, where he spotted a girl in a small alcove wiping down a gas oven. Next to her was a shelf full of tins, ceramic pots, tea cups, before her a small table crowded with napkins and little jars of sugar and honey. Two kettles sat ready on the burner, and Anson surmised who she was as he approached. When she heard his footfall, she looked up and smiled pleasantly.


    ¡°Tea, sir?¡± She asked. She was Asian, with a thin frame and long dark hair. Her navy capris and floral button-up were the height of women¡¯s fashion, and Anson wondered if this small town were far enough from every shred of pop culture that her looks were frowned upon.


    ¡°The florist recommended you.¡± He responded. ¡°Could I get something she worked on?¡±


    ¡°How does black tea with mint sound? It¡¯s nothing like a candy cane, I promise.¡± She said sweetly, and he nodded approvingly. She pulled out a matchbox and lit a burner on the stovetop, then set a copper kettle on the flames. ¡°Ruth bully you into buying a potpourri packet?¡±


    He had forgotten to ask the woman for her name, but nodded all the same and pulled it from his pocket. Sophia beckoned him forward, and he held it out for her to take a breath. She closed her eyes and smiled.


    ¡°Expensive taste.¡± She echoed an earlier sentiment, and Anson smiled politely as he pocketed it and she turned and grabbed a teacup and saucer for him, both painted with little red flowers. ¡°You like it strong?¡±


    ¡°Whatever you endorse.¡± He didn¡¯t often drink tea, he wasn¡¯t sure how to take it. ¡°So you own this place?¡±


    ¡°Just this oven and all these spoons.¡± She grabbed a tin from a shelf. The top was labeled, but Anson couldn¡¯t read the unfamiliar language. ¡°David¡¯s the owner, he just lets me sell my wares.¡±


    Interesting. Normally libraries were owned by the people, the government. Something more formal than one unkempt gentleman. No postal service, no real library, no connection to the union. They were on their own out there.


    ¡°Ah, that sullen fellow up front.¡± He said thoughtfully, and she gave him a wry grin as she spooned tea leaves into a small metal infuser.


    ¡°You can¡¯t talk to him while he¡¯s working his way through a book.¡± She explained. ¡°But once he¡¯s done he¡¯ll go on about dragons for at least a week.¡±


    Anson snorted as the kettle began to whistle, and Sophia pulled it from the burner at lightning speed and poured it into his little ceramic cup. She dropped the infuser in, set a spoon on the saucer, and slid it towards him. He picked it up gently, and she set down a mismatched sugar bowl with a palm frond painted on it.


    ¡°Thank you.¡± He said as he pulled a dime from his pocket. ¡°And my regards to the florist, of course.¡±


    ¡°I hope you enjoy it.¡± She said. ¡°There are tables all around for your pleasure.¡±


    He thanked her again and walked off, and got out of her point of view as to avoid feeling awkward. He found a small table in the fiction section and set down his tea and sugar before scanning the shelves around him. He didn¡¯t want the tea to grow cold, so he selected his reading quickly, a familiar favorite called Billy Budd. When he returned to his chair he set the book down and stirred a spoonful of sugar into his cup ¨C he usually drank his tea with cream, but had to assume Sophia knew what she was doing.


    He held the cup in both hands as the steam rose up and warmed his cheeks. The smell was heady, with the black tea fragrant and pronounced with a lovely aroma of mint. A sip proved the flavor to be of similarly wonderful satisfaction; the tea was intense, the mint fresh and bright, not sweet and artificial like he was so used to in the grasshopper pie he¡¯d eaten in diners all across the country. With a feeling of contentment, he settled into his book with the first ease he¡¯d felt in some time.


    . . .


    He could barely see the text in front of him when he finally decided to give up on his reading, even after David silently deposited a candle next to his long empty teacup. Truth be told, he was starving after just coffee in the morning and tea in the afternoon, though he was debating just what to do about it. A large part of him wanted to return to the Italian restaurant and satisfy that urge to see Gin and Heath again, but he worried about how awkward that could be given the fact that he¡¯d said he was leaving. But they were the reason he¡¯d decided to stay, so finally he returned his book to the shelf and stood to go.


    On his way out, he passed by David as he set down his book and stifled a yawn, and Anson smiled.


    ¡°Have a good night. Enjoy that story of yours.¡± He said, and David perked up.


    ¡°Thank you.¡± He replied, and Anson paused with a wicked little thought.


    ¡°Say, you wouldn¡¯t happen to have a bible on these shelves, would you?¡± He asked with a charming grin.


    ¡°Man¡¯s greatest story.¡± He said. ¡°Nonfiction section.¡±


    ¡°But is it a nice copy?¡± Anson asked. ¡°Sturdy with an ornate cover?¡±


    David shook his head honestly, and Anson took a step closer.


    ¡°You¡¯re in luck, my friend. I happen to sell the greatest bibles in the country. Beautiful babies, all of ¡®em, and I bet an outstanding expert in the field such as yourself would really value a book like that.¡±


    ¡°I would, actually.¡± He said easily. ¡°And I¡¯ve got the budget for it. You got a price?¡±


    ¡°Five sixty-five.¡± He said, and David winced immediately. ¡°Or maybe I can give it to you for only three dollars, if you display it up front.¡±


    David looked thoughtful a moment, then sighed and nodded.


    ¡°What can I say? You¡¯ve convinced me.¡± He opened the register drawer and pulled out three dollars, and Anson accepted with a gracious bow of his head. ¡°You deliver?¡±


    ¡°Yessir. I¡¯ll drop it off bright and early tomorrow.¡± He took the money and slipped it into his pocket. ¡°It was a pleasure doing business with you.¡±


    ¡°And you.¡± David allowed with an amiable little smile, and he shook the man¡¯s hand before he departed.


    It was with three dollars fresh in his pocket that Anson walked back to his car in front of the hotel in the dark ¨C there were no lampposts to light the way, only the glow from nearby houses and the occasional flash of headlights to help him on his way. He suspected that the only reason half the town had electricity was that the hotel brought it there. It was a short drive to the restaurant, and the lot next to the little building was so crowded he wondered if there would be any room inside.


    It was cold outside, but as he swung the door open he was hit with a familiar warmth and a wonderful smell of basil and garlic. It was crowded, that was for sure, but among the many men sat over their dishes he met eyes right away with Gin in her little yellow dress, and she smiled in her surprise and bent her head towards the bar. He shut the door behind him and sat at one of the stools with thankfully no one on either side of him. She was over in a moment, her eyes brimmed with affection.


    ¡°Hey there, stranger.¡± She set a glass in front of him and filled it from the pitcher she held. A pretty girl, if he really considered it: tall, almost his own height, with a hint of muscle to her from running around with plates all day. Her dark hair was again tied back into a modest little bun, just to keep it from her face, but it still showed off her delicate features. ¡°Like a menu?¡±


    ¡°Can you ask him to make me whatever¡¯s fastest?¡± He asked bashfully. ¡°I¡¯m starving.¡±


    ¡°Sure thing, doll.¡± She whisked away through the metal door of the kitchen, and he took a grateful sip of water. In a moment she exited with a plate in either hand, and he watched her walk past him to a table in the back, where she deposited the food to two eager fishermen. When she turned back around, he looked away quickly to not get caught watching.


    ¡°Bad weather again?¡± He heard her ask as she stopped next to him, and he smiled.


    ¡°I deserve a break from all the driving, I think.¡± He said after a moment¡¯s thought. ¡°I won¡¯t be here too long.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯s Robert?¡± She asked with a knowing look, and he chuckled.


    ¡°Austere as that ol¡¯ hotel.¡± He answered. ¡°You know the town, then?¡±


    ¡°Well enough, though I¡¯ve never stayed in the hotel.¡± She said. ¡°You explore today?¡±


    ¡°Yes ma¡¯am.¡± He grinned. ¡°I got a pocket full of moss and a cup of tea at the library. You know Sophia?¡±


    She looked hesitant, and he realized what it could have sounded like; an ignorant assumption that the only two Asian women he knew of in the town were known to each other, maybe related. They weren¡¯t ¡ª Anson wasn¡¯t the best with nationalities, but they were from different countries, and Sophia was more petite with a rounded face besides. But she answered politely before he could apologize.


    ¡°I know her.¡± She said finally. ¡°We¡¯re not related or anything.¡±


    She looked over his shoulder, and he wondered if this was something she could discuss there. California was more liberal than a lot of areas, but it was a small town he knew nothing of, and if she was frightened he would understand and stay quiet. She didn¡¯t show terror at any rate.


    ¡°I have plates to clear.¡± She said, distracted. ¡°I¡¯ll check on your food.¡±


    And she was off without another word. He bounced his leg as he waited, half starved, and after a moment in the kitchen he was relieved to see Gin return and head in his direction. She set the dish in front of him with a napkin and utensils, told him to enjoy, and scurried back in, presumably to clean or gather more plates.


    Anson looked down at the meal in wild anticipation; it was a pasta that looked fresh and house-made in a light colored cream sauce. Flecked with parsley and topped with shaved parmesan, it looked perfectly simple yet absolutely delicious. He twisted the noodles around his fork and took a bite, then fought back a groan. It was unexpectedly rich in flavor, the intense backdrop of pork cut into by the earthy flavor of finely chopped mushrooms and the briny, savory taste of anchovies. The pasta was perfectly al dente, the garlic delightfully and mercilessly strong, the red pepper a sharp and lovely hit to the back of his throat. He dug in and was a third of the way through by the time Gin returned.


    ¡°Spaghetti alla carbonara with pancetta, mushrooms and anchovy.¡± She answered his unasked question. ¡°Enjoying it?¡±


    ¡°So much.¡± Was all he could answer before he swallowed. ¡°Is Heath very busy? I¡¯d love him to come out so I could properly compliment the chef.¡±


    She gave him a soft look and he drank it in, so unused to the creature comforts of another person¡¯s fond attention.


    ¡°He never does, these folk would have a shocked uproar.¡± She said, and leaned in and lowered her voice. ¡°He¡¯s a quiet fellow, you really caught him by surprise when you asked him for a smoke the other morning.¡±


    Anson nodded, and when someone called for the check she vanished. It was funny, to know he¡¯d only met this man by luck, by chance, but here he still sat and ate and delayed his weary journey. He continued to eat his food as Gin scurried around, but after a few minutes she walked out of the kitchen and leaned real close.


    ¡°See that partition in the wall?¡± She pointed to a little screen he hadn¡¯t seen before, one that blended in so well with the terra cotta paint. ¡°It¡¯s between here and the kitchen.¡±


    He looked up and examined it a moment before, to his surprise, it slid open just a hair, and Heath glanced out and over his way. He smiled when they caught eyes, and when Anson bowed his head in respect it grew even wider. Gin let out a soft laugh and moved away, and when Anson glanced away a moment Heath disappeared, much to his unexpected disappointment.


    It only took him a few minutes longer to finish his meal, and when Gin returned and asked if he wanted dessert, he insisted he was far too full. She laughed lightly as she took his plate away, and when she returned from the kitchen she handed him the check.


    ¡°Heath agrees with me.¡± She said, and wore a sly grin when Anson stopped counting his change to give her a questioning look. ¡°He likes the curls, too.¡±


    He felt a blush creep up his neck as he reached up to try and fail to flatten it down. With a mumbled thanks, he paid, wished her well, and took his leave. She didn¡¯t seem too worried about whether or not he would return tomorrow.


    He tucked his hands in his pockets as he rushed to his car, the cold bitter after such a lovely warmth. When he got in and started the engine, he recalled seeing Heath for a moment from the kitchen and felt an odd tug deep in his gut. The way he¡¯d smiled, the way his eyes had shone, it stirred an old feeling, one he¡¯d been told so many times was forbidden. But he shook himself and repeated his earlier thought; stay until the feelings fade, and not a moment longer.


    He just wasn¡¯t sure when that would be.

 Chapter Three

    When he awoke the following morning, he stayed in bed in a rare and indulgent bout of leisure. For a long while he drifted comfortably in and out of sleep until he finally could do so no longer, then stood, stretched, and stepped over to the window. He drew back the dark red curtains to reveal a clear day, the sun bright and shining off the distant sea. It was the first day the weather had been so brilliant in awhile, and he knew it was a chance to leave, but he didn¡¯t even consider taking it. He was here for now and what would come must.


    He gathered up his gray suit and headed down the hall and into the powder room to find it once again empty. Inside there was silence but for the distant sound of a rattling pipe, and Anson had to assume it was another shower being had elsewhere in the building. It could have meant he was not the only guest in the building, or that Robert the clerk was getting cleaned up ¨C he wasn¡¯t sure which he preferred. The solitude was not a complete nightmare to him, but this big empty place could get lonely in time.


    He shook himself. He would not stay long enough to find loneliness, as often as they¡¯d met before, and pushed it forcibly from his mind as he turned on the shower. The water was hot enough to turn his skin bright red, but he stood there for far longer than he needed to, until he finally tired of it and then for awhile after. When he exited, dressed, and tousled his hair dry, he knew he did have two important things to do that day, and the first should have been done sooner rather than later given that it involved a healthy dose of caffeine.


    He dropped his laundry in his room and headed downstairs, where he found Robert to be quite dry in both his crisp nod and physical appearance. Not alone, then, but he chose not to dwell on that for fear of some terrible and as of yet unnecessary paranoia. With a wave in return he stepped out into the day, still clear but quite cold, then to his car where he grabbed his jacket, leather gloves and a single bible from the trunk. The library wasn¡¯t too far a walk, nothing in the town really was, so he found himself pulling open the mahogany doors quickly.


    Once inside, he only had a moment to be grateful for the warmth before he saw David look to him expectantly, so he stepped forward, rubbed his tired eyes, and pulled out the bible.


    ¡°Wow.¡± David took it from his hands, a little too excited, and inspected the cover. ¡°What a beauty.¡±


    It was indeed a beautiful book, and must have been especially so for a man who lived his life surrounded by and embedded in them. The cover was sky blue, the inlay gold thread with pearl and jet beaded into patterns of the sun, the moon, the clouds of heaven, the devil. David took a moment to admire it, then set it against a slanted piece of wood meant to display it right there at his front desk.


    ¡°Thank you.¡± He said. ¡°I¡¯m sure the patrons will enjoy it.¡±


    ¡°I hope they do.¡± Anson responded. ¡°Sophia in yet? I could use some caffeine.¡±


    David nodded, and Anson went on his way as he pulled out another book to read. He could tell that was the sort of man to grow on you if you weren¡¯t careful enough, and he supposed he ought to avoid even further attachment, but still chuckled to himself when he recalled the elation on the other man¡¯s face when he¡¯d seen such a pretty book.


    He quickly found himself in the back of the library, and saw Sophia heating a kettle when he stepped forward. She looked up and smiled at the familiar face, and waved for him to come closer.


    ¡°Good morning.¡± She sang out all cheery. ¡°What can I get you?¡±


    He could smell coffee, hot and rich, and though he would have loved that the sudden image of Ruth came to mind. She got a cut from her floral teas, so he had to do right by her.


    ¡°What have you got with a ton of caffeine and some flowers thrown in?¡± He asked, and Sophia grinned.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got some leftover hibiscus black tea from the summer.¡± She offered. ¡°It¡¯s tart, I recommend it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll take it.¡± He said, then watched her grab a small tin, again topped with writing he didn¡¯t understand. ¡°What language is that?¡±


    ¡°Mandarin.¡± She answered, then went uncharacteristically silent. He understood her concern; he was a stranger after all, and these weren¡¯t the safest things to discuss at times. He mercifully changed the subject.


    ¡°Is hibiscus the Hawaiian flower? The kind you always see a girl wear behind her ear in the travel ads?¡± He asked, and she smiled once more.


    ¡°That¡¯s the one.¡± She pulled a tea cup and saucer from the shelf and held it up to him. There was a delicate pink flower painted on the side of the cup that he recognized from many a billboard ¨C the Hawaiian islands were oft advertised in southern California. She set the cup back down and fiddled with the kettle.


    ¡°In the summer we don¡¯t include the black tea, only the hibiscus. We cold brew it and serve it over ice with honey, and lemon if we¡¯re lucky enough to find it.¡± She explained. ¡°Have you ever had it?¡±


    ¡°No. Never been to Hawaii either.¡± Anson admitted ruefully, and she smiled somewhat fondly.


    ¡°I¡¯d love to go one day, I¡¯m sure it¡¯s beautiful.¡± She said. ¡°Though I¡¯m not a traveler such as yourself.¡±


    The kettle began to whistle, and she poured his cup. She must have seen a hundred men like him breeze through the place, and a few more who¡¯d intended to do so and never found the strength to leave again; hotel bellboys and librarians and the fathers of fishermen. A handsome chef in a little shack by the sea.


    He took the tea gratefully and gave her a little nod before turning away to find himself a table and chair. Once he did, he grabbed Billy Bud off the shelf again and sat down. He stirred a spoonful of sugar into his tea, then brought it close and inhaled deeply. He¡¯d never tasted hibiscus before, but the light and floral smell was subtle beneath the deep black tea, almost like citrus. He took a sip and felt a grin tug at the corner of his lips ¨C it was different and delightful, something he¡¯d experienced less and less of as time went on. Tart bordering on sour, with a taste reminiscent of a Thanksgiving cranberry sauce or the rhubarb from a strawberry pie he¡¯d had a slice of somewhere in Alabama. Paired with the near bitter black tea, they held a fascinating balance of dark sharpness and feminine acidity that reminded him of a very grown-up version of mixing his lemonade into sweet tea as a child.


    With a barely contained smile he took another sip, then set his cup onto his saucer to flip open his book and continue reading. He was on the very last chapter and in heaven as he sipped his tea and read on until a shadow settled over the page. When he looked up, a man smiled politely at him, and he did the same. He was a tall black man in a flannel and jeans, farmer¡¯s garb, and he held a wide-brim in his worn and dirty hands.


    ¡°Morning, sir. Are you the bible salesman?¡± He asked, and Anson nodded. ¡°I saw the one you sold to David at the front, I thought it was gorgeous.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡± Anson said pleasantly enough, and the other man continued.


    ¡°Well, I just wanted to pay you that compliment. I¡¯m sure I won¡¯t be the first to approach you today.¡± He said, and Anson was glad for the successful intent. ¡°And I was wondering if you had any others for sale.¡±


    ¡°I sure do.¡± Anson said, and the man smiled wide.


    ¡°Great! I¡¯ve been saving up and I think my brother Isaac would love one.¡± He said, then looked a tad apprehensive. ¡°Do you, uh, do you sell to ¨C¡±


    He vaguely waved a hand to himself, and Anson caught his drift and stood quickly.


    ¡°Of course I do.¡± He said and clapped a hand on his shoulder. The man was reassured, and dug his hands in his pockets for a wallet. ¡°I should warn you though, I sold to David at a reduced price, this being a library and all.¡±


    ¡°I understand entirely.¡± He pulled out a tattered old wallet. ¡°How much, six?¡±


    ¡°Five sixty-five.¡± Anson corrected as he pulled out some bills. ¡°I sold to that waitress in the Italian place, Gin, if you need some confirmation of that.¡±


    One thing he had to be certain of was not overcharging anyone; in a town this small they¡¯d find out fast and gun for him in no time, and he was too smart to let a thing like that happen. The man gave him the money, and Anson offered to walk down to his car and get the bible right at that moment, but he waved him off.


    ¡°Finish your book and your tea.¡± He said easily. ¡°I trust you just fine. I¡¯ll be around town all day, but later this afternoon I¡¯ll be with the florist awhile. You know where that is?¡±


    ¡°Ruth Miller¡¯s place, yessir.¡± Anson said, and he grinned.


    ¡°You can meet me there later, if you¡¯re able. I¡¯m Marvin, by the way.¡± He reached out his hand, and Anson shook it.


    ¡°Anson. I¡¯ll see you then.¡± And the man went on his way.


    He returned to his chair and finished his tea quickly before it could get cold, and finished his book soon after that. When he peered at his watch he found it was nearly noon, and though it was so early in the day he¡¯d not eaten and was quite hungry. So it was time to complete his second important task of the day and visit his lovely new friends: Italian would be lovely for lunch.


    He returned his cup and sugar pot to Sophia, who smiled when he complimented her brew, then left the library to the bright but frigid outdoors and made his way to his car. It was too soon to seek out Marvin, so he turned on the engine and drove up to that little shack by the sea. When he arrived, it occurred to him that he hadn¡¯t thought to see if the place was open so early ¨C he only saw one car in the lot, a bedraggled old Plymouth that must have belonged to the chef. But he¡¯d come this far and hoped that he would at least be turned away politely if he couldn¡¯t get service.


    When he stepped in, the place was chilly, and none of Gin¡¯s candles were lit. The first thing he saw was the sea through the wide window, grey and rough but reflecting light to make the place plenty bright and cheery. Then he heard a light clink of change and turned to see Gin at the register.


    ¡°You open? I can come back later.¡± He said, but she waved him in immediately.


    ¡°We¡¯re open, just no one¡¯s here. Take a seat.¡± She said, and he sat right next to the register to speak to her properly. ¡°How are you darling?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m well, thanks, how are you?¡± He asked, and heard the lightest movement and looked over to see the kitchen door open. Heath¡¯s hair was slicked back, and over his white tee he donned an apron covered in flour. When he saw Anson, he smiled, his eyes all lit up and welcoming.


    ¡°We¡¯re doing just fine.¡± He said, and his tone warmed Anson right up despite the chill. ¡°I heard from Gin that you¡¯re getting used to this ol¡¯ town.¡±


    ¡°While I¡¯m here.¡± Anson grinned and hoped the man would come over to him and sit down, but he stayed standing.


    ¡°You hungry?¡± He asked, and Anson nodded. Gin handed him a menu, and Heath took a step back. ¡°I¡¯ll come out in a moment, I have to finish making the noodles. I just popped out to say hello.¡±


    ¡°Alright.¡± Anson said, a touch disappointed but still glad to hear he would return. Gin gave him an encouraging look at that, and he grinned a little and let her resume her work counting out bills as he looked over the menu. He¡¯d eaten there several times and yet still hadn¡¯t seen it ¨C it contained no appetizers, as Heath was clearly a man for whole meals and not something small, a man for comforting and filling more so than just serving. There was a large section for pasta, one for steak and pork, another for poultry and seafood. He tore himself away from a dessert panel on the back where he¡¯d read ¡®Ricotta Cheesecake¡¯ before he settled on his dish and looked up to Gin.


    She felt his eyes on him, though he was trying to wait and let her finish her work before he bothered her. But she paused, noticed the glance and rather extravagantly pulled out her pen and pad. He chuckled as she gave him a sly grin.


    ¡°And what will the fine gentleman be having?¡± She asked, and he giggled a bit.


    ¡°The butternut squash lasagne, please.¡± He said, and she nodded, but didn¡¯t write it down.


    ¡°Heath!¡± She yelled, and after a moment the partition behind her opened. Heath gave them both a knowing look and a falsely polite smile.


    ¡°Madam?¡± He asked lightly, and she bit her lip to fight a grin.


    ¡°The gentleman will be having the lasagne.¡± She said. Heath lit up.


    ¡°Excellent choice, monsieur.¡± He said to Anson, then tipped an imaginary cap to Gin. ¡°Gar?on.¡±


    ¡°Gar?on means boy. Gin is la serveuse.¡± Anson called out, but he¡¯d already ducked away, though the partition was left open.


    ¡°Waitress?¡± Gin asked as she took the menu away, and he nodded. ¡°Look at you, Mr. Fancy with your french.¡±


    ¡°I only know the basics. Parlez vous anglais, baise-moi s¡¯il te pla?t, that sort of thing.¡± He admitted, and she smiled all the same.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been to France?¡± She asked as she went back to work counting.


    ¡°Canada.¡± He lied easily. She didn¡¯t need to associate him with Europe. ¡°Lots of french speakers in Ontario.¡±


    Heath¡¯s head reappeared through the little window.


    ¡°Lasagne¡¯s reheating in the oven. I¡¯m almost done with this pasta, I¡¯ll bring out the dish when I¡¯m done.¡± He said to Gin. ¡°Hungry? Need anything?¡±


    ¡°No. Either of you want a pot of coffee?¡± She asked, and they both shook their heads. ¡°Then I¡¯m fine, I¡¯ll stay right here thank you.¡±


    ¡°Lazy.¡± Heath jokingly accosted her as he disappeared once more, and she smiled fondly to herself.


    ¡°Anything I can help you with? Candles, maybe?¡± Anson asked, but she shook her head.


    ¡°Entertain me, that¡¯s help enough. Meet anyone fun in town?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know about fun.¡± Anson said thoughtfully. ¡°I sold a bible to a fellow named Marvin and mentioned your name.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a sweetheart.¡± Gin said. ¡°Farmer, you¡¯re about to eat his squash. His brother¡¯s a cutie, too.¡±


    ¡°A cutie?¡± Anson laughed at the phrase, and Gin swatted him.


    ¡°He¡¯s a kid. Nineteen. They¡¯re not really brothers, either, but they were raised together so that¡¯s what they call themselves.¡± She looked thoughtful. ¡°Their parents were neighbors, but they all passed ages ago, so Marvin took Isaac in and merged the farms.¡±


    ¡°Family friends.¡± Anson figured, but Gin pursed her lips.


    ¡°No, they were wary of each other. Marvin¡¯s parents came out here to leave sharecropping, Isaac¡¯s were ¨C well, you know.¡± She looked uncertain again, and Anson stepped in.


    ¡°Ignorant old white people.¡± He supplied, and heard Heath let out a bark of laughter from the kitchen. The look on Gin¡¯s face changed instantly: the reserved uneasiness turned over to beaming trust in a heartbeat, something Anson knew well. He could tell he had her friendship in the palm of his hand, that she¡¯d be an easy target, but he moved the thought to the back of his mind. He had no reason and no want to harm her, but just the knowledge that he could readily do so cheered him in a way he knew the average man didn¡¯t typically feel.


    ¡°Pretty accurate, yeah.¡± Gin smiled as the kitchen door opened. ¡°But the boys are friends now, so that¡¯s what matters.¡±


    Heath stepped over with a plate, and Gin grabbed a stool and pulled it behind the bar so Heath could sit with them.


    ¡°Balsamic sage butternut squash lasagne.¡± Heath set the dish down before him. ¡°Sorry it¡¯s leftovers, I haven¡¯t made a tray since dinner last night.¡±


    But from the looks of it, Heath didn¡¯t have to apologize for a thing. Lightly browned cheese oozed off the top of the steaming square of lasagne that had been finished with a ribbon of balsamic glaze that criss-crossed the plate. Inside he could see cubed squash, red onion, and a thick white sauce between layers of homemade lasagne sheets. The smell of sage radiated from the little serving that he suspected would be more than filling.


    He grabbed his fork and had a large bite, and was hit with the strong acidity of the vinegar paired with the richness of the sauce and salty parmesan. The earthiness of the squash and assertive sweetness of the red onion only added to the hearty mix of flavors, with the warmth of the sage tying the whole dish together. Anson groaned aloud, and Heath smiled bashfully.


    ¡°How do you even think of this stuff?¡± Anson asked as he immediately went in for another bite, and Heath blushed a little.


    ¡°I love butternut squash and it¡¯s readily available here, so I had to come up with a dish for it.¡± He said. ¡°There¡¯s already a soup on the menu, so that¡¯s one hundred percent squash, but here it¡¯s just one of the components.¡±


    ¡°And then there¡¯s something in this grand speech about the heaviness of the b¨¦chamel sauce.¡± Gin added. ¡°He was in heaven creating this one, when he added the red onion I think he nearly cried.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not quite caramelized so the integrity remains.¡± Heath said with a little too much excitement, and Gin smiled as Anson continued to dig in. He¡¯d had Italian-American lasagne the last time he was in New York, with a red meat sauce and thick layers of ricotta. It was excellent, that was hard to deny, but this cheese-sauce laden dish with fresh, perfectly al dente pasta was far closer to the real thing.


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    ¡°I saw sage on the menu and had to get it.¡± Anson said. ¡°The florist sold me a pocketful, I¡¯ve been smelling it since yesterday.¡±


    ¡°I love sage.¡± Heath replied. ¡°Cooking it in butter gives you this real heady aroma. Ruth grows it for us.¡±


    ¡°It must be nice to have fresh herbs.¡± Anson said, though he barely knew how to cook eggs so he wasn¡¯t sure exactly how so. ¡°What do you do in the winter?¡±


    ¡°I dry all of our excess herbs the rest of the year.¡± Gin answered. ¡°If it¡¯s a really busy season I drive a few hours south to find a nursery.¡±


    ¡°Rough. You guys must miss L.A.¡± He said it without thinking, and Heath went pale as a sheet as the clattering of coins rang out. Pennies rolled all over the counter, and Gin stared at him in abject horror. He straightened up, alarmed by the sudden change, and Heath protectively moved closer to Gin.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± He blurted, and threw up his hands instinctively. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean ¨C¡±


    ¡°How did you know?¡± Heath asked, and though Anson was intimately familiar with a threatening tone, the fear beneath was clear as day and hurt him far worse than he thought it could.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± He repeated. ¡°I¡¯m not trying to threaten you or ¨C or catch you?¡±


    ¡°Catch us?¡± Heath repeated, horrified, but Anson winced and shook his head.


    ¡°No, I just ¨C if you¡¯re running from something, it¡¯s not me. I just recognized the accent.¡± He said bashfully. Gin looked fearful still, and Heath looked stiff with uncertainty, though the want to believe him shone in his eyes. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to scare you. I grew up in Santa Barbara, it was just easy to spot.¡±


    That was more information than he wanted to give, in truth, more than he was used to, but when Heath eased up he was glad he did. Gin seemed to relax a little as well, and began to pick up the pennies she¡¯d spilled. Anson reached over to help her, and she didn¡¯t object.


    ¡°Sorry for getting so defensive, then.¡± She said quietly, and Anson shook his head.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t know, it¡¯s alright doll.¡± He said, and she gave him a half grin.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t realize it was so obvious.¡± Heath rubbed the back of his neck. ¡°I guess for a local, though.¡±


    ¡°No one here could spot it, I¡¯m sure.¡± Anson quickly consoled him. ¡°What¡¯s the closest city, Eureka? They won¡¯t know an L.A. accent. And you seem a private guy, I guarantee no one¡¯s spotted it.¡±


    ¡°What about me?¡± Gin tried to hide her worry with a steady look as she picked up her final coin. ¡°I¡¯m about the town much more often.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re harder to tell, your parents must¡¯ve had accents.¡± Anson said, and when they both went rigid again, he handed her the pennies. ¡°You¡¯re both safe. And whatever¡¯s wrong, whatever you¡¯re running from, I¡¯m not in the business of tattling.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not criminals.¡± Heath looked cautiously to Gin, who nodded firmly. ¡°Well . . . not anymore.¡±


    Anson perked up at that, and Heath looked away. Gin slipped the coins into the register, then closed the drawer. When she glanced up to him, there was no uncertainty, and he knew that was a product of the trust he¡¯d created.


    ¡°You seem a good fellow. Like someone we could actually trust.¡± She said, and he nodded slowly, as false as that might have been. ¡°So you should know that we¡¯re married.¡±


    He felt his eyes widen in surprise and his jaw drop, but he kept face and nodded quickly.


    ¡°Oh.¡± Was all he could get out. Heath kept his eyes on the floor, maybe afraid to see the reaction, but Gin was staring intensely, clearly preparing herself for a struggle. ¡°Well, that¡¯s alright. Nothing wrong with that.¡±


    Gin let out a breath, and Heath finally looked up to him with an expression of absolute gratitude. Though he appreciated it, Anson knew it wasn¡¯t one he should have had to give.


    ¡°When did that become legal in this state?¡± He asked cautiously.


    ¡°¡®48.¡± Heath answered softly. ¡°But we found a very kind priest in ¡¯42.¡±


    ¡°And that¡¯s why you¡¯re here.¡± Anson finished. ¡°I mean, I get it, you were lovebirds and it¡¯s a shit law.¡±


    Gin smiled and took the smallest step closer to her husband. It was obvious now that he really looked ¨C he should have noticed it earlier, but he¡¯d been more focused on liking Heath than figuring out who else did.


    ¡°Thank you.¡± She said kindly. ¡°It¡¯s nice to trust someone with this. Just don¡¯t say a thing, alright sugar? No one knows.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± He said immediately. ¡°I¡¯ll keep it to myself. You¡¯re a fine pair of people, I¡¯m not aiming to hurt you.¡±


    They both looked intensely relieved as Heath wordlessly cleared Anson¡¯s plate. Anson paid for his meal and turned down the offer for dessert, too stuffed with lasagne to eat another bite. When Heath returned, he stood from his stool and shook the chef¡¯s hand warmly. There was affection in Heath¡¯s look, one that always came with a few good meals and a shared secret.


    ¡°Will you be back tomorrow?¡± He asked, and Anson grinned.


    ¡°Of course. Now that I know I get to third wheel you two I¡¯m looking forward to my lunch even more.¡± Anson winked, and Gin laughed. He waved to the pair, and Heath slung his arm over his wife¡¯s shoulder as he took his leave. Envy rose up as horribly and unexpectedly as bile, but he could only return to his car and start it up.


    He returned to the town with a purposefully clear mind, with nothing on the radio but static. When he got back to the main road, he slowed until he spotted Ruth¡¯s, then pulled over and popped his trunk. In the window he could see Marvin and Ruth having a conversation, and grabbed a bible to take in. When the door opened with a bell¡¯s jingle, both of them looked up and smiled in recognition.


    ¡°Hello, handsome.¡± Ruth grinned, and Marvin laughed.


    ¡°I¡¯m not calling him that.¡± He said, and Anson smiled at the pair.


    ¡°I have your bible.¡± He stepped forward and held it out, and Marvin accepted it readily and examined the cover.


    ¡°That¡¯s a pretty thing.¡± Ruth commented. ¡°If it¡¯s a gift I bet it would go real well with a bouquet.¡±


    Marvin looked incredulous, and Anson contained a laugh.


    ¡°I¡¯m here to sell to you!¡± He exclaimed. ¡°You¡¯d think you¡¯d just take the mini pumpkins without trying to make a sale.¡±


    ¡°What can I say, I¡¯m a business woman.¡± She said, and Marvin chuckled.


    ¡°Show me something cheap.¡± He replied with a roll of his eyes, and she gave him a wide grin.


    ¡°What about you, stranger, can I convince you to buy anything?¡± She asked, and Anson politely shook his head.


    ¡°You already got me that pocket sniffer.¡± He said, and Marvin roared with laughter.


    ¡°She got you, too?¡± He asked. ¡°I reek of cinnamon because of this woman.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you love it.¡± She waved a hand and walked over to a vase full of daisies. Anson took the sale as his cue to leave, and thanked Marvin for his purchase once more before exiting.


    The drive to the hotel was short, and when he parked and stepped out of his car the cold bit at his skin as he walked briskly inside. Robert was in his usual spot behind the receptionist¡¯s desk, and Anson gave him a friendly wave that was met with a formal nod. Some day he would stop and have an actual conversation with the man, but for now he had other things on his mind, and bounded up the stairs and into his room. Once inside, he closed the dark velvet curtains and noted that a distant town¡¯s newspaper had been placed on his desk. It must have been a rare occurrence in this isolated little part of the world, but he decided he¡¯d read it later. He had other things on his mind.


    In the darkness, he shrugged off his blazer and undid his tie. As he unbuttoned his shirt, he thought back to his earlier conversation with the newfound couple ¨C married eleven years, together for who knew how much longer. He should have realized, he knew, but he hadn¡¯t been studying them as targets, merely making friends for the first time in years.


    He laid his head back against the cold pillow and rested on top of the luxurious duvet to stare up at the ceiling. Heath had asked him if he¡¯d return soon, that was what mattered. That it was the first time they¡¯d initiated, not him. He slid down his trousers and briefs. Of course he would be back tomorrow, of course he wanted nothing more than to see them again, or one of them at least.


    He reached down and stroked his cock, hardened immediately by the thought of that chef. Those beautiful blue eyes, so reserved but so begging for friendship, company, trust. He wanted something he couldn¡¯t get from his wife, that was for sure, and Anson could picture it easily; Heath¡¯s pale hands roaming his body, his soft pink lips wrapped around his dick, a blush dusting his cheeks when he got the chance to satisfy.


    ¡°Heath.¡± Anson closed his eyes and pumped himself as he thought of the other man, the one he¡¯d grown far too attached to in such a small amount of time. He¡¯d done this before, he¡¯d fucked plenty of men, but there was something about that quiet, humble fellow that was driving him wild. There was an image he couldn¡¯t get out of his head of Heath waiting for his wife to fall asleep before pulling out his own cock and jerking off with Anson¡¯s name on his lips.


    He groaned and sped up, with one hand clutching the comforter as the other moved up and down a cock slick with precum. It didn¡¯t take long for him to picture Heath saying his name again, to think of him gasp as an orgasm rocked through him, as he went flush with pleasure a foot from his wife. Anson groaned himself, shuddered, and spilled his seed all over his hand and underwear, then took a few heavy breaths.


    It was just a fantasy, he knew, likely untrue, but still it fueled him. He wanted that man, and by all means he intended to have him. Have him or wait for these emotions to peter out and leave this town and that shack by the sea behind.


    . . .


    The next morning was several degrees colder than it had been previously, and Anson found himself quite lethargic. He had nothing to do that day and no desire to find a goal, more content to stay in the warmth of his bed. He managed to get to the desk, grab the newspaper, and slip back beneath the covers to absorb the words in dark silence. They¡¯d awarded a Nobel Prize in physics, and Cambodia won its independence from France, he was happy to see. For an hour he read and did the crossword until finally he got up with a stretch, collected a navy suit and went off to the showers.


    Again, he was alone and saw no one, and did not hear the rattle of water through the pipes, but he knew he¡¯d see whomever else resided in that hotel eventually, even if it was just one person. He cleaned up slowly, in no rush, but when he got out found the day still quite young and he still quite unoccupied. He should have waited ¨C gone to the library or walked about town ¨C but it was cold and he was hungry and there was a handsome man with a large plate of food that he had a hankering to visit.


    He bundled up to get to his car, a smart choice as the wind nipped at his exposed face. With a shiver he got behind the wheel and started her up with thick-gloved hands. The drive felt longer than usual; he wasn¡¯t terribly nervous, but he¡¯d never dropped pretenses so much as to just show up before lunch, just to see them as opposed to having a meal. When he approached the shack he spotted a familiar figure just out front having a smoke, just like the day he¡¯d met him. He smiled to himself and stopped to roll down his window.


    ¡°Am I too early? Surely you¡¯re not open if you¡¯re having a cigarette break.¡± He said, and Heath gave him a shy half-grin.


    ¡°You¡¯re fine, come on in.¡± He called back, but Anson frowned a little.


    ¡°Are you sure? I can come back later.¡± He offered, but Heath gave him a flat look and shook his head.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous. Park that jalopy and get over here.¡±


    ¡°Jalopy? You¡¯re in for it!¡± Anson said, but Heath only chuckled as he pulled away and into the lot. The Plymouth that had always been there before was missing, its usual spot vacant, and Anson sucked in a breath. If that was Gin¡¯s car, she was out and he had Heath all to himself.


    He walked up to the front with his hands in his pockets. When Heath spotted him he tossed his cigarette and squashed it with the sole of his boot ¨C he hadn¡¯t been quite finished with it and seemed to only be heading in for his cold new friend¡¯s sake, which already warmed Anson to think of.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to make you eat that for insulting my precious Victoria.¡± He said, and Heath gave a skeptical chuckle. They stepped inside together, where the light shone in bright enough through the windows but the temperature was not too affected. Heath slipped off his large black coat to reveal a flannel beneath, rolled up to the elbows, and Anson reluctantly did the same, though only to be polite.


    ¡°Where¡¯s Gin?¡± He asked conversationally.


    ¡°She left a short while ago for candle wax.¡± Heath responded, and Anson felt a small thrill from it.


    ¡°Damn, I would¡¯ve said hello if I¡¯d spotted her car in town.¡± He replied, and drew his arms around himself. Heath nodded sagely.


    ¡°Come on, it¡¯s about thirty degrees warmer in the kitchen.¡± He said, and smirked a little at Anson¡¯s sigh of relief. He followed him into the kitchen where he¡¯d already had a night¡¯s sleep, though last time he didn¡¯t see the chef¡¯s work in full. He was preparing for the day, with every surface covered in some form of food. He spotted a cutting board covered in diced squash and apples, bowls of ricotta and mascarpone, trays of bread dough rising. The stove was covered in saucepans, all filled with simmering liquids, and the room smelled strongly of garlic and basil from whatever was cooking in the oven.


    ¡°Sorry it¡¯s a bit of a mess, I¡¯m getting ready for dinner.¡± Heath said, and brushed past him to turn off a burner. Anson could only voice his awe.


    ¡°This place looks like a crime scene in the best sort of ways.¡± Anson said, and shrugged when Heath gave him an odd look. ¡°Mess and mayhem and a look inside something you never thought you¡¯d see.¡±


    Heath only chuckled and shook his head. ¡°You wanna help?¡±


    ¡°Lord no, I¡¯d poison all your customers.¡± Anson said. ¡°I couldn¡¯t cook oats for meal.¡±


    Heath laughed and stepped over to him, then put a hand on the crook of his arm. The warmth of the other man¡¯s hand was electric as he led him over to a long counter and a big old machine with a crank on it.


    ¡°Look, you don¡¯t have to cook a thing.¡± He pointed to the machine. ¡°This is the pasta shaper. I¡¯ll make the dough and feed it through the top and you can crank out the noodles.¡±


    ¡°Wow, I didn¡¯t know that was how it worked.¡± Anson admitted, then looked down. ¡°Reckon I should take off my tie so I don¡¯t get dragged in.¡±


    ¡°Very good idea.¡± Heath said, and reached beneath the counter as Anson loosened and removed his tie. He tossed it through the window and next to his coat and turned to examine Heath¡¯s work; he¡¯d brought up three bags of flour and was pouring the first into a large bowl, seemingly measuring by eye.


    ¡°It smells so good in here, it¡¯s making me damn hungry.¡± Anson said, and Heath smiled as he poured the next bag. ¡°What do a chef and a pretty waitress eat for breakfast?¡±


    ¡°Spaghetti.¡± Heath said as he reached for the third bag and Anson burst into laughter. ¡°I¡¯m not joking! Leftovers are man¡¯s best friend.¡±


    ¡°Figures.¡± Anson said as Heath set down the bag and reached across the counter for an egg. ¡°I don¡¯t know how your stomach isn¡¯t roaring right now.¡±


    Heath cracked the egg and grinned.


    ¡°You really hungry? I should show you what we do with that spaghetti, hold on.¡± He cracked another few eggs in, then pushed the bowl towards Anson. ¡°Knead this.¡±


    ¡°Knead it?¡± Anson asked incredulously, but Heath was already rushing to the fridge.


    He was in his element and it showed. To see such a passion in someone so lovely made Anson¡¯s face feel warm as he obediently rolled up his sleeves. Heath pulled out a bowl and pulled off the tin foil, then grabbed a block of cheese and a grater, and Anson could only smile to himself and dunk his hands into the eggs and flour. It was satisfying in that gross little way, with that grainy flour mixed with the slime of egg. He mushed it all together as over at his own bowl Heath threw in salt, pepper, and breadcrumbs that Anson could only assume were scratch-made. He rushed over to where Anson stood to grab two eggs, and paused to eye his work.


    ¡°Good, keep going. Make sure it¡¯s blended evenly.¡± He clapped him on the back and went back to his end of the kitchen, and Anson felt himself flush, as small as the compliment was.


    He cracked the eggs into his bowl and grabbed a pair of tongs to toss the mixture with quick precision. Anson watched him dump it all into the frying pan ¨C it was leftover spaghetti alright, covered in tomato sauce and sizzling away.


    ¡°The sauce gets soaked up into the noodles overnight. Not the most appetizing.¡± Heath caught his glance as he placed the bowl and tongs into the sink. ¡°But with the breadcrumbs and eggs as binder we turn the whole thing into a fritter.¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t look like a fritter.¡± Anson was thinking of an apple pastry he¡¯d had somewhere in New England, but Heath must have known what he meant.


    ¡°A fritter is anything covered in batter and fried, but sometimes it just means something like a patty of junk.¡± He stepped over and looked at Anson¡¯s dough. ¡°That¡¯s perfect! Like a crab cake.¡±


    ¡°This dough looks nothing like a crab cake!¡± Anson said, and Heath gave him a faux dirty look as he sprinkled flour onto the counter.


    ¡°Throw the dough right here, jackass.¡± He said, and when Anson did so he sprinkled a liberal amount of flour on top. ¡°Okay, squish this down a little and then you can wash your hands.¡±


    ¡°Am I going back to crank duty?¡± Anson asked with a grin as Heath dusted off his hands.


    ¡°After I¡¯ve stuffed you with food.¡± He replied, for which Anson was unspeakably grateful. He stepped over to the frying pan, lifted it, and flipped its contents like a pancake, then grabbed two plates.


    ¡°Showoff.¡± Anson teased, and Heath smiled as he left the kitchen, then returned a moment later with a pair of cutlery. Anson washed his hands then, a thick coating of dough stuck to his skin that didn¡¯t come off without a heavy dousing of soap and an aggressive bit of scrubbing. By the time his hands were dry, Heath was sliding the spaghetti fritter onto a plate and cutting it in half. When Anson came closer for further inspection, Heath raised his hands.


    ¡°Wait! Presentation!¡± He said, and Anson rolled his eyes as he grated parmesan over the two plates, though he absolutely brimmed with affection. He tossed on a bit of chopped parsley and gave a flourish of his hand.


    ¡°This looks so good.¡± Anson said, and grabbed his fork and knife. When he sliced into it, the exterior let out a resounding crunch and the inside steamed, a tight mass of pasta and tomato sauce. He gathered up a large bite with a bit of melted cheese and took a bite; it was delightfully crispy on the outside and still warm, delicious, classic spaghetti on the inside.


    ¡°It¡¯s certainly not the traditional Italian I¡¯ve been feeding you.¡± Heath said as he ate from his own dish. ¡°But there¡¯s a beautiful simplicity in it.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s good. Everything you make is good.¡± Anson said, and Heath blushed a little as they continued to eat just standing in the kitchen. ¡°How did you learn?¡±


    Heath looked suddenly hesitant as his eyes darted quickly down to his plate. Anson knew it was pushing, but he decided to risk it and reach out his hand. He rested it on the other man¡¯s forearm, and when their eyes met he gave him a reassuring look.


    ¡°I ¨C I was a line cook in Los Angeles.¡± He managed, then looked away once more. ¡°Gin was a waitress.¡±


    ¡°And she was as impressed as I am now.¡± Anson pieced together, but Heath snorted.


    ¡°I was a natural at it, I admit, but not like ¨C well, like this.¡± He gestured around the kitchen. ¡°No, she thought I was cute, I thought the same of her, we got along.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s wonderful. And you¡¯ve been together what, eleven years?¡± Anson asked, and Heath nodded. ¡°Wow. And no kids?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Heath glanced back to his plate, his tone strained. Anson knew it was the wrong thing to say. ¡°No kids.¡±


    ¡°Well you¡¯re a beautiful couple.¡± Anson said quickly to move off the subject. Heath gave the smallest smile at the compliment and looked back to him. ¡°Really. Those eyes . . .¡±


    He trailed off, and Heath¡¯s eyes flitted down to Anson¡¯s hand on his arm so quickly he could have imagined it. But he stayed silent, his expression clouded with a clearly purposeful veil, his true thoughts ¨C whatever they were, whatever he felt for this mysterious new stranger ¨C well hidden. Emboldened by something, maybe the heat of the room or the man he was touching, Anson took a step closer, so close he could have drowned in that beautiful blue.


    ¡°You know.¡± He whispered, and face to face Heath could hear him perfectly. ¡°You know what I am and what I want.¡±


    And he kissed the chef, hard. He wasn¡¯t sure what would happen, if he would be pushed off, screamed at, threatened. But suddenly a strong pair of hands were grabbing him by the arms and pulling him close, and he could¡¯ve cried out to God in thanks as Heath squeezed him into a tight hug and returned the kiss. For the first time in ages he felt like he was finally in the right place.


    Heath broke the kiss and pulled away with a hazy, wanton expression, and Anson had an instinctive urge in terms of what to do next. He pressed his lips against Heath¡¯s once more, then shoved him against the counter. Heath made the smallest sound against his mouth, a little gasp of surprise, and Anson felt his cock stir in his jeans as he moved down to ravage his neck. He peppered it with nips and kisses, and Heath still held him tight and let out a few heavy breaths.


    Anson pushed himself closer, his dick pressed to Heath¡¯s thigh, and he felt a hardness through Heath¡¯s jeans against his own leg. He reached down and grabbed at it firmly, and Heath jumped a little with yet another gasp, then clung on to his arms even tighter. Anson took it as a good sign and stopped working on his neck to drop to his knees.


    In a heartbeat he was undoing Heath¡¯s belt with steady fingers, then his button and zipper. He pulled down his jeans and briefs in one fell swoop, and when he saw the other man¡¯s cock so hard for him he felt a strain in his own trousers. He reached out and ran a hand along the shaft ¨C it was a good size and thick, everything Anson wanted, and Heath let out the smallest of moans when he began to stroke it.


    ¡°Wait.¡± Heath said above him, his voice choked up, and Anson looked up at him. His cheeked were bright red with a blush, and he nearly looked teary eyed, the obvious desire in his eyes mixed with some kind of reluctance. ¡°I¡¯m married.¡±


    He was, to a wonderful woman that Anson had grown to like very much and really consider a friend. But he knew exactly what he wanted and what he was willing to do to get it.


    ¡°I don¡¯t care.¡± He answered simply, and took Heath in his mouth. He groaned as Anson sank his lips down to the base, then went right back to the tip. He bobbed up and down on it quickly, almost aggressively, and Heath moaned appreciatively. He felt the other man¡¯s fingers running through his hair, his hands shaky as they gripped him lightly.


    Anson continued to suck as he reached down and stroked his balls lightly, and Heath groaned loudly and seized his hair tight. Anson knowingly stopped moving his head a moment, and Heath thrusted against him, finally in control as he no doubt got something he¡¯d been craving since he first laid eyes on the other man. Anson thought he would explode in his pants as Heath thrusted erratically against him; every time he felt his lips touch the base of his cock Heath let out a loud moan, nearly animalistic in pleasure.


    He could tell he wasn¡¯t going to last long, so he reached up and gripped him by the hips and forced him again back against the counter to regain control. He bobbed his head once more, and Heath shuddered.


    ¡°Fuck, Anson.¡± He said, his voice a little louder than usual, his tone desperate. ¡°Anson, Jesus!¡±


    He sucked him off quickly, greedily as he knew what was about to happen. He felt Heath¡¯s hand move down to his shoulder and his fingers cling to his lapel as above him the man whined in pleasure. Then Heath grabbed him so hard it nearly hurt, let out a strangled cry, and it was all over.


    Anson swallowed easily and pulled away, then looked up to try and read Heath¡¯s expression. He was looking away, his face all pink from the exertion. Anson was considering what to do next, if he should maybe ask for the same treatment, but then he spotted a tear fall down Heath¡¯s cheek. When he looked down at him, still knelt on the ground, his eyes were red and puffy.


    ¡°You have to leave.¡± He said, and Anson felt his heart drop into his gut. For a moment, he was still and stiff with unpleasant surprise until Heath spoke again. ¡°I¡¯m married.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s alright, sweetheart.¡± Anson got to his feet with hopes that that was what the other man needed to hear, his jeans still tented. He took a step closer, but Heath turned his head. ¡°Hey, it¡¯s alright. I won¡¯t tell if you won¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Get out!¡± Heath spat, and Anson jumped at the unexpected outburst. ¡°I said I¡¯m married, now get the hell out!¡±


    And in the chaos of the aftermath there was nothing more he could do, nothing else he could say to erase what they had just done. So he drew a heavy breath, lifted his chin in a false show of dignity and left the kitchen, then grabbed his coat and tie and whisked off without another word.

 Chapter Four

    The next morning was even colder than the last. Winter was settling in quickly, and Anson knew there would be no warmth for him whether he stayed in town or continued on his journey north. He stayed abed for a long while after he awoke, uncertain and uncharacteristically distracted.


    When he¡¯d returned to the hotel the previous day, he spent the rest of it hidden in his room, either in bed or carefully watching the window. He couldn¡¯t definitively feel that the townspeople wouldn¡¯t form a mob, and he glanced through those dark curtains often in attempt to catch a glimpse of any rowdiness. As much as he wanted to tell himself that Heath would keep their relations a secret, he was in the right spot to reveal it without being attacked ¨C Anson disregarded his marriage, after all, the other man could easily claim he was coerced into it to save himself any ire from the bigots he had the potential to set upon that old hotel.


    But no one came for him, just as sleep barely did, and by morning Anson decided he was probably safe. Safe, maybe, but not thrilled with the situation: he hadn¡¯t expected the rejection, and now he didn¡¯t know how much Gin was aware of, if he was allowed to return to that little restaurant, if he ought to just leave before this got any more dangerous. There were too many variables, and with all his experience he knew the safest bet would be to just move on, and yet every time he closed his eyes he saw the look on Heath¡¯s face after he kissed him, all heat and desire. He could still feel the way he¡¯d tugged his hair, the little pull of attraction when he¡¯d grabbed onto his lapel.


    And the bitterness, he felt that too. He didn¡¯t know why he¡¯d felt so certain of things, why he¡¯d gotten so daring, why the shock still left a burnt taste in his mouth. When he kissed him he half expected to be attacked ¨C but when he blew him he¡¯d thought it was a submission to yearning. Maybe it wasn¡¯t, then, maybe it was just a confused man making a mistake with a beautiful stranger.


    That didn¡¯t really help his mood, though, so he sought distraction instead. It was already the middle of the day by the time he found the courage to get up and shower, maybe convinced the routine of it would do him some good as he had, after all, so little of that in life. The bathrooms were empty and the water was hot, just as usual, and he felt some tepid relief in that steamy room. When he dressed, he went less formal than he¡¯d had in a long time; presentation was everything, that was his life-long lesson, but today it seemed he was presenting to no one but himself. He donned black trousers and shining dress shoes as per usual, then a white button-down sans his thin black tie with a wooly red cardigan over it. His hair made the independent decision to be entirely unkempt, and he allowed it without a fuss, all curls and tangles as he returned to his room to deposit his laundry.


    Boredom set upon him, but he didn¡¯t have the nerve to go into town just yet, and so made the decision that it was time to explore the lodging he was so quickly settling into. He walked down to the lobby slowly enough to admire the ornate carvings of the banister and notice the small puff of dust that rose from the deep red carpeting with every step he took. Once there he spotted Robert, astute as usual, and gave him a friendly wave.


    ¡°Afternoon.¡± He approached the fellow, who seemed a bit trapped behind the reception desk. He nodded crisply in return. ¡°How are you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine sir, and yourself?¡± He spoke formally, and looked a bit glazed over when Anson set his elbow against the counter and leaned over to him.


    ¡°I¡¯m a bit bored, in truth. Was wondering about this ol¡¯ place.¡± He smiled warmly, though Robert didn¡¯t react. ¡°Whatcha got in here, a parlor? A bar?¡±


    ¡°The bar isn¡¯t open yet, sir.¡± He gave Anson a wary look ¨C he must have seen quite a few drunks pass through the place in his day. ¡°There are cigars available in the parlor room, if you please.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not really a man for cigars.¡± Anson said, then had a thought. ¡°Say, that paper you left for me the other day, where¡¯d it come from?¡±


    ¡°Eureka, sir, it¡¯s about an hour north. This time of year, I mean ¨C the weather will grow heinous soon, and then there¡¯s no leaving this town ¡®til spring.¡± He said, and Anson felt a small jolt at the thought. It was a gentle way to say they¡¯d all be trapped together, and for someone with a secret that wasn¡¯t such a pleasant idea. He hastily moved on.


    ¡°But why¡¯d I get it? Did you travel out there to get some papers?¡± He asked, and Robert shook his head.


    ¡°No sir, a hotel has a great deal of business that needs tending to. Food for room service, liquor for the bar, office supplies. Sometimes one needs to gather products and materials, so when one travels into the city they return with a boon or two.¡± He said, though his tone was strained. He never said he was the one taking care of the business either, so Anson had to assume that was information he didn¡¯t want to divulge. A boon, what an odd term to use ¨C odd enough to imply there was greater meaning behind those words. But he didn¡¯t want to seem as though he was digging, so he held onto what he¡¯d learned and instead focused on a lesser portion of the conversation.


    ¡°Well shit, I didn¡¯t know this place had room service.¡± He said with a chuckle, and Robert looked the slightest bit more at ease. ¡°I just came down here to look around, see what I¡¯m missing.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯ve noticed you haven¡¯t been around.¡± He replied, his tone ever haughty. ¡°Gone to eat at the Italian restaurant for a few days, now.¡±


    Anson didn¡¯t allow himself to stumble as he put on a charming grin.


    ¡°I¡¯m a sucker for good Italian.¡± He admitted. ¡°But room service would be a pleasant change.¡±


    ¡°Let me procure a menu for you, sir.¡± He rifled through some papers on a shelf beneath the desk and handed Anson a menu not unlike the one Gin had offered the other day, a single sheet of paper in a black leather cover. The fare was typical, and Anson imagined it was quite mediocre ¨C scrambled eggs, a turkey club, meatloaf. It was funny how quickly he¡¯d gotten used to the chef¡¯s food. ¡°Leave it in the mail slot outside your room during the mealtimes listed and we¡¯ll deliver.¡±


    ¡°Well I thank you kindly.¡± He took it with a nod. ¡°I¡¯ll get out of your hair.¡±


    Robert managed the most manufactured polite chuckle of all time, and Anson left without taking offense. He was an austere man, but Anson wasn¡¯t about to stop being kind or charming to him, lest the fellow grow suspicious. It seemed he was already, with that Italian remark, but maybe that was just some of Anson¡¯s old paranoia surfacing.


    He walked away, towards the stairs, but didn¡¯t climb them and instead strolled past to admire the fountain. The marble was lovely, the angels carved into it cherubic, and the golden tile shone brilliantly. It all had an old-world feel, the sense of a bygone era, and Anson was still unsure where it sat on the line between captivating and haunting.


    Past the fountain he found a small bar, and walked inside brimmed with curiosity. There were small round tables all about, dark wood with simple chairs to accompany them, and the bar matched that dark mahogany with stools padded in more dark red velvet. Behind it sat shelves loaded with alcohol, some of the bottles dusty and half empty, others shiny and unopened: this must have been what that aforementioned supplies run had been for. The small room was empty and the bar unmanned just as Robert had promised, so Anson continued on through a set of french doors to his left.


    Next it was a smoking room, another small room filled with lush leather sofas and chairs backed in velvet. The room itself was dark, the walls painted deep red with an ornate red and gold oriental rug on the ground. The fireplace was unlit, and above it sat a mounted stag¡¯s head that stared Anson down with beaded eyes. On the coffee table there were several boxes of cigars of seemingly high quality, and Anson made a note to himself to swipe them if he ever needed to get out of town quickly.


    He exited the room, returned to the bar, then ended up in a narrow hallway that headed right, beneath the stairs. He followed along until the hallway opened up to another lobby of sorts, with five mahogany doors presented to him. The place was still and silent, only lit by a few brass sconces on the walls, with a dark red runner to cover the wooden floors. When Anson stepped forward, the wood creaked, and he realized his breath had caught slightly in his throat. He chose the second door, strode over bravely, and wondered if he ought to knock ¨C but it was so quiet he doubted anyone was in there, and swung the heavy door open.


    He was met with instant disappointment ¨C it was a conference room, with a long table and several old wooden office chairs crowded around it. He wasn¡¯t sure what he expected, it was a hotel after all, and closed the door quietly. He moved to the first with far less bravado and noted the word ¡®EXIT¡¯ depicted in small brass letters on it, which worried him a moment. He didn¡¯t want an alarm to trigger if he opened the door, but when he looked around he couldn¡¯t see any wiring and decided to risk it. When the door opened, he was quickly grateful for the silence, though the blast of wind wasn¡¯t so pleasant. It was freezing out, and he shoved the hand that didn¡¯t hold the menu into a pocket as he stepped out to look at the new space he¡¯d found. A courtyard met his eye, with a brick patio and a view of the rest of the town before he could spot the distant ocean. It faced the same direction as his room, and would be a lovely place in the summer with a few lawn chairs and some sunshine. There was a trellis that had once been covered in vines, though they were crisp and black with death now, and plants surrounding the patio that had died from the cold and been neatly cut back.


    Other than that, there was nothing more, though Anson saw marks on the ground from where outdoor furniture had once been and knew if he¡¯d come another time he would have enjoyed this place. He gave up and went inside, then decided the other doors would be nothing of interest and headed back down the hallway. His intention was to return to his room, but when he walked past the bar he found it no longer empty ¨C the bartender was wiping down the counter, and Anson stepped in curiously. When the other man noticed him come forward, he gave him a nod.


    ¡°Afternoon, sir. What¡¯ll it be?¡± He asked. He was a tall black man in a pair of glasses and an impeccable black suit that matched the clerk¡¯s, undoubtedly the hotel¡¯s uniform.


    ¡°You¡¯re open for business?¡± Anson asked in return, and when he nodded again he hesitated. ¡°Feels a bit early.¡±


    ¡°I can do non-alcoholic. How do you feel about cranberry?¡± He asked, and Anson shrugged. He might as well have a treat, he hadn¡¯t actually eaten that day and he could at least have some form of company today. He nodded and pulled up a stool, and the bartender took out a tall glass from beneath the bar. ¡°Name¡¯s Sonny, by the way.¡±


    ¡°Anson.¡± He replied. ¡°You get a lot of patrons here?¡±


    ¡°We get the occasional fellow coming in every once in awhile, though they very often like to imbibe.¡± He grabbed some ice and a bottle of ginger ale from a cooler Anson couldn¡¯t see below the bar. ¡°So usually it¡¯s quiet, it¡¯s just a little more so lately because of the weather. When there¡¯s so many storms way fewer people have the nerve to pass through.¡±


    ¡°The weather was why I had to stop.¡± Anson said, though didn¡¯t mention why he chose to stay. ¡°And now it¡¯s dreadfully cold.¡±


    ¡°I hear ya.¡± He poured the ginger ale over ice and threw it back in the fridge, then returned with two bottles, cranberry and apple juice. ¡°It¡¯s foul, I¡¯m glad I don¡¯t commute.¡±


    ¡°The employees live here?¡± Anson asked thoughtfully. ¡°I guess that¡¯s who I hear in the showers.¡±


    ¡°Good thing we keep clean.¡± He stirred everything together and handed him the glass, though Anson got the feeling he was being intentionally quiet about something. ¡°What do you do, sir?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a bible salesman.¡± Anson answered, then took a sip of the drink. It was tart and sweet and reminded him of that hibiscus tea he¡¯d had at the library the previous day but with a distinct autumn flavor. Tasty, but he wished he¡¯d asked for something warm. ¡°I was actually wondering if the owner of this establishment was around, I¡¯d love to maybe sell them one for their parlor.¡±


    Sonny looked uncomfortable, and Anson stared him down a moment without any desire to comfort. Surely the bartender didn¡¯t have much power, but he would be easier to shake down for answers than the closed-book receptionist. After a moment when it appeared he would give no reply, Anson smiled with a feigned warmth.


    ¡°This is great, by the way.¡± He said, and Sonny nodded slowly and began to wipe down the counter once more.


    ¡°Thanks. Always fun to make a drink.¡± He smiled politely, though said nothing more.


    ¡°How long have ya worked here? Are you from this town?¡± He prompted, and Sonny nodded once more.


    ¡°Yes, my grandpappy bought his freedom during the gold rush. I¡¯ve worked here since I was old enough to man bar, and my father did so before me.¡± He answered, and Anson gave him a look of interest. ¡°Bartending¡¯s in my blood.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re suited to it.¡± He said. ¡°And you¡¯re easier to talk to than that fellow at the front desk.¡±


    Sonny laughed aloud, and Anson smiled a bit.


    ¡°Don¡¯t let Westin get to you. He warms up after a very, very, very long time. A professional through and through, that¡¯s all he is.¡± Sonny chuckled to himself. ¡°Why get close to passerby, after all?¡±


    ¡°He must have been born and raised here.¡± Anson said, mostly to himself, but Sonny answered.


    ¡°Of course. Everyone who works in this hotel is from here.¡± He said, then looked thoughtful and returned to wiping down the counter without another word.


    Anson chose to finish his drink in silence after that, though he had a lot to think about. Why everyone who worked in the hotel would be someone born and raised in the town was a curious question, and its answer seemed steeped in distrust of outsiders and some form of paranoia that Anson was all too familiar with. There were more questions to be had, more answers to be given, but that was all in due time, and he was again a bit on edge as he considered how much time he had there. Hopefully, all would be well and Heath wouldn¡¯t say a word against him.


    He departed after his drink was finished, quite cold, and chose to return to his room. He waved again to Robert as he walked past, who nodded curtly in return, and wondered how friendly the gentleman was with the bartender. It was hard to imagine them as cordial, but if there was some sort of shared secret about this place between them, well, that could affect everything. It would be wise for him to watch them closer.


    When he climbed the stairs and arrived back into the hotel room, he went to the desk, pulled out a pen and opened up the menu. After his eyes traveled through the ¡®Entree¡¯ section, he circled the pot roast with potatoes, celery and carrots and threw it in the brass holder beside the door. Next he ceremonially kicked off his shoes and curled back into bed to warm up, where he stayed for a long while. A stretch of time was dedicated to general groaning and shivering, and once he warmed up he had a marathon of staring aimlessly at the ceiling.


    He grew bored after that and pulled down his trousers for some entertainment, his hands cold but his mind willing. He tried to conjure up a few images of Heath and their previous day together, though not of the rejection that came so swiftly afterwards. Unfortunately he was unsuccessful in not thinking of it, and though he pumped his cock relentlessly it failed to respond. He was too tense, too dejected, so he gave up on the endeavor, turned onto his side, and took a nap instead.


    It was dark when he woke up later, though at first he didn¡¯t know why. He peered around the room a minute, bleary, until a knock sounded against his door once again. At that he stretched, mentally willed himself away from the warm bed, and shuffled over to the door. When he opened it, whoever had been there had already vanished, but on the ground rested a silver tray and a cloche, and he knew it to be his dinner. He picked it up and carried it inside, then rested it carefully on the edge of the bed, as the writing desk was slanted and didn¡¯t allow a tray, a huge fault in the room¡¯s design.


    He lifted the cloche to find a large bowl of stew with a piece of bread on a small plate beside it. There was a fork, knife and spoon wrapped in a fine linen napkin, and he unfurled it to see they were high quality and heavy. With the napkin set aside, he grabbed the fork and sampled the stew, still piping hot; the meat was tough, but he liked the vegetables. The sauce had an artificial sort of taste that he actually quite enjoyed, maybe due to nostalgia or the comfort of preservative-leaning American cuisine. He tried the bread and deemed it acceptable, if a bit stale. All in all, a decent meal, far more so than he usually had on the road but far below what he¡¯d been having at the Italian shack.


    He supped in silence, though he mostly ignored the roast itself and ate the bread and vegetables. He feasted until he was full and then had a bit more, and when he was properly stuffed he set the utensils into the bowl, wiped his mouth with the napkin and placed the cloche back over the whole thing. Then he set it out into the hallway, somehow certain that it would disappear quickly. A small part of him wanted to stand by the door the next few hours and wait for a footfall to discover just who was cleaning up after him, but now he was so tired and glutted that he decided to pass. Warm and satiated, he turned off the light and crawled back into bed and dozed off once more. When his tray was removed from the hall, he was too far gone to hear it.


    This morning was just as cold as the last. Anson felt clear and relaxed when he awoke, very thoroughly rested, but he wondered if he could ask Robert about an extra blanket. He had fallen asleep in his thick cardigan and even that hadn¡¯t kept him warm. He stood up and went to the window ¨C because he¡¯d gone to sleep so early he¡¯d woken up early, too, and the sun was only just rising on the other side of the building. The ocean was still a dark abyss, the houses around him still shuttered. He was used to being up this early to avoid traffic, but usually he was on the highway with some shitty coffee in his gut, not looking over a cozy little town in the middle of nowhere, and it was surprisingly calming to view the horizon in stillness rather than out his rearview mirror.


    He immediately recalled his situation with Heath and felt his ease fade slightly. The desire to hunker down was beginning to call to him, but he wasn¡¯t about to stay if he didn¡¯t have anyone to stay for. It was already a bad idea, he was messing with something he shouldn¡¯t be, but that was a moot point this late in the game. For now the question was still of his safety, and then of what he should do about his new friend.


    A shower seemed to be the best remedy to all this early-morning brooding, so he rather leisurely collected his things with the decision to wear his black suit again ¨C he aimed to walk around town once more and wanted to keep up with aesthetics. Then he headed down the hall to the powder room with either a hope or fear of seeing someone else at such a different time of day. Whatever he wanted though, his anticipation was slashed when he swung open the heavy door and found the room as remarkably empty as usual.


    But the pipes rattled, so somewhere else in the building Robert, Sonny or a mysterious other party was doing just as he was, stripping down and getting clean. He held that thought in his mind, an analytical observation, as he blasted the hot water and soaked himself thoroughly. Afterwards he gelled and combed back his hair to combat errant curls and made sure his suit was pristine.


    When he returned to his room and glanced out the window he found that it was properly morning now, not so early as he was alone witnessing the world. In the distance, a barge was leaving the docks, and he wondered if that was a sign to the fisherman¡¯s wives that the day had begun then decided to take it as one himself. He wrapped himself tightly in his long jacket and pulled on a pair of black gloves, then decided to seek caffeine and entertainment in the library.


    He took to the stairs as usual, now quite familiar with the terrain, and waved to Robert at the reception desk. His hair was perfectly dry, and it seemed that he got up far earlier than everyone else to bathe, ever the professional. Anson approached quick enough to catch Robert¡¯s expression, mildly disgruntled at the disturbance, and had to hold back a little giggle. Though no attempts to torture the man were being made he couldn¡¯t help but enjoy the suffering.


    ¡°Morning, Robert.¡± Anson grinned.


    ¡°Good morning, sir.¡± He allowed.


    ¡°Listen, I was wondering if I could request an extra blanket or something tonight. It¡¯s mighty cold.¡± He asked, and Robert nodded.


    ¡°I¡¯ll turn up the heating on your floor.¡± He said, and Anson felt immediately thankful. ¡°You must be unused to the cold.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s true, I¡¯ve been traveling along the southern border this past year to sell my bibles.¡± Anson replied, and tried to gauge the other man¡¯s interest in them. Robert looked entirely unfazed.


    ¡°Well the room will be warmer this evening, sir. To accommodate your southern inclinations.¡± He tipped his head, and Anson sensed that the conversation was over and didn¡¯t push it. So he thanked the man pleasantly and took his leave.


    Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    A gust of wind hit him sharply as he exited, and though he was bundled up tight he was still quaking in his shoes within a minute. He hugged himself tightly on the way to the library and cursed himself for not owning a scarf. In the two or three minutes it took to get to that old brick building his nose was all red ¨C he could¡¯ve cried with joy when he spotted David opening the door.


    ¡°Morning.¡± Anson called out to the other man, who was similarly huddled within a few thick layers of his own. ¡°You just opening?¡±


    ¡°Sophia¡¯s already in.¡± David answered, and held open the door for him. Anson rushed in, instantly grateful for the rush of warmth that hit him. David followed and rubbed his hands.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to run to her for a cup of tea.¡± Anson said amiably, and David gave him a wry grin.


    ¡°Given how often I¡¯m sucking down her coffee, so am I.¡± He said. ¡°Walk with me.¡±


    Anson nodded, and the pair walked pleasantly towards the back of the library. David was a quiet man, which sorely reminded him of Heath, though he seemed more stoic, with a hint of insanity in the form of chaos just beneath the mask. His love for reading appeared to make him an internal adventurer of sorts, present but eternally distracted.


    ¡°What are you reading right now?¡± Anson asked conversationally, and David shrugged.


    ¡°I¡¯m rereading The Hobbit for the umpteenth time.¡± He answered. ¡°I was going to go through that bible of yours, take some notes and maybe do some kind of research project for the hell of it, but the patrons have been looking at it and I didn¡¯t want to take it away from anyone.¡±


    ¡°As a librarian is wont to do.¡± Anson complimented conversationally, though he was secretly quite pleased at the attention the bible brought. He wasn¡¯t short on money yet, but a couple extra bills were always appreciated and if he could get a few more buyers out of that one book he¡¯d feel real damn accomplished.


    They arrived at Sophia¡¯s nook to find her pushing around the tins on her shelf, getting organized as a kettle began to steam. When she heard their footfall, she turned and smiled at them both.


    ¡°Morning, darlin¡¯s.¡± She greeted them as she shrugged off her coat. She still wore slacks, with a stylish pussy-bow top. ¡°My two favorite boys, the old and the new. What can I get you?¡±


    ¡°Your very favorite will take a strong coffee.¡± David said with a roll of his eyes as Anson felt a genuine grin bubble to his lips. ¡°What¡¯ll you be having, second favorite?¡±


    ¡°I think I¡¯ll take the same.¡± He said, in want of the energy after a very lazy day. ¡°As the inferior favorite.¡±


    Sophia laughed and grabbed a small burlap sack, then reached inside and grabbed a handful of coffee beans that Anson could smell five feet away. She poured them into a small box on top of her little table and began to turn a lever that sat atop it to grind them.


    ¡°What book are you working on, then?¡± David asked, and now was Anson¡¯s turn to shrug.


    ¡°I¡¯m in-between. I¡¯ll be looking around the shelves for a bit today, after I warm up with some joe.¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯s Joe?¡± Sophia asked as she measured the grinds she¡¯d made, and David groaned with what Anson suspected was a secret appreciation of the joke.


    ¡°Every time.¡± He muttered, and she waggled her brows as she dumped the grinds into a coffee dripper. The kettle began to wail, and she pulled it off the burner and slowly poured a bit into the grounds, careful not to splash. ¡°I could recommend a book if you need some inspiration.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll browse your selection first. I¡¯d love to see what you have.¡± Anson said instead of ¡®I don¡¯t want you to see what I read.¡¯ ¡°But maybe later I¡¯ll come to you.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s good at recommending.¡± Sophia put in. ¡°You¡¯d think it¡¯d be all knights and faeries but he actually knows what to give people.¡±


    ¡°Me? Competent? Quite the shock.¡± David said, his brows raised high, and Sophia gave him a cheeky grin as she set down the kettle. ¡°You know I¡¯m a librarian, not just some hermit in a big brick building, right?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t want me to answer that.¡± She said and handed them the cream and sugar pots. David gave her a joking look of chagrin as she poured the dark coffee from her pitcher into two teacups; the first depicted what Anson believed to be snapdragon, the second a patch of little blue flowers with yellow centers that he couldn¡¯t quite place.


    ¡°Thank you.¡± David said as he took the snapdragon cup that was offered to him, and Anson said the same given his own. David poured in a bit of sugar and nixed the cream, but Anson poured a big wallop of both. ¡°I¡¯ll leave you to your reading.¡±


    He tipped his head and took off, and Anson tested his coffee with a quick sip ¨C Sophia made it strong, that was certain, and it was still bitter with all that cream and sugar. He poured a bit more of each, had another sip, and smiled to himself. Good thing he¡¯d gotten it piping hot or it would be entirely cool from the additions; now it was a lovely temperature, perfectly warm but meant to be had rather quick lest it go cold. With a large gulp, he thanked Sophia again and wandered off to inspect the shelves.


    The library had a surprising selection for such a small town in the middle of nowhere, no doubt thanks to David¡¯s meticulous enterprising. He eventually found another old favorite, Death In Venice, and settled down at his usual table. He drank the coffee quick as a lick and enjoyed every drop, then became absorbed in the tale. He had sat there for about an hour, enthralled in the story, until a shadow fell over him. When he looked up, he felt his eyes widen and his heart drop into his gut.


    It was the first time he¡¯d seen Gin without her waitress uniform. She looked like one of those new rockabilly girls he¡¯d noticed around, especially in the south, with high-waisted capris and a gingham shirt tied at the waist, classic red to match her converse. His heart pounded as he tried to assess the severity of the situation; he couldn¡¯t tell how much she knew from her calm, blank expression, nor was he aware of how much she¡¯d told the rest of town. There was a high possibility that just outside those heavy library doors a restless crowd was waiting for him. To top off the whole nightmare, he noticed above all that Heath was nowhere to be found, and he didn¡¯t dare decipher all the awful possibilities as to why he wasn¡¯t present.


    Wordlessly, Gin pulled up the chair across from him and sat down, her gaze even and subdued. Anson tried to appear more peaceful than he felt, but from her lack of a friendly greeting he already knew they weren¡¯t so friendly as they had been, so clearly she was at least aware that something was wrong. He could only wait for her to speak first.


    ¡°This is . . . this is unpleasant, Anson.¡± She finally said after a long stretch of silence. ¡°I trust you understand you¡¯ve upset me.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± He said, his throat dry, but offered nothing more. She didn¡¯t wait for him to speak again.


    ¡°We made it clear that we don¡¯t trust many people, and when we thought we could trust in you, you invited yourself ¨C¡± She looked around and lowered her voice. ¡°You invited yourself to my husband.¡±


    He nodded bashfully, but felt some stubborn refusal to apologize. He wanted to wait to figure out if that would make things better for him, and if it did then sure, he would lie and insist he felt guilty about it, falsely beg for forgiveness. She continued again without waiting for him to speak, and he suspected that maybe she needed to put on a brave face and get through it.


    ¡°Heath has his inclinations. I¡¯ve known about them for ages, he told me when we¡¯d met. I don¡¯t know how you figured that out, but that¡¯s not really something I¡¯m concerned with when I come back from shopping to find him sobbing.¡± There was a fire in her eyes. ¡°He feels so guilty, so miserable because he¡¯s married, he¡¯s in love with me, he wants me, but in you came and he couldn¡¯t help himself.¡±


    Anson briefly wondered if that was an exact quote, an admission. If Heath was just as interested in him as he was in that handsome chef with the cute little smile and a passion that inspired love and lust alike. Gin leaned back in her chair and inspected him a moment, the anger on her face now paired with pain.


    ¡°He made an awful mistake, but you willfully beguiled a married man, your friend wed to another friend ¨C two who put far more faith in you than they did anyone else in a long time.¡± She sighed. ¡°So you understand quite well how much you¡¯ve hurt us.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± He said again, as he knew this time she expected an answer. ¡°Yes. I trespassed in your marriage. I betrayed your trust. I hurt you.¡±


    ¡°And my husband.¡± She added quickly. ¡°I imagine his feelings matter to you.¡±


    ¡°Of course they do.¡± He replied earnestly. ¡°I never meant for this to hurt him, I just wanted ¨C I don¡¯t know. I didn¡¯t expect him to become so agitated.¡±


    She studied him once more, her brow creased with thought. I just wanted him, that was his first thought, but not one he planned on telling Heath¡¯s wife.


    ¡°We didn¡¯t tell a soul. You¡¯re perfectly safe.¡± She said, a tad softer now. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I should¡¯ve prefaced with that, you look nervous.¡±


    He felt the slightest bit of ease flow through him like a gust of cool air. At least he was safe, even if everything else may have been falling to shit. The newly temperate note in her voice made him wonder, though, if maybe she was less angry because she knew he was just a man caught in the pull of attraction as opposed to one with malicious intent, though that was just for the time being, just until his situation no longer allowed it. Maybe she felt safer thinking she still had his trust.


    ¡°I still won¡¯t tell anyone about the two of you.¡± He responded, and she acknowledged it with a nod. He had nothing more to say from there, and went silent as he waited for his punishment. If they hadn¡¯t told anyone about it there was no angry mob outside, but she might still tell him off further or ask him to leave.


    ¡°We put a lot of faith in you.¡± She said plainly, a reiteration of all she¡¯d let out thus far. She seemed curious to know if he fully understood that, and he looked around carefully before he leaned in and lowered his voice.


    ¡°The fact that you were married in ¡¯42 wasn¡¯t lost on me. I¡¯m so sorry.¡± He said, and she appeared suddenly distraught, though she was keeping her emotions at bay. ¡°That was the year they started the internment camps for your people.¡±


    She nodded wordlessly. He suspected there had been terrible losses for her, but he wouldn¡¯t bring up such horrible things, not at that moment.


    ¡°Heath lied when he said you two weren¡¯t criminals anymore. You fled from the government¡¯s prison and he abetted you. Neither of you can ever go home.¡± It was only a hunch, but from the heartbreak on her expression he knew he¡¯d inferred correctly. ¡°You don¡¯t deserve that, Gin, no one in those camps did. I understand why it¡¯s been so long since either of you has made a friend ¨C the risk of jail is too great. But I won¡¯t tell a word of it. Not for friendship or affection, but because that¡¯s the right thing to do.¡±


    She looked away and hastily wiped a tear. It had been nothing but the truth, but it was the right thing to say, too, the thing that kept anything left between them alive. He let her take a minute to gather herself, and when she finally looked at him it was with the same quiet determination she¡¯d sat down with.


    ¡°I think you should have lunch at the restaurant later.¡± She said, and Anson felt a jolt move through him. It sounded so much like an olive branch that he didn¡¯t dare believe it, instantly convinced that there was some sort of trick at play. But if she wasn¡¯t going to punish him now, why wait until then? There was no advantage to it, only that Heath would be present, and Anson didn¡¯t think he¡¯d masterminded some sort of revenge plot. She watched him process the invitation. ¡°It¡¯s up to you, of course. Just think about it. I think it would be good for us.¡±


    And then she stood and left without another word. Good for us. The phrase rang of mending fences, something Anson would love. He could regain their friendship, earn a place with them again, see how Heath was doing and what he would be open to in the future. Of course that was a terrible thing, to immediately wonder how he could take advantage of this to fuck the man he wanted, but without that their friendships were just a pleasantry, and he was far used to living without those. He wasn¡¯t entirely sure what he would do going forward, but it wouldn¡¯t involve mere friendship alone.


    He waited a full four hours before he left that library, with most of that time spent staring idly at the wall as he tried to predict what would happen. But he couldn¡¯t comprehend any of it, so he just had to admit he was starving, bundle himself up, and return his empty cup to Sophia with a friendly goodbye. From there he walked quickly to his car still sat in front of Cliffside, then climbed in, not thrilled at how cold it was. He drove to that little shack by the sea with more apprehension than he cared to admit, but repeatedly tried to smooth his nerves with reinforcements of a solitary reminder: they didn¡¯t tell anyone. He wasn¡¯t in danger anymore, at least no more than usual.


    The parking lot was empty save for Heath and Gin¡¯s shared car, which meant Heath would leave the kitchen and speak to him. He turned off his own car and took a heavy breath ¨C it had been years since he¡¯d been so nervous, but he wasn¡¯t about to let it get to him, wasn¡¯t about to be ruined by a little fear. He got out and found the wind even stronger out on the mountain in front of the ocean and swayed as he went to the door. When he opened it, he saw Gin right away, now in her usual yellow dress. She was at a table scraping wax, and when she looked at him she didn¡¯t grin, but didn¡¯t frown ¨C only waved her hand to his usual chair at the bar. He went over with false confidence and took off his gloves and jacket, though the little building was very cold. When he sat, she came over and handed him a menu.


    ¡°Cold out.¡± She said softly, and he nodded.


    ¡°I thought I would get blown out to sea with that wind.¡± He remarked, though not with as much pep as he would usually muster. He looked down and was caught by surprise. ¡°This is a different menu.¡±


    The kitchen door opened with a familiar little sound, and he looked up with all haste to take Heath in. He didn¡¯t look well at all, with dark circles beneath his eyes and an unusual pallor to his skin as though he missed the last two nights¡¯ sleep. So the guilt had been as strong as Gin claimed, that was interesting. Maybe it should have pained Anson, but in that moment his concern was with what Heath would say to him, their first words since he¡¯d banished him from the kitchen.


    ¡°It¡¯s the winter menu.¡± Was all he said, and his voice sounded weak and frazzled. ¡°We create them seasonally.¡±


    Anson nodded and inspected it carefully, and he watched from the corner of his eye as Gin sat across from him, though Heath stood still.


    ¡°Because all the produce dies off in the cold.¡± Gin explained after a moment, with a careful little look meant to hide any hesitation. ¡°We rely more on canned and preserved stuff.¡±


    ¡°Richer flavors, denser textures, more fats and dairy.¡± Heath jumped in, and Anson sensed some relief in his words at the subject matter. The plan seemed to be awkwardly glossing over the events of two days previous, and it was one Anson could unquestionably get behind. As long as they were friends, that was good enough for now.


    ¡°Good thing this is an Italian restaurant.¡± He considered giving Heath a charming grin, but felt maybe they weren¡¯t ready for that yet. ¡°So you mostly use tomatoes. Those are fine out of the can.¡±


    ¡°Very true.¡± Heath smiled faintly, then gestured down at the menu with some regained animation. ¡°Tell me what you like.¡±


    He read through the entrees quickly. ¡°The lamb and polenta doesn¡¯t have any mint jelly, does it?¡±


    ¡°God no.¡± Gin groaned and took the menu back.


    ¡°That question was almost patronizing.¡± Heath remarked, and moved to step back into the kitchen. ¡°Want anything sweetheart?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll take the last serving of last night¡¯s gnocchi if you wouldn¡¯t mind.¡± Gin answered, and he nodded with an affectionate grin and disappeared into the other room. Anson was so temporarily hurt he almost wondered if that was their plan all along, to parade their relationship in front of him for the sake of pettiness: but he would be able to tell if they were remotely near capable of that sort of cruelty and the pair didn¡¯t set off any alarms. Gin took out three sets of utensils, which thankfully meant Heath would be eating with them, then looked around for a minute, a bit out of place. Anson took pity on her and spoke first.


    ¡°How are those candles going?¡± He asked, and immediately regretted it. She¡¯d been out buying that candle wax when he was sucking her husband¡¯s cock, after all, but if she made the connection she didn¡¯t show it.


    ¡°They¡¯re all as usual.¡± She said idly. ¡°I was just scraping off the wax earlier, but it¡¯s long past time for a lunch break.¡±


    ¡°So hurry it up in there!¡± Anson shouted through the wall, and laughed when he heard Heath respond with a muffled ¡®Mama Mia!¡¯


    ¡°Sometimes he pretends we¡¯re actually Italian.¡± Gin noted. ¡°The only word we know is ciao, but since it means hello and goodbye I guess that counts as two.¡±


    ¡°You know a ton of food words.¡± Anson pointed out. ¡°So what if you can¡¯t ask a local for fellazione?¡±


    ¡°Wow! Where¡¯d you learn that?¡± She asked wide-eyed, and he fibbed easily.


    ¡°Have you forgotten I¡¯m a traveling bible salesman?¡± He questioned. ¡°If I go more than a day without meeting an Italian-Catholic I¡¯m suspicious.¡±


    She laughed, and he heard the kitchen door open and turned to find Heath with two steaming bowls.


    ¡°Honey, can you get my dish?¡± He asked, and she jumped up and went to the kitchen as Heath set down her and Anson¡¯s meals. Heath chanced a glance to him, the first time their eyes met since the shouting that had occurred two days prior, and he gave him a shy little smile that Anson returned. The door opened again, and Heath sat down and fiddled with his utensils as Gin handed him his food.


    Anson looked down to his own dish and found that it matched Heath¡¯s. It was a simple, elegant looking lamb stew that sat atop a bed of what looked like grits, all topped with shavings of parmesan. He could smell the tinny tomatoes beneath the heavy hit of rosemary and black pepper and was reminded how hungry it was.


    ¡°Leftovers again.¡± Heath said in an apologetic tone. ¡°At least ours reheats well.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t mind at all.¡± Anson replied honestly, pleased at the old rhythm they¡¯d started to regain. ¡°What is this, anyhow? It looks like cornmeal.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s basically grits. A cornmeal porridge.¡± Gin answered as she grabbed a fork. ¡°But Heath loads it with cream and butter just in case the pile of red meat wasn¡¯t enough for you.¡±


    ¡°Perfect.¡± Anson said, then picked up a piece of lamb liberally coated in sauce with a bit of the polenta and took a bite. Lamb was so often tough and dry, but this was perfectly tender, and the sauce was basic without being bland. The garlic wasn¡¯t as harsh as it so frequently could be, and he detected carrots, onions, and celery also simmered along in the stew. The polenta was so creamy without a bit of grittiness, a great accompaniment to the stew.


    He groaned aloud and shoved a second forkful into his mouth, and from the corner of his eye saw Heath adjust slightly in his chair and sent a quick prayer that he¡¯d been hastily hiding some arousal that had accidentally been Anson¡¯s doing. Gin only smiled.


    ¡°Always so complimentary. It¡¯s going right to Heath¡¯s head, you know.¡± She said, then took a bite of her own dish that Anson surmised to be small dumplings tossed with a ground beef sauce that had a fragrant smell of red wine about it. ¡°This is good, sweetheart. Of course I said the same thing yesterday, but it bears repeating.¡±


    Heath could only give them a bashful half-wave as he chewed through a large mouthful of polenta. Anson giggled at his expense.


    ¡°The poor dear can¡¯t even calm his fan-club.¡± Gin cooed, and Heath made an indignant face, though with his cheeks so full it could only come off as laughable.


    ¡°Aw.¡± Anson said, though he was still chuckling. ¡°How do you take this abuse, Heath?¡±


    ¡°What? I am the perfect wife. We¡¯re the picture of domestic bliss.¡± Heath finally swallowed his bite and prepared to speak. ¡°Sh.¡±


    ¡°Wow.¡± Anson laughed, and Gin dissolved into laughter as well. Heath chuckled quietly to himself, his cheeks all red from the attention. Once Gin got back in control of herself she simply rolled her eyes, gave Heath an affectionate look, and went back to her food with one handed rested gently on the counter.


    ¡°After this can I convince you to indulge in some pandoro?¡± Heath asked him with a hopeful look. ¡°It¡¯s a very cakey sweet bread.¡±


    ¡°Cakey, huh.¡± Anson said, and Heath gave him a look. ¡°I don¡¯t know, honestly, this is so good and I¡¯m getting monumentally stuffed.¡±


    ¡°What if we split it?¡± Gin asked through a mouthful of gnocchi. ¡°I absolutely adore pandoro, I promise it¡¯s so good.¡±


    One of her fingers twitched on the hand she had lying on the counter, something Anson for whatever reason noticed as Heath nodded enthusiastically.


    ¡°We have a mascarpone sauce.¡± Heath tempted him, and Anson felt a grin tugging at his lips. ¡°Maybe there¡¯s even some candied orange peel back there.¡±


    ¡°Alright, alright, I¡¯ll have some.¡± He finally agreed, and Gin made a little ¡®aha!¡¯ sound at the deal. ¡°I thought I was supposed to be the salesman here.¡±


    Heath laughed heartily at that, and stood to collect the dishes. Anson stacked his bowl into Heath¡¯s, and Heath slid both of those onto Gin¡¯s plate. When her dish was taken away, she left her hand on the counter.


    ¡°Two forks, right?¡± Heath asked, and Gin nodded enthusiastically. He left for the kitchen, and she gave him a coy grin.


    ¡°Thank god you¡¯re here so I have an excuse to eat dessert.¡± She said, and Anson smiled warmly, honestly glad for the newly returned camaraderie.


    ¡°My pleasure.¡± He replied with a bow of his head.


    It didn¡¯t take long for Heath to reappear with a small blue plate ¨C on it was an unusual star-shaped slice of very golden, light-looking bread. When Anson inspected it more closely, he found that it looked quite like brioche, and was topped with a ribbon of a pale sauce flecked with vanilla bean and a delicate little pile of sugar-coated orange peels. Gin handed him a fork, then offered one to her husband.


    ¡°I¡¯m so full, I might explode if I have a single bite of this.¡± He said, but took the fork anyway.


    The three of them dug in at the same time, but Gin got to it a second before Anson did and let out a little sound of enjoyment.


    ¡°Amazing, darling.¡± She said, and Anson took a bite himself. It was highly comparable to brioche, very buttery and rich, yet he could easily imagine himself eating the whole slice. The mascarpone was creamy with a great hint of vanilla, the overall dish not too sweet. He went back in for a bit with orange peel on it as Heath only took a single bite and rested his fork on the edge of his plate.


    ¡°Thanks. Yeah, I prefer this to panettone.¡± He said after he swallowed, then looked to Anson. ¡°That one¡¯s not as sweet, has a lot of dried fruit.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen them in the decorative boxes.¡± He nodded. ¡°In New York, late November.¡±


    ¡°Last year?¡± Gin inquired, and he shook his head as he chewed a large bite.


    ¡°A few years ago. I¡¯ve been driving for a long while.¡± He explained, then quickly sidetracked the conversation. ¡°Which do you prefer?¡±


    ¡°Pandoro.¡± Gin said easily, then pulled the plate a few inches towards herself. ¡°Sweeter.¡±


    Her hand lingered on the counter next to the plate, and suddenly something clicked and Anson understood exactly what was going on. The goal of this wasn¡¯t to awkwardly brush aside what had happened between he and Heath the other day. It wasn¡¯t to retain the only friend they¡¯d had in over a decade simply because they wanted company. There wasn¡¯t even some sort of twisted revenge plot lying beneath the surface of all these niceties. She wanted him to hold her hand.


    You invited yourself to my husband, that was what Gin had said in the library earlier, not that an invitation never would have been given from the both of them. This was that moment, that invitation being extended. In the most subtle of all ways, the couple were expressing their interest in him, the question being whether or not he should return it.


    He stole a glance at Heath, who had been looking at him and gave him another shy little grin. Anson returned it as his gaze ducked back down to the plate, the answer obvious. The feelings he had for Heath were too strong to deny, too strong to walk away from. Gin was charming and easy to talk to and, above all, irresistibly beautiful, and Anson supposed that if he ever had to fuck someone to get to someone else he could¡¯ve done far worse. What he felt for her was only friendship (at least for now) but he would fake it if he had to, and he¡¯d faked plenty more than love.


    ¡°What¡¯s your favorite season to cook in?¡± He asked, eyes still on the remainder of the sweet bread as he set his hand on the counter. ¡°Since you¡¯ve got seasonal menus.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s easy ¨C Summer.¡± Heath answered. ¡°Everything¡¯s so ripe and fresh and in season.¡±


    ¡°Even though the kitchen gets to be about two hundred degrees.¡± Gin put in. ¡°We get slow roasted like the lamb you just ate.¡±


    Quickly, smoothly, Anson took her hand in his, and she grasped him lightly as he rushed on to the next sentence before either of the pair could make a comment on it. He wanted to keep it as organic as possible and have the risk at a minimum; there was so much on the line here.


    ¡°I can¡¯t imagine standing over that stove in the heat, though I suppose you make more stuff cold then.¡± He said, and Heath nodded without a glance to his wife¡¯s hand.


    ¡°The bruschetta may be my favorite menu item all year round.¡± He said, and lit up a bit. Anson was grateful to see the color begin to return to him. ¡°Fresh tomatoes, red onion, basil, all served with garlic-rubbed toasted baguette slices. It¡¯s so simple and fresh, but there¡¯s so many ways to fiddle with it. Like ¨C¡±


    ¡°Okay, settle down there.¡± Gin smiled. ¡°Look at this, you¡¯ve awoken the evil genius in him.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t imagine he¡¯s too evil.¡± Anson said. ¡°If he were to threaten me with a peach or something I wouldn¡¯t be shaking in my boots.¡±


    ¡°You can make peach bruschetta!¡± Heath exclaimed, and Anson snorted.


    ¡°The two of you are going to be trouble, aren¡¯t you?¡± Gin asked as she put down her fork and allowed Anson to snatch the last bite. ¡°Suddenly I feel like I¡¯m raising toddlers.¡±


    ¡°I should start on these dishes.¡± Heath said quickly at that, and Anson perked up.


    ¡°Do you need any help?¡± He asked. ¡°I feel bad, I¡¯m the one dirtying the plates.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re paying, aren¡¯t you?¡± Gin asked with a laugh, and Anson suspected that for all that had occurred she wasn¡¯t quite ready to leave him alone in that kitchen with her husband again. Baby steps. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it, doll, business is business. In fact, I¡¯ll do the dishes, seeing as someone has cooking to do.¡±


    ¡°Crab cioppino doesn¡¯t make itself.¡± Heath dolefully agreed, and Anson decided it was better not to ask. ¡°Maybe next time I¡¯ll let you work and we¡¯ll put our feet up.¡±


    ¡°As long as you¡¯re still the one cooking.¡± Anson said, and Gin released his hand and pulled away. He stood, and the pair did as well as he threw his jacket on. Gin came around to his side of the counter to give him a loose hug goodbye, and he kissed her on the cheek. Heath came over a hug too, unusually intimate for two gentleman of the age, and Anson kissed his cheek as well. Though he would have given both a peck on the lips he didn¡¯t want to rush into it yet.


    But he was ready. It was a beautiful risk, a frightening trove of possibilities, and he couldn¡¯t wait to taste it. After all he¡¯d had a long life of danger and even if this was exponentially less than that of his old days, it was enough. It felt right ¨C now all he had to do was ensure they weren¡¯t learning as much about him as he did them.


    He left with a far lighter heart than he¡¯d held the last time he walked out that door. It was far from the last time he would see them.

 Chapter Five

    It seemed the cold was more brutal on these mountains. Maybe that was the sea¡¯s influence, the sharp winds that rolled off of her and slammed the old brick walls of the Cliffside Hotel. Anson woke up early, frozen solid, then tossed and turned until he returned to an uneasy sleep. When he awoke properly it was late morning, but what the hell did he have to do aside from visit his lovely new friends? All movements following this were leisurely, from stretching to yawning to making his way to empty showers.


    He¡¯d asked Robert at the front desk for a blanket previously, but the one left waiting for him when he returned to the hotel the night prior was thin and aged. The flannel had clearly once been soft, but it wasn¡¯t frequent washing that had worn it down: indeed the rich red and green had not at all faded in color. It was time in the closet that had done it, as proven by the small holes throughout that moths had left. As he donned his navy suit he vowed to have a word with dear Robert on his way out, the thought of which put a pep in his step on his way out the door.


    Heath. And Gin, as well. For now. Whatever he needed to do to get to him. Or maybe he shouldn¡¯t think that way. Maybe it was a tad obsessive, the way he knew he could be. That obsessive streak had only ever gotten him in trouble before, but fortunately for him and unfortunately for the law he was quite fond of trouble. He bounded down the stairs and made his way to the lobby, where he found Robert preoccupied with a man at the counter. Here he paused, curious. Another guest, perhaps? His thick coat seemed a little worse for wear, maybe he¡¯d been sat in his car for a long while. He further descended the stairs and approached to see a small grin on Robert¡¯s face, the first genuine smile he¡¯d ever seen on the man despite being thin-lipped, almost condescending. As Anson stepped forward the other man glanced his way, then did a double take and gave him a lopsided smile. It wasn¡¯t another guest at all ¡ª it was Joe, from the general store.


    ¡°Caught another one, huh, Westin?¡± He elbowed the concierge in the ribs to his great consternation. Then, to Anson: ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. Happens all the time.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure how long I¡¯ll be staying.¡± Anson shifted, but Joe had already turned away.


    ¡°Well, whaddya say, Westy, tonight? Me, you, Dave? Hell, let¡¯s grab that bartender of yours too, he¡¯s always better company than you are anyways.¡±


    ¡°Now, Joshua¡ª¡±


    ¡°Joe, please, call me Joe.¡± He turned back to Anson now. ¡°Mean Joe, that¡¯s what they called me on the pitch. I tackled like a sonuvabitch.¡±


    ¡°As I¡¯m sure our guest is thrilled to learn.¡± Robert said. Allying himself with Anson just to put down Joe, he thought he¡¯d never see the day. It seemed the pair either furiously hated each other or were just that sort of friend, but either way he had no desire to continue in this conversation. Forget the blanket, he wanted out.


    ¡°I must be on my way, gentleman.¡± He bowed his head and made for the door without any further ado.


    ¡°Yes, yes.¡± Joe waved his hand. ¡°Though, if I may sir. . .¡±


    Anson paused and resisted the urge to sigh.


    ¡°It¡¯s getting mighty cold out, and the wind can cut right through you, especially if you¡¯re traveling north through the mountains. I recommend you get yourself a coat. Anita has a little shop not far from the library where you might find yourself something nice.¡±


    It was sound advice where Anson expected something silly. Joe had a quiet, manic aura to him, much the way the librarian David did, but Anson suspected Joe could be a bit more sneaky with it, maybe wear it as charm. Maybe in a little town like this it was charm.


    ¡°For a price?¡± He asked cautiously, and Joe shrugged.


    ¡°I couldn¡¯t tell ya, I¡¯ve been wearing this coat for twenty years now.¡± He said, and Robert scoffed quietly. If he knew the cost he said nothing, and Anson made that his cue to leave.


    ¡°Thank you, I¡¯ll definitely have to go see her.¡± He said graciously. He was tempted to add why he didn¡¯t own a coat: a year traveling on the southern border, selling bibles he would¡¯ve tried to make a profit off of now if he didn¡¯t desperately wish to leave the conversation. Before that, on the north coast, he¡¯d stolen a parka from a handsome (if dull) man in Montana, but it hadn¡¯t nearly been warm enough for those winters and he ended up getting rid of it somewhere in Georgia to make room for a couple more bibles. A thicker coat would be even greater bulk, but he¡¯d been so cold those last few days he already considered it worth it. Well, worth the space. The price was yet to be seen.


    ¡°Good day, sir.¡± Mr. Westin said then, maybe annoyed with him, though definitely annoyed with Joe. Anson nodded in return and made his way out the door, where he was immediately hit with harsh winds as he rushed to his car. He¡¯d left the gel out of his hair, seeing as Heath and Gin were fond of his free flowing curls, and it whipped all around as the keys shook in his hands. At last he got into his car and immediately blasted the heat, even if it came out ice cold at first. As he drove up to the little Italian restaurant the car heated up rather splendidly, and he grew comfortable until he realized that little shack would likely be freezing upon his arrival. He had to groan aloud at that.


    He was right, of course. After he parked his car and rushed in, pushing through winds even more intense closer to the shore and higher up the mountains, he found the dining room absolutely frigid. The thin little window panes shook from the wind and rattled faintly as Anson slammed the door behind him.


    ¡°Goddamn.¡± He announced. ¡°Goddamn, it¡¯s cold out there.¡±


    ¡°It is winter on a mountain, sugar.¡± Gin pointed out. She was the only other person in the room, sat at a table wrapped in a cape coat. One hand was smothered by a mitten, but the other was naked in order to grab the playing cards sat before her. She was passing the time with a game of solitaire, with Heath likely in the kitchen. In fact, with a moment¡¯s pause, he could hear pots and pans clanging in there.


    ¡°Do you like it this cold? Why don¡¯t you light some candles?¡± He asked, and Gin lifted a card, made an aha! sound and placed it with some satisfaction.


    ¡°It gets so hot in the evenings you welcome the cold.¡± She answered, and he guessed he could understand that. It could get stifling with the crowd.


    ¡°Turned fast this year.¡± Heath called, and Anson glanced to see his face in the window between the kitchen and the room he and Gin stood. He gave the pair an apologetic look and raised his hands to reveal them covered in dough. ¡°Give me a minute.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± Anson said, and Heath disappeared into the kitchen. He pulled up a chair and sat beside Gin.


    ¡°Give me a minute, too.¡± She said, brow furrowed in concentration. ¡°When I¡¯m through with this we¡¯ll play a smacking few rounds of gin rummy.¡±


    Anson nodded silently, though gin rummy was not his game by any means. What he really wanted was to warm up, and when he looked at Gin¡¯s lovely, slim figure he could easily imagine a few activities to do so. But he wasn¡¯t sure she trusted him. Historically, he found the best way to gain trust was to ask for advice, something small, then land a compliment or two, and even divulge in some gossip. Remind the person you¡¯re trying to rip off that you¡¯re human and they¡¯ll trust you implicitly.


    ¡°Where¡¯d you get that coat?¡± He asked as she flipped a card, sighed, and set it aside. ¡°I saw Joe from the general store today, he said I ought to visit a woman named Anita.¡±


    ¡°You should, she¡¯s a talented seamstress. I did get this coat from her.¡± Gin smiled. ¡°I guess someone traveling in the south for so long wouldn¡¯t need an extra layer.¡±


    He told her about the parka from Montana without mentioning the thievery.


    ¡°Hm. Makes sense. You pick up the bibles when ¡ª yes! ¡ª when you get low?¡±


    ¡°Distributor has plenty of locations.¡± Anson nodded, then thought a moment. ¡°Whaddya think of Joe? He seems. . . I don¡¯t know. Like he¡¯s something.¡±


    ¡°Meanie¡¯s something, alright.¡± Gin flipped another card. ¡°I think he was some sort of venture capitalist or something. A banker, maybe.¡±


    ¡°And what, he got screwed out of a career?¡± Anson figured, and Gin shrugged.


    ¡°Or he gave up. Wandered, found this place.¡± She flipped a card, punched the air a little, and set it down. ¡°Happens. Happens often.¡±


    ¡°But do you like him? Do you trust him?¡± He pulled his chair closer to her as she threw her head back and laughed.


    ¡°I don¡¯t trust anyone. But sure, I like him. There¡¯s a lot of nuts here, but he¡¯s not too severe. besides, I¡¯m an LA girl. I¡¯m used to nut jobs.¡±


    ¡°You are married to a mad chef.¡± Anson slipped a hand onto her thigh, and she smiled and scooted towards him a little. She was already wearing her yellow waitressing dress and her skin was cold against the winter air, but when he moved his hand above her hem he sensed a heat. When she looked at him her expression was guarded, cautious, but he could see the curiosity behind it, the want. If she hadn¡¯t had any she wouldn¡¯t have invited Anson into this. Well, he couldn¡¯t say that for certain. Maybe she was just trying to keep her husband satisfied, but he didn¡¯t think she wasn¡¯t satisfying to some extent herself. He read people extremely well, and he read plenty of lust and love between them, and that they were talents in those two departments. The thought of that, coupled with his hand on her thigh, set a flame alight in his gut.


    He leaned in and kissed her, gentle enough as not to scare, and when he closed his eyes only hoped she closed hers as well. He crept his hand further up her thigh, pushing away her skirt, and she leaned closer and laid a hand gently on his waist. Now he kissed her in earnest, and she returned the favor, pulling him close. When he touched her cotton panties he ran his thumb up and down exactly where he knew would thrill her.


    ¡°Anson.¡± She wasn¡¯t moaning just yet, wasn¡¯t falling apart, but he understood what she wanted. He removed his blazer and threw it haphazardly on the table, then drew himself closer to her, to the point he was off his chair. He hovered somewhat awkwardly beside her chair, but neither party paid any mind as Gin grabbed at his button down shirt and pulled him into a few more kisses. He settled one hand at the small of her back and another at her panties, where he rubbed at her clit and kissed her until he felt sufficiently warmed through. When he pulled away to look at her, her cheeks were bright with a flush and her eyes were all hazy with desire. She seemed to drink him in for a moment, then looked over her shoulder towards the kitchen.


    Heath was leaning against the counter, so casually one would think he was watching a rather mundane ballgame. But the look on his face reminded Anson of the time they¡¯d spent together, the day he got on his knees for him. Where hope was once concealed it shown a little more obvious now; a hope that struck a nerve Anson didn¡¯t want touched. That desire for happiness in a world that didn¡¯t accept you or the people you loved, that poisonous expectation that maybe this time things will be better. In his experience, the people around him didn¡¯t grow more tolerant. No, he grew more clever. He played a dirtier game. He grifted when he needed and wanted, he stole whatever hearts, wallets, jewelry he pleased. He kept himself alive and he kept that stupid hope away from him.


    Not that he could blame Heath for feeling it, albeit with obvious hesitation. A feeling he¡¯d maybe felt with other men, hell, other boys, before, but certainly had felt with Gin. A feeling that broke a lot of innocent people and could break him yet. Anson mused lightly on this ¡ª he liked the man enough to bring out the very worst emotions. Was this something normal people did? Something they were turned on by?


    He pulled just far enough from Gin to slide down her panties, standing aside so Heath could get the view of her spread legs. She reached out and undid his zipper, then slid down his pants and boxers until his erect cock sprang out. Finally, he was going to get some release, even if it was with the wrong half of this couple. Behind him he could hear Heath undo his own belt with a jingle: there was too much tension in the room, things were moving too fast for Heath to join them, but he would surely enjoy himself just watching, and Anson wanted to give him a show. He hoisted Gin up so quickly her chair was knocked aside and pressed her against the wall. When he pushed into her she gasped, but as he rocked against her she grabbed at his lapel, then wrinkled the back of his shirt with her grasp.


    When she looked at Heath she moaned in earnest, right in Anson¡¯s ear. He nearly shuddered as he gripped her waist tighter. She was lightweight and balanced herself well with her back to the wall as her legs wrapped around him. Heath¡¯s view was of those long legs, of that wanton gaze Anson felt her throw to him, of his ass as he thrust into his wife. It wasn¡¯t perfect framing, but under rushed circumstances he could guess without looking Heath¡¯s way the chef was enjoying himself. Gin¡¯s moaning became hitched, and when she stilled, balled her fists against Anson¡¯s back and whined desperately he knew she¡¯d been satisfied. La petite mort, that¡¯s what they called it in France. Well, they didn¡¯t call it something so delicate in the part of France he was familiar with.


    It was a good thing she came when she did, because with her sweet little groan he realized he wasn¡¯t far himself. Maybe under the usual circumstances he would try for more than one orgasm for her ¡ª it had been awhile since he¡¯d been intimate with a woman, but he still knew it was just the polite thing to do. If Gin really needed another she¡¯d have to call her husband over, because his time was up. He pulled her away from the wall and threw her onto the table, scattering her playing cards as he continued to plunge into her. She moaned at the motion as Anson looked Heath¡¯s way: the man looked nearly undone with the blush on his cheeks and urgency in his expression. He had to be close, too, from the weakness in his eyes, the unravelling. Anson felt a hunger in the pit of his stomach finally begin to sate, though it was far from filled. He looked at Heath and Heath looked back to him and decided he needed so much more of this to be contented. But for now, he felt his eyes roll back, felt that knot in his guts, and groaned with release.


    He heard the same from Heath on the other side of the room and for a moment could only lean against Gin, spent as he listened to her heavy breathing. Eventually she sat up and he put his arms around her, then kissed her temple. She kissed his cheek, her gentle lips scratched by his whiskers, and he sensed this was a signal to release her, and pulled away so she could wordlessly pull up her panties. He fixed himself too as she walked over to her husband, though he was a bit put out to see her legs didn¡¯t shake a bit. Heath had grabbed a napkin to tidy himself up, but Gin took it from his hands and did the job for him, an act so intimate Anson felt a sudden, sickening flare of jealousy he had to bite back. Everything was alright, he had Heath right where he wanted him, and this should have been all he wanted. A little fun and nothing more, nothing to hold him up lest the world and all its law enforcement catch up, too. Too obsessive. He couldn¡¯t let himself get too obsessive.


    Heath zipped up his jeans, did his buckle, and looked Anson¡¯s way with something soft in his eyes. Anson honestly wasn¡¯t sure what was on his own face, but it must not have been as bad as he thought because Heath only gave him a lazy little smile and brushed the hair from his eyes. Gin went into the kitchen, likely to throw the napkin away, and threw an affectionate look at her husband as she past him. Anson suspected there was a competitive nature to her, that maybe she had a jealous streak, too. And he knew he¡¯d just fucked her and not the man he wanted, but that was enough to want to cheer aloud.


    ¡°I¡¯m having a cigarette.¡± Heath announced, drawing him from his thoughts. ¡°Would you like to join me?¡±


    He nodded and grabbed his blazer, for all the good it would do him in that cold. Smoking inside was the norm, and he would¡¯ve requested it had he smelled even a trace of tobacco in there. Suspicion told him the chef was not keen on mixing smoke with food, and though it must¡¯ve been difficult to enforce he was entertained by the idea of Gin yelling cigars back into pockets. The pair exited after he donned his coat and found it still freezing.


    ¡°Shit.¡± Anson crossed his arms as Heath pulled a box of cigarettes and a lighter from his back pocket. ¡°I don¡¯t know how two Angelinos take this.¡±


    ¡°You get used to it.¡± Heath handed Anson a cigarette. When he took it and placed it between his lips Heath held the zippo up for him. ¡°Santa Barbara¡¯s nearly just as warm, which I guess shows why you¡¯re so shaken.¡±


    Anson said nothing to that, only puffed his cigarette as Heath lit his own. After a moment the chef spoke again.


    ¡°You miss it?¡± Heath asked, and Anson tilted his head. Making conversation, or digging for information. Heath flushed at the look. ¡°Just ¡ª ya know, sometimes I miss Los Angeles. Don¡¯t want to, don¡¯t want to live in the past, but. You know.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡± Anson tried to ease himself. Heath was a simple man making small talk and he had nothing to worry about. ¡°Tell the truth, I do sometimes, but mostly I love traveling. And I get letters from my Ma and mail her cash every now and then, so it¡¯s not like I¡¯ve abandoned that part of my life.¡±


    His mother was dead. Sometimes lies were not only for the benefit of a scam.


    ¡°And you just got to visit her coming up the coast.¡± Heath pointed out, and Anson nodded. He could offer no likewise affirmations Heath¡¯s way, as this was a man permanently severed from his home and whatever family and friends he¡¯d left behind. He was in the same boat, truthfully, but he didn¡¯t mourn for Santa Barbara the way Heath clearly did for Los Angeles. He had a rough little life there that left nothing but sour memories. But he could still offer the chef some kind words.


    ¡°You¡¯ve built something wonderful here.¡± He said, cigarette smoke dancing in the air. ¡°A great restaurant, a beautiful wife who clearly adores you. Don¡¯t miss what you can¡¯t get back to when you¡¯re doing so well now.¡±


    Heath gave him a look of pure gratitude and Anson decided now was the time to stamp out his cigarette and kiss him. He immediately did so, his hand wrapping around the back of Heath¡¯s neck, and Heath kissed him back, wrapping his arms so tight around Anson¡¯s torso a broken rib would have been a valid concern had he been able to think of it. No, he was too preoccupied by Heath¡¯s soft lips, the gentle scruff of his beard, his minty breath. An Italian chef must¡¯ve had a sharp need to disguise the garlic in his breath but even if Anson had noticed it wouldn¡¯t be a top priority, falling just short of the strength in Heath¡¯s arms and the warmth his body provided. He never wanted to stop drinking him in, but after a minute or so Heath pulled away, beaming.


    ¡°I¡¯ll come back tomorrow.¡± Anson said without asking for permission. It was more like a promise. Heath seemed to beam even further at this.


    ¡°Good. Yeah, good. I¡¯ll cook for you. Do ¡ª did you want something now?¡± He asked, and Anson grinned.


    ¡°Always so generous.¡± He said, and Heath chuckled. ¡°No, I can¡¯t eat after a run, swim, or a toss in the sack. My body needs rest.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Fair.¡± Heath seemed too high off his climax to be disappointed. ¡°I¡¯ll see you tomorrow, then.¡±


    ¡°And you.¡± Anson promised, then returned to his Victoria. When he climbed in he shivered against the leather seating and turned his key, then sat a moment in deep thought. He only had a quarter tank left, so he¡¯d have to stop at Joe¡¯s for some gas eventually, but for now he knew he could make the trip into town, and he had some time to kill for the day so he might as well find that seamstress everyone had so highly recommended. When he pulled out Heath was still standing outside, smoking another cigarette, and he nodded as he passed. The nod was returned, and he smiled all the way into town.


    He left his window cracked to get the cold air in, hoping he¡¯d smell more like the sea¡¯s icy breeze than cum, and he needed his temperature brought down to fight away his blush besides. When he got to town he parked at the hotel but walked to the library, shivering all the way. Across the street and a few houses over one of the small, almost shack-like houses looked sturdier than most, with a cinder block exterior as opposed to the cedar shingles and even cob surrounding. There were even concrete steps down to a basement, which was where he spotted an old wooden sign that said ¡®Tailor¡¯ in large red letters. He walked down, knocked on the old wood door, and waited.


    ¡°Just a second!¡± A woman yelled, not from within but above. He looked up just in time to see a silhouette leaning back into the house from a window she quickly shut, and hugged his arms for warmth as he waited. In a moment she opened the door wide and rushed him inside. ¡°Come in, come in, before you catch your death of cold!¡±


    He did as he was told and entered, wiping his feet on the mat on the way, and stepped further into the small, warm room as she closed the door behind him. The place partially took the appearance of a living room, with a plush leather couch and two old and ornate armchairs across, but when one looked further they could see rolls of fabric lining pegs on the wall, two sewing machines on a dinged-up desk and a rod of coats of various sizes and colors. The floor was covered in Turkish rugs, concealing cracked concrete as much as the dim lighting, but both made the space homey. Anita rubbed her arms against the cold before shaking his hand.


    ¡°You must be that handsome new gentleman at the hotel I¡¯ve heard mention of. I¡¯m Anita Judge, the local seamstress. How excitin¡¯! We don¡¯t usually get studs around here.¡± She looked so jovial he was half prepared for her to elbow him in the ribs, but instead she beckoned him further into the room. ¡°Look at you, you poor thing, your skinny little ass needs a jacket ¡®fore you turn to ice! A long one, too, for your height. Now let¡¯s see here. . .¡±


    He had to assume from this interaction alone that this woman was very well liked in her community. She was very petite, but with so much vibrance there was a larger than life quality to her. Her dark hair had been meticulously straightened, and her clothing was all black but appeared to be very rich fabric, likely bought wholesale and crafted herself. He wondered if this was where Gin came for her stylish garments.


    ¡°It is a coat you need, right?¡± She asked as she rifled through the coats. ¡°What¡¯s your name again?¡±


    ¡°Anson.¡± He said. ¡°Yes, I need a coat. I came up from the south selling my bibles.¡±


    ¡°And this weather smacked your ass, didn¡¯t it?¡± She asked, and he let out an unexpected burst of laughter. ¡°That¡¯s how it happens. Who recommended you, Westin? What are your thoughts on olive?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d prefer black, if you have it. Joe gave me your name.¡± He said, and she lit up at the mention.


    ¡°My very best friend! That¡¯s what he¡¯ll say when he comes in here talking about a referral discount. All I do is darn his goddamn socks, he hasn¡¯t upgraded his wardrobe since the first Great War.¡± She said, and Anson couldn¡¯t disagree. She pulled an olive jacket and headed his way. ¡°I know you said black, I heard ya, but if I¡¯m giving you something right off the rack I don¡¯t think I have any more of that in your size.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a popular color.¡± Anson said, and gestured to her person. She handed him the coat and he slipped it off the hanger and onto his shoulders: it was an olive-colored tweed duster with a fleece interior that warmed him to his bones. The buttons were taught and there were three large inner pockets for him to deposit what he assumed from the locals to be a flask, cigarettes, and maybe a roll of bread or an apple for a long day at sea.


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    ¡°Thanks.¡± The smile slid off her face. ¡°It¡¯s my dead husband¡¯s favorite.¡±


    ¡°Oh my goodness, I¡¯m so sor¡ª¡± He began, but she cracked a smile before he could continue, then laughed loudly.


    ¡°Your face!¡± She said, high-pitched in mirth, and Anson breathed a sigh of relief. ¡°Nah, that fucker¡¯s been dead for years, god rest ¡®im. So you like the coat?¡±


    ¡°Uh ¡ª yeah.¡± On second thought, she might have been a touch unhinged. ¡°I love it. But I imagine it comes at a steep price.¡±


    Anita sighed like she was about to give him some bad news, and he braced for it.


    ¡°So it¡¯ll be twelve ninety five.¡± She said, and he paused. That was unexpectedly cheap, and his expression must have shown it. ¡°Normally you¡¯re paying for labor. I don¡¯t make clothing for the labor, I make it so I have something to do on these long, cold days. So not as pricey. And normally you¡¯re up-charged big time on the fabric, but since I buy wholesale I don¡¯t up-charge too much at all. And ¡ª on top of all that! ¡ª my dead husband left me enough money so charging top-dollar ain¡¯t a priority.¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡± It was a very obvious if entertaining story ¡ª a black widow murdering her husband and running off with the riches. Maybe this little town was the only place where she wouldn¡¯t get caught. He had an immense amount of respect for her. ¡°Listen. You have a very nice place here.¡±


    ¡°Thank you! Inheritance from my parents. Not a lot of basements around here, but where would they hide their barrels of booze during the prohibition days?¡± She said, only confusing Anson¡¯s initial theory. Maybe she ventured out of the town, seduced a man and came back once she killed him?


    ¡°It¡¯s very nice.¡± He mentioned again, trying to pick up his line of thought. ¡°But maybe folks would enjoy some light reading while they¡¯re here. Or maybe some heavier reading. From a rather fancy book, so as to match these fine surroundings.¡±


    ¡°Like one of your bibles.¡± Anita narrowed her eyes, then drew a set of finger guns and pointed at him. ¡°I assume you¡¯ll want to throw one of your godly tomes into the pot. Well, I respect another entrepreneur enough to bite. What are they, three bucks?¡±


    ¡°Five sixty-five.¡± He answered, and she frowned in thought.


    ¡°Okay. But just because I¡¯m helping you out and I¡¯ve taken a premature shine.¡± She said, and he began to thank her as he removed the jacket. ¡°Wear it, it¡¯s cold out.¡±


    ¡°I have to go back to the hotel.¡± He said, and she nodded obviously.


    ¡°And that¡¯s a long, cold walk!¡± She smiled. ¡°Go, it¡¯s fine. I know where you¡¯re at anyhow.¡±


    He insisted on paying her what he owed without the bible before he departed, then walked back to his car fighting a smile. Maybe she was a normal person who didn¡¯t murder her husband and he was the only son of a bitch alive who thought like this. Besides, this coat was damn warm. He walked to his car, grabbed a bible from the trunk and walked back, thinking about how expensive the coat looked and how easy it would be to convince someone he was moderately wealthy wearing it. He¡¯d steal a nice watch and wear that to add to the imagery, but that scheme generally attracts too much attention anyway. He should know: his father was undone by these attempts to seem a bigger man than he was, though his attempts were quite transparent.


    When he returned to Anita¡¯s and gave her the Bible she admired it, and they had some lovely conversation on the weather, his time traveling, her tailoring work, and shared some tea bought at Sophia¡¯s shop. She was nice, funny, sharp. They could be real friends, a thought he¡¯d had many times about many people, but it had been some time since he¡¯d stayed in one spot so long, and for such an attractive reason. He momentarily had to remind himself not to get attached: Heath was married, and he was welcome for now, but things like this always went sour, and he couldn¡¯t live in a hotel forever. As the tea went cold and the conversation dwindled Anson finally bid her good day and walked back to the hotel, warm all the way.


    Upon entry he found Robert again had company, this time the bartender, Sonny. He and Westin had a card table set up, but it was covered in silverware that the pair were polishing. His earlier assumption that the pair weren¡¯t cordial was incorrect: Robert was smiling begrudgingly at something Sonny had just said, and Sonny looked amiable enough.


    ¡°Good afternoon, sir.¡± Sonny greeted. ¡°How are you today? I see you¡¯ve met Ms. Judge.¡±


    ¡°It was high time.¡± He answered. ¡°The cold was just too much for me, and I¡¯m traveling further north still.¡±


    Robert looked dubious as he stepped behind the reception desk. He reached down, grabbed a menu Anson had meant to ask for, and handed it over.


    ¡°Thank you kindly.¡± He did not want to think of how the concierge knew he¡¯d want dinner tonight. Did he know Anson had seen the Italian chef today already? ¡°If you don¡¯t mind, I was hoping to possibly get another blanket for my room? Maybe a quilt? I just like to sleep warm.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s interesting.¡± Robert said cooly. ¡°I imagine a traveling salesman spends a lot of time sleeping in a cold car.¡±


    Anson smiled politely at that and did his best to mentally forgive an attitude that may have been due to showing off for a friend. Sonny chortled at that.


    ¡°See, I told you he warms up to people eventually.¡± He laughed, and though Anson doubted this was a friendly encounter he chuckled like he was in on the joke. He had really frozen his ass off the night before.


    ¡°I¡¯ll see to it you get another blanket for your room, sir.¡± Robert said, the laughter apparently not contagious to him. The man was an expert at giving cues to leave ¡ª this was his second of the day.


    ¡°Thank you. Thanks very much.¡± Anson said as he moved towards the stairs. ¡°You two have a good night.¡±


    Robert snorted, and Anson turned around and ascended the grand staircase, his footsteps muted by the lush red carpet. Behind him the silverware clinked together as Robert and Sonny continued. Were they in the mood to clean or had they nothing else to do? Did someone else order them to polish that silverware, someone as yet to be seen in this massive old hotel?


    ¡°When is Mean Joe getting here?¡± He heard Sonny ask distantly, and Robert groaned.


    ¡°Please do not give him the satisfaction.¡± He replied, and Anson heard the bartender¡¯s laughter float around the building until he climbed too high to hear it.


    Back in his room he consulted the menu once again, doubtful it was changed out for the seasons as Heath¡¯s was. He wanted a big meal, having not eaten at all that day, so he ordered some chicken pot pie and a scoop of apple cobbler with ice cream, price be damned, and put his menu in the mail slot. Then he returned to the seat of his bed and sat a moment, staring at the wall and considering his rapidly thinning wallet. The bibles never sold for as much as he liked, but he wasn¡¯t about to resort to his usual tactics in a town he¡¯d chosen to stay in for awhile. He just really had to press people about these bibles, drum up a lot of buyers quickly.


    He wasn¡¯t worried because when was he ever worried, but he still sat and stared at the wall awhile, deep in thought, then roused himself and peeked out his door. His menu was gone, but no meal had been deposited yet. Part of him was determined to see who would deliver it: if Robert and Sonny were leaving it had to be someone unseen. And who was cooking it? There had to be more. So he sat down and reread his paper from a few days prior, as interesting as that was, then decided to get comfortable and change out of his suit and into lounge pants, an undershirt and cardigan. When his clothes were tucked away he had a moment of curiosity and checked the hall again, only to find his meal under a silver cloche and blanket beside it.


    A swear was appropriate for the occasion. Someone was sneaky, and that someone had to be Robert because he could tell just from a glance that this blanket would not warm him through the night, even when layered with the previous one. When he picked it up it was scratchy, so he tossed it carelessly on the bed and grabbed his tray. After closing his door he returned to his meal, sitting on the foot of his bed and unwrapping his silverware from the cloth napkin. When he lifted the cloche he was met with a cloud of steam, then a small dish covered in pie pastry aside a neat scoop of apple cobbler topped with already melting vanilla ice cream.


    He set this aside and used a fork to shatter the crust of his pot pie. The bite he took nearly burnt his mouth off, but it was warm, filling food and it satisfied. Not as much as a plate of Italian food, especially when his peas were so mushy and he detected a hint of metal from the canned cream of condensed soup. But there was something nostalgic in it, like his childhood and the many diners and motels he¡¯d supped in on his long journey throughout the country.


    He finished his meal contented, then deposited the tray back into the hallway, used the ever-empty restroom, and dressed for bed. When he curled up beneath the sheets with his two thin blankets on top he wasn¡¯t as warm as he wanted, so in a stroke of genius he grabbed his coat from Anita out of the armoire and set it on top of those. Not a perfect solution, but good enough. For the first time in awhile he fell asleep with an easy mind.


    The next day was cold again, and this cold woke him, but the wind had completely dissipated and with his brand new coat keeping him almost warm during the night he decided he¡¯d like a walk down Main Street ¡ª or, rather, the unnamed, unpaved road that acted as a main street in this little town. He bundled up and took off down the stairs, where for the first time he found Robert absent from his concierge desk. Instead there was a little plaque sat next to the bell, asking for a ring for service, but Anson had no requests despite the second thin blanket and didn¡¯t want to bother Robert in case he was summoned from sleep. He and Sonny must have had a late night with Joe.


    His walk was more productive than he thought it would be: time was difficult to keep track of here, and really anywhere when one spent so much time in the car, but apparently it was Saturday, because the fishermen had not set out on the water today and were instead walking with their wives and children. He gave a friendly hello to each of them, and though most fishermen gave him only a gruff nod the wives all responded in turn, with phrases he was used to in these small towns. Why, you¡¯re that bible salesman, aren¡¯t you?; I¡¯ve heard of you from the neighbor; I saw your books and I think they¡¯re just lovely; perfect for the mantle; in your trunk? Yes, I¡¯d love to. He ended up selling to a great deal of households, definitely the majority of the town and possibly all of them, funding his payment of the winter coat and giving him plenty of spare change to continue staying in the hotel and eating Italian food. His trunk was decently emptied, too, and he¡¯d be able to get more bibles up in little Myrtletown before making his way through the redwoods.


    At least, that was the original plan. A plan he¡¯d been very much looking forward to, since he wanted to see the sequoia from a very young age as most Californian boys did. But with the lingering here he didn¡¯t know when that would be happening and how risky it would be driving through an empty forest while snow could be falling. Thinking back to Heath though, that made it a risk he was perfectly fine taking.


    With more time dedicated to his morning walk than previously planned, he hadn¡¯t been able to see Heath and Gin alone: it was around lunchtime on a weekend and they probably already had customers. Best to wait until the evening then, when the place was packed, as it was always easier to avoid attention in a crowd. For now he was growing cold and running out of buyers, so he returned to the hotel to find the concierge desk still empty. Maybe Robert had the weekends off? Or he was extremely hung-over. He was tempted to ring and see if a different employee emerged, but he wasn¡¯t in the mood for the possibility of Robert¡¯s ire and he was too hungry to be bothered with any more polite conversation at the moment, so he bounded up the stairs, returned to his room, and dug into one of the Moon Pies and some Planters peanuts he¡¯d bought at Joe¡¯s the day he got stuck in that storm. He shaved, too, though he skipped the shower, then bundled his worn clothes together and hung them on the doorknob for cleaning.


    On his way to the Italian place he passed the concierge desk, still empty, then hopped in his car as the sun began to set, just a little earlier now than the week before. When he drove up the mountain he found the ocean mild, but still dark against jagged rocks, still a threatening, foaming mass that Anson wouldn¡¯t freeze his ass off in for a million dollars. Not that anyone could survive the drop. He was a strong swimmer, he knew that from experience, but his last dip was in far warmer waters. He¡¯d traveled on the coast since then. Maybe he was a masochist ¡ª actually, scratch that maybe.


    The parking lot was crowded, and light flooded in from the little shack, soft from the candles and distorted by shadows of hungry patrons. The temperature had already dropped at least ten degrees from climbing up the mountain and the sun going down, so Anson walked briskly from his car to the door, and when he opened it was hit with warmth and the smell of garlic and herbs. He stepped in quickly to keep from letting the cold in and approached the counter, where only two other gentlemen sat by the register. He sat furthest from them and slid off his coat, then looked rather slyly around. The restaurant was nearly full, with every table taken and filled with satisfied looking customers, all with plates and most with wine. He spotted Gin in that yellow dress of hers cooing at a toddler in a wooden highchair, but turned away as to not interrupt. When he tried to peer into the little window between the dining room and kitchen he found it closed, which didn¡¯t surprise him, but disappointed nonetheless.


    ¡°Evening, sugar.¡± Gin slipped a menu into his hand and crossed over the counter to lean close to him, her voice warm and honey-sweet. ¡°Can I get you some wine?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll just have a water, thanks.¡± He said. He liked to keep sharp, even in a moment of relaxation. He glanced at the menu. ¡°What¡¯s looking good?¡±


    ¡°What isn¡¯t?¡± She smiled, then thought a moment. ¡°We¡¯re almost out of lasagna and I want that for dinner, so if you could be a dear¡ª¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± He chuckled, and she headed into the kitchen a moment. She returned with someone else¡¯s wine and a water pitcher, which she set down briefly to grab a glass from beneath the counter.


    ¡°He says hello.¡± She spoke softly, and he felt suddenly wistful. It had been worth it to sell bibles in the morning instead of visit, but it would¡¯ve been nice to see him, touch him. Tomorrow for sure. ¡°I¡¯ll give you a minute with the menu.¡±


    She walked away with the wine, and he settled into reading, sensing that she would be too busy to talk much tonight. He examined the menu for awhile until his eyes landed on something that looked interesting. Uova da Ravioli: chard and artichoke hearts saut¨¦ed with pancetta and topped with egg yolk ricotta ravioli. It would be nice eating something green. For a few minutes he listened in on the conversations of others, hearing nothing of interest, until Gin returned with a flirty little smile and took his order.


    ¡°That¡¯s really good.¡± She tapped her pencil on the counter thoughtfully, with no need to write it down. ¡°I should have recommended that to you. I haven¡¯t gauged what you like just yet.¡±


    ¡°I guess I like things rich.¡± He smiled, and she eyed him up and down. His suit wasn¡¯t the finest quality, but maybe that¡¯s not what she was looking at. Maybe she was thinking of the day prior, of all they could still do together.


    ¡°I¡¯ll let him know.¡± She said, then disappeared into the kitchen. When she returned she was holding a few plates of cake and he contained his envy as she passed. There were a few more minutes of subtle people watching: there was a sleepy contentedness to some, thanks to the wine, and for others a great deal of jovial conversation, but in hushed, reverent tones. Gin bounced between them all, smiling, laughing, and hopefully earning several hearty tips. With the room being as hot as it was he took a sip of water and tried not to think too hard of his exploits with Heath and Gin the previous day, lest he grow even hotter under the collar. Gin¡¯s legs in that dress were alright, sure, but thinking of Heath, dick in hand, his cheeks all red, really could undo him.


    Soon Gin came out to give him his dish, telling him to enjoy it with a broad smile, like she genuinely wanted him to and knew he would. She was kind, and it made her a good waitress, and didn¡¯t give Anson an ounce of guilt for chasing her husband. Instead he only looked to his bowl. There were two large ravioli, coated lightly with butter and sitting on a bed of chard that hadn¡¯t been wilted to death. Chopped artichoke hearts mixed with small pieces of pancetta and what looked to be red pepper flakes. He unrolled the fork and knife from his napkin and cut in, the yolk and ricotta spilling out and creating its own rich sauce for the greens. He got a forkful of greens, ricotta and pasta and had to control himself when he took a bite ¡ª he could have ran into the kitchen to kiss his chef. It was an incredibly rich dish, which seemed to be his taste, but balanced by the hit of spice and the amount of vegetables.


    It was perfect. He was happy. It was an unusual experience: the usual was fine, full, tired enough not to question it. Now he was happy, and he could get more of it, and damn fighting obsession. He ate his meal in heaven, enjoying it immensely, and even loosened his tie and undid his top button. Halfway through the dish Gin refilled the glasses of the gentlemen by the register and approached him from the left, squeezing between barstools just to see him.


    ¡°You enjoying it, sweetheart?¡± She asked with a smile. She didn¡¯t even look worn out. He smiled in return and covertly skimmed a hand up her thigh. A sudden slam rang out, and he pulled away in alarm to catch the source at the other end of the counter. One of the men, blond and muscular, had slammed his fist on the table and was now jumping to his feet.


    ¡°Hey!¡± The restaurant went completely silent as he took a massive step Anson¡¯s way. ¡°What the fuck do you think you¡¯re doing?¡±


    He had not expected anyone to see that, and his surprise left him temporarily grappling for an answer. Gin stepped back in a moment of uncertainty and the other man, average looking with brown hair, stood as well.


    ¡°Mr. Brown, Mr. Weaver, I don¡¯t think this whole dust up is necessary.¡± Gin spoke after a moment of silence in which Mr. Brown glared at him.


    ¡°He¡ª¡± Brown began loudly, then lowered his voice. ¡°Gin, let me kick this piece of shit out of here.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to cause a fuss.¡± She said softly, though everyone was staring at them already.


    ¡°Listen, this was an accident.¡± Anson began, and the blond took a dangerous step towards him. His friend followed suit, and Anson hopped out of his stool, causing it to slam to the floor. ¡°There¡¯s no need to upset the lady.¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah, we¡¯re the ones upsetting her.¡± Mr. Haas said then, and however Gin was going to respond, she lost her chance when the kitchen door swung open. Anson, along with everyone else, stared as Heath walked slowly into the room, his brow furrowed and his apron a mess. He already guessed appearances from the chef were rare, but now he was just seeing proof from the shocked expressions he saw on Mr. Weaver and Brown when he snuck a glance over. Even Gin seemed rattled.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on out here?¡± He asked slowly, calmly, and there was a moment¡¯s pause to figure out who should answer.


    ¡°This gentleman over here grabbed Gin in a way I didn¡¯t appreciate.¡± Brown said, and his friend nodded fiercely. Some mumbling could be heard, a dangerous buzz that put Anson on edge. This is not what he¡¯d imagined would force him to leave here.


    ¡°I believe he was only trying to catch my pencil.¡± Gin cut in swiftly. When he looked to the ground he did see a pencil there, but he knew that was not what he had been doing, so Gin must have been acting slick. ¡°He¡¯s been a kind man, and a bible seller to boot, so I don¡¯t take much offense to it.¡±


    This may have turned the crowd, but the room was looking to Heath for a final verdict.


    ¡°Would you like him removed?¡± He asked Gin directly, and Anson got a creepy-crawly feeling that despite Heath¡¯s affections, if she said yes he¡¯d find his ass in the parking lot. But she shook her head, and Heath bowed his. ¡°Dallas, Smiley, if you two have no other quarrels I¡¯d invite you to sit down.¡±


    The pair looked hesitant, but when both met eyes with Gin they sat, seemingly a little embarrassed at causing a kerfuffle.


    ¡°And you, bible man, I¡¯d ask you to pick up that stool, then finish up your meal, if you wish.¡± He said, and Anson nodded quickly. ¡°Great. Now let¡¯s all settle down. We have good food, good company, and ¡ª well, cheap wine.¡±


    ¡°Hey!¡± A young man yelled from the back, and several people laughed at what seemed to be a joking remark against the fellow. Marvin, the farmer Anson had met several days prior, clapped him on the back, so Anson understood this to be his brother, Isaac, and that the pair supplied both vegetables and grapes to the town. By the time the laughter had subsided Heath had already returned to the kitchen with nothing but the smallest glance Anson¡¯s way, his rueful expression barely seen but still appreciated. Anson picked up his stool and gave Gin the most quiet of apologies, which she waved off, then went back to his fork and knife as she went back to her tables. Day saved, though not by his silver tongue. He didn¡¯t want to disparage: he was better at selling bibles and tall tales than calming angry men. Actually, looking back on it, he had a particularly poor history in that department. He fought back a snort at that and returned to his dish.


    It wasn¡¯t long after this that Dallas and Smiley, his would-be attackers, left with some kind but whispered words to Gin, what sounded like both apologies and promises of protection. He did not look their way at their departure, but he felt two pair of eyes glaring at the back of his neck. When Gin cleaned their plates he looked over to her, and when she looked back she only shrugged and smiled a little.


    ¡°I¡¯ll get you the check soon, sweetheart.¡± She said, her voice still sweet, and Anson knew this was water under the bridge for her. He was a little less certain with Heath given how his previous upset had been in regards to his wife¡¯s honor, but he did have the man¡¯s affections, and if he kept up with the activities from the morning prior he suspected this would soon be forgotten.


    Soon Gin brought the check and he was pleased to see he had not been charged the full amount. He still tipped generously, and gave Gin a small nod as he threw on his coat and departed. Outside the weather had gone absolutely frigid, and he scrambled to get to his car and blast his heat. On the way back to the hotel he could only imagine how cold his room would be, and decided he would take a hot shower before bed, both for the sake of his internal temperature and to make a quick exit so he could see Heath and Gin in the morning. There was no concierge still upon his return, but he ignored this and went upstairs, grabbed his pajamas (a very plain but unstuffy set of matching cotton pants and a button down in red and white stripes) and set off to the communal bathroom for a shower.


    The bathroom was empty as usual, so he deposited his soaps by one of the shower heads and his pajamas on the marble counter and removed his coat and tie. As he undid his top button the door opened, so softly he could barely hear it, then closed just as quiet. He continued to unbutton, wondering if it would be Robert, Sonny, or someone new, and didn¡¯t look up when this person stepped into the room. He¡¯d been in enough hostels in Europe, and far worse ones than this hotel, to not feel awkward about this, though he wondered at the appropriate time to sneak a peek or say hello to whomever this was. Fortunately, the other man provided.


    ¡°Good evening, Mr. Monroe.¡± A stranger¡¯s voice said, soft and lilting, and he looked over to see a man far more handsome than he¡¯d anticipated. He was tall and muscular, made clear by his undershirt. His dress shirt was already off and slung over his shoulder, close to chiseled features and silver hair. He wasn¡¯t old, probably Anson¡¯s age, though he didn¡¯t want to spend too long looking for crow¡¯s feet lest he become mesmerized by the gentleman¡¯s deep, dark eyes.


    ¡°Good evening.¡± He eyed the man in the mirror instead of looking him in the eye. ¡°You work here?¡±


    ¡°I own the hotel. Calder Morris.¡± He moved to shake Anson¡¯s hand, surprised as he was to come across not just another employee, but the boss. ¡°I hope you¡¯re enjoying your stay. Are you accommodations suitable?¡±


    ¡°Yes! Yes.¡± Anson said as Calder removed his shirt. ¡°This is a beautiful building, I was surprised to find it in such a small town.¡±


    ¡°A beautiful building should have a beautiful landscape to match.¡± Calder undid his buckle, and Anson took off his own shirt rather than stare. He suddenly remembered his time at those hostels a little more clearly now: he¡¯d had a wandering eye that met him with a lot of handsome boys, poor dear Pietro included. But that was the last person he wanted to think of right now. ¡°Would you get the same further down the coast? My great-grandfather didn¡¯t think so.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure I could disagree with him.¡± Anson said thoughtfully, though maybe he was thinking less of the landscape and more of the people. The pair undressed together in a moment¡¯s silence, during which time Anson fought glances Calder¡¯s way.


    ¡°But everything¡¯s been to your liking?¡± Calder asked as he made his way to the shower. Anson looked into the mirror to spot a broad-shouldered frame, a delicate waist and a pert ass, then reminded himself he was nude and had to fight off any enjoyment.


    ¡°Sure, yeah. The bartender¡¯s been nice. Robert¡¯s been ¡ª well, I¡¯m told he¡¯s like that.¡± He chuckled a little, and Calder laughed in turn as he turned the shower on and waited for the water to get hot. Anson made his way over to a different head, keeping a good ten feet away, then turned his on and noted the water pressure stayed strong.


    ¡°He is. But I was told our newest guest gets cold in the evenings and I wanted to make sure that was remedied.¡± Calder stepped into the warm water and let it run down his body, and Anson distracted himself with the water temperature. ¡°Robert sent up blankets?¡±


    ¡°Yes¡ª¡±


    ¡°Warm ones?¡± He asked, and Anson paused. Robert seemed to be a bit of an ass, but he wasn¡¯t about to go crying to his manager about it. He didn¡¯t want to stir anything up and get the man fired.


    ¡°Yes. I sleep very well thanks to him.¡± He stepped into his own water, searing hot, as Calder squirted some soap into his hand. He looked at Anson as he rubbed the soap onto his chest, his brawny arms, down his stomach and happy trail to the hair surrounding a large cock that was not yet erect, but seemed itching for attention. Or maybe Anson just wanted to give it to him. He grabbed his own soap and massaged it into an arm, taking the opportunity to look away.


    ¡°That¡¯s good.¡± Calder said so quietly Anson almost didn¡¯t hear. ¡°I try to do all I can to satisfy the guests.¡±


    ¡°Very hospitable.¡± Anson tried not to sound dry at this, sudsing up his chest and raking fingers through the curls Wes didn¡¯t have. When he looked over the man was facing him directly, the foamy soap being rinsed off him by rivulets of water that soaked his hair and framed his face. He was handsome enough to put Anson on edge: he was already trying to fuck one man in this small town, he had to avoid setting his sights on another. There was no need to fool around, get caught out, and have a fire lit under his ass. ¡°Y¡¯know, I¡¯m a bible salesman, and looking around the parlor the other day I thought that would be a fantastic spot for a handsome King James.¡±


    ¡°No offense to your bibles, but I can think of a few more enjoyable ways to commune with God.¡± Calder said, then retrieved what appeared to be a rather expensive glass bottle of conditioner and applied some to the ends of his long hair. ¡°God is love, isn¡¯t he? Joy? Euphoria?¡±


    ¡°And divine. Almighty. Raging.¡± Anson said, and Calder smiled a little.


    ¡°How very Catholic of you.¡± He said, and there was something in his tone Anson didn¡¯t like. Something sneaky and suspicious, something too clever for a one-horse town like this. ¡°I guess you have to be well-versed in the stuff when you¡¯re speaking to the more intense crowd. Anything to sell.¡±


    ¡°Right. Well I was always a good Catholic boy.¡± Anson said, trying to get back on track. ¡°That¡¯s why I think a beautiful hotel such as this deserves a beautiful bible to go with it. And for only five sixty-five¡ª¡±


    ¡°If God is euphoria, God is divine, God is almighty, actions taken on the route to finding these feelings will find you God as well.¡± Calder cut in, his eyes dark and expression foreboding. His hand trailed down and Anson couldn¡¯t look away as he wrapped his fingers around his shaft and began to tug his cock to attention. ¡°Climax, for example.¡±


    ¡°I think you have a slightly different view than the church.¡± Anson said, but he couldn¡¯t stammer out a laugh. Because he felt the heat on his cheeks and the stirrings in his gut. He watched Calder get hard knowing he sported a semi himself. It was just another reminder that beautiful men were completely his weakness.


    ¡°I sure as fuck do.¡± He took a few bold steps Anson¡¯s way, and he thought fleetingly of the man in the restaurant, Dallas, who¡¯d tried to knock his lights out. This was a different sort of threat, the kind that made his cock fully hard. He touched himself and Calder cleared the space between them immediately, now standing under the same water he was. There was a hungry look in his eyes Anson was sure he shared, but he paused, waiting for Anson to make the first move. Anson¡¯s hand hovered a moment, then settled gently against the man¡¯s slim waist, and Calder had to bend significantly to lay a kiss on Anson¡¯s neck.


    He was so close to coming undone, so close to Calder, but something in him was smart enough to stop. Maybe it was his prior experience harking back to him, the memories of blood and viscera, getting run down in the streets, that filthy jail cell. Everything that told him to play it smarter this time. Fuck around with Heath, sure, not this dangerous man. He lifted his hands and stood back suddenly, and Calder looked less than thrilled with the action. Anson looked him in the eye, gathered his resolve, and turned the tap. And the water went cold.

 Chapter Six

    Anson slept in. There was no need not to, having showered the night before. A cold shower, in which a rush to leave kept him from shampoo, but he was clean enough. And he had a strong desire to lounge given how warm his room had been over the night. When he woke up all relaxed and refreshed he felt better about what had happened last night, like he could handle Calder better. What was he going to do, tell people he¡¯d been rejected? He¡¯d only expose himself. Anson supposed he could still get evicted, but when he opened his door and found all of his clothing hanging on the knob, washed and pressed, he felt safe. Like maybe Mr. Morris didn¡¯t want to take the risk.


    He put on his navy suit and gelled his hair in case it was dirty, then made his way out with plans for Italian. At the concierge desk Robert was back at his post, looking unchanged. Anson approached in a better mood than usual, waving, and Robert seemed to hold back a sigh.


    ¡°Good morning.¡± Anson said, chipper to the point of spiteful. ¡°How was your day off, Robert?¡±


    ¡°It was swell, thank you.¡± He spoke curtly. ¡°I heard while I was away you met our proprietor.¡±


    Anson didn¡¯t let Calder¡¯s mention trip him up, and only smiled politely.


    ¡°Yes, what a kind fellow. He was very concerned as to how well I¡¯ve been treated so far.¡± Anson recalled. Robert retained his stiff upper lip, but Anson could tell he was not entirely thrilled. ¡°I of course let him know what a great concierge you¡¯ve been.¡±


    ¡°Many thanks.¡± Robert said, his dryness now signature. Anson felt that the man really should have been thankful, given how easily he could have pointed out the general rudeness he exuded, but he wasn¡¯t about to push the point.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m off to see the sights.¡± Anson said then. His father used to say that before leaving the house to cause trouble. ¡°Have a good day.¡±


    ¡°Mr. Monroe.¡± Robert called to him as he turned to leave. ¡°If it interests you, many of the townsfolk are attending morning prayer in the library. We don¡¯t have a church here, but you can still worship if you want to.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡± Anson didn¡¯t hesitate, but internally he paused. He often took mass in order to meet the zealots, sell whatever books he could, but he didn¡¯t normally have an attractive couple waiting for him. It did look bad when the bible seller skipped out on church, but since he¡¯d sold most of the bibles he was willing to take the risk and miss. He nodded to Robert and headed out into a brisk day, but after a few steps he heard his name called again. When he turned around Robert was standing there, looking awkward in the cold with nothing but a suit, like he had been the past week.


    ¡°Sorry. Mr. Brown had pamphlets done, he gave a lot to the hotel.¡± Robert said, extending his hand to show Anson a pamphlet with the library¡¯s photo on it. Anson thought it odd that Robert would put the effort into giving this to him, but regardless took a step towards him to take it. ¡°Are you stupid?¡±


    ¡°Wha¡ª what?¡± Anson stammered with surprise. Robert stepped closer and lowered his voice.


    ¡°How much of an asshole do I have to be? Stop risking your dumb ass and get the hell out of here.¡± He said, then shoved the pamphlet into Anson¡¯s hands. ¡°There is a danger here you need to stop trifling with.¡±


    ¡°I can handle myself.¡± Anson said, suddenly defensive. He¡¯d proved as much last night, and knowing it he snatched the pamphlet, turned on his heel and stormed off to his car. Once inside he sat down in a huff and threw it in his backseat, then drove away, looking back to see Robert had returned inside.


    It didn¡¯t take long for him to drive up to the little Italian joint, park his car and huddle in his coat against the cold as he approached the door. Upon entry he didn¡¯t feel much of a temperature change, but Gin¡¯s warm smile did enough for him. She was sitting at the counter, wiping a glass clean, and looked maybe a little bored until he came in.


    ¡°Morning!¡± He smiled back, and he heard a ¡®morning!¡¯ shouted through the kitchen window. ¡°Good morning, Heath!¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t interrupt me, I¡¯m cooking.¡± He hollered, and Gin affectionately rolled her eyes.


    ¡°How are you, sweetheart?¡± She asked. He started to slip off his coat, felt the chill, then pulled it back up. She was only wearing a cardigan today though, over what Anson had heard called, often unkindly, a housewife dress. It was a simple swing dress made of cheap gingham cotton that buttoned all the way up to the collar, and big city fellas hated when women dressed them up with hats and pearls instead of buying something more expensive, like taffeta or velvet. Gin wasn¡¯t dressed up at all, in fact she was wearing a thick pair of wool socks and had tied her hair back.


    ¡°I¡¯m good. I finally got a good night¡¯s sleep. I swear that hotel gets as cold as this place here.¡± He said, and she giggled a little. He was not about to ask if the pair knew the hotel¡¯s owner. It was possible they didn¡¯t, as aloof as Calder seemed to be, but it was possible they did, as he was the only other queer man in town. There could be a dark history between them, and Anson was not about to unearth it whilst trying to get lucky. ¡°Yourself?¡±


    ¡°Hungry!¡± She yelled.


    ¡°Alright, alright!¡± Heath yelled back. ¡°I¡¯m coming, I¡¯m coming, hold your horses!¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t hold ¡®em if you¡¯re hungry enough to eat ¡®em.¡± Anson pointed out, and Heath opened the kitchen door to give him a stink eye. He held two plates in his hands, both of which appeared to hold toast with poached eggs. Gin went and got the other plate, then grabbed some utensils as Heath disappeared into the kitchen and again returned, but now with two small bowls.


    ¡°Guess what I made? Drumroll, Gin, if you please.¡± He requested as he set down the two bowls. Gin drummed her hands on the counter. ¡°Something. . . not Italian.¡±


    ¡°Whoa!¡± Anson exclaimed, his surprise genuine. Gin laughed. ¡°They don¡¯t eat eggs in Italy?¡±


    ¡°Not like this.¡± Heath spooned a white sauce on top of everyone¡¯s eggs. ¡°We don¡¯t usually make yogurt. If we have dairy we do ricotta, mozzarella, butter, whatever can go on the menu. But we felt like treating ourselves.¡±


    ¡°Yogurt on eggs?¡± Anson asked skeptically, but eased as Heath spooned on what appeared to be hot sauce. It looked the way he¡¯d had it around Greece, sharp and cooling.


    ¡°No, no, not like the sweet stuff you buy in a big supermarket. It can be very tangy.¡± He pulled up a stool and Anson followed suit. ¡°Plus I mashed garlic and salt in my mortar and pestle and mixed it in.¡±


    ¡°Bon appetit.¡± Gin said as she cut into her meal, and Anson did the same. The toast seemed perfectly done, as did the egg given the way the yolk ran when he cut in. He got a bit of bread, egg, yolk, yogurt sauce and the red sauce too before taking a bite. It was not Italian, but with all that fat, tang, and heat had the spirit. Or maybe Heath was just that talented a chef, making everything delectable and just the right kind of nostalgic. His breakfasts in Italy were generally a quick espresso and maybe a pastry, but once or twice a fried egg of his lover¡¯s doing was devoured with as much satisfaction as now.


    ¡°Holy crap, this is so good.¡± He said, and decided to fib a bit when Heath flushed at the compliment. ¡°I didn¡¯t know yogurt could taste so ¡ª so¡ª¡±


    ¡°Lactic?¡± Heath suggested, and Anson nodded, only encouraging him. Anything to butter this man up. ¡°Almost like sour cream, right? But looser, not so intense.¡±


    ¡°And what¡¯s the hot sauce?¡± He questioned, and Heath beamed. From the interest or just from himself Anson wasn¡¯t quite sure, but the brightness in his eyes suited him.


    ¡°Cayenne in melted butter.¡± He answered, which explained why it was so good.


    ¡°Oh! The ravioli last night was delicious.¡± Anson said, and Heath beamed again. ¡°My compliments to the chef.¡±


    ¡°I let him know.¡± Gin gave Heath an affectionate look as she cut into her egg. ¡°After all that commotion settled down.¡±


    ¡°God, what was up with that fella? Bug crawl up his ass?¡± He asked, and Heath snorted.


    ¡°Dallas can be a hard man at times, but I assure you he¡¯s a sweetheart normally.¡± Gin insisted, thought a moment, and added: ¡°And not just because I¡¯m a pretty girl.¡±


    ¡°Pretty full of yourself.¡± Heath said, and Gin punched his arm. ¡°Ow! Oh God, my whole arm is tingling now.¡±


    ¡°Serves you right.¡± Anson said as Gin stuck out her tongue. ¡°But he did not seem like a sweetheart.¡±


    ¡°Apparently he didn¡¯t come back from Normandy right.¡± Heath divulged, not an uncommon phrase in the years after the war. ¡°He snaps easier, and can be more unkind. Especially ¡ª well, when people come through he likes to judge and see if they¡¯re draft dodgers.¡±


    ¡°And he¡¯ll judge them harshly.¡± Gin said, and Anson felt flummoxed.


    ¡°Then what the hell is he mad at me for? I didn¡¯t dodge the draft!¡± Anson said, and Gin raised her hands.


    ¡°We¡¯re not accusing you of anything.¡± She said kindly enough for Anson to believe it.


    ¡°Not that we¡¯re in any position.¡± Heath pointed out, and Anson laughed unexpectedly at that. ¡°I think he could just tell you didn¡¯t serve.¡±


    ¡°No. I started working from a young age at a mechanic¡¯s. I was fourteen when the frame of a car came down on my leg.¡± Anson said, and at least this was honest. ¡°I¡¯m fine now, can¡¯t feel a thing, but at eighteen I still had a cane.¡±


    That had been a costly injury. His family couldn¡¯t afford it, hence him working at that age in the first place, and it meant his father had to work overtime. Well, ¡®work¡¯ wasn¡¯t the right word. Scam people, steal whatever he could get his grubby hands on, bitterly drag Anson along with him for sympathy. When he finally got off those crutches and onto a cane he became the helper, and now he does what his father did, but he did a better job if he said so himself. He used to anyway. Things got too hot and he had to constantly remind himself to cool down, keep under the radar. This town had to be as under the radar as it got.


    ¡°And anyway, I don¡¯t see him shouting at you and you¡¯re a draft-dodger.¡± Anson pointed out before he could do too much recollecting.


    ¡°But can you tell looking at me?¡± Heath said, and Anson had to admit defeat with a shrug there. ¡°Exactly. Helps that yesterday was our first official meeting.¡±


    ¡°But you skipped out on Nazi killing for love.¡± Gin cooed, and leaned over to kiss him. Anson watched, his envy poisonous, but he¡¯d gotten a hotter, heavier kiss the day before yesterday, so he wasn¡¯t about to pitch a fit. He felt assured he was going to get more than that in the future, too, so he settled into his toast without complaint.


    They finished their meal with light conversation, on Heath¡¯s pastas and the bibles Anson had been selling. When they finished Heath took their plates to the kitchen and Gin walked around the counter with a familiar look on her face and pulled Anson close. He caught her drift and kissed her, then skimmed his hands up the back of her skirt. At the sound of the kitchen door Gin pulled away, and when Heath approached kissed him with Anson¡¯s hands still on her ass. When they were through Heath leaned in and kissed Anson, and when he pulled away he spotted the lightest dusting of a blush on both their cheeks.


    ¡°I think you should come downstairs.¡± Heath said, his voice already a little heated. Anson had forgotten there was a basement here: Heath had only mentioned it the day he¡¯d stayed on that cot in the kitchen. He¡¯d also said that Gin had gone home, but that now was a clear lie in order to hide the relationship as they all headed to the back corner of the dining room. Back there Heath opened a discreet trap door with a very steep set of wooden stairs leading down into a darkness the pair seemed more than familiar with due to the candle sat at the top stair. Heath handed it to Gin, who produced a match and lit it, then lead the way downstairs.


    Anson followed, uncertain of the steep and rickety descent, but Gin plowed heedlessly ahead, so he played nonchalant as Heath closed the door behind them. Despite being very dark and underground it was warmer than it had been upstairs, maybe protected by the earth. When they reached the bottom Anson stepped onto rough hewn stone and felt like he was in the heart of the mountain. With very little light from the candle he reached out and touched Gin¡¯s waist, and she giggled a little. Another source of light brightened the room slightly, and Anson found that Heath had lit another candle and lifted it to show him the area.


    What he saw was two rooms: a small one off to the left he could not see into, but supposed was a bedroom, and a greater area dedicated to food storage. There were maybe a dozen cases of wine pushed against the wall, surrounded with sacks of flour and potatoes. Several milk crates overflowed with vegetables that could keep in cold air for awhile, like onions and garlic, and around those maybe two dozen ceramic crocks likely filled with pickled vegetables. On the right, hanging from the ceiling, he saw pounds and pounds of meat. It reminded him of Italy, or maybe a New York delicatessen, so he stepped closer to take a look.


    ¡°We order the salami and ¡®nduja.¡± Heath explained proudly, ¡°But the rest we cure on our own.¡±


    ¡°Oh boy, you¡¯re about to get the whole spiel.¡± Gin laughed, then disappeared into the other room.


    ¡°Don¡¯t act like you don¡¯t like my spieling.¡± Heath called after her, and Anson grinned. ¡°Here¡¯s pancetta, here¡¯s guanciale, here¡¯s prosciutto.¡±


    He pointed to a massive roll of pork, intricately tied, a few smaller slabs of pork hanging on meat hooks, and a couple hog legs. Anson was too familiar with gore to be disgusted, and he nodded in fascination. The meat was raw but cured, not rotting but preserved. The smell in the room was mostly black pepper, some herbs, but nothing disgusting.


    ¡°The leg we just shave off bit by bit once it¡¯s cured. The antipasto is surprisingly popular.¡± Heath said, then pointed to a shelf lined with bone-in, fatty looking beef. ¡°Short loin. We dry age that for steaks. The fishermen will come in with their own lobsters for me to boil up.¡±


    ¡°For surf and turf?¡± Anson asked, and laughed when Heath nodded. ¡°That¡¯s amazing. I bet you charge out the ass for this.¡±


    ¡°No, I couldn¡¯t. It¡¯s a total ripoff when restaurants try to charge you ten dollars for something worth two.¡± Heath said, and Anson nodded silently. It had momentarily slipped his mind that some people are honorable. ¡°Come on, I think Gin¡¯s waiting for us.¡±


    Something about the word ¡®us¡¯ enticed him, and he followed Heath into the room on the left to find indeed it was a small bedroom, with Gin lying on a cozy looking quilt. She had removed her cardigan and house dress, leaving only her thick socks and tap pants. Her hair was undone too now, and she spread out and looked up at the pair with maybe more patience than they deserved. Anson¡¯s instinct was to get on her level, so he loosened his tie and began to undo his buttons. Heath removed his white tee shirt and jeans, kicking off work boots as he went, and began to undo Anson¡¯s belt when he was down to his briefs. He leaned close and kissed Heath¡¯s shoulder, then his collarbone, then his neck as a hand reached down his pants and tugged him awake. Anson moaned into his skin and he pulled away ¡ª regrettable, but he needed to take off his trousers and oxfords.


    They both took the opportunity to look to Gin as he did this, who was passing her time by sliding her hand down her shorts and massaging her clit, taking care of herself the way Anson knew she would soon take care of them. In moments he and Heath were both nude, and he pulled the man into a close kiss ¡ª chests touching, hands roaming, arousal evenly met ¡ª until Gin let her foot slide up his leg, demanding attention once more. When Anson looked at her she gave him an inviting smile, though it was Heath who pulled away in order to remove her tap pants and throw them to the side. Gin pulled him into a kiss, and when Anson sidled onto the downy bed she released Heath to kiss him, too.


    He had hoped there would be more action between he and Heath this time around: he wanted him more than his wife after all, and he was frankly the only reason he was fucking her. But as Gin kissed him deeply, ruffling his hair as she went, Heath picked her up and set her on his lap, causing a gasp and then an eruption of giggles from her end. When he kissed his wife¡¯s shoulder Anson met his gaze and wondered what was in it: Heath looked exhilarated, and so handsome with a blush across his cheeks, and Anson could only pray that his own expression appeared lustful rather than envious. To divert both his eyes and any suspicion he chose to lie down between Gin and Heath¡¯s spread legs, where he used two fingers to part her labia and lay his tongue on her little clit. She moaned for him, soft and sweet, and he eagerly licked her up and down as to hear more. The moaning continued as he ate her out with vigor, all the while stroking his hand up and down Heath¡¯s thigh. He must have been hard against Gin¡¯s ass, with her moaning only aiding the arousal. When she gripped his shoulder tight and cried out in pleasure Anson let her rock against his mouth, then pulled away, ready for more than just oral. Heath was on the same page, leaning over to the nightstand and opening the drawer. Anson laughed aloud.


    ¡°Is that olive oil?¡± He asked, and Heath blushed.


    ¡°That¡¯s what the Romans did.¡± Gin pointed out breathlessly. ¡°And it¡¯s not like we¡¯re going to run out any time soon.¡±


    Anson snorted as Heath squirted some oil from the bottle and into his hand, which immediately moved under Gin¡¯s bottom. She gasped at the touch and Anson had an odd moment of realization at the depravity ¡ª watching a married man stick a lubed finger up his wife¡¯s ass, freshly stimulated with his mouth and soon to be again by his erect cock. He suppressed a shiver, but in truth this was some of the best sex he¡¯d ever had. Only that last morning romp with Pietro could surpass this, and he thought of him when he kissed Gin again, of how exciting danger was in the bedroom. If only one of those townies the couple served knew what was happening in the space just below.


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Heath worked a second finger into Gin, stretching and scissoring as to relax the muscle, but Anson could see from the look of pleasure on her face that the pair had to do this often. She was too relaxed for a first-timer, or even the type of housewife who only did anal as an occasional thrill, a birthday gift and maybe once on Christmas. Heath may have been absolutely devoted to her, but he still had inclinations that needed to be fought back ¡ª a woman¡¯s ass wasn¡¯t quite the equivalent, but for so many years he must have forced it to be enough. Now, though, now Anson was there, with an appeal Gin didn¡¯t possess. An appeal he was confident enough about to swallow his envy when Heath and Gin repositioned so his cock could slide up her ass. Gin moaned for him, and he gripped her hips tighter, but both paused and looked up to him in anticipation.


    There was a power in this that caused him some headiness. He was suddenly too warm in a freezing room, and every breath that filled his lungs stung like crystalline ice. An odd feeling seized him, and something deep down told him to run, grab his clothing and get far away from here, and when he pushed the feeling down it was like he was physically beating at it. This wasn¡¯t like Italy: no one was going to chase him through the streets, no mobs with torches would form, and there would be no blood and gore and death, not this time.


    If any of his hesitation shown through, Heath and Gin didn¡¯t notice. He leaned into Gin and Heath, with his arms wrapped around her, laid back against the pillows. When Anson looked down he got a gorgeous view of Heath¡¯s cock up Gin¡¯s ass, of her wet pussy just waiting for him, and he thrust himself inside her with a groan of satisfaction. Heath was quick to move, a strange sensation: he could feel his cock so close to his own, thrusting into the very same woman he was so deep in, and he began to thrust along. Gin moaned, her hands roaming on Anson¡¯s back, and Anson couldn¡¯t help but moan himself. He and Heath fucked her until she was screaming, twice then three times, looking at her face twist with pleasure, at Heath¡¯s intense gaze on him. He lost control before Heath did, cumming deep inside her, and after Heath followed the trio lay together awhile, Anson gently kissing Gin¡¯s chest, meeting eyes with her husband pressing his lips to her neck.


    Eventually they untangled themselves. Anson sat at the edge of the bed and just breathed a moment, all too aware that Gin and Heath were resisting the urge to cuddle as they kissed on the pillows behind him. But in the restaurant business they must have been used to early mornings and late nights, so they parted and began to dress in easy silence. As Anson slipped on his tie Heath offered to walk him out and share a cigarette, and Gin waved the pair off as they headed back upstairs.


    Outside the air was frigid, but Anson was too warmed up inside and felt awkward in his heavy coat. Heath handed him a cigarette and pulled out his zippo ¡ª the flame jumped too close to his face, but he didn¡¯t flinch. Just took a long drag and stared out over the ocean.


    ¡°Gin¡¯s fucking gorgeous.¡± He said, with the smoke from his mouth pulled away swiftly by the wind. ¡°I see why you defied the law for her.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d defy God himself.¡± Heath answered easily. He flicked ashes from his cigarette in an almost lazy fashion ¡ª full of food and fresh off a roll in the hay, Anson understood why. It wasn¡¯t a shared feeling. That sense that he needed to run, and run now, had started up his heart like an old engine. He tucked his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking. This was not Italy. Pietro would not even recognize him now.


    ¡°You¡¯re gorgeous, too.¡± He whispered. ¡°We¡¯re defying the law for you.¡±


    He glanced Heath¡¯s way to see his expression open and full of affection, a wellspring that so quickly bubbled it seemed he had no choice but to display it, to hand it out in tender kisses and warm meals. Fuck. He was really in it now.


    ¡°I think I¡¯ll head back to town.¡± He bent his head and spat out his cigarette before he could catch too much disappointment on the chef¡¯s face. ¡°Find some form of entertainment outside that damned hotel.¡±


    ¡°Climbing the walls, huh?¡± Heath chuckled. ¡°They have gatherings in the library quite often. And Joe¡¯s got entertainment ¡ª books and cards, crossword games.¡±


    ¡°Is that what you and Gin get up to? You must need some way to blow off steam, besides blowing each other.¡± Heath slapped his arm. ¡°I jest. Sex, candle-making, and cooking Italian. That ought to be enough for anyone.¡±


    ¡°It sure is.¡± Heath said, but his voice was hollow. When Anson looked his way again he was bombarded with a kiss, so ferocious it almost bowled him over. He pulled his hands from his pockets and embraced the other man, embraced him as his collar was pulled and his breath was ensnared by the wind. He was full, he was spent, but he was hungry, he wanted. Heath brought that out in him, an old familiar feeling. Everything, anything, too much, not enough. He just had to stop his hands from shaking, and then he could soak it all in. Just play it cool, keep a level head, you¡¯ve done so well so far. It¡¯s all a game, his to win. The whole world was his trophy, as was the handsome man pressed against him.


    And so that was what life became. Cold, bitter cold. A town with no name, but truly vibrant people, once he came to know them. And he did! Mass every Sunday, nods and greetings in the streets, an odd toast or two in the restaurant. Dallas and Smiley would sit with ruffled feathers, but he would clap for them and the other haggard men on Saturday nights when there¡¯d been maybe too much drink and a shanty would pass around the room. Why, one evening the brothers, Marvin and Isaac, they brought in the spoils of their latest harvest by the case ¡ª a sampling, they¡¯d said. Anson admired them just for that, but when the corks were popped and the sweet wine bubbled over every glass in the place, even the one Gin stealthily walked back to the kitchen, he thought them kids after his own heart. They made a killing in pre-sales that night, even if they couldn¡¯t see straight by the end of it.


    ¡°Let me walk you fellas home.¡± He¡¯d said winkingly, somewhat in control of his facilities. ¡°It¡¯s a winding pass, and my precious Victoria would not appreciate any of us at the wheel in our state.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to lay your precious Victoria down and fuck her.¡± Marvin burped, and Isaac cajoled him all the way down the mountain until Anson was painted a full picture of just what exactly his brother would do to this hypothetical girl.


    ¡°You know she¡¯s a car, right?¡± He¡¯d asked when they finally finished their dissent, and they fell apart with laughter, already completely out of breath.


    ¡°She¡¯s got an exhaust pipe.¡± Marvin answered, and they barely had the air in their chests required for the rest of their journey. When they finally reached the farm the boys thanked him with an unopened bottle and he went on his merry way, half their money tucked neatly into his coat pocket. At library mass the next morning they professed to being so drunk the night prior they¡¯d forgotten who payed and who hadn¡¯t, and Dallas swore on the Lord¡¯s day, but went and surveyed all parties just the same. Anson said nothing, but cracked a smile when Sophia fell from her seat laughing.


    David supplied him books, Joe offered cards and games at his counter, and neither guessed what he liked while he got to know all about them. Nothing, really, nothing about their old lives, their careers, where they were from, and Anson was fine about that. He liked to see the make of a man. He liked to study them almost as if they were alien creatures. David was as mad as Sophia had always claimed, but a gentleman first. His accent had worn away over the years, but when he rambled at length on a particular passage the Georgian leapt out of him. Anson could hear it so strongly on ¡°Samson¡± that he supposed everyone else had noticed and said nothing about it. Joe was mad too, but harmless. The librarian had something manic to him, something around the eyes like a killer, whereas Joe¡¯s fingers would itch and his body take him pacing when he spoke. An investment banker, Gin had supposed. Morphine, Anson guessed to himself.


    ¡°Come over one night for a real game.¡± Joe would offer during a quick hand of hold ¡®em. ¡°We¡¯ll get Ole West to warm up to you.¡±


    But he doubted that day would ever come, and declined just to avoid the man further. When he passed Robert in the lobby he still nodded politely, even waved his hand sometimes, but the clerk would just stare him down. There were dark circles beneath his eyes now, and he seemed wary of Anson¡¯s presence, but not ready to shy away. The weather report was starting to appear outside his door in the night, scrawled in Joe¡¯s sloppy writing, then certain words circled and underlined in a different pen. Heavy rain, sleet, winds, flurries. It was getting worse all the time, and yet Anson did not flee.


    ¡°You ought to ask Miss Judge for a pair of boots.¡± Joe said, when Anson walked in one day for Planters to sneak at mass. ¡°You ought to have known it would snow today, too, with all the reports Westy has me take.¡±


    Sonny bellowed with laughter ¡ª Anson never startled, but he was tempted. The man was tall, but slender enough to blend in among the junk. He was in the far corner overlooking burlap sacks that, upon closer inspection, were filled with salt. Plenty for him to keep the hotel¡¯s steps from slicking over, Anson supposed.


    ¡°Wow, he really wants you out of here!¡± Sonny laughed. He felt bad even though he wasn¡¯t the one who¡¯d brought it up.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine. A joke between us.¡± Anson said, and Sonny scoffed. ¡°All part of his charm.¡±


    ¡°Now you¡¯re getting it.¡± Mean Joe cracked that grin of his, and Anson paid for his peanuts and took off. He wouldn¡¯t say something to Calder, would he? Or were the weather reports taken at his direction? At the very least he would read them better now, instead of tossing them aside so quickly. The snow was falling fast, and he wasn¡¯t prepared for it after so long in the south.


    He reasoned with himself that he would speak to Anita later, wouldn¡¯t put it off too long even if she did give him just a little bit of the jimmies. She was too smart to really mess with, and chatty, too ¡ª he¡¯d socialize in a group with her at the library, but wave her off when the crowd began to thin. And worse than her brains, worse than her mouth, he couldn¡¯t tell whether or not she was crazy. He could take stock and see who belonged in a nuthouse (David, Joe, Isaac and Marvin) and who didn¡¯t (sweet, proud Sophia, kind and eager Ruth, Dallas and Smiley even) and behave accordingly. He could treat that former group as he did his cellmates not so long ago, but the rest he had to dress up in front of.


    I¡¯m a human, too. I¡¯ve never met a good atrocity. I don¡¯t enjoy hearing about train crashes. Look at my suit and not at my eyes, but he could control it at least. He had a lifetime of training in this, the ultimate scam. But Anita? How did he behave around someone he couldn¡¯t read?


    The snow had slowed when he arrived to the restaurant, but Gin took one look at him and sent Heath to the basement. They were scraping candle wax when he returned, a sheepish look on his face and an old pair of boots in his hand.


    ¡°I couldn¡¯t.¡± Anson said immediately, but Gin waved him off.


    ¡°You need something. You¡¯re not prepared.¡± She set down her razor and kneeled by his feet, untying one of his oxfords. ¡°You¡¯ve traveled the south for how long? And lived in California before that. You¡¯ve known one real winter all your life.¡±


    ¡°And I was hoping it would be my last.¡± Anson quirked his brow as she pulled off his shoe. Heath handed her the boots, then swung around the chair and began to massage Anson¡¯s shoulders. The blade felt so fine in his hand.


    ¡°Then you should¡¯ve left sooner. Too bad you¡¯re an absolute man-whore.¡± Heath¡¯s words rumbled in his chest and pressed against Anson¡¯s back. Gin slipped on the boot. It was tight, but if the pair really insisted he would rather take them for free than buy a whole new pair. Money wasn¡¯t tight yet thanks to all those bible sales (and the brothers¡¯ wine), but living in a hotel was going to be costly. He was stuck all winter with no new customers but rent to pay each week, and yet a pair of hands on his shoulders made the risk worth it. At least he hoped.


    The sex so far had been fantastic, but limited. He¡¯d driven up almost every morning to screw the pair, but mostly he was dicking Gin down with Heath. It didn¡¯t get more creative than that ¡ª he wanted to fuck Heath up the ass every second of every day, but he was lucky to get his mouth around the other man¡¯s cock for a few minutes to get him up before Gin pulled him away. He knew it to be envy: he couldn¡¯t imagine she was a selfish lover, but she certainly was the one squirming and crying out the most. The original intention to fuck his way to her husband was a goal now edging further and further away, though this only made him more ambitious. Each day he visited he only grew more feisty, looking Heath deep in the eyes while he rubbed his wife¡¯s clit, holding his hand while they sandwiched themselves against her, fucking her in deep, long strokes, tousling his hair and kissing his chest in the few moments post-coitus before the couple returned to their clothing. He knew now they weren¡¯t the type to cuddle, and Anson would never linger in another¡¯s bed, but goddamn if he didn¡¯t wish he could duck his face against Heath¡¯s neck and live entwined with him for a day. Once it had stormed outside that shack and he could hear it even deep in the mountain with them, and it was almost a physical pain to tear himself from those sheets.


    ¡°I don¡¯t really need the boots that badly.¡± Heath said. ¡°You¡¯re the one running around town, after all. I only step out to smoke.¡±


    Gin slipped on the other boot, and Anson stood, releasing the blade. He would have called that lonely if Heath didn¡¯t have the whole town coming to him ¡ª it was a wonder he didn¡¯t get fat. He walked the length of the shack and back, finding the boots serviceable, and ended up back to Gin, who looped her fingers around the waistline of his trousers and pulled him close.


    ¡°You¡¯re a little taller in those.¡± She hummed, and his hands found the small of her back.


    ¡°It¡¯s the lifts Heath puts in all his shoes.¡± He replied, and Heath snorted. ¡°Makes him less self-conscious.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t¡ª¡±


    ¡°If only he would just borrow my heels.¡± Gin sighed. ¡°It would make life so much easier for him.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t¡ª¡±


    ¡°Live freely, Heath.¡± Anson added, and Heath threw a chunk of candle wax at him. ¡°Geez. Real Napoleon complex.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s go downstairs.¡± Heath said, and Anson bit down any suggestion of punishment.


    The trio climbed the steep stairs together, as had become routine, past the cured meats and vegetable crates, and into the bedroom, where Gin began to strip as Heath helped him out of the boots. Once she was nude she sat behind him on the bed, undoing his tie as Heath worked on his zipper, Anson running his fingers through his hair. When his cock sprung free Gin began to work gentle kisses against his neck, and anson¡¯s breathing went shallow. Heath was on his knees for him, a hand wrapped around his shaft, those gorgeous lips so close to his head. He wanted Heath to look up at him, wanted to sense what the man was feeling, wanted that perverse feeling of power that came from staring at someone on their knees for you, but Heath didn¡¯t look up as his hand began to move so agonizingly slowly. He put his lips against the tip and Anson felt his tongue swirl against his skin, moaning with the action. Gin¡¯s nails skittered across his torso as Heath¡¯s hand bobbed and Anson fought not to thrust into it.


    A knock sounded out against the door, loud enough that Gin jumped and Heath pulled away, his cheeks all red. They met eyes for a moment, his wide with alarm, Anson¡¯s likely still filled with lust. Everyone froze a moment, and the knocking began anew. Heath, almost fully dressed, stood, seemingly willing his semi away as he exited the room. Anson and Gin waited on bated breath as they heard the stairs creak, the trap door open, then close again. He crossed the restaurant and seemingly spoke to someone on the threshold, though they couldn¡¯t hear who. Gin quivered against him. His dick was rock hard. He moved his hand down a fraction, then thought better of it and refrained, but Gin must have seen and shared the feeling. In a moment she was in front of him, and on the edge of the bed she sat with him, her tits against his chest and him filling her. She didn¡¯t share her husband¡¯s apprehension, only Anson¡¯s excitement, and this time he couldn¡¯t resist thrusting into her. She moaned as softly as she could and began to bounce up and down his cock, the full length moving in and out of her wet pussy. He gripped her ass and she bit her lip to contain a yelp, coming down hard enough on him that he heard her skin clap against his.


    The door opened again, and the pair froze. It was only one pair of footsteps on the stairs, familiar enough to be Heath¡¯s, but still they waited until he entered the room to gauge his concern. He returned with little fanfare, only admiring their nude forms a moment before passing them to the nightstand.


    ¡°It was just Smiley.¡± He said, and they both sighed with relief. ¡°He caught some really nice crab he wanted me to store for tonight. We buried them in a mound of snow around back to keep ¡®em cool.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like your boots would¡¯ve been helpful for that.¡± Anson grimaced, but Gin laughed. Heath pulled the olive oil from the drawer and went around to the foot of the bed.


    ¡°You keep the boots, sweetheart. You don¡¯t know the cold like we do.¡± She bobbed on his dick one more time, her pert little tits bouncing with her, and Heath pulled down his jeans, kicking them aside.


    ¡°Turn over.¡± He touched her back gently, and she guided Anson down, her back against the mattress, his cock still deep in her. He wondered if Heath was only planning to watch until a warm, strong hand gripped his ass, and he groaned when the other hand hooked his waist. When he looked over his shoulder he could see Heath still red in the face, and knew it wasn¡¯t just he and Gin who hadn¡¯t minded the interruption. Everyone feared being caught, but loved the thrill of coming close. The obscenity of it all. It was as close as normal folk could get to evil with none of the guilt.


    Heath thrust into him without a finger to start with, just his thick, lubbed cock, and Anson buried his face in Gin¡¯s chest and moaned with delight. He didn¡¯t need to start slowly, and Heath probably sensed that, because right away he pulled out and thrust back in powerfully enough that Gin was moved by it, and moaned a little herself. Anson tried to move in her; and it wasn¡¯t perfect, it was messy, Heath was thrusting when he should have let Anson work, Anson was buried in a woman while his prostate was so perfectly hit, his moans rung in his own ears, Gin squirmed too much, it was too much, it was overwhelming, Anson came too soon, Heath kept fucking him, Gin rubbed her clit while the cum dribbled out of her, and finally Heath spilled himself all over Anson¡¯s back and the trio had to lie down together, breathing hard.


    Anson had spent his whole life chasing this feeling. He thought maybe he ought to spend the rest of it doing the same. Gin kissed his temple absently, then Heath stood, grabbed a rag from the dresser, and wiped down Anson¡¯s back. The cloth was rough on his skin, and Anson wanted more from it, but Heath was quick to toss it aside and return to his clothing. Gin moved beneath him, too, and Anson took that as his cue to dress in silence.


    ¡°Would you care for a cigarette?¡± Anson asked, and Heath didn¡¯t look his way as he turned his shirt right-side-out.


    ¡°Just a second.¡± He said, then shook his head at Anson¡¯s pause. ¡°Sorry. I¡¯m thinking about the crab.¡±


    ¡°Oh my God, do you ever turn off?¡± Gin laughed, clear and light, and Heath smiled sheepishly. Anson punched his arm, collected his boots, and took them up to sit in a dining chair. Once he had the boots and coat on he felt like a real wild man, ready to tackle whatever weather came his way. Outside he didn¡¯t feel the same; the snow was only a flurry now, but his teeth chattered when the cigarette didn¡¯t sit between his lips. It was so much colder out on the mountain, and he was looking forward to returning to town. He¡¯d probably cut out early today rather than share breakfast, as he sometimes did, and find entertainment on Main Street.


    He caught himself thinking of the food as his fag burned. Not the best part of this little tryst, but certainly its own reward. Rich poached eggs on leftover focaccia in the morning, creamy ribollita to stick to his ribs come noon, a clear broth at dinner if it was all too much for him by the end of the day. Not to mention every shape of pasta under the moon, prepared in butter or olive oil, rich cream sauce or marinara, paired with pumpkin or kale, chard or garlic, whatever was cold-hardy. His palate, much like his cock, had entered the world of the divine, and he smirked to himself at the thought of it.


    ¡°You¡¯ll have to light another.¡± Heath said behind him as the door opened. ¡°I had to find my lifts.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re too much.¡± Anson declared, and stamped out his cigarette butt. ¡°I¡¯m headed back to town ¡®fore I freeze my ass off.¡±


    ¡°God, you really did need my boots.¡± Heath said, then softened. ¡°Be careful on the drive down. This pass is treacherous on even a fine day.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about me.¡± Anson put a hand on the back of his neck, but felt himself beaming. ¡°I know how to handle the ole girl.¡±


    ¡°Tap the breaks gently. Watch for black patches on the road.¡± Heath continued in earnest. ¡°Do you have a scraper? You should get a scraper from Joe.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll get a scraper.¡± Anson pulled Heath into a hug, then kissed him gently, touched at the concern. ¡°And I¡¯ll see you tonight, if not tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°Looking forward to it.¡± He kissed him back, and Anson reluctantly let go. He really would have stayed if his fingers weren¡¯t going numb, but that damn cold got to him, and he returned to his car to blast the heat and make the slow journey back to town.


    The ride wasn¡¯t so bad, in fact his car didn¡¯t slip once, but he knew he ought to get that scraper sooner rather than later. After a shower, though, and after he took his kit in with him and washed his own laundry ¡ª there was no Christian explanation for olive oil in a man¡¯s underwear. When he walked back up the hotel¡¯s steps he found them salted, and wiped his boots well on the welcome mat as to not track it up the stairs. He thought Robert would appreciate such a thing, and glanced over to the clerk¡¯s desk to make some wry comment, but it was Sonny standing there, not the pale fellow.


    ¡°I ¡ª oh. I thought Robert put this salt down.¡± He said, and Sonny, cleaning off a glass just as if he were at the bar, shrugged.


    ¡°He left before I could rope him into it. Figures.¡± He set one glass down and grabbed another. ¡°You have a good day, now.¡±


    ¡°Left? Left where?¡± Anson asked, and he didn¡¯t quite understand why his nerves grated so.


    ¡°For Eureka, of course. He goes back every winter to stay with his family, then returns come Spring.¡± He said it like Anson ought have remembered, like he was already one of their own. Did this ease him? He wasn¡¯t quite sure. But Robert¡¯s absence certainly did not.


    ¡°Ah.¡± He said, and turned heel. He had no idea what emotions his expression betrayed. ¡°Of course.¡±


    He headed up the stairs, lost in thought. Why did Robert detest him so if he knew he was going home soon? Was he worried what Calder would do without him around? Was he the only thing holding Calder back? The only time he had seen the hotel owner was the weekend Robert hadn¡¯t been around. And why? Those had been the only two days he hadn¡¯t seen the man. And hadn¡¯t Sonny once told him he was born and raised here? So why spend half the year in Eureka?


    He returned to his room, then took a long and lonely shower. When he hit the library for tea nothing was amiss, and when he drove back to the restaurant no one showed any difference. And yet, here and now, for the first time, he felt that maybe some of his questions needed answers more than vagaries. He felt it in a big empty hotel he knew wasn¡¯t truly empty, in waving to Sonny walking out the door, in watching Smiley eat a plate of pasta in the evening, not crab. He felt it when no weather report showed on his doorstep the next morning. One answer, really. He needed one answer.


    Was there something wrong with the hotel, or the whole damn town?

 Chapter Seven

    The sun was high and the sky was clear so that any snow from yesterday could not linger. Anson supposed he was glad for it ¡ª he already missed the warmth. Winter was near uncharted territory for him, as was all this. Keeping put. Keeping put when he suspected danger. All across Europe, especially with his father in charge, it was only ever time to leave when stirrings began, whispers alleging swindlers and crooks of them. Whispers don¡¯t chase you through Spain, Portugal, France, Italy. One just gets better at hearing them, and, Anson felt, worse at recognizing their volume. When the whispers became frank conversations became shouting in the streets, guns and flames, a lonely cell, he would wonder how he didn¡¯t spot the difference between one harried local and a mob until they¡¯d had him in ropes.


    He was already endangering himself, fucking a married couple. Why was he investigating something that might as well be nothing? Robert was no real friend of his, he wouldn¡¯t have told Anson about his trip home. And if he hadn¡¯t warned him about Calder, Anson would take no stock in this anyhow. But Robert, a stranger who didn¡¯t even like him, cared enough to warn him something was afoot. Maybe just to protect him, sure, or maybe he was like him. He hadn¡¯t seen it like he¡¯d seen it in Heath, in Pietro, in a couple farm boys up and down the country, but why else would he protect him? Was it just that he was a good man? Moreover, why was Anson showing him any loyalty now? He must have been soft with age, or bored besides.


    He just couldn¡¯t investigate on an empty stomach, so he hopped in the Victoria and drove up to the restaurant, where he received a usual welcome: pots and pans clanging, and Gin scraping wax. He sat with her and helped along while Heath hollered from the kitchen, some lengthy explanation of how different breads rose. He adored the man, but tuned out after ¡®gluten structure.¡¯ Breakfast was light; toast with fresh butter and blackberry jam.


    ¡°The brothers supply all the dairy.¡± Heath began as his wife set down the plates. ¡°We make the butter ourselves.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the only thing I¡¯ve got going on outside candle-making.¡± Gin said, one brow raised high. ¡°Almost like I¡¯m a home-maker.¡±


    ¡°Do you churn it like they do in Pennsylvania?¡± Anson asked, then bit into his toast. It was a marvel the way Heath could turn anything, even something so simple, into a delicacy. The bread was hardy, the butter cool, creamy, and so fresh it tasted like it¡¯d been scrubbed clean. The jam tasted as though the berries had just been picked, and a pinch of salt on top made his mouth water for another bite.


    ¡°No, I just take a big bowl of cream and stand there with egg beaters. Really!¡± Gin insisted. ¡°The fat and the whey separate, I wring it out, that¡¯s butter.¡±


    ¡°It looks disgusting, we should show you sometime.¡± Heath said, and Anson snorted unexpectedly. ¡°But of course it¡¯s delicious. And we can use the whey in polenta or oats. Waste not want not.¡±


    ¡°There it is.¡± Anson grinned. ¡°Everyone else communes with God through prayer, you know.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re doing it wrong.¡± Heath answered, and looked thoughtful a moment. ¡°I guess you just explained a lot of who I am. I do see the holiness in good food. Worshiping the best bits, repurposing the worst, composting the rest. A circle like the holy spirit.¡±


    ¡°So you have been reading it.¡± Anson thought of the Bible he¡¯d sold the pair so long ago. He hadn¡¯t spotted it yet, but they never left him alone to rifle through the drawers.


    ¡°Do either of you oddballs want some coffee? I¡¯m in the mood.¡± Gin said, and went to the kitchen when Heath nodded. And then, when the door swung closed:


    ¡°When we¡¯re done with breakfast I¡¯m going to fuck you up the ass.¡±


    ¡°Careful now, or I¡¯ll fuck you.¡± Anson said, and Heath smiled as dangerously as such a good man could.


    ¡°All in due time.¡± He took another bite of toast and brushed crumbs from his hands. ¡°Do you love God?¡±


    ¡°Obviously. He makes all my money.¡± Anson said, though that was notably not what Heath meant. ¡°As a queer, you mean? It would be dishonest for me not to. I¡¯d have to find a different line of work, wouldn¡¯t I?¡±


    Because honesty was oh-so-important to him.


    ¡°Now ask me.¡± Heath said.


    ¡°Ask you?¡±


    ¡°Yes, ask me. Ask me what I think of God.¡± He wasn¡¯t grinning, but he wasn¡¯t upset either.


    ¡°Do you love God?¡± He asked. Heath picked his hand up and kissed it.


    ¡°I love whatever brought you here.¡± He said, and Anson very nearly flushed. He¡¯d managed to avoid it thus far, but there it was: that swooping feeling right by his head, like he was back in Coney Island. Like stepping into Ruth¡¯s shop and breathing in all those flowers. He really never had crushes or flirtations ¡ª those rare happenings were always infatuations, and he always wanted to curl up in these moods and stew in them. Heath¡¯s eyes twinkled at him, and he smiled as best he could, though he was sure he looked completely dumbstruck.


    ¡°Coffee¡¯s up!¡± Gin returned, calling as a waitress does, and Heath released his hand to grab some mugs beneath the counter. Another flare of jealousy rose in him, but he played cool and accepted the cream Gin was balancing along with the sugar and percolator. ¡°I hope you like it strong, bible-man.¡±


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t have it any other way.¡± But he walloped his cup with cream like always.


    Anson and Heath ate breakfast in silence, the latter contented and the former distracted. He had never been these two things at once: the doped up lover-boy and the big game hunter. He was normal in Italy for awhile, distant from his father, in bed every day with Pietro, perfectly carefree. So he killed those men eventually. Self defense. So he stuffed their corpses beneath the floorboards. So he bathed in their blood. He was two halves of a man, sound and then snapped. He did what he needed to do. Sitting here, listening to Gin regale Heath on the previous evening¡¯s festivities with a sour knot in his stomach, he did not know if the two halves could coincide.


    After breakfast Gin threw all the dishes in the sink and grabbed Anson¡¯s hand. Anson took Heath¡¯s in turn, and the trio walked down the stairs as standard, past the meats and produce, into the bedroom. Gin always stripped first, and Heath always admired her as Anson removed his tie. He unbuttoned his shirt as Heath removed his tee and jeans, and the rest came off with Gin pulling and prodding at the pair, giggling all the way. Anson ended up with his back against the mattress and Gin above him, kneeling with her knees by his ears. She dipped low enough for his lips to meet her labia and his tongue to stroke her tenderly, and responded by running slender fingers through his hair, humming soft little moans as he went. He brought his hands up almost lazily, running them against her thighs, and already she bucked a little against him.


    Heath must have seen the motion and mirrored it, his warm hands so firm and reassuring against Anson¡¯s legs. He parted them easily, and soon Anson felt hot kisses down the back of his thighs, then against the curve of his ass. He gripped Gin¡¯s legs as Heath¡¯s tongue roamed, settling where God and the law may not have wanted him, but where Anson certainly did, and moaned against Gin¡¯s wet pussy in response. She moaned in turn, then again to greater effect, gripping his hair tighter and grinding against his mouth. With his hands roaming along her thighs and ass she came quickly, crying out, though Anson was more distracted by Heath slipping away. Gin climbed down and inched down the sheets to look at him, his face likely all red, and she kissed him gently, almost a thank you, as Heath opened the nightstand drawer for the oil.


    As he walked around the bed Gin sat up, earning her a quick kiss on the crown. Her hips straddled Anson¡¯s, and he stood at attention at the heat of her. Heath was behind her now, slicking himself up with oil ¡ª in the quiet of the mountain Anson could hear his hand running up and down his length, gaining speed as Gin lowered herself onto Anson¡¯s erect cock. Heath didn¡¯t waste any time, thrusting himself into Anson with a satisfied moan that was matched by his two partners.


    It wasn¡¯t so sloppy this time. Gin bounced on top, and Heath fucked him at a matching pace while he mostly lay still, blissed out and groaning his pleasure. This time they lasted longer, but only just. Heath was in some sort of Nirvana today, and came first all over Gin¡¯s back, with her following soon thereafter. Her cry, her hand on his chest, and that heavy, sated, look in her eye had him done for, and he came inside with a thrust and a grunt. Distantly, with his eyes a little glazed, he noted Heath wiping Gin clean with a tenderness she didn¡¯t need and he hadn¡¯t received, and sobered. What was wrong with that hotel? What with the town? And what with him, that he couldn¡¯t just bask in this moment? He was so unsettled by this duality, unsettled by the absence of warmth when Gin climbed off of him. Unsettled when he dressed himself, unsettled when he climbed those rickety steps out. Only when the cold air hit him did he remember himself, that mask he had to don. He accepted the cigarette Heath handed him, but couldn¡¯t quite meet his eye.


    ¡°What¡¯s eating you, hon?¡± He asked, and brought up the Zippo. When Anson felt heat on his face he couldn¡¯t tell what was him and what was the flame.


    ¡°The crab.¡± He exhaled a big puff of smoke. ¡°Smiley wasn¡¯t eating crab last night.¡±


    Heath made a sour face, and Anson looked at him now, kept an even gaze.


    ¡°Did you see who was?¡± He grimaced. Anson shook his head. ¡°Anita. Anita was eating crab. Smiley¡¯s got a redhead at home.¡±


    Huh. Anita. Something always came back to her.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know he was going to do that.¡± Heath said, almost apologetic. ¡°He told Gin he wanted it sent over. I don¡¯t care for that sort of thing happening in my restaurant.¡±


    ¡°Only if we¡¯re all in on it.¡± Anson surprised himself with that, and Heath¡¯s laugh was startling in the quiet. ¡°There¡¯s something about her.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s. . . Enigmatic. I guess.¡± Heath hesitated. ¡°People like her.¡±


    ¡°Did people like her husband?¡± Anson wondered aloud, then shook his head. ¡°You didn¡¯t know him, did you? Or was that before you got here?¡±


    ¡°If I met him it couldn¡¯t have been more than once or twice. He passed shortly after we arrived, I think.¡± He gazed into the distance, past the bluff and out to the grey waters. ¡°That was our first winter, goddamn. I don¡¯t think we hardly left this shack once, we were so cold. So afraid of being caught out. Gin was climbing the walls, you know how sociable she is. I just remember he was a big fucker. No one messed with him.¡±


    The way Anson shouldn¡¯t have been messing with this. Heath read his mind.


    ¡°Should I be concerned? You¡¯re so quiet today.¡±


    ¡°Pot and kettle.¡± He grinned, but mentally he was doing backflips. Excuses, excuses, excuses. How to balance a life such as this. ¡°I¡¯ll uh ¡ª I¡¯ll reach out discreetly. Check in on her. I¡¯ve been on Smiley¡¯s bad side once already, I don¡¯t want her to end up there, too.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re secretly a sweetheart.¡± Heath teased, and Anson waved him off. ¡°Don¡¯t worry too bad, bible-man. The villagers are all bark. And besides, she can hold her own.¡±


    Anson leaned in for a kiss instead of answering. Sure, concern. Fine enough reasoning. Though he questioned its believability, it would have to do for now. He bid Heath adieu with another kiss, then returned to the cold Victorian and eased his way down the mountain. When he got back to town he chose to park in front of the hotel, but walked down the main road with squinting eyes in the bright sun. The din of the library was a relief to step into, as was its warmth as he pulled off the jacket sold to him by the object of his purpose there. As he made his way back to the building he spotted Ruth seemingly trapped in conversation with a very animated David, who waved at him from a distance.


    ¡°To pour wrath into the rivers, into the very sunlight ¡ª His entire universe is stitched with violence and cruelty! And He uses it to control our own violent desires ¡ª bible-man, what¡ª¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t bother him.¡± Ruth swatted his sleeve. ¡°I don¡¯t know how you¡¯re not sick of us already, Mr. Monroe.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t imagine that day.¡± Anson smiled, and David clapped him on the shoulder. ¡°How are things?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m cataloging stories of the Bible in relation to my series of medieval tapestry prints so I can properly annotate them.¡± David responded, wide-eyed and serious. ¡°Then I can provide religious and historical context to the reader.¡±


    ¡°That means things are well.¡± Ruth translated. ¡°You¡¯ve got people inspired, sir.¡±


    ¡°All in a day¡¯s work.¡± He tipped a hat that wasn¡¯t there and she giggled breathlessly. She didn¡¯t seem the type that belonged here, with that height and all that blonde hair. What had she done to land herself here? What needed anonymity so badly, as to isolate a beautiful young woman?


    ¡°I¡¯ve just swung around to drop off some houseplants.¡± She pointed out the ivy adorning the welcome desk. ¡°I had to nurse them back to health.¡±


    ¡°I told you I would kill them.¡± David rolled his eyes. She swatted him again.


    ¡°But I had faith in you.¡±


    ¡°That was your mistake.¡± David laughed, and glanced the clock. ¡°Stay and listen for awhile. Or pick up a book if you¡¯re sick of me.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no ¡®if.¡¯ Unlike Mr. Monroe I¡¯ve hit my limit for socializing today.¡± When she smiled at him her eyes twinkled. Lucky he had such a low attraction to women, or he¡¯d get himself even further tangled up. But from his observations it seemed she was just like that with everyone. ¡°You boys have a lovely day. Do try and enjoy the sunshine.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll try.¡± Anson vowed, and David waved her off and immediately returned to his book, a giant tome with curled pages.


    Anson let him be and continued on to the back of the library, where Sophia was washing china in a small basin. When she caught his eye she beckoned him over and dried her hands on her ruffled little apron. She wore it over a casual polka dot skirt and a silky blouse, with a red lip to match ¡ª her style was so reminiscent of Gin¡¯s that he made a mental note to prod her about it his next visit.


    ¡°Hello, little boy.¡± She said in that cunning way of hers. ¡°Why, don¡¯t you look so sweet with your hair growing out.¡±


    ¡°You look sweet in your Minnie Mouse getup.¡± He responded, and was met with a belly laugh. Time with her brought him to realize why she took up in this drafty old library ¡ª she and David were kindred spirits of a shared insanity. It was just too charming an insanity for him to be upset by it.


    ¡°What¡¯ll it be?¡± She asked, and he put a hand to his chin. ¡°Something hot, I¡¯m sure.¡±


    ¡°Hot and strong. Don¡¯t start.¡± He warned, and she laughed again and turned to her tea tins.


    ¡°You have to give me time to think something up. I¡¯m not as slick as you.¡± She opened a tin and held it out under his nose. The scent was richly spiced, almost overpowering. ¡°They call it chai. It¡¯s got black tea, so it¡¯ll be caffeinated for you.¡±


    ¡°That sounds perfect.¡± He leaned against the counter and watched her grab one of her little copper pots, filling it with milk and water. She threw in some of the tea leaves and put the tin back on the shelf before disappearing down into her cabinet to fish out a tea cup. The one she emerged with had delicate purple flowers and a saucer to match.


    ¡°Do all these little flowers of yours have a meaning?¡± He asked, thumbing the cup.


    ¡°I¡¯d have to look up some. Ruth knows better. This one¡¯s columbine, it means folly.¡± Her thin fingers grazed the other side of his cup. ¡°Are you not married yet, bible-man?¡±


    He¡¯d gotten the question before, and answered as softly as he could.


    ¡°Maybe in the Spring.¡± He said, and though she blushed she seemed mollified by that. In the Spring he should leave. And if he stayed, not that he was entertaining the idea, if he stayed he ought to take Gin as a wife and give her some respectability. And give her and Heath more cover. He felt charitable at the very notion, even as the wheels in his head turned to consider his inevitable escape. Why take solace in the idea that he could stay when every other time something¡¯s gone wrong?


    ¡°I like the ones where she¡¯s got the little cat.¡± Sophia said dreamily, bringing him back to Earth. ¡°He¡¯s so cute. From Pinocchio!¡±


    He didn¡¯t know the cat. He hadn¡¯t been to a Nickelodeon since before he left Europe, and he didn¡¯t go too often anyway since he could only ever sneak in. With work, too, and running home to help his mother pick his father up off the floor, he had hardly any spare time between all the manual labor and drunken disorderlies. Sophia must have been a few years younger than him, or just had a cushier lifestyle, wherever she came from.


    ¡°I always liked when they went on adventures. Like when Mickey killed all those giants.¡±


    ¡°Boys.¡± She rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to her pot for a minute, the silence comfortable. ¡°I¡¯m going to leave this to steep for five minutes, so you may want to find your book and come back.¡±


    He waved her off and stepped away for a moment, though he wasn¡¯t looking for books. He was looking for old newspapers, so that he could properly research the past. Or, rather, one resident¡¯s past in particular. No one had said yet how Anita¡¯s husband had died, and he wanted to know. There was something there to discover, he was sure of it, and something in this town¡¯s records must¡¯ve been able to help. He located the records section after a moment¡¯s search in a dingy back corner: if David allowed dust he bet it would have been layered thick back here. But the newspapers, hung on old dowels, were still clean despite curled edges, and boxes marked by manila tags with scribbled writing lined a tidy, yet small, wooden shelf.


    He knew this is where he ought to settle, but he didn¡¯t want to be so openly digging around into the town¡¯s past, so he scanned the nearby nonfiction aisle until he could find a book to satisfy, a biography on President Buchanan. He took it back with him to fetch his tea, though Sophia never really bothered reading the titles.


    ¡°Enjoy it, sweetheart. Let me know if you need anything else.¡± She said, and he left with dearest thanks. There was almost no need to worry this deep into the empty building, but he still propped open the book on a long mahogany table when he returned to the archives, setting the cup just beside it. The newspapers quickly proved disappointing ¡ª it seemed this unnamed town never had so much as even a flier, and a quick turn of the page to the obits of each proved unhelpful. The papers were random, from Eugene, Portland, Reno, and even Los Angeles, at random dates as well.


    Some referenced recent history; that exploding airship; Golden Gates being erected; Roosevelt¡¯s third term; D-Day. Those last two he¡¯d only learned of in prison, in a confusion of French, Italian, and Afrikaans, in a dank cell or under the hot sun. The other men wanted the Germans to win, wanted the French to suffer as they did in the imprisonment, but Anson had heard too much to agree, even out of spite. Not that he¡¯d seen any of it, any of the war. Actually, if he thought too hard about it, he didn¡¯t care to think of all he¡¯d missed in there.


    The other papers weren¡¯t historic at all, and Anson spent several minutes trying to figure out why David would keep them. Flipping through, he thought they¡¯d contain some reference to the town or its occupants, but he came up dry, unless there was some alias in use. He had to owe it to the man¡¯s packrat nature: maybe he was desperate to archive all the knowledge possible, even the unimportant? He set the papers aside and realized he had neglected his drink. When he took a sip it was too cool, but still delicious, all spicy and fragrant and tempered with rich milk. Another large swig prepared him to dig into the boxes, labeled ¡®Microfilm¡¯ with only a few dates.


    Inside rested piles of unsorted film, incomprehensible to the human eye, and it took Anson a few minutes to find the magnifying lens at the bottom, then even longer still to hold the film up over a nearby desk lamp¡¯s milk glass shade. Some of the pictures were distorted with age, all blurred or grainy. The first images were familiar to him; the Wright Flyer in Kitty Hawk; that big earthquake; the first Model T rolling off the line. The next were less so; soldiers spackled with mud; torpedos falling from planes; mushroom clouds. The war he didn¡¯t see. There weren¡¯t photos of the lead-up, because tension doesn¡¯t make a great picture, and the tension was more apt in Europe anyhow. These photos must have been a precious catalogue for the librarian, a clear look at American history, but nothing local, nothing of note that Anson could find in the day he spent poring over them. It confounded him. The man loved to catalogue, but stopped once he hit his small town. The price of shelter, perhaps?


    He searched nearby shelves for anything useful. The closest thing was a birdwatcher¡¯s guide for the area and a travel guide for Southern California, and he sat uselessly with the former for a while until David came around with oil for the lamp and pointed it out.


    ¡°Bored with that one? Big bird watcher?¡±


    ¡°Not really. I just grabbed something slim because I think I¡¯ll retire soon. What¡¯s your favorite?¡± He pinched his eyes, strained from looking at the bird, then turned to David. He was too focused on pouring the oil level to respond. ¡°I like the little fat birds that sit on cobblestone waiting for crumbs to drop. Seagulls, too. The friendly ones.¡±


    ¡°No matter where you go, they¡¯re the same.¡± David noted thoughtfully. ¡°I¡¯ll say swans. Lots of symbolism there.¡±


    ¡°Such a librarian answer.¡± Anson teased. ¡°Why not something nice, like a hummingbird?¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t really have hummingbirds here. We had them back where I¡¯m from. Hummingbirds and Coca-Cola. Heh. Might as well drink this oil.¡± He said, and his accent popped on the last word, enough to make Anson smile at the familiarity.


    ¡°There¡¯s no swans here, either.¡± He pointed out, and David shook his head.


    ¡°I ain¡¯t here for the wildlife. Go on and finish your drink, Sophia will be offended if you bring back a full cup.¡± He said, and departed without another word. Damn if he didn¡¯t suspect David to be right on that one, so he shot the tea back, now too chilled to be enjoyable, and promised himself to drink faster next time. After shelving his books he returned the cup to Sophia, singing her praises and thanking her kindly, and it seemed she did everything in her power not to twirl her hair and bat her lashes. He sincerely hoped that wasn¡¯t going to be a problem, but also sincerely envisioned calling her a good girl and seeing if that was really her nature. As he headed out he gave David a wave.


    ¡°Good evening, Mr. Monroe.¡± David waved in turn, and then had a funny sort of smile on his face. ¡°You know, I didn¡¯t tell you anything.¡±


    ¡°Come again?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t admit to anything. I can say I¡¯m from Georgia because you travel, so you¡¯re well versed in spotting accents. You already knew it.¡± He said, and Anson paused.


    ¡°I apologize if I somehow caused offense.¡± He spoke slowly as to recall the conversation. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to pry. Nor to seem ¡ª nor to attempt¡ª¡±


    ¡°To pull the wool over anyone¡¯s eyes.¡± David said, his eyes still wild and twinkling as always. He was too mad to get a proper read. ¡°No need to apologize, there was no offense taken. I only meant to say that information was given, not taken.¡±


    ¡°Given by your nature, not by your choice.¡± Anson replied, and David smiled again.


    ¡°And yet I am still the one giving the answers out. The keeper and the proprietor. Good evening, Mr. Monroe.¡±


    ¡°Good evening, Mr. Brown.¡± Anson responded, as civil as he could be, and stepped out into the freezing night.


    The cold hit him so hard he was almost distracted by what the librarian had said, his nose stinging immediately and his face all stiff. As he walked back to the hotel he peered into the dark night, the moon only a sliver and the road uneven, though at least no snow had fallen. His instinct was not the brooding sort, but he had the urge to do so knowing that Mr. Brown had basically threatened him with withholding the truth. Bragged about it, really. Had he slunk about the stacks in order to spot Anson inspecting the microfilm? Did he suspect what he was actually looking for? The swirl of questions lead him to one answer at least ¡ª the librarian wasn¡¯t here for the wildlife, he was here for the power-trip.


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    It was instinct that made him look for Westin at his usual post when he returned to the hotel, but still the concierge desk stood empty, a non-surprise that still turned his mood even further south. Not even Sonny stood guard as he climbed those majestic stairs, and he thought he would return to his room alone as always until he heard a footfall and looked up to find the proprietor looking back down at him. He was impeccably dressed, even if his suit looked a little older, in a navy that suited his pale skin, dark eyes, and silver hair. The style was wider in the leg and lapel than Anson preferred ¡ª he stuck with the slim fit the war made popular, and all the gray and black that allowed him to blend in, but Calder wore the old Gable, with a vest and a fine pocket watch that defined his features well. He looked even more tall and broad than Anson remembered, and he tried his best not to stare.


    ¡°Mr. Monroe.¡± He smiled slyly. ¡°I was just headed your way.¡±


    He produced a newspaper from a stack of paperwork tucked under his arm and handed it to Anson. Sacramento. That was a ways off.


    ¡°An associate from the area met me in the middle.¡± His voice was still so soft. ¡°I know you enjoy getting your papers for all Robert brought you.¡±


    ¡°Right. And where is he again?¡± Anson fought off his stink eye, though Calder didn¡¯t seem to notice.


    ¡°Eureka.¡± He replied so easily it was clear he didn¡¯t care whether or not Anson bought it. ¡°Are you telling me you didn¡¯t enjoy the little gifts he gave you? The gift I want to give you now?¡±


    Anson clenched his jaw. He felt small a couple steps beneath the already tall man.


    ¡°I thought so. You seem the type who likes to receive.¡± Anson did not, nor would he ever, blanch. ¡°Good evening, Mr. Monroe.¡±


    ¡°Good evening, Mr. Morris.¡± He passed him on the stairs and felt as though he¡¯d been played twice.


    He ordered dinner, a turkey special that arrived shortly with canned peas and carrots, a mash made from potato flakes, and a gravy that tasted artificially delicious. While he ate he skimmed the paper, but found nothing of note within, and nothing relating to the town. When his meal was finished and his plate returned to the hallway he slipped out of his suit and into his loungewear, a striped gray set worn down past softness, now thin. At least the bed was now piled with blankets, courtesy of that odd purveyor and not the missing man -- the man in Eureka. Anson needed to rest his head, and groaned when he hit the pillows.


    In the morning he was half-convinced he¡¯d see Mr. Morris in the hallway, or maybe in the showers again, but it was only him and the steam. He changed into his red sweater again and headed back to his room with tousled hair, still a little damp, and was unlocking his door when he thought he heard a voice behind him.


    ¡°Anson,¡± it said, but he recognized it and turned around. Not Mr. Morris, it was Heath standing in the hall behind him. All the hairs on his arms stood up, and an alarm bell went off in his head. ¡°Inside, Anson.¡±


    He opened the door and rushed in quickly, then closed it as soon as Heath entered. He looked calm, in his usual leather jacket and jeans, though Anson wasn¡¯t sure how he kept from freezing.


    ¡°No one saw me,¡± He began easily, maybe noting the panic Anson was trying to shove down. These were two different worlds he had, the suspicious hotel and the lover he¡¯d never seen outside the restaurant. Something was so wrong to watch them collide. ¡°I knew Sonny was at the farm, he picks up wine from the brothers.¡±


    ¡°What are you -- why are you here? What¡¯s wrong?¡± He asked, and Heath shook his head.


    ¡°Cool down, Anson, you look like a snake bit ya. Nothing¡¯s wrong, except I wanted to warn you.¡± He said, and Anson leaned close. ¡°Gin¡¯s on her blood, so she¡¯s unavailable for a few days.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± Anson said. He¡¯d been wondering when that would happen.


    ¡°And the timing¡¯s good, because we¡¯ve got the slaughter getting dropped off.¡± Heath added, then pulled a face. ¡°You likely don¡¯t want to be around for that.¡±


    ¡°What, they come in living?¡± He asked, trying not to look disgusted. Thinking of cows getting killed upset him. He liked seeing them on his drives even more than people, and he wasn¡¯t too sad when people got killed, neither.


    ¡°No, but the ice truck is a sight. Smells like copper. The blood stains the snow. And we have to butcher and salt them. Stuff the right cuts with the right spices to cure. Well of course that¡¯s the part I like.¡± Heath said, and Anson snorted. ¡°But the restaurant closes for two days. We¡¯ve got so much work to do. I wanted to tell you because I hired Dallas and Smiley to help lift the heifers onto the racks. If you show up it¡¯ll look suspicious.¡±


    ¡°It would.¡± Anson paused and thought about this. It would be even more so to wait until evening to sneak up to them, especially because he sensed the nighttime was Calder¡¯s most active. Like a vampire. ¡°Why did you hire those two? I thought you¡¯ve never met them.¡±


    ¡°Usually the truck comes earlier, but some weather to the south delayed it. I usually hire Robert and Joe, but Robert¡¯s gone home already and Joe tweaked his back the other day. Or he¡¯s making excuses to get out of it.¡± Heath said, but Anson quietly wondered when he¡¯d last seen Joe. More than a few days now, and only from a distance.


    ¡°You could¡¯ve hired me.¡± He said, and hopefully didn¡¯t sulk. Heath seemed surprised.


    ¡°I thought I was sparing you. The meat is heavy and the blood stains your whole person. The fishmongers know, but a bible-seller. . .¡± He looked a little bashful. Likely he did not want to say that he did not find Anson worthy of the task, but that didn¡¯t bother him. Better to be looked at as someone unable to stomach such things.


    ¡°You are sparing me.¡± He said appreciatively. ¡°I was just wondering how I got out of it.¡±


    ¡°Ha! Don¡¯t worry. I might make you knead pasta dough, but I know better than to demand all this from you.¡± He said, then looked around the room again. ¡°Lots of red in here, huh?¡±


    ¡°Huh. Have you ever been in this hotel?¡±


    ¡°A few times. Isaac and Marvin hosted a wine tasting in here once after they were banned from the library. For the fourth time, I think.¡± Heath smiled recollecting it, and though Anson didn¡¯t know what happened the smile caught on. Doubtless the boys were being their rowdy selves. ¡°And once I wanted pig skin -- I think it¡¯s called chicharones -- for an experiment, and I had to pick it up from Mean Joe during his card game. I¡¯ve never been up the stairs and in the rooms though. It looks fine in here.¡±


    He meant fine like grand, and looked around appreciatively, but Anson wasn¡¯t satisfied.


    ¡°You¡¯ve met the proprietor?¡±


    ¡°I only know him by reputation. I¡¯ve heard he¡¯s an odd one.¡± He looked to Anson with some interest. ¡°Why, have you met him? He seems to be a bit of a recluse.¡±


    ¡°What makes him odd?¡± Anson asked, and Heath paused. ¡°I mean, I¡¯d like to know if I¡¯m staying under his roof.¡±


    ¡°Well, he doesn¡¯t eat dairy. He doesn¡¯t eat meat. I don¡¯t even think he eats fish. That¡¯s why he¡¯s never been to the restaurant, I can¡¯t serve him anything except maybe fresh greens in the summer.¡± Heath shrugged. ¡°Not that he¡¯d emerge anyhow. Someone told me he thinks the world is ending.¡±


    ¡°The world is ending.¡± Anson repeated it, trying to really hear the words.


    ¡°That¡¯s what he thinks, so they say.¡± Heath grinned. ¡°I love the earth. I love to watch her turn. I think she¡¯ll go forever.¡±


    ¡°She just might.¡± Anson said to himself. The earth probably didn¡¯t care about the petty human problems on her surface, or what they believed she¡¯d do. That¡¯s what made it easy to keep doing this. There was nothing out there to stop him.


    ¡°So I came to say goodbye for now. But you have to come back in three days.¡± Heath said, and Anson looked up to see some nervousness. The poor man seemed half-convinced he¡¯d skip town. Not that he could now, the snow was too much for his beloved Victoria. ¡°And we¡¯ll be waiting for you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be waiting for you, too.¡± Anson said, and rushed into the other man for a kiss. It was deep and heavy, and he wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close. Heath always kissed like it was urgent, and it felt the same today, or even more so with Anson¡¯s heart beating so fast, and his hard cock pressed against his partner¡¯s.


    ¡°I want you.¡± Heath whispered to him, only furthering the strain. ¡°I want you inside me.¡±


    ¡°This -- this isn¡¯t the place, Heath.¡± Anson pulled away, uncertain, but Heath only pulled off his coat and threw it on the chair.


    ¡°No one knows I¡¯m here. Just Gin, and she¡¯s asleep. She¡¯s not keeping track of time. She can¡¯t take over when we¡¯re alone in here.¡± He said, and Anson understood. He wasn¡¯t the only one who noticed that Gin could get between them, often literally. Often with her body, as beautiful as it was. You helped yourself to my husband, she¡¯d said. There was still some jealousy remaining. Heath unbuckled his pants, and Anson found himself removing his sweater.


    This was the worst place to possibly be doing this. It could totally destroy him, both of them. It wasn¡¯t safe. But it was a chance to help himself to Gin¡¯s husband, his lover, yet again, and he wasn¡¯t about to stop himself from that. Hopefully it would not be a repeat of poor Pietro in his loft, moaning and begging for him loud enough for his father to hear. Loud enough for the man to come round with a mob. Loud enough for Anson to kill for.


    When Heath was nude he grabbed at him, and Anson was still kicking off his briefs when they toppled into bed together, Heath¡¯s mouth on his cock. His lips were as beautiful as ever wrapped around his thick head, but he didn¡¯t want the other man there long. He must have felt the same, because as soon as he¡¯d slobbered on it enough to lube his cock he got on his hands and knees. Anson knocked him over to his back so he could look at him, and hovered over the man to watch his expression when he shoved his cock into his asshole. It went in easily, like he¡¯d been prepared, but still the look on his face was one of wanton lust.


    ¡°Does Gin touch you here?¡± Anson asked as he positioned himself. He grabbed at Anson¡¯s thigh to bring it up and pushed as deep as he could, hissing at the warmth and the tightness. His dick was already throbbing. ¡°Does your wife fuck your pretty little ass?¡±


    ¡°It makes her so fucking wet.¡± Heath stuttered, and brought his hand around his erect cock. Anson grabbed him by the wrist and slammed it against the sheets, then began to buck against him mercilessly. He pulled out as far as he could and slammed in hard, and soon he was eliciting moans from the man underneath him. He kept going as they got louder, and their faces got redder, and he somewhat deliriously imagined Calder outside his door, listening in, his own hand jammed down his pants, stroking that big beautiful cock of his.


    ¡°Anson.¡± Heath whined. ¡°Fuck, right there. You fuck me so good.¡±


    ¡°Better than her?¡± Anson asked, his gaze hazy, and instead of answering Heath broke their eye contact and looked down to the thrusting. His hand went back to his cock, and again Anson slammed it down. ¡°No. I¡¯m the only one who gets to touch you today.¡±


    He spit on it, then grabbed it while he kept thrusting, yanking more than he needed to. Heath had to cover his mouth when he groaned, and anson watched him flush and take it until he leaned over, kissing the crook of his neck. His ass bobbed up and down on top of him, his balls slapped his skin. He felt Heath¡¯s dick get damp in his hand, precum leaking out.


    ¡°I love fucking you.¡± He whispered to Heath. ¡°I could fuck you forever. I could make you my whore. I could have you in your home. In your kitchen. In your wife¡¯s bed.¡±


    ¡°You fuck me better than her.¡± Heath whispered back, and Anson groaned. He was close. ¡°You fuck me like I¡¯m the only one.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re the only one.¡± He said. ¡°You¡¯re the only one, baby.¡±


    Heath groaned, and Anson felt him come undone in his hand. He was quick behind him, and shuddered when he released a hot load in his ass. He stayed in for a few moments, then stood when he pulled out, his hands still on Heath¡¯s thighs. The man was a mess underneath him, with cum all over his stomach and a red, blissed out look on his face, and Anson kept him spread so he could watch the cum leak out. Maybe it was time for Heath to be getting back, but now that they¡¯d come so far Anson felt the need to clean him up with his broad tongue, first around his hole and then traveling up Heath¡¯s dick and stomach. He licked at his chest hair and his nipples, too, then settled on top of him with his dick against his milky thigh.


    ¡°Anson.¡± Heath kissed him without a care for where he¡¯d been. ¡°Anson, Anson, Anson.¡±


    Anson pulled him close and held him there. He could not imagine three days absent from him. Nor could he imagine the return, and sharing him with his wife again. He already knew she was nonnegotiable, that Heath would never leave her. Even if the laws were different, even if he wanted to leave this town, his restaurant. Anson was tied to this. Caught in the town and caught on the side.


    ¡°She doesn¡¯t fuck on her blood?¡± Anson asked, and Heath sighed. ¡°Some girls like that.¡±


    ¡°She gets too nauseous. Sometimes we can¡¯t even open the restaurant, or I wouldn¡¯t have a waitress.¡± He kissed Anson¡¯s temple. ¡°Next month maybe you can come around. You can suck me off in the kitchen again.¡±


    Anson snorted. Well, that was something. Maybe he could live on once a month. Heath stirred under him, so he reluctantly let him up and watched him dress. Three days. Maybe that was enough to figure out what the hell was going on here.


    ¡°You¡¯ve really never met the man who runs this hotel?¡± Anson asked as Heath tied his boots.


    ¡°No, have you?¡± He asked in return. Twice he asked. Maybe just a slip of the mind.


    ¡°No. You¡¯ve met Westin, though. Robert. I think you¡¯ve said. Besides your pigs.¡± Anson tried to recollect as Heath stood.


    ¡°He¡¯ll come to the restaurant now and then in the summers. He and Sonny try to offer their stock every once in a blue moon, too, but it¡¯s all Campbell¡¯s cans for them and the guests and soybean blocks for the proprietor. I¡¯m not keen on either.¡±


    ¡°Not even soybeans?¡± Anson walked him the short distance to the door.


    ¡°There¡¯s plenty of good recipes out there.¡± Heath reasoned. ¡°But there¡¯s just no substitute for me. I like meat too much. Three days, bible-man.¡±


    ¡°Three days, chef.¡± He kissed him, then watched as Heath darted into the halls and crept down the stairs, out of sight. He wondered what would change in three days. Maybe everything.


    He went for a new shower, still with no one in sight, and found the halls and the reception desk empty still when he departed. There had been a fresh snow overnight, and he found the reason for the empty lobby as Sonny shoveled the walk, his hands bound in thick gloves and his coat overwhelming him. Anson walked behind him as far as he could go, but the roads weren¡¯t plowed at all, so to go anywhere he had to bury his feet in the snow. Weighing options was a waste of time: it was so cloudy out it was bound to snow even more still, and there wasn¡¯t enough thru traffic to melt anything, so he was to either sit in his room or wet his ankles. He sunk into the white powder and went on his way, mentally cursing all the cold and the ice in the world.


    Lucky his walk wasn¡¯t far. Anita only lived down the road, and he was pleased to see the stairs down to the tailor¡¯s shop were already shoveled clean. When he knocked his boots, Heath¡¯s boots, crunched on the salt beneath them. When the door opened she stood to the side quickly, and he tapped the snow off his toes before he stepped in and allowed the door to close behind him.


    ¡°Well don¡¯t you look toasty! My, what a handsome coat you¡¯ve got on!¡± Anita boomed with a grin, and Anson shouldered it off though he wasn¡¯t yet thawed. ¡°How are ya, handsome?¡±


    ¡°How are you, gorgeous?¡± He asked in return, and she laughed.


    ¡°Flattery will get you everywhere. Come on now, I¡¯ve got some tea here from Sofia I¡¯m brewing. You can help me polish off a cup.¡±


    They settled down into a large pair of mismatched chairs, the place looking much unchanged since Anson¡¯s last visit. Still with fabric hung everywhere, and coats lining the wall, though on her desk behind her he saw the beginnings of an Easter hat, which she must have received orders for way in advance. The tea she poured was chai, recognizable by the scent alone, and suited to her with its fiery blend. He walloped his cup with cream, and she poured only a splash, then raised her cup to his and drank.


    ¡°She really does have the best blends.¡± Anita set her cup in her saucer. ¡°I never thought I could like tea, I was always a coffee girl, but the stuff makes me crazy. Crazier. You like coffee?¡±


    ¡°I do. And I never thought I¡¯d like tea so much either.¡± He took a sip of his and felt his chest warm, though she didn¡¯t make it as good as Sophia could. ¡°She sells to you in bulk?¡±


    ¡°As bulk as a little pile of dried leaves can be.¡± She said, then gave Anson a sly look. ¡°She¡¯s a pretty young thing, isn¡¯t she? It¡¯s been too long since I¡¯ve been able to sew a white dress.¡±


    Anson pretended to demure at that, and looked around as though deep in thought.


    ¡°Your father was a tailor?¡± He asked, and she seemed confused. ¡°I only now notice the sign outside says tailor and not seamstress. What¡¯s the difference, anyhow?¡±


    ¡°A tailor fucks your wallet and a seamstress fucks you.¡± She said dryly. It must have been an adage in her field. ¡°No, my husband was a tailor.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s how you met?¡± Anson asked, and she only nodded. ¡°That¡¯s sweet. You must have had a lot in common.¡±


    ¡°We both certainly loved my parent¡¯s money.¡± She rolled her eyes. Anson smiled, though not unkindly. ¡°I loved it for the legacy, he loved it for the power. Like he didn¡¯t have enough from his costuming days.¡±


    ¡°Costuming? Like in Hollywood?¡± Anson sipped his tea to avoid showing any expression.


    ¡°Like Broadway. And he¡¯d suck up to all those producers and investors, even when they called him a Vaudeville Moor. I was so sick of it.¡± She tsked. ¡°You think they¡¯re so forward in New York? They still called me a mulatto. They¡¯ll say it anywhere but here.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s terrible. I¡¯m so sorry.¡± Anson said, and he meant it. ¡°I never knew you lived in the city. I bet that¡¯s where your charm comes from.¡±


    ¡°Too true!¡± She laughed. ¡°But of course, there¡¯s no place like home. We traveled to and fro until he was too ill. And now without him there¡¯s no reason to go.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s plenty reason. You¡¯ve just got no yearning.¡± He said, and she nodded once more. ¡°Was he ill for long?¡±


    ¡°Only in the head.¡± She winked. ¡°Your skills at an interview are marvellous, you know. In another life you could take confession.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t say I¡¯ve never been tempted.¡± He said, but she narrowed her eyes in a way he didn¡¯t like. ¡°It¡¯s been awhile since I¡¯ve been in one place for so long. Now I finally have the opportunity to get to know my neighbors.¡±


    ¡°And that¡¯s the only reason you¡¯re here?¡± She asked, and took another sip. He sighed and set down his cup.


    ¡°Okay, you caught me. I came to ask you about Sophia. You know everyone, you¡¯re so sociable.¡± He complimented, and she smiled just a little. ¡°So I figured I could discreetly. . . just asking, of course.¡±


    ¡°I hope you¡¯re asking as a gentleman.¡± She said, and he nodded sternly. ¡°Well, she¡¯s certainly young and ready to wife. She would run a charming household.¡±


    ¡°Next to her shop.¡± Anson insisted, and she smiled wider.


    ¡°I do believe you¡¯d see a riot if she were to close.¡± She said, and he quite agreed. ¡°You¡¯re in need of flowers -- that¡¯ll be at Ruth¡¯s shop. And Sonny probably has a box of cordials behind the bar he can sell you. But for the life of me I¡¯m not sure where you¡¯d get a ring. You¡¯ll probably have to drive out in the spring, unless one of the fishwives in town volunteers an heirloom.¡±


    ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll figure out if she¡¯ll have me, first.¡± Anson said, his nerves hidden behind an amused little grin. He absolutely did not want to marry Sophia. This was not the turn he wanted this conversation to take.


    ¡°Well of course. All in due time.¡± She winked again. ¡°But you¡¯ll have to let me know what season you¡¯ll marry, so I can have the dress ready. Oh! I wonder if she¡¯ll want red. It¡¯s good luck in China to marry in red.¡±


    ¡°You really love your work.¡± He said in hopes of steering away from this wedding business, but she instead poured them both a fresh cup and went on.


    ¡°And of course being the seamstress I will hold you to task on any missteps. I will spot a wider waist, let me assure you. I always see which ones are pregnant before the ceremony.¡±


    ¡°No, no, no. That¡¯s not -- I would never--¡± But she swatted his arm.


    ¡°I¡¯m messing with ya, sunshine! No, if you touch her before the marital bed is made we¡¯ll just kill you.¡± This was by far the friendliest threat he¡¯d ever gotten, and likely the most genuine, too. He only lifted his glass to that, and she laughed. ¡°Good boy. I¡¯ve got some brandy in here for that.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not yet noon.¡± He pointed out, but she already went away to her desk and began rifling through her drawers. ¡°How many wedding dresses have you made?¡±


    ¡°David would string you up himself.¡± She spoke over him. ¡°And Ruth would pass around the pi?ata stick. But I know. I believe in you. This town is a great place for fresh starts. Ah!¡±


    She found the brandy and rushed back over to him. He accepted what he thought would be a drop and ended up being a pour. This maybe explained some of her behaviour. She poured some for herself, too, then chucked the bottle under the table.


    ¡°Did your parents make this?¡± He sipped it and did his very best not to cough. It was strong, but not too spiced, only heavy on the vanilla. It may have paired well with the tea if there were not so much of it. Alcohol was just not his vice.


    ¡°They did. And the town wiped their slates clean. It¡¯ll wipe yours clean, too. A second chance.¡± She knocked back her tea as Anson frowned. ¡°Yessir, you¡¯ll make her a fine husband. A handsome one, too.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡± He said, but readjusted in his seat, unsettled by her words. ¡°I don¡¯t need a second chance.¡±


    ¡°Sure you do.¡±


    ¡°No, I haven¡¯t done anything wrong.¡± Anson lied. ¡°You think everyone in this town¡¯s done wrong?¡±


    ¡°¡®Course not. It¡¯s just an easy place to end up if you have.¡± She said, and his frown deepened. ¡°Speak up, ¡®fore your mouth slides off your face.¡±


    ¡°You think I¡¯ve done wrong and you¡¯re willing to hand me off to your friend?¡± He asked genuinely. ¡°I haven¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°You have.¡± She said, matter-of-factly, and he wasn¡¯t sure where to go with that.


    ¡°Maybe you¡¯ve done wrong.¡±


    ¡°What have I done?¡± She asked, still with a smile, and he paused. He didn¡¯t want to throw an accusation out, especially at a lady and even more so at an insane one.


    ¡°I¡¯ll find out.¡± He smiled back at her.


    ¡°How?¡± She asked, her brows raised. ¡°Simple question, hun. How.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have to tell you that.¡± He set down his cup, tea unfinished. She leaned forward and met his eye before he could stand.


    ¡°You can keep asking around, first off. That¡¯ll only raise concerns, though. Why is this gentleman asking after a widow when he¡¯s already cast his eye on this beautiful Spring bride we¡¯ve got for him? You can search the office while you¡¯re here. Ply me with a drink, maybe I¡¯ll nod off and you can look through my desk.¡± She said. He stared at her, his own face a mask.


    ¡°Mostly that¡¯s fabric receipts though, very disappointing. You could wait until you know I¡¯m not around, like at mass, and creep upstairs to dig through my living space. But you won¡¯t find anything there. That¡¯s a waste of time. And I¡¯ll prove it to you if you like -- why, I¡¯ll take you up there right now and give you a tour.¡± Her expression was sour now. ¡°I¡¯ll even take you to the bedroom and bend over, and you can fuck the seamstress. But it still wouldn¡¯t give you anything. Actually, it would give me more, wouldn¡¯t it? Because your response to that tells me quite a bit.¡±


    He had paled at her bawdy words, her near threats. Her prediction of his only vague plans.


    ¡°In the great search for information all you¡¯ve got are your deduction skills, sweetheart, and they ain¡¯t shit compared to mine.¡±


    ¡°So that¡¯s all you¡¯ve got, too.¡± He said, and she shook her head. ¡°No, you may have an empty house, but I¡¯m only a traveler. I could be anyone. I¡¯ll read your receipts and you¡¯ll read my face, and that¡¯s all. Deduction and big, empty words. To match that lonely house.¡±


    ¡°To match Jerry Johnson¡¯s 1949 Ford Victoria.¡± She said, and Anson¡¯s blood ran cold. ¡°You can read receipts all you like, I can read your plate. It¡¯s registered to one Jerry Johnson. Stolen a few months ago with all the bibles he was selling. You know he didn¡¯t survive the attack, right? Did you check for him in the paper?¡±


    He had. He just hadn¡¯t meant to hit the man so hard. He was older than Anson had realized.


    ¡°It¡¯s not very difficult to wire into Eureka and ask about a plate you¡¯ve seen. And it¡¯s not too challenging to look up crime reports in certain cities.¡± She leaned back in her chair. ¡°Once you mentioned New York in November. There¡¯s a lot of carjackings in New York, and a couple of Novembers to sift through, but I found the name Jack Clark, with a Cadillac and his bibles all stolen. That one lived, so you know.


    ¡°You tell David you¡¯ve seen hummingbirds in Georgia, and those are best to spot on blooming Summer days. Atlanta was a wash, but when I called around a few smaller sheriff¡¯s offices I hear about Frank Marshall, a bible seller from Peachtree who was killed when his Pontiac was stolen and his barn burned down. And the sheriff tells me a charming man with gelled curls is all to blame. That the barn was full of bibles and cash and now the widow¡¯s got nothing to rely on, not even the straw, not even the chickens. But you go ahead and use your powers of deduction on me.¡±


    ¡°You killed your husband.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t.¡± She said simply. Somehow, after all that, he could finally believe it. This wasn¡¯t a killer he was looking at. This was something far more twisted.


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re fucking Smiley.¡±


    ¡°Sure, sometimes.¡± She shrugged. ¡°Nice to see the chivalrous side of you. Tell me his wife¡¯s name since you¡¯re so upset for her.¡±


    ¡°Whore.¡± He spat, and she laughed.


    ¡°It¡¯s Bethany.¡± She laughed harder. ¡°Aw, your face. It doesn¡¯t matter, sweetheart, I wash my sins off every week. Jesus died for them, y¡¯know, and I honor his sacrifice by sinning frequently. Just like you, killer.¡±


    ¡°Who have you told?¡± He asked, and tried not to visibly clench his fists. His footprints were in the snow outside, straight from the hotel to here, and the bottom of his pants were wet. He¡¯d been in too long to say he just found her like this. Maybe if she had a well he could make her disappear for a while, but he hadn¡¯t seen one, and besides didn¡¯t know how to drag her out undetected. The only option would be to stuff the corpse somewhere and come back before it started to stink, but it would have to be a good hiding spot, because he couldn¡¯t imagine no one looking for her. It wouldn¡¯t be hard to notice her gone.


    ¡°No one. If an officer asked, I told him I saw the plate headed up north by Seattle.¡± She said, though he wasn¡¯t sure he bought that. ¡°I¡¯ll let Ruth know you¡¯re on your way. She¡¯ll chase you down if need be.¡±


    ¡°You -- what? You still expect me to marry this girl? You know. You know the truth. I¡¯m a murderer many times over.¡± Anson looked down at his hands, his stomach flip-flopping. He only had tea and brandy in his system.


    ¡°You are. But I and all the other good people of this town know that once you accept Jesus into your heart all things can be forgiven.¡± She stood, her expression still so honest, and he stood with her, all formal and unsure. ¡°The two of you in front of the priest, a new baptism, a confession, that¡¯s all it¡¯ll take. You were meant to be a good man of God just as we all are. You¡¯ll fall in line with the right guidance.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no priest in this town.¡± Anson thought aloud. Nevermind that his stomach recoiled at the very idea, an idea he¡¯d built a life selling. It was against his very nature. ¡°I¡¯ve met you all, there¡¯s no priest.¡±


    ¡°He will forgive you. You can repent.¡± She insisted. He didn¡¯t want either, and his head began to spin. Forgive an animal for its instinct, forgive a man for keeping himself warm and fed, forgive a son who was only protecting himself and his lover from his rat bastard father. ¡°Go on, then. I¡¯ll start on the dress. We can fix you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve come too far to be fixed! Fixed like a dog, you mean. Anita, you¡¯re fucking insane.¡± This was the least composed he¡¯d been in a long time. ¡°You¡¯re insane and I¡¯m rotten and when the townsfolk catch wind they¡¯ll hang me for my crimes and you for withholding them.¡±


    ¡°So don¡¯t tell them.¡± She said very obviously, then looked coy. ¡°That¡¯s your whole thing, ain¡¯t it, sugar? Scamper along now, and don¡¯t go too long without seeing Ruthie.¡±


    He stood still a moment, just to think. At least her playing this nice meant he didn¡¯t have to kill her. Not yet anyhow, and he wouldn¡¯t like to if he had nowhere to run and no way to get away with it. Unless the religious angle was a ploy, but he couldn¡¯t see it: Anita might¡¯ve been crazy, but she wasn¡¯t stupid, and if she wanted to take him down she had all the information she needed. She didn¡¯t have to wait, she didn¡¯t even have to tell him she knew. She could¡¯ve had him strung up whenever she wanted. So it seemed she wanted him forgiven. And it also seemed she hadn¡¯t killed her husband.


    He wanted so sorely to go to the little shack by the sea. He wanted to hold the chef in his arms and not worry about this godforsaken town and all its secrets. He wanted his loyalty or his guilt towards Westin to disappear just the way he did. But that man tried to warn him, and now he was just up and gone. Something was coming for him next. Maybe for Heath, too, or even for Gin. What was all this for, if not to protect himself, protect them? His whole life had been a game of survival, and this was just one more, with an added challenge of two extra souls.


    He stepped out the door without another word, throwing his coat on as he went. The sky was still cloudy and hardly any of the snow had been tamped down, though now he could see fires  in many house¡¯s chimneys as the housewives broke fast and children played in the distance. His footing was uneven in the snow, and he walked back towards the hotel with his brain swimming. His license plate. He never would have thought. Maybe he would¡¯ve worried closer to Arizona where he took the car in the first place, but even so he¡¯d managed to charm every officer who¡¯d ever pulled him over. They never called the station to pull up his plate. Wired for it, she said. But she had no cables, no one in town did except Joe. And when was the last time he¡¯d seen Joe?


    At this realization he quickened his pace, past the hotel, down to the highway and down the mountain. Not a single car had passed in the night, the snow untouched but for Anson¡¯s leaden footsteps, and when Joe¡¯s General Shack came into view he saw the windows darkened. His fingers and toes were red and stinging, his face felt like a mask, and he hurried to reach the doors only to find them locked. Banging on them wielded no response, and he could not see within through frosty windows and piles of merchandise on the shelves. He wanted to scream his frustration, but instead he stood back, then ran and threw himself at the door to ram it with his shoulder. He was furiously sore, but tried again, and a third time when he finally heard something splinter. He kicked around the doorknob until finally the old thing gave in, and he pushed it open to illuminate the dark room.


    And Joe¡¯s body on the floor.

 Chapter Eight

    He could only stand there for a moment with the snow blowing in at his feet, the clouded light not showing him much. The old wooden floorboards were stained in blood and vomit, and Joe faced away from him, perfectly still, wrapped in a coat that was fine once long ago. With his head bent down Anson could not suppose how long he¡¯d been dead, but when he stepped into the room he felt it must have been some time from the cold. His breath still fogged around him as he moved further in, a creak on the wood highlighting each step. And then a groan.


    ¡°Joe?¡± He called out, then rushed over and flipped him. He certainly looked like a corpse already: his front teeth were knocked out, his nose crusted in blood, and both his eyes were bruised. But they rolled around in his skull and breath fogged at his mouth, so he lived.


    ¡°Holy shit.¡± Anson looked around uselessly until his eyes landed on the stove. He rushed over and threw some wood in, with paper and a dozen matches, then ran and slammed the door closed to keep the wind at bay. Joe never stirred, so Anson took off his coat and threw it over him, then did his best to drag the man towards the fire. When they got there he collapsed under the strain of it and huddled with the man. Periodically he rubbed his arms and legs to keep his blood circulating, and a great deal of time had passed before he felt the body with him warm. In the darkness he slept fitfully, dreamless but uncomfortable. When he awoke it was still dark, but he found a lantern and brought even more light into the little shack to look around.


    Joe remained still as the dead. All signs pointed to a beating -- he found one tooth on the floor way in the corner, and couldn¡¯t spot the other. Nothing looked ransacked, turned through, or stolen, and when he made his way behind the counter he found Joe¡¯s gun untouched, like he knew and trusted whoever came in here. He also found a few different bags of white powders and pills, bent spoons, medical needles, and near empty jars of syrups. It turned out when he¡¯d guessed morphine, he¡¯d guessed correctly. His stomach flipped, and Anson headed back to his rooms, which were bare but for a trash can overflowing with liquor bottles and cigarette butts. A percolator sat empty on the stove, so he lit that one too, and soon the smell of coffee overcame the stench of human waste and decay.


    He stayed in the quarters to drink it, or as much as he could stand without sugar and cream, then returned to the store in hopes that the smell had risen the near-dead. No such luck, he stayed on the ground where he¡¯d been left, so Anson grabbed some flour bags and propped him up, then went outside to fetch a handful of untouched snow. Upon return he knelt beside him and slipped some in his mouth, and Joe allowed more and more into him until he managed to hold his eyes open, and nearly gaze at him directly.


    ¡°You¡¯re okay.¡± Anson tried to tell him unconvincingly. ¡°You¡¯re okay now.¡±


    He didn¡¯t speak, so Anson gave up after a while and stood again to check the shelves. He found chicken bouillon with the canned goods and a pot in the living quarters, so he filled it with snow and made a thin broth. As he heated it he tried to reposition Joe a little better and found a rubber band still pulled around his arm, and when he searched his pockets was lucky not to be pricked by the needles contained within them. He threw it all to the far side of the room. He had only ever seen this sort of thing from a distance, on the streets as he drove past or at a shelter if he was really low on food and desperate to eat, and even a few times at the prison when some fellas needed to trade more than just cigarettes to survive, but he never engaged with it. Why should he? If that was how a man wanted to live and die Anson did not intend to stop him. But Joe didn¡¯t knock out his own teeth. Certainly not after Anson¡¯s past was wired right to his home.


    When the broth heated, then cooled, Anson sipped what he could himself, then spoon-fed Joe the rest. In those precious minutes he went from barely drinking it to sitting up in full, and Anson held his breath at the sight. He really thought the man was dead because of him. He really, for whatever stupid reason, felt bad about it.


    ¡°Thank you.¡± Joe croaked when he was done, his voice hoarse. Anson moved to clear the pot, but he clung to him. ¡°No, stay.¡±


    He set the pot on the floor and held him, and they rocked slowly together the way his mother held him when he was sick very long ago. He rested his chin on Joe¡¯s head awhile, and when he finally got uncomfortable and moved away he saw the man¡¯s face glisten with tears.


    ¡°My wife was so beautiful.¡± He croaked. ¡°With long blonde hair. Our babies are all blonde, too.¡±


    ¡°Joe. What happened?¡± He asked, but Joe only began to cry in earnest.


    ¡°My pills.¡± He whispered. ¡°I need my pills.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not letting you have those.¡± Anson said solemnly, and Joe broke down and sobbed like a child. ¡°I know, I know. It¡¯s okay. Shush now. It¡¯s all gonna be okay.¡±


    ¡°I want them back! I want my babies back.¡± He bawled, and Anson held him until he tired himself out and fell back asleep.


    When the sun rose he got up and washed the pot out, then made another batch of coffee and poured two cups. In the shop Joe was sat up, tired and dazed, but he could meet Anson¡¯s eye and took the coffee with his own hands.


    ¡°You look almost real again.¡± Anson smiled gently. ¡°You really don¡¯t keep any cream and sugar in here?¡±


    ¡°The Coffee Mate¡¯s behind you. Ten cents.¡± He said, and sipped on his own cup black. His voice sounded thick with exhaustion, and he lisped on all his s sounds. It was pitiful, really.


    ¡°Damn, Mean Joe really is fitting for you.¡± He said, though Joe couldn¡¯t muster a smile. He sat down with him and drank it black anyhow. ¡°Did Anita tell you?¡±


    ¡°I suspect it¡¯s a doozie, but no. Whatever she¡¯s got on you she kept to herself.¡± Joe thought a moment. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t bother lying to you. I¡¯m a dead man anyway.¡±


    ¡°What happened?¡± Anson asked, and Joe shook his head.


    ¡°If you¡¯ve got a secret bad enough to kill for, I¡¯ve got a secret that¡¯s killing me.¡± He held up his arm and pulled up his sleeve, the marks of each needle clear as day. ¡°I thought the only way out was coming so far I couldn¡¯t get my hands on it, even if I wanted. Even if I tried. If I were so desperate as to crawl down the mountain in the snow for it I would freeze first, and I¡¯d rather die freezing than die a junkie. Die filth. That¡¯s all I am now.¡±


    ¡°No, don¡¯t say that.¡±


    ¡°I am. I was so good on the pitch. I was so good in the office. I flushed it away.¡± He sank his head in his hands. ¡°My poor wife. My beautiful wife. I never deserved her.¡±


    ¡°Who beat you, Joe?¡± Anson asked softly. ¡°Who did this?¡±


    ¡°I did. When I picked the high over her.¡± He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the flour bags.


    ¡°Who hit you?¡± Anson asked again, but he stayed silent. ¡°Someone gave you these drugs. The same person who beat you?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re all the same. All together. Playing the same game.¡± He lifted one lid to look at him. ¡°You¡¯re playing, too.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not playing games, I¡¯m trying to help you.¡± He held his voice steady. ¡°Anita had someone beat you? Because of me?¡±


    ¡°Because I don¡¯t want to play with them.¡± He laughed a little. ¡°I¡¯m a sore loser.¡±


    ¡°What did you lose?¡± He asked, and again Joe said nothing. ¡°Robert? You lost Robert, right? Where is he?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Joe whispered, and his eyes teared up all over again. ¡°My friend. I don¡¯t know. They gave me the morphine and I -- I just stopped asking.¡±


    ¡°Is he from Eureka? Did he go home to see his family?¡± Anson asked, and Joe sobbed.


    ¡°My friend! I just let them. Like I left my wife. I deserve this. I deserve this. I deserve to live like this. Filth. Trash. Dog.¡±


    ¡°Okay, easy now.¡± Anson leaned over and steadied the man with a hand on his shoulder, but Joe looked around wildly until his eyes settled on the needle Anson had kicked away. ¡°Don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Why not? That¡¯s all I have left now.¡± He began to crawl over, and Anson put a hand to his chest.


    ¡°Don¡¯t make me restrain you and you can still have your dignity.¡± He said, and Joe laughed through his tears. ¡°Who did this?¡±


    ¡°Who didn¡¯t?¡± He laughed. ¡°Who of God¡¯s bastard children didn¡¯t lead me here? Who doesn¡¯t pollute each mind he crosses? Who doesn¡¯t have poison in his own head? There¡¯s only one way out. See here--¡±


    He reached up to the nearest fixture, a map rack, and Anson helped him to his feet. He snatched a large one and began to unfold it, still propped up in Anson¡¯s arms.


    ¡°The counter.¡± He directed, and Anson helped him walk over, unsure of his thoughts. Crazy Ole Joe, always so hard to read. He set the map down at the register and pulled a pen from his stationary cup, then stared at the paper a long while before marking an X.


    ¡°That¡¯s us.¡± Anson said. The map was blank, of course, his own had been as well. There was nothing here, no town, no people.


    ¡°That¡¯s the shack. Right on the highway.¡± Joe traced it in the same pen, his brow knit in concentration. Then he threw down that pen and rooted around for a different color. When he found it he brandished it, tried to take a step on his own, and failed. ¡°Some coffee.¡±


    ¡°Hold onto the counter, I¡¯ll get the pot.¡± Anson directed. He rushed to get it and wondered what Joe could possibly be showing to him. When he came back with the percolator and a fresh cup Joe had managed two feeble steps to the other side of the counter, closer to him, but still couldn¡¯t release it. His hand shook when he extended it, and Anson took a big swig before he handed it over so the shaking wouldn¡¯t spill the liquid. He lifted the cup and swallowed it all in one go, then handed it back to Anson.


    ¡°Like mother¡¯s milk. If only this were my vice.¡± He turned back to the map. ¡°This is the hotel.¡±


    Anson moved to the opposite side of the counter so they could stand across the map. The hotel was further inland, and Anson knew it sat on a little unmarked street with a few little houses and a big brick library.


    ¡°It¡¯s a grand hotel. There¡¯s no marker on the map. I need San Diego. Santa Barbara. San Francisco.¡± He ordered, and Anson found all those maps and ran them back to him. They were book maps, and when he flipped the pages in each he could see hundreds of roads intersecting, dozens of pinpoints for local attractions, gas stations, hotels and motels.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been all these places, I bet.¡± He said, and Anson nodded. ¡°You¡¯ve probably been to some of these hotels. But never such a nice one as this.¡±


    ¡°Calder told me he wanted the surroundings to match his fine establishment.¡± Anson said slowly, but the words sounded wrong. ¡°But -- that¡¯s -- you can¡¯t just pour money into a hotel with no guests. You¡¯d go out of business.¡±


    ¡°I hadn¡¯t known you¡¯d already spoken with him.¡± Joe rubbed his black eyes. ¡°You¡¯re already too far in.¡±


    ¡°Into what?¡± Anson asked, and watched Joe steady himself at the counter.


    ¡°It¡¯s a lure. You¡¯re not meant to come to it, you¡¯re meant to find it. And become enchanted by it. And by the people and the land. And the proprietor. And if anyone too important to stop it comes along, you know they¡¯ll land at the hotel, too. And their coffers will become the hotel coffers, become the town¡¯s.¡± He scoffed. ¡°But there¡¯s hardly anyone who can stop it now. There¡¯s no good men in this town now Robert¡¯s gone. Just players like you. Playing the God damned game.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s happening? What¡¯s really happening in that hotel?¡± Anson asked, and Joe shook his head.


    ¡°It¡¯s not in the hotel, you fool. It¡¯s in the people. Evil. It¡¯s in us all and it¡¯s spreading. And it looks so charmed from the outside we just all want a piece.¡± Tears dripped down his face. ¡°My wife. I miss my wife.¡±


    ¡°How do we get down the highway in this, Joe?¡± He pointed to the line, and when Joe looked down his tears marked the page. ¡°This is it, right? This is the only way out. But we can¡¯t get through.¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Joe croaked. ¡°There¡¯s only one way out.¡±


    Too late Anson realized the gun was on Joe¡¯s side of the counter, and by the time he reached him the metal was already in his mouth. The shot was loud, and Anson reeled back as Joe hit the floor. He stood there a moment, breathing hard, as Joe did the same, still alive with the gun clenched in his hand and a pool of blood rapidly forming beneath him. It looked like his mouth was moving, so he leaned down and gently put the gun aside, then tried to listen.


    ¡°Make sure they burn me.¡± Joe whispered. ¡°Don¡¯t let them send me home. My wife -- shouldn¡¯t see. . .¡±


    And then he was only staring up at Anson, gone for good this time. Bile rushed up his throat, but he swallowed, then realized he was still holding the maps and set them on the counter. He stared down at Joe for a long while, his thoughts scattered and rushed. He needed to focus on what he could control in this moment. Get rid of the body. He¡¯d done that plenty of times before. It¡¯s not like he had someone he could report this to. Fingers would point his way even in his one moment of innocence. Joe didn¡¯t trust a soul here, either, why should they be trusted with his remains?


    He looked around at the shop and wondered when it had last seen a customer. How long it would be, how long he could keep this to himself. The village folk always walked, didn''t want for gasoline like he still would, so likely he had time. Burning it with Joe inside would be easiest, and probably the most respectful of his wishes, but the time before the dead man¡¯s absence was noticed was the time he had all this food free to himself. He stepped over Joe to check the till, then skimmed it when he found it plentiful. He could keep the shack for the time being, he just had to move Joe.


    First he checked that the coast was clear: the sun was high and bright, though the cold was so intense he couldn¡¯t imagine much snow melting, and no soul belonged out in this freeze so no one was around. Joe was heavy and already going stiff, so Anson didn¡¯t attempt to lift him, instead going with his hands on both ankles as he dragged the man out the door and around the back. There was a little slope with some brush at the bottom, so that¡¯s the way Anson went, and set Joe down as best he could before pushing and kicking him into some wild blackberry. He found fresh white snow, not yet stained red, and mounded it around the whole thing until he was disguised from immediate sight. Only upon thaw would he be found, and they were a ways from that.


    But the evidence he¡¯d been put there was everywhere, so Anson set a tub on the stove and boiled water, then added the grounds from the coffee pot. It wasn¡¯t easy to pull outside, but when he tipped it out the water turned red snow brown, and flecked the ground with coffee beans. He put the percolator out for good measure right next to that, so at least the slope was cleared. The snow around the side of the house and the front entrance he shoveled, then salted, then shoveled pure snow over top. The snow went pink, so Anson matched it with some antifreeze from the shop, as though a fool or someone very high had tried to clear it.


    Next he went inside and mopped down the floors, put the maps away, tossed the one that Joe had drawn over. That one he tore and put on the bottom, and on the top he left empty baggies and bottles and placed the rest of the pills haphazardly all about, much the way he found them. Poor Joe, out of control, off high somewhere. Who knew where he could have gone off to. At the end of it all he sat on the ground outside, his ass soaked, and ate a Charleston Chew just for the comfort of it. Taffy and Snickers lined his pockets, and Joe¡¯s gun, now cleaned, sat in his sock, pulled high and strapped to his leg.


    He had looked to see if he could replace any of his clothing with Joe¡¯s, but it was all noticeably worn and likely recognizable. His only quality suit had chalk pinstripes that Anson never wore himself and would stand out too much, so he¡¯d have to make something up in regards to his appearance. Maybe he was out looking for the man. At least the dark clothing hid the blood. Again he would rather march up to Heath¡¯s little shack by the sea than go back to that stuffy hotel, but he could not imagine his chef¡¯s reaction to such a state. And he certainly wasn¡¯t going to explain himself, let Heath get too close. To himself or Anita.


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    He got up, dusted himself off, and began his way back to the hotel, slower now from the cold. The sun did feel good on his face, and he relished that he still had this at least, just as he relished it in prison. This was why humans were not so different from animals: there was little they could do to remove the sun, or a cool breeze, or the smell of a campfire, or the chill of rain, or the whoosh of wind through green leaves, or the waves crashing into rock and ringing in his ears. There was a resiliency in all man and beast that came from such things, and he had carried it for years, all through Santa Barbara, all through Europe, all across the country. Carried it likely better than any of these townsfolk ever could.


    The town looked near unchanged from the day prior, with hardly any snow trodden down in the roads. The sun was blinding against that snow, and he saw all shades of pink and green when he finally stepped into the hotel and tamped his boots. While he blinked and looked around he eventually made Sonny out behind the desk, and nodded to him.


    ¡°Good afternoon, Mr. Monroe.¡± He said. Afternoon already. ¡°Is there anything I can do for you today?¡±


    He looked a little put-out, maybe missing Robert and Joe. Anson glanced down to his hands, folded out of sight beneath the desk when normally they¡¯d be shining a glass.


    ¡°I think I¡¯d like a drink.¡± He said pleasantly. ¡°Would you make me one please?¡±


    ¡°Our proprietor is in the bar right at this very moment. He can whip up anything you can imagine.¡± Sonny said, and Anson hesitated.


    ¡°You are the bartender, Sonny, I¡¯d hate to lose you a tip.¡± He said, and Sonny laughed.


    ¡°He¡¯ll pass it along, don¡¯t you worry. They treat me right here.¡± He waved Anson along, but he knew he just couldn¡¯t deal with it today, so he went to the staircase instead. ¡°Mr. Monroe? He¡¯s expecting you.¡±


    ¡°Expecting me?¡± Anson asked, fuzzy. ¡°What for?¡±


    ¡°You are a bible-seller, aren¡¯t you?¡± Sonny asked, and Anson felt bound by his trade, the trade he¡¯d stolen and murdered his way into. It was just so much easier to get strangers to trust him when he had the lord¡¯s book in hand. The trade-off was this damned honor code they all kept to. Fitting in meant he had to keep to it, too, on the surface, so he had no choice but to remove his foot from the bottom stair and trudge in his wet trousers back towards the bar.


    ¡°I forget where it is exactly. Straight back there?¡± He pointed, and Sonny did the same by reflex.


    ¡°Past the fountain, before the smoking lounge.¡± He said, and Anson glanced his bandaged hand.


    ¡°How¡¯d that happen, Sonny?¡± He asked, his smile thin. ¡°You taking swings at people?¡±


    ¡°A burn. From cooking, of course.¡± The answer was noticeably rehearsed. ¡°Don¡¯t say such things, you¡¯re talking crazy. Must be your long night out.¡±


    ¡°Must be.¡± He spoke flatly. There was nothing else he could accuse the man of without it being thrown back in his face, and it made him wonder what state Calder would be in, if any. Wonder enough to start back towards the bar, past the fountain that never ran and into the dark.


    Only a few candles lit the dark wood paneling on the walls and floors, held aloft by wrought iron sconces that seemed to match the building in age. Beyond the candle glow the room was dim but for the pale man at the bar with the long silver hair to match. Calder was wiping down the counter with his jacket off and cuffs held up by sleeve garters, though Anson could tell he wore his usual style from the high waist of his pant and the fitted shape of his vest. He almost looked the part of a bartender, save for that coldness in his eye. When he stared at Anson his own exhausted visage told too much for his liking, showed too much weakness, but his attempt to stand straight and gather himself was half-hearted, and suddenly he missed Heath sorely, and missed Joe and even Robert, too.


    ¡°How do you do, Mr. Monroe?¡± Calder asked, his tone formal as ever, though something like mirth threatened beneath it. ¡°What can I make for you?¡±


    ¡°Sonny says he trained you himself.¡± Anson pulled himself into a stool, wet and uncomfortable. ¡°How about you test your talents?¡±


    Calder smiled, almost to himself, and set down his cloth.


    ¡°You know, my favorite drinks are the simplest. With only the most rare and valuable liquors.¡± He reached under the bar and Anson heard ice clink into a glass. A Tom Collins, he saw when Calder raised and set it on the counter.


    ¡°Excuses, excuses.¡± Anson said, and Calder almost laughed.


    ¡°The greatest pleasures in life come from the finest things.¡± He said, then pulled a lemon from the icebox and peeled a garnish as Anson nodded. ¡°Monnet Cognac, aged fourteen years in France.¡±


    He pulled a bottle from the shelf behind him, poured a shot into the glass and then held the bottle forward for Anson to sniff. When he inhaled he caught a scent like gingerbread, baked and rich, with something spiced like cinnamon to follow and sandalwood at the finish. It was perfect for the weather, and Anson wouldn¡¯t have minded drinking that on its own, but Calder stored the bottle and began to fish in his ice once more.


    ¡°By that you mean the greatest booze, though not the finest food.¡± Anson asked, and Calder glanced his way like he knew what he was leading up to. ¡°That¡¯s what I hear. You don¡¯t eat as royally as you live and drink.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m serving you.¡± He pointed out, then pulled a bottle of champagne from the cooler. It looked aged, and the label was in a thin French script that screamed quality. ¡°And you can¡¯t see the line between satisfaction and gluttony.¡±


    Anson ignored the slight as Calder cut the foil and twisted the cork¡¯s cage.


    ¡°Soybeans satisfy you?¡± He asked as Calder gripped the bottle. His voice had dropped low in his exhaustion, and Calder studied him carefully with dark eyes.


    ¡°Soybeans fill me. Life satisfies me.¡± He twisted the bottle and the cork gently popped. He was careful to pour it into the glass without spilling a drop, then tucked the champagne away and traded his bottle for a bar spoon. ¡°This drink is called the Gloria Swanson.¡±


    ¡°From the silent films.¡± Anson recalled. ¡°She was always so aristocratic.¡±


    ¡°She still is.¡± He stirred the drink patiently. ¡°You haven¡¯t seen Sunset Boulevard? She was the old dame.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know it.¡± Anson shook his head as Calder ran the lemon peel over the rim and set it into the glass. He¡¯d missed a lot of movies when he lived abroad, and even now in so many rural areas could rarely find a cinema. That pocket change, too, was often the difference between one or two meals in a day.


    ¡°She goes crazy and kills her lover.¡± He pushed the drink Anson¡¯s way, and he took it with some suspicion. At least he saw the other man make it. ¡°She thinks she¡¯s somewhere else. Getting treated better than she should be.¡±


    ¡°Cheers.¡± He held the glass aloft, and Calder did laugh this time, though it felt as if it were more at Anson than the joke.


    The champagne was crisp and acidic, with heavy notes of pear and eggshell, and it paired well with the bracing ice and warmth of the cognac. The aroma of the lemon made a perfect garnish, and overall he found himself enjoying this hard-punching drink.


    ¡°And you doubted me.¡± Calder said, not a tease but not a threat. Anson took another long sip and set the glass down.


    ¡°What do you want, Morris?¡± He spoke bluntly, and the corners of Calder¡¯s mouth turned with impish satisfaction.


    ¡°The greatest pleasures in life. More than just a fancy drink, you know. A lavish home, a successful business, beautiful people all around.¡±


    ¡°You have one customer.¡± Anson pointed out. Calder continued as if he had not heard him.


    ¡°The blessed relief of prayer, warmth on a winter day, ecstasy, orgasm, life playing out. That¡¯s all I want.¡± He said, and Anson sighed and took another sip. ¡°But you¡¯re asking what I want with you.¡±


    ¡°I am, and would appreciate a quick answer, if it please you.¡± Anson didn¡¯t want to insult his host, but his patience was starting to wear thin. ¡°I¡¯m feeling a little worn out, and truthfully I¡¯d rather be in bed.¡±


    ¡°As would I.¡± Calder stared him down for a reaction and got none. ¡°It seems your nerves are frayed, Mr. Monroe. I hope nothing¡¯s upset you.¡±


    ¡°How do you keep this hotel up and running with one guest?¡± Anson asked, his eyes narrowed. ¡°The pass is sealed. No one else is coming up this season. What will you do for funds?¡±


    ¡°What will you, bible seller?¡± He asked. Well, he''d skim a dead man''s register, for starters. ¡°It seems to me you''re running out of customers.¡±


    ¡°The best stage of sales.¡± Anson said. ¡°Now I get to really know people.¡±


    ¡°And start convincing them to buy.¡± Calder said pointedly, but Anson shook his head.


    ¡°That''s too much effort. You don''t need to be convincing, you just need to be a friend.¡± He took another sip of his drink and felt a buzz come on. Calder nodded with something like approval in his eyes.


    ¡°You once told me you thought King James would look excellent in the parlor. Shall we adjourn?¡±


    ¡°Wha-- are you in a spending mood?¡± Anson chuckled and hoped he didn''t sound all over the place. He didn¡¯t want to be impolite, but he very openly wanted to leave. Calder seemed patient enough.


    ¡°I don''t want my guests to suffer for anything. And I would like them to continue their stay here.¡± He said, and Anson gulped. ¡°I''m a great fan of favors, and I think you can scratch my back quite nicely.¡±


    Anson was not so fond of favors. Coin was more reliable to him than any man, and he''d rather hold and trade with metal than lies and vagaries. He knew the latter too well to play with some other hustler''s tricks, but this was no hustler. This was the proprietor, and he was dependent on the rooms unless he wanted to spend the next several months in his cold car and risk catching death. It would be unreasonable to assume Heath and Gin would allow him to board with them, too: he could guess Gin wouldn''t want the intimacy or the competition.


    ¡°Come, let''s view the smoking room, you can tell me how many of God''s script you think I''ll need.¡± Calder said, and when he walked towards the French doors Anson stood reluctantly to follow. ¡°And take that drink with you, no need to waste.¡±


    He grabbed the sweating drink off the bar and near inhaled it, then entered the set of french doors into the parlor that he had not seen in some time, though it was unchanged since. The sofas, though plush, looked rarely used, the red rugs untrampled, and the cigar boxes full but dusted. Everything was dusted, actually, pristine, which must have been Sonny and Calder taking up Robert''s old chores. Calder stepped around the coffee table, and for a moment Anson thought he would sit, but instead he reached up and tilted the stuffed stag head, off by just a hair, back to level. It occurred to him how silly Calder would look, so tall sitting in such low chairs, folded like a marionette -- when Calder turned back to him he had to hide the amused expression on his face.


    ¡°It''s not so grand a room, but of course it''s meant for more intimate gatherings. What did you imagine when you suggested a Bible for the table? A study of it, or a jest?¡±


    There was suddenly something very harsh in his expression.


    ¡°I should never. The word of God ain''t meant to be mocked.¡± He said, but the burn of booze in his gut played on his face and betrayed his true thoughts. He mocked the Bible every day. He mocked its foul ideas of what human life was meant to be, of bullshit guidelines and regulations. The idea that anything existed above this hurtling rock insulted his intelligence, and the push from others to suit its whims insulted his pride. What was the point of human intellect if not to forge your own path, commit to your own desires, and destroy anything that got in the way of it?


    ¡°King James may have championed this new print and distribution, but he was just as queer as you or me. What do you think of that? A brilliant cover? Or a loyal soldier of the Lord?¡±


    ¡°I think you ought to speak for yourself.¡± Anson stepped back, flummoxed. He was within his rights to leave at that, but Calder snatched his arm, his expression suddenly softened.


    ¡°Not when we''re alone. Not to me, not to the mirror. We deserve better.¡± There was something desperate in him, like he really meant it. ¡°And one day, not in this town. I''ll make sure of that.¡±


    ¡°Never.¡± Anson shook his head. ¡°They''ll chase you down same as any other ole place. People love a mob. They love to organize chaos. That''s why they''re Christian in the first place.¡±


    ¡°In due time. This town is special.¡± Calder had still not released his arm. ¡°And I can make them see.¡±


    ¡°How are you making anyone do anything?¡± Anson made to pull his arm away, but Calder only gripped tighter and stepped closer. ¡°What influence could you possibly have?¡±


    ¡°I can pay upfront. For the Bible.¡± He leaned close and whispered, and Anson felt exhilaration rush up in him like bile. ¡°I can take care of you.¡±


    Anson had not realized how close they were standing, and when he took a deep breath their chests touched. So close, and he wouldn''t mind getting closer if not for this man''s dangerous words, his mystery. His delusions. The shirt he wore looked like such a fine silk, and with a drink in him Anson wanted to reach out and touch his broad chest.


    ¡°It would suit the room well.¡± He spoke softly, then motioned his head towards the coffee table behind them. ¡°Right there. Loyal to the Lord. It would suit you, too.¡±


    Calder kissed him fiercely, and in the heat of the moment Anson kissed him in kind. His hand still clutched his arm when he threw them both against the table. Anson gasped at the force of it, but Calder was quick to kiss him again as his hand finally released in order to push the box of cigars to the floor. Anson heard the box slam and the cigars roll on the carpet around the rush in his ears: the doors were open, the hotel was public, and Calder was a scoundrel. And yet he''d never been physically overpowered this way. He was always the dangerous one in the room, though most didn''t realize it. Calder didn''t seem to realize it either, so he amended that by grabbing a fistful of silver hair and pulling him closer. He groaned at that, and ground eagerly against Anson¡¯s thigh. The hardness thrilled him.


    ¡°I want you.¡± Calder whispered between shallow kisses. ¡°Don''t ask me what the fuck I want again. I want you.¡±


    Anson grabbed his ass in response, grinding with him as they both hardened. Calder''s hands were all over his body, large and confident just as he was, and soon enough they were on his buckle, then his fly, then his cock.


    ¡°I''m going to satisfy you.¡± He heard Calder say, and wondered at the difference between satisfaction and gluttony.


    ¡°You want so much more than just me.¡± Anson whispered, his voice low, and Calder gave him a dark look as he unzipped his trousers. He was well-endowed and the head was red and desperate. Anson wanted to repeat every lewd act he''d ever committed, right here with the door open. His large hand grabbed Anson¡¯s cock and his own at once, then stroked them together as Anson let a thick moan escape his lips. Calder spat on them and quickened his pace with only the slightest dusting of color on his cheeks, composed even in this. His lips were so red against his pale skin, and he laughed when Anson leaned up to bite them, and thrust against him in turn.


    ¡°You want everything.¡± Anson breathed. Something drunk in him kept talking. ¡°Are you the evil spreading through this town?¡±


    ¡°Are you?¡± Calder leaned down and kissed him, their rhythm interrupted, then moved down to nip at his neck. ¡°Aren''t we all? That''s all man is, darling.¡±


    For whatever reason, he thought of Heath, of his brilliant blue eyes and the smell of cigarettes, cheap next to the heady cigars beside him. Evil in everyone. That''s what Joe had said. Anson would amend that to most everyone. Not Heath. Not Pietro. Not his mama. The rest of them could burn. He made to push Calder off him, but the bigger man didn''t budge.


    ¡°I think it was a cover.¡± He said, and Calder chuckled against his chest. ¡°Is yours? Your faith?¡±


    Calder got up and gave him a sharp look for an answer.


    ¡°I think you''re all damned if it''s real.¡± Anson glowered at him. ¡°You, Sonny, Anita, David. You''ll all burn for this.¡±


    Calder tugged on them both again, harder, and when Anson jerked away he was fast to lay a hand on his throat. He coughed and sputtered in shock and Calder leaned the heel of his palm so hard against his neck he saw spots.


    ¡°You don''t know what the fuck goes on.¡± He spat. ¡°You don''t know God''s plan or your own. It''s not yours to know.¡±


    Anson pushed him away again, harder now, and Calder slammed his head back against the table. He was still grinding his cock against Anson, and when he blinked back surprise Calder groaned in delight.


    ¡°You don''t think control is its own form of gluttony?¡± Anson asked, and Calder slapped him across the face. He tasted blood in his mouth, foul and metallic. ¡°Tell me it ain''t greed to run a town.¡±


    The other man didn''t look angry. Actually he looked hot for it, with his cheeks properly red now as moans spilled out of a panting mouth.


    ¡°All this control you''re trying for. You''ve got none. That''s why you''re humping my leg like a dog.¡±


    Calder hit him again, then pulled his hair until his head banged the table even harder. Instinctively he pushed back, but Calder grabbed his hand and the pair grappled for a moment, their hard cocks bouncing and meeting all the while. When Calder overtook him he hit now with a closed fist, then again, then slammed his head until Anson saw stars flashing and popping behind his eyes.


    ¡°Stop!¡± He yelled, but it suddenly seemed a lot to manage. His head felt heavy and he felt woozy from the drink: not from something put in it, but from the liquor, and maybe from the heat in his gut too, because he stayed erect. Calder spat on the pair and found a rhythm grinding.


    ¡°Maniac. Asshole. Get off me.¡± He said, and reached up a time or two again, but he was overpowered in a way he''d never been before, and try as he might Calder wouldn''t budge.


    ¡°Keep going.¡± Calder purred his encouragement as he rutted his dick against Anson''s. He felt sweat and precum keep the friction down, and blood pool in the back of his throat. He spat it in Calder''s face.


    ¡°Use your hand.¡± He croaked, dizzy and hot, and Calder reached down to jerk them both again.


    It was Anson that came first, with a pull in his gut and a heavy load released onto Calder''s hand and cock. The proprietor let out a long groan and added to the mix, then slumped over Anson''s form so their chests met with every heavy breath. Anson wondered if it would be too tender to peck little kisses at the other man¡¯s temples, but when he kissed him Calder leaned into it, so he continued to leave a bloody crown against his forehead. They stayed tangled together a while that way, warm and messy and maybe too intimate. Anson told himself he ought to clean and dress, but he¡¯d thought it in a daze, distant from himself.


    ¡°This doesn¡¯t change anything, you know.¡± Calder hummed a little against his neck, and Anson felt his blood run cold. When they met eyes there was something so amused in his expression, just the way it was when he stepped into the bar before.


    ¡°You -- you have a plan?¡± Anson asked, his breath shallow. Calder chuckled.


    ¡°No, darling. God has a plan.¡±


    His hands found Anson''s neck again, and he thrashed wildly when they tightened. Calder leaned hard against him, unfazed but for a single vein popping in his forehead, his face still wet with Anson''s blood. Anson kicked and pushed at him, but panic distracted every motion. His ears rushed as his heart beat out of control, and suddenly he felt like just another man, maybe like all the other animals that roamed this wretched earth. Hunted and beaten and ragged like he never thought he could be. When the black crept into his vision he whined, and when he lost consciousness he felt like a damned fool.


    He was cold when he awoke, and the room was dark, but from the soft bedding and the distant smell of mothballs he knew it to be his own. When he sat up to light his bedside lamp he was sore and nude. Too long he''d let his guard down, but here and now he was met with a sudden reminder of how unsafe he really was in this town, even in his hotel room. The light was dim but he knew immediately that his clothing was gone, and knew secondary that Calder and Sonny must have stripped him to launder it. The finest service. On his writing desk sat a metallic champagne bucket, with the bottle wrapped in a towel. He stood to examine it and heard all of his joints shift and crack. There was nothing else, no note, but the message seemed clear when Anson unwrapped the bottle to find the delicate French lettering of the label, the remainder of what Calder served him previously. At least, clear to him. He was being wooed.


    On most occasions he would politely decline so much liquor as this, but this evening, not for the first time, he obliged his proprietor.

 Chapter Nine

    Anson did not set start until the afternoon. His head pounded from both the drink and the deep gashes on his face. Calder and Sonny must have wiped the cum off him, but he was still caked in sweat and dried blood so they hadn''t fully washed his person. He walked nude to the bathroom -- it was not as though another soul would see him -- and was so sick to his stomach it was a relief Calder had not met him there. When he washed the water at his feet tinted red, and when he dried and inspected himself in the mirror he was deeply unhappy with his findings.


    He had already darkened beneath the eyes, and one was a little swollen. A gouge sat at the bridge of his nose, which seemed uncanny, like it had been broken and reset. Bruises and hickeys blossomed from his jaw to his collarbone: if one could only see this part of him it would seem he spent the night prior having fun.


    And actually, he did, for the most part. It was thrilling, what Calder did with him. To him. Up until he lost the fight. He did not enjoy feeling like a game piece, nor did he relish his ignorance of the rules, the means, or the end. At least the other players wanted him alive. There was an advantage Joe and Robert didn''t have.


    His burgundy sweater came high enough to disguise most of the bruising, and a cravat fashioned from a handkerchief covered the rest. He wanted to look passable for a trip into town, a trip that first led him down the grand staircase and past the reception desk, where he only greeted Sonny with a passing wave. Sonny didn''t return it, only responded with a knowing look that confirmed what Anson had suspected. For a moment he wondered rather oddly if, in the effort to carry his body up the stairs, Sonny had him by the head or the feet.


    Outside was the worst sort of snow, fine and light and picked up by heavy gusts and swirled all over the damned place. He could barely see five feet in front of him, and walked to his car with an outstretched hand. Only one side needed a wiping, since the wind blew the rest away, and he cleared that part of it with his sleeve before hobbling in, bent by the cold, and started her up curled in the driver''s seat. It took several minutes of blasting the heat to get him upright, and several more to shake the ice from his rear windshield.


    His was a foolhardy mission, with no reasonable goal at the end. He had no desire to actually visit Ruth, but this was what Anita had advised, and he wanted to see if she did so for only the romance or if maybe the florist was another piece of the puzzle. Another creature playing the game. But to get some flowers, present them to Sophia, to involve a near child in the madness he was facing was ludicrous. He stood with his toes at the abyss: to woo her would be to drag her right to the edge with him. The interest he had in her was platonic of course, and then scientific. Anita pushed on his end, but was she doing the same to her? She could be jerked around at this very moment like a marionette and he wouldn¡¯t know it.


    The drive to the Flower Shoppe was slow and painful, but of course his was the only car out, a boon to his poor visibility. He could not imagine a highway in this, the trucks as big as they were becoming, the drivers so brash now, the lights distractingly bright. Nor could he imagine the way to Heath in that little shack up the winding mountain pass. But three days had flown by in a whirlwind, in blood and brains and death and cum, and his love must have been waiting for him. Just one visit to Ruth. Maybe the snow would settle then.


    He parked anywhere. There was no need to find a space, no need to move off to any side. He was likely still in the road, but no matter. A light shone in from the shop, and he rushed to get in, his feet sliding in the powder, but when he tried the door it was locked. As he knocked a shadowed figure appeared beyond the curtained glass, and he waited a long, shivering moment until Ruth swung the door open and he barrelled in.


    ¡°Sorry, sugar, I''ve got a towel rolled up at the gap.¡± She said breathlessly, laughing a little as she replaced the towels she¡¯d cleared away for his entry. ¡°I¡¯ve gotta keep this cold out! My little mites can¡¯t stand it.¡±


    Her blonde curls flipped as she turned to look at him with a coy smile and shining eyes. Her face fell. He shrugged with a grimace: his appearance was jarring, he knew, especially now to who he once was.


    ¡°You¡¯re right. It sure is cold.¡± He said, and she nodded slowly, likely trying to find her words. ¡°Especially when the snow gets you all wet.¡±


    ¡°I have a fire.¡± She motioned stiffly, her hand a little awkward, and Anson blinked.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Ruth, are you open? I don¡¯t mean to interrupt your private life.¡± He said, and she laughed, seemingly a little relieved at the politeness of this.


    ¡°I¡¯m always open for the right customer.¡± She said, and her smile was genuine enough that Anson stayed. Her shop looked as it always did, glowing from so many candles and lush from so much nature. Red flowers dotted every table, full and dramatic, likely for Christmas. They were celebrating earlier every year, and though he forgot the day and somehow the month he thought it was likely too soon. He turned towards the fire she¡¯d motioned to: it was held in a cast iron stove, next to a few stools and a pile of firewood resting on the ground. She¡¯d pushed some orchids and other exotic looking plants the closest to it, though Anson wondered for their safety without a grate.


    ¡°You could get embers bouncing.¡± He pointed. ¡°Best be careful, Ruth, or you may be in the business of kindling.¡±


    ¡°Then I would have a fire sale.¡± She laughed, good-natured, and he chuckled along with her. She was always so easy to speak to, no riddles, no chaos. But it was past the point where he could forget his place. The stinging cuts on his face reminded him well enough.


    ¡°Did you always plan to be a florist?¡± He asked, and she glanced away. ¡°You seem to really like what you do.¡±


    ¡°I''m fortunate that way.¡± She spoke softly, and he barrelled on before she could continue.


    ¡°But you''re so personable. You make sales just as well as you care for the plants.¡± He said, and she blushed and waved him off. ¡°I''m serious! If you ever change your mind there''s plenty of bibles to deal.¡±


    ¡°Too much travel for me. I''ve come far enough already.¡± She looked thoughtful a moment. ¡°Personable?¡±


    He nodded, and warmed his hands when she fell to silence.


    ¡°Do you think I''m personable like a shop girl? Or like a wife?¡± She asked, and must have noted the look of confusion he was quick to hide. ¡°Sorry! I mean, if I think well of a girl I think she might be the wife of a powerful man. A rich man, or an actor.¡±


    ¡°If she chooses.¡± Anson chose his words carefully. ¡°I¡¯ve just been impressed with your sales, is all. Were you ever married?¡±


    ¡°Ha! No, I¡¯m only thinking out loud.¡± She seemed to shake herself from an uncommon reverie. ¡°Would you like some tea? I''ve got a rooibos you may enjoy.¡± She offered, and he nodded as she fetched a kettle and threw it on the stove.


    ¡°Have you had it? It¡¯s sweet.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe so.¡±


    He watched her run to a cabinet behind her desk and pull out a familiar looking tin. Tea from Sophia, of course.


    ¡°I don''t know how you got here in this. You''re braver than I am.¡± She said, and he shrugged her off.


    ¡°I bet you''re plenty brave.¡±


    She blushed again. He stuck his hands in his pockets and gazed at the fire awhile. The kettle began to whistle after a few moments, and Ruth must not have been paying attention, because it went on to an agonizing pitch before she rushed over to take it off. She walked it to the desk with a padded mitt, and he followed along as she poured it into the ceramic teapot, gold with roses.


    ¡°You want a long brew for rooibos.¡± She said, and set the kettle down on a nearby trivet. ¡°Anything I can show you while you wait?¡±


    ¡°Keep me long and show me lots of product. I see how it is.¡± He teased, and she laughed as she made her way to the houseplants.


    ¡°You''re too much! But what are you in for, blooms for your pocket? Yours still ought to be fresh. Or you want a friend for your hotel room? Keep you company?¡± She fished, and he smiled wanly. ¡°I''ve got Sansevieria. Good for low light.¡±


    ¡°You''ve stayed at the hotel before?¡± He perked up, and she paused. ¡°Low light.¡±


    ¡°I have.¡± She said, and Anson saw the hollows in her eyes more clearly than before. ¡°I -- well, you don''t seem the judgemental type.¡±


    ¡°Judging¡¯s for the man in my book.¡± He said solemnly, and she nodded and stepped closer, her voice low.


    ¡°I had big dreams when I was young. I thought I''d make a great actress.¡± It made sense: she wasn''t just blonde and leggy, she glowed from within. ¡°Well, I had -- I had to rub elbows.¡±


    ¡°Oh, Ruth. I would never judge someone for their pleasure.¡± He spoke earnestly, but she was quick to wave her arms.


    ¡°No, no! Not always like that. Just sometimes a girl needs to date around to keep her stomach full. To have a roof over her head for the evening.¡± She wrung her hands, and Anson understood. He¡¯d heard of this thing before. Broke girls coming to the city, dating who they needed to date, hoping to catch the right break or the right man. So many were lucky to come out the other side of it. He¡¯d never dated like that, and especially never a woman that way, but he could understand the appeal: a shag for a mealticket. For how infrequently women tempted him, were he living a different life he would be proud to have a gal like Ruth on his arm.


    ¡°Those were the wild days.¡± She hummed, and absentmindedly stroked her thumb against a nearby plant. She held it in her fingers like she was feeling for a pulse. Anson wondered at her very being. She was so beautiful, so charming, so how could she come away from all that without a husband? She could¡¯ve had anyone she wanted, if she was given the right to choose him. Single. Single and stuck in this nameless town.


    ¡°Do you still put out?¡± He asked, and Ruth released the leaf she held before curling her fist. When she turned to him it was with gnashed teeth.


    ¡°You scoundrel!¡± She went red, and he realized his mistake rather obviously.


    ¡°No, no--¡±


    ¡°You -- you ass!¡±


    ¡°Ruth, I--¡±


    ¡°You can very well leave if you¡¯re going to take that approach, Mr. Monroe!¡± She set her shoulders back and leveled her fists at her sides. Anson somehow knew she could use them well if she needed to. ¡°Go on!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve met Calder. I think he likes to play with people. He likes control. Do you still put out? When he makes you?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re being completely inappropriate.¡± She said, but the hesitation in her tone was enough of an answer.


    ¡°He has. . . associates. Business meetings. Powerful men, I bet. Men with appetites.¡± Anson continued, his brain whirring like machinery, his thoughts so quick he scarcely had time to corral them. ¡°Did he ever take you across state lines? You could get him on that. You could take this whole thing down.¡±


    ¡°And the powerful men you mention, you think they¡¯d allow that?¡± She raised a brow, and he paused. ¡°Calder¡¯s powerful, too.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s gay.¡± He said, then sucked in a breath. He had no innocent reason to know such a thing, and even if he had he wouldn''t like to share it. Even if it were someone like the proprietor.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t help nor hurt me, darling.¡± She said, and her expression softened when he let out that deep breath. ¡°The tea should be ready. Pour us a cup.¡±


    He nodded then, and fell to silence as he poured the two cups. Ruth came over and took hers without acknowledgement, and they sipped without a cheers. She was right that the rooibos was sweet, but to him it was overly so and came off as medicinal. He might as well have been drinking cough medicine. Ruth seemed nonplussed when he gently returned the cup to its saucer. He wanted to say something to Ruth, the poor thing, but he imagined he was not in the favorable light now that he''d shone in when he first arrived.


    ¡°You would''ve made a wonderful actress.¡± He finally landed on, and she smiled faintly. ¡°The next Bette Davis.¡±


    ¡°I was never that good.¡± She hid a little behind her teacup. ¡°Only pipe dreams. I would''ve been better off a wife.¡±


    ¡°You''ve still got time.¡± He encouraged, and her gaze fell to the ground. ¡°Time enough.¡±


    ¡°I''m only useful for so long, sugar. Looks fade, then time''s run out.¡± She said. He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of how to respond. Useful. He didn''t like to think of a woman calling herself and her body such a thing.


    ¡°This ain''t a town, is it?¡± But it was low and flat and hardly a question. ¡°It''s a commune.¡±


    Ruth¡¯s hand was shaking when she set down her own cup. The china clinked rather obviously.


    ¡°Are you not yet married, bible-man?¡± She asked, the same as Sophia once had. His blood chilled.


    What was coincidence and what was coordinated effort? Had Ruth already spoken to Anita? He wondered rather inanely at the tone of those conversations: the two were so different, the way everyone here was so different, so unique, so out-there. No one here should have pieced together perfect the way they did. Actually, the only thing he ever saw them all have in common was their love of the bibles he peddled. And it was a strange and known thing that belief swayed people to every extreme imaginable, even when he thought the belief was foolhardy, or pressured, or sometimes even false, like his own. Not like his own though, not really, because his beliefs were his alone, and not leveraged under some strange man''s thumb.


    Calder had questioned his loyalty. He could dispel the doubt, or he could open up outright. Blow this whole thing wide open, except, well, to whom? With the roads blocked for the season there was no one to tell save those he wanted to protect. Maybe he could warn Heath and Gin. Maybe come Spring they could travel down the pass and come back with some help, get Calder knocked down or get some of the townsfolk out of there. Maybe then he could find Robert. ¡°Find¡± Joe.


    Or maybe a wanted man wasn''t in any position to seek help. Maybe just getting them out would be a victory. Was this the way forward? The way to keep Heath? They could run off together. He would just have to tear Calder down first.


    ¡°Maybe in the Spring.¡± He answered, as softly as he could.


    ¡°You know we''ve got a beautiful Spring bride in town.¡± Ruth raised her brows. Anson took a very long sip of his tea. ¡°Why don''t you get her some flowers? Announce your intentions?¡±


    He rubbed his thumb along the faded gold rim of the rose-covered cup. Her gaze was intense and expectant. She was too loyal.


    ¡°Maybe. . . Something small.¡± He managed after a pause. ¡°Like daisies.¡±


    ¡°It''s December.¡± Ruth pointed out, and he snorted. ¡°I have so many roses! Be a man, now, sugar.¡±


    In no world did he want to give this young woman roses, as intimate as that was, and pointed round the shop awhile as he sipped on too-sweet tea and watched Ruth run ragged. First to the mums; then the carnations; then ten other things; back again to the roses just to try and convince him. She pouted when he suggested something more practical like a houseplant, and waved him off when he hoped for a Christmas amaryllis.


    ¡°You''d be old and married to gift such a thing.¡± She said wryly. ¡°But if you''re looking for Christmas I''ve got some mistletoe.¡±


    Anson had never heard so much sing-song, nor had he ever seen that much eyelash batting.


    ¡°The roses, then.¡± He finally conceded, and she took the win with lightened steps and a big smile, as though their previous upset were forgotten.


    When he left he had a dozen white roses wrapped in tissue and folded gently within his coat, kept warm by the nervous fire in his chest. The snow had stopped falling, though the wind still whipped it to a frenzy, so that he watched snow lift off mounds in a fine powder and swirl across the white world around him. When he got to his car and turned on his headlights, dimmer now as they were caked with ice, he sat and observed this a moment, noted the opacity of a particularly heavy gust. Snow was different for him, and dangerous, surely, but he knew the greatest danger to be found in this town, and he knew his own drive to stop it, so he got in his car and made his way up the mountain, up to his love and his wife. The trip was slow and painstaking, and more than once he felt his beloved Victoria slip back with a squeal of her tires, but the wind had kept the snow from really piling, so he lived, albeit sweaty and shaking. When he parked his car he didn''t think he had exerted himself, but his muscles ached like he ran a marathon and he had to wrench his grip from the steering wheel with white knuckles.


    He practically ran to the ramshackle front door, not fully warmed from his tinny little heater, and was greeted to a blast of much welcomed heat when he walked in. The candles danced their usual, the air smelled of garlic and herbs as always, and Gin cut a beautiful figure as she bounced from one table to the next, light-hearted in conversation while she took orders and refilled glasses. He had thought the place would be deserted in this snow, but of course he forgot how a local could be accustomed to such awful weather. He himself had become accustomed to heat and humidity in the old days, and felt some confused nostalgia the first time he ambled up the coast.


    The brothers must have hiked over as always, something he noted by the snowshoes at the door, and Dallas and Smiley had not even taken off their waders, so they must have walked straight off their dinghy. Even Anita sat at a full table, bundled in coats and sweaters she presumably crafted herself. She didn''t look at him when he entered, but that didn''t mean she wasn''t aware of his presence.


    He made his way to his usual barstool, and felt strangely fond and homesick when he heard the wood creak under him. The sourness in that was a mystery to him, maybe instinct, but it went unnoticed to the rest in an otherwise cheery atmosphere, and he sat and thawed for a moment before Gin arrived with a menu.


    Stolen story; please report.


    ¡°You know I hardly bother with it at this point.¡± He turned to smile at her, but she didn''t look him in the eye and only vaguely nodded.


    ¡°I''ll let him know. He''ll fix you up real good.¡± She said, but didn''t lay it on thick like she was so wont to do. Normally she would have batted her lashes and dropped her tone, normally she would have made him feel like he was more welcome in her marriage than merely tolerated.


    When she left for the kitchen he stared at her go, then held his eyes on the partition. Heath did not appear as he hoped, and in a moment she returned only to pour him a glass of wine. It was a dark red to match the welts across his face, the ones Gin seemed to miss as she sidled away. He took a sip with his eyes still on the partition: it was Pinot noir from the boys, sweet like cherries and oaky from the barrel. Much better than the tea he''d drank earlier. He turned to raise his glass to them, but neither met his eye and only continued their conversation, and after a long moment he turned back around in his stool.


    Calder''s reach was long. He wondered what could have been whispered from last night to now to warrant this. Maybe nothing. Maybe he was not the first weary traveler to come through here and take a beating. Maybe he could be the last. He looked down idly at his table settings and listened to Gin make conversation with everyone but him on the weather, the food, the Lord. At times he felt there may have been eyes on him, but when he snuck quick looks behind him to the dining room he found no one who would meet his gaze. This was the loneliest meal he''d had at the restaurant since his first little bowl of rice.


    Gin disappeared a time or two into the kitchen, and it took everything in him not to lean over to take up a view of within. He felt half a fool for wanting to make such a scene, and that embarrassment kept him in his place. Besides, what he needed now was to play the innocent, just as he had done so many times before. Play pretend like girls playing house. Like everything was normal.


    It wasn''t long until his plate was brought out to him, steaming and fragrant, and he thanked Gin quietly as he took in the meal. It looked simple, but exquisite, with greens sauteed with garlic; thick crusty bread; tender and juicy pork. He took a forkful of greens, maybe a blend of collard and mustard, and took a bite to find it pleasantly bitter, with a hint of roasted garlic and a surprising amount of spice from small flecks of red studded throughout. The pork tenderloin cut easily with his knife and fork, succulent with the barest hint of rosemary and peppercorn. The bread was baba, as he remembered from his own jaunt across Italy -- when times were tough he and his father would eat it for a meal. Baba rustico, a hearty white bread filled with scrap meat and covered in cheese. Anson chewed at it pleasantly before he followed it with more meat and wine. He wished sorely that Heath would wander out and ask him how he liked it, and took the meal with his eyes on the partition, as though want alone could summon the man.


    It worked. When his dish was near empty Heath slid open the partition a hair, which Anson nearly startled at, then recovered and smiled encouragingly. There was no world where the chef would actually step out into the open, that beautiful reclusive bastard, but Anson hoped his affection was warm and obvious in the grin, and enough to say, wordlessly, that he was there and he was waiting. Heath only stared at him plainly a moment, then closed the partition once more. He waited a moment, like he expected something more, but when the partition remained shut he began to feel spooked.


    He and Gin had never treated him so foreign, so strange. And he couldn''t imagine they would randomly do so now, especially with his face half caved in. They must have been just as aware of the trouble as he, and much like himself they were lying low and playing nonchalant. It relieved him to know they saw the threat as he did, even if it did cause a deep displacement in his gut. When Gin came around to ask how after him with little enthusiasm, it must have meant Anita''s eyes were on them. When she presented him a bill she never would have brought were they alone, it was all part of the show. Who knew who was really trustworthy outside their trio.


    When it came time to leave he waved everyone off, though only one or two villagers returned it, and clearly out of strained courtesy. The wind continued its tirade as he made his way back to the Victoria, and snow still clung to the driver''s side, but he made no move to clear it. He only got in, pitched his seat back, and curled up in wait. He kept his arms wrapped around his chest and his feet tucked under his ass, and meant to hold that position until all the other diners had left and he could finally speak to his chef alone.


    He was there, he was waiting, and he would be patient. Even as he cycled the heat in the car. Even as his fingers went stiff. Even as he nodded off again and again. The diners slipped out one by one, the boys with their snowshoes and Anita all bundled up. When he did his counting in the dark he believed only Dallas and Smiley remained, and right on cue they appeared at the old door of that beat up shack.


    And they stayed there. And they stared at him. Anson could hardly see them around the snow and ice stuck to his now cold windshield, but he could see their stillness and their hardened postures. Both straight-backed and both locked on to his car and to him as if, and in Anson''s mind this was foolish thinking, as if they were hunting, and he was the prey. The idea disgruntled him, and he turned the key to get the engine going, but that didn''t shake them. Smiley, the larger of the pair, advanced slowly in the wind, with Dallas a few steps behind. Anson fastened his seatbelt with half a mind to ram them. Smiley came all the way to his bumper, then to his passenger side mirror, and when their eyes connected he stiffly shook his head.


    Anson put the car into drive, still unsure of his motivations. Dallas simply stood there, but Smiley, with the slowest and most subtle of motions, slipped a piece of paper beneath his wiper blades. Anson very wildly recalled a parking ticket his father got when he was a boy, the yelling and name calling to the officer. Telling him later on that he''d need to work a longer day at the mechanic¡¯s to help pay it off.


    He eased his foot off the brake, but turned his wheel to the left, away from his intimidators. He had to keep a low profile, he had to keep Heath safe. The blustery snow flew off his windshield as he went, but the paper caught and remained, and he had to fight from staring at it as he made his way down the mountain. It was a pamphlet for the library, where he knew Sophia would be. Was that the reason? They were telling him to go see her, just like Anita, just like Ruth?


    The roses still sat in the passenger seat, though their petals seemed more curled and tattered at the edges now. The whole town was clamoring for this visit, and though it was quite late he decided if he made it off this cliff in one piece he ought to stop in. After all, she might not even be there at this hour. It wasn''t like he wanted to spend another long night under the proprietor''s roof anyhow.


    The drive seemed even more treacherous as he went downhill: his speed became more difficult to control, and more than once he found his eyes transfixed on the water, that inky abyss that seemed both inches from his grasp and miles away. He had to wrench the wheel towards the right and hug the mountainside, because he slipped a few jaw-clenching times and ended up far closer to the edge than he wanted to be.


    He might have held his breath the whole way down. Only when he came upon the village did he feel the pain in his back from hunching nervously in his seat, and stretched awkwardly with little reprieve. By then he reached the library, still dimly lit, and again parked anywhere. The pamphlet could stay, but the roses had to come with him, so he returned them to his coat and rushed in. The cold had only gotten worse with the evening, and worse still when he entered the drafty old building with hardly a respite from it.


    David was not at his desk, though this was not unusual for a man so frequently stocking books and dusting shelves. As he walked further into the library the cold hardly abated, so he lifted an oil lamp off a long reading table and proceeded straight back, where he could hear some distant movement. It ended up being Sophia scrubbing out a pot, and his movement caught her attention.


    ¡°You look like a restless spirit in these stacks.¡± She called out, then creased her brow as he neared. ¡°You alright? The shadows. . .¡±


    ¡°It''s alright.¡± He called back, then grimaced when he was close enough for her to take in the view. Her hand dropped the scrub brush and went to her own cheek, then, when she remembered herself, beckoned him over.


    ¡°Let me look at it. Maybe I have a bandage.¡±


    She set down her pot and he set down his lamp. He watched her fumble through her apothecary drawers until she found some cotton, then under a cabinet until she produced some of Anita''s whiskey.


    ¡°If I knew you made drinks like that I''d be in more often.¡± He said, and her eyebrows drew closer together. ¡°Don''t bother with that, it''s all scabbed over. No use now.¡±


    ¡°I don''t put liquor in often. Just when Anita asks, or a special occasion.¡± She tucked the bottle away and wiped her hands nervously against her frilly apron. It was a deep, rosy pink to match her bubblegum sweater. ¡°Don''t think too poorly of me.¡±


    ¡°No, I could never. I know you''re a good girl.¡± He said, then looked down at his hands, still red from the chill, when she appeared too eager at those words.


    ¡°Can I make you a tea?¡± She asked softly.


    ¡°I had some today. I can''t recall the name, but it tasted like medicine.¡± She laughed, caught by surprise.


    ¡°A rooibos?¡± He nodded. ¡°Depends on the brand you buy. I''ve had some stinkers.¡±


    ¡°It wasn''t my favorite.¡± He leaned against the counter. She took a little step closer, too.


    ¡°My parents used to give me the one minute cough cure. Cherry flavored. Did you use that one?¡± She asked, so close he could study every feature. Her bottom lashes were so long, and her lips were plump and round to match her face.


    ¡°I don''t remember. I was fortunate not to be a choleric child.¡± He said thoughtfully. ¡°Were you?¡±


    ¡°I was wild.¡± She grinned devilishly. ¡°I think they just liked how it knocked me out.¡±


    ¡°I can imagine you young.¡± He thought of a willful child, one who didn''t know how much the world had against her. ¡°I mean, you still are.¡±


    ¡°What did you visit Ruth for?¡± She asked, and he paused. ¡°Besides tea.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I. . . For you.¡± Anson unbuttoned his coat and the roses sprung from his chest. Sophia''s eyes went wide as saucers, and the way she touched her hands to her own chest was so gentle.


    ¡°Anson.¡± She gasped, ¡°Really, for me? They''re beautiful.¡±


    ¡°You can thank Ruth for that.¡± He said.


    ¡°No, no, thank you!¡± She gushed, then pulled the roses out from his coat, her fingers skimming his chest. She inhaled their scent, then searched for a vase as she hummed to herself. The satisfaction on her face when she found a pitcher to set them in eased some of Anson''s upset: someone so young and lovely had to settle his temper, even in these circumstances.


    ¡°I was really hoping for a sweetheart¡¯s gift. I mean, if I''m not being too forward.¡± She couldn''t stop smiling as she placed the vase on the ledge behind her washbasin, the perfect spot for her to see it.


    ¡°It''s no Letterman''s jacket.¡± He said ruefully, and she laughed again.


    ¡°I''m afraid I''m a little too old for all that.¡± She blushed in a way that pained him. ¡°You''re a very handsome man, Anson. And I like to think we get on well.¡±


    ¡°We do.¡± Anson was at least honest in this. ¡°And you''ve got me matched in looks. No, better. What''s your surname?¡±


    ¡°Li.¡±


    ¡°Well, I think you''re unparalleled, Miss Sophia Li.¡±


    She leaned in too quick for him to react, with a peck on the lips that was chaste enough for him, but for her must have been her first foray into adult romance. He had to fight the disappointment from his face. There was a thin little line between maintaining expectations and leading her on, and he knew he danced on it with this.


    ¡°Sophia. It''s not proper.¡±


    ¡°It could be.¡± She said, her eyes bright. ¡°You can court me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a traveling salesman.¡± He said, but she didn¡¯t seem dissuaded. ¡°I could court you all winter, but come Spring--¡±


    ¡°You won¡¯t leave.¡± She said, sure of herself. ¡°I¡¯ve seen men settle here even without a woman. And I think you belong here. I think you belong with me, too.¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah?¡± He asked, and she leaned in so close their lips grazed. ¡°What¡¯s keeping me?¡±


    She kissed him again, longer this time, and ran a hand through his curls, now too long and wild. Something in him made him deepen the kiss, then bring a hand to her cheek, and another to her waist. She pulled away at this, but he knew from her wanton gaze that he didn¡¯t need to apologize, or defend himself. Rather, she only paused to hop on the counter and sit close to him, the space between their bodies diminished as she pulled him into another kiss. His hand went back to her waist, and the other ran its fingers down her spine. She was so petite, and she fit so well in his arms.


    ¡°Sophia.¡± He pulled back. ¡°Wait, really. This isn¡¯t proper. Let me court you the way you deserve.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re a romantic.¡± She was all flushed, and her voice was hardly a whisper.


    ¡°Sophia.¡± He warned. Her sweater was a little askew, and her apron had bunched along with her skirt. Her hose were a thin, translucent white, but with her legs crossed against his abdomen he didn''t glimpse anything more than her knees.


    ¡°I know, you¡¯re right.¡± She said, though she seemed reluctant to release him. ¡°Thank you for being a gentleman.¡±


    ¡°Don''t thank me for that. Let''s get you off the counter.¡±


    She slung her arms over his shoulders and he tightened his grip on her back to lift her down. She had to uncross her legs, and Anson didn''t expect the brief flash of pink garters on a set of milky white thighs that he very much would have liked to put his head between. Sophia pressed herself against him and he lifted her down as promised, but held her there and gazed on her too long. It excited him, her eagerness, and the way it still held even with his hard length pressed against her. Maybe he shouldn''t have pulled her off the counter.


    ¡°I think -- I could take off my apron, if you like.¡± She said, her breath tight.


    ¡°Just if you like.¡± He said, against his better judgment. She took it off.


    ¡°And my sweater, too.¡± She said, and his hands met hers at the hem.


    ¡°Let me.¡± He pulled the sweater over her head: she didn''t do the bullet bra look he''d seen other men drool for, rather something white and unpadded that showcased dark nipples taut with excitement. She beamed at him and her hair stood up from static and he knew he was a wolf.


    ¡°Let me.¡± He said again, his lips already against her neck, his hands already caught in her hair. He felt her arms twist back as she slipped off her brassiere, then forward to remove his coat. He shrugged it off and moved his hands down to cup at her small breasts and tease her delicate nipples.


    ¡°Please,¡± she moaned, her breath hot on his ear. Her hands fiddled with his belt.


    ¡°I think that''s quite enough.¡± David''s voice was startlingly loud, and when Anson leapt away from the girl he found his countenance startling, too. He was not the all-knowing librarian in this light, he was a scarecrow in a dark field, like the ones Anson had passed so many times before. The last he''d seen was silhouetted by that flaming barn the real bible-man lived at, and David matched it well as the oil lamp bounced shadow off his grim face.


    ¡°Mr. Brown.¡± Anson began haltingly. Sophia dove behind him and wrapped herself in his coat. ¡°Good evening.¡±


    ¡°Shut up. Stand behind me, Sophia.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I''m sorry David. Don''t get mad, I -- I took it too far. I got too excited.¡± She stayed by Anson despite her very red face. ¡°I shouldn''t have encouraged him.¡±


    ¡°Yes, we''re sorry.¡± Anson cleared his throat. ¡°That was unrefined, and especially here in your library.¡±


    Anson suddenly saw a glint of metal by his side.


    ¡°Come away from him, Sophia, ¡®fore he corrupts you further.¡±


    ¡°He''s got a knife.¡± Anson grabbed her by the arm when she stepped his way.


    ¡°It ain''t for her, moron.¡± He said, and Anson''s heart leapt into his throat. He couldn''t do this here, not with the girl.


    ¡°David, I''m sorry. Nothing happened.¡± Sophia cooed, but Anson didn''t let go of her. ¡°I promise this is the end of it. Mr. Monroe can court me regular going forward.¡±


    ¡°I can.¡± Anson nodded sternly. ¡°You can chaperone, if you please.¡±


    ¡°Did I tell you to talk? Get your hands off the girl. You think I won''t teach you a lesson, huh?¡± There was something off in his eyes, something deeply rotten and more than just mad. Unhinged.


    ¡°Why don''t we let Sophia walk away.¡± Anson spoke slowly and softly, but she crossed her arms.


    ¡°Enough of this. Let''s all sit down, I can make some chamomile and grovel all night if I have to.¡±


    ¡°He''s dangerous.¡± David said, dangerous himself. Anson had to wonder what he knew.


    ¡°Isn''t that why he''s still here?¡± She asked, and Anson felt a buzz in his ears. ¡°Isn''t that what we believe in? Change? Evolving? Forgiveness?¡±


    David held the knife aloft. Anson heard his swallow reverberate through the room. His wild eyes darted, maybe with thought and maybe with uncertainty. His hand shook violently. This was not the well-read eccentric Anson had come to know, this was a madman, all stirred up inside with heavy doubt. When Anson had guessed the library was a boon to him he''d been right: a boon to a lackey, power and influence and warmth and good books in exchange for loyalty. He sensed a learning opportunity.


    ¡°Why don''t you let Sophia dress.¡± He held his hand out reassuringly. ¡°Take me to the priest -- he can decide on me.¡±


    This was the wrong thing to say. David slashed forward with the knife so suddenly that Anson''s arm caught it, and he yelped as he got his bearings. Sophia screamed, and he pushed her away as David launched at him, blade high in the air. A punch to the gut took his breath long enough to wrestle him down, and they writhed on the floor together in a dizzying mix of blood, sweat and screams.


    ¡°Stop it! What are you doing? Stop!¡± Sophia shrieked helplessly. ¡°I''ll go get someone! I''ll tell Calder!¡±


    ¡°Run!¡± Anson yelled, and nearly took the blade to the face for it. ¡°Don''t, David, I''m armed!¡±


    ¡°Don''t hurt him! It''s only his way!¡± Sophia cried out. Anson punched him across the face and David reeled, but found himself at Anson''s feet. He grabbed the right leg and both men knew he touched metal.


    ¡°Don''t.¡± Anson said, low and boiling. Everything moved too quickly; David raised his knife; Anson kicked him in the chest, then drew back and pulled the gun from his sock; Sophia lunged at him and beat against his back with her fists; he turned and the butt of the gun met with her chin.


    ¡°Bastard!¡± David yelled, and though Anson couldn''t disagree with him his thoughts turned to the burning pain in his gut, sudden and blinding as it was. The knife had been in David''s hand one moment and between his ribs the next, and whatever mercy Anson had shown in Sophia''s presence vanished. He was not so worried whether he shot to kill.


    ¡°Wait -- Anson!¡± He heard Sophia cry, but the gunshot sounded over her words, David''s eyes went wide, and blood sprayed from his neck all over the three of them. Anson''s ears pounded. The gun was heavy in his hands. When David¡¯s limp body hit the floor he vaguely registered Sophia¡¯s screaming.


    ¡°It''s okay,¡± he began, but his words sounded hollow. He tucked the gun back into his sock to ease her, and felt goosebumps rise on his arms as she devolved into loud, incoherent sobbing. How drafty was this library? What were the chances one of these villagers could hear her?


    ¡°Why? Why? Why?¡± She asked, garbled, and kicked at him when he had no answer. ¡°My friend!


    He was my friend!¡±


    She hit Anson so hard across the back of his head he saw stars, and he groaned when he leaned forward on instinct and further into the blade.


    ¡°Fuck!¡± He wrenched it out and tossed it across the floor. ¡°Get off! Stop fucking yelling!¡±


    She howled something unintelligible and hit him again, and he turned around to do something about it with a glare and gnashed teeth and blood in his eyes. He struck her so hard across the face she collapsed to the floor, and crawled on top of her to hit her again. David¡¯s blood ran into her split lip when she gasped: they always gasped when they were really hurt.


    ¡°I don''t want this! What the fuck! I didn''t want this!¡± He punched her until her face twisted, and wrung her neck until pink tears slid down the sides of her face.


    ¡°How do you know Calder?¡± Anson grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°He can fix this. He can fix everything.¡± Her eyes were so swollen he could hardly see that puppy dog gaze of hers, the bright and shining admiration gone out to leave just the dull glint of pain remaining. She was no spring bride in this state.


    ¡°Were you always a part of this, beautiful girl? Is this all you''re keeping me for?¡± He whispered, his chest tight. She shook her head pitifully. Anson fought a grimace, then closed his hands around her delicate neck.


    ¡°Jesus. . . Forgives. . . All. . .¡± She hissed, and he squeezed until her eyes rolled up to the back of her head. Her body went limp, and he collapsed over her with shaking hands and heaving breaths.


    The rush of the kill. A most enthralling feeling, so intense it made him feel dizzy, or drunk even. It pushed so far now to the point of illness. Sophia had tainted it. He had never heard a woman''s screams mixed with the carnage before, had never strangled someone so beautiful, though maybe only because his beloved Pietro ran off when he did. Came back with la polizia, thankless to everything Anson had done for him, to all the lives he extinguished to keep them together, keep their love a secret.


    He was still hard. It had never died down, and when he unzipped his pants his cock sprang from his fly and begged for attention. He pulled it at first, then changed his mind and opened the coat on Sophia''s tiny body to climb over her. Her little breasts didn''t even spill to the sides, and her skirt rode up to show off cotton panties like a girl would wear. He rutted against them, humped her like a dog and growled like one too, and shuddered with his release in moments. His cum soiled her skirt and pooled on her stomach, and the ecstasy of it was cut by pity. If only Mr. Brown hadn''t stepped in. Maybe they could have avoided this fate for her.


    Her stomach was so pale it nearly shone in the dark, and when he watched it idly he realized it rose and fell, and when he pressed his ear to her chest he felt her heart thumping. When he got up and zipped his pants, his eyes darted between her and David, the blood on him and the blood on the floor. The darkness around him, the way it rang with distant winds. Her and the door. He stood there with his fists clenched far longer than he could say, his breath ragged and a chill in his bones now that he''d expelled all his seed and energy.


    The blood oozed from his gut and stuck to his shirt. His knuckles felt raw. There was no hiding this. Joe¡¯s corpse could be tossed aside for a time, but not David¡¯s, with or without the witness. For all the time he''d already been here, for all the time that remained, the opportunity to keep his head down had up and left him. There was only one option now.


    He bent over and the wound throbbed as he closed his coat around little Sophia, then straightened himself and strode to the door. His side ached, but his newfound concentration distanced the pain. In some small way this had freed him: only now could he revert to his base instincts, only now could he hunt, could he play the game. Could he win. He had to thank Sophia for being so beguiling, Dallas and Smiley for pointing him this way, his lovers for giving him a reason to fight. He had a final plan. He had to confront Calder head on.