Authors: Rowan Speedwell
A few of them came up after class to ask him questions, a couple of them girls who he suspected just wanted to flirt with him. He was smilingly polite, but dismissed them as quickly and courteously as he could.
To his surprise, the last person waiting to talk to him at the back of the art room wasn’t one of his students. It took a minute for him to connect the name and face. “Brian, right?” he said coolly. “What brings you to my humble classroom? Looking for art lessons?”
“No, thanks,” Brian said, grinning. He held out his hand. “Formal introductions. Brian McCarthy. David Evans, right?”
David shook his hand reluctantly. “Right. So what can I do for you, Brian McCarthy? Aside from the obvious, and this is a completely inappropriate venue, so I’m hoping that this has nothing to do with why you hang out at places like Fat Charlie’s. Because if it does, I’m kicking your ass from here to the front door.”
Brian held up the hand David had just released. “No inappropriateness involved. Besides, I know you’re involved right now, and as attractive as I find both of you, I’m cool with that. I wasn’t for a while, you know. You strike me as a kind of laid back, low-key type of guy, and I couldn’t see how you would be good for him. He’s built up such a thick wall of ice around himself that I couldn’t see how anyone like you could get through. After that scene at Terry’s that one time, it surprised the hell out of me to find out that you were together. But I see now I was wrong about that.”
“What changed your mind?” David asked, unwillingly curious.
“You did. Just now, really.” Brian leaned back against the wall and folded his arms, regarding him thoughtfully. “The passion that you have for your work. Most people—and I’m guilty of it as well—think of passion as hot, fiery, impulsive. But listening to you made me realize that passion can be a deep, warm, steady flame too. The kind of fire that keeps a man warm at night—or melts an ice wall that would drown a flashier spark. You’ve got that kind of passion in you. I was a fool to misjudge you that way.”
“I take it you think I’ve got something you want,” David replied suspiciously.
“Oh, I’m not the patient kind, not really. You are. And he needs that. And he wants you—he called your name once, when he came screwing me. Made it pretty damn clear to me, anyway.” Brian cocked his head. “Do you know the real meaning of the word ‘passion’?”
“Suffering,” David said.
Brian tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Suffering. And of course ‘compassion’—fellow suffering. You suffer for him, don’t you? I can’t do that, and that’s what he needs. Someone to share that, until he deals with what he needs to deal with himself.”
“How do you know he’s got things to deal with?”
Brian shrugged. “Man that closed off is that way for a reason.”
“Seems like you’ve given him a lot of thought for someone who’s not interested.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested. I just know how things are.”
“So what did you want from me?”
“I just wanted to ask you some questions and maybe a favor.”
David turned back to the big table he used as a desk and started putting his class’s latest projects into a neat pile. “You can ask. No guarantees I’ll answer.”
“Well,” Brian breathed. “At least you’re honest. And I appreciate that. First off, Taff—you don’t mind if I call you ‘Taff’ do you?”
David jerked around, a chill settling in his chest. “Yeah, I mind,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. “Don’t.”
“Sorry.” Brian raised his hands in apology. “I just heard that was your nickname—or is it only Zach that calls you that?”
“None of your fucking business,” David snarled. “And if that’s what you’re here for, to snoop around about Zach, then you can just piss off. I don’t talk about Zach.”
“No,” Brian said with a smile. “I know. I’m not asking you to talk about him, if you don’t want to. I
am
asking if you could talk
to
him for me.”
“No.”
“David—just listen a minute.”
“What are you, some kind of fucking reporter?” David swore.
“I’m not a reporter. I
am
a journalist….”
“Same damn thing. Get lost.”
“No, it’s not. A reporter files a report. A journalist writes a story. Zach has a fascinating, important story to tell. People don’t understand what goes on when someone’s taken hostage. It happens so often nowadays, all over the world, and people have become numb to it. They need a real person to associate with it, someone whose name they recognize. Someone who’s
real
to them in a way that other people aren’t. A face they can recognize, identify with….”
“Very noble,” David said sarcastically. “And I suppose you get nothing out of this?”
“A story,” Brian admitted with a grin. “A sale, a byline. Hell, maybe a fucking Pulitzer. Yeah, I get something out of it. Zach will get something out of it, too, something he needs more than all the support and love and
suffering
you can give him. Closure.”
“Bullshit closure,” David snapped. “He’ll get David Letterman and Oprah and Jay Leno and Larry King and every two-bit
journalist
who wants to jump on the bandwagon digging into his life. He won’t be able to walk down the street without some asshole trying to get his fucking picture or autograph. And why? Because he was
tortured
? No thank you. You stay the fuck away from Zach or so help me I will break your writing arm. Got it?”
Brian held up his hands again. “I take it that’s ‘no’,” he said dryly. “I got it.” He regarded David thoughtfully. “It’s good you’re with him,” he said finally. “It doesn’t make it easier for me, but it’s good to know someone’s got his back. See you around.”
“Not if I see you first,” David shot back, but Brian was gone.
H
E
DIDN
’
T
even bother to stop at home, just drove straight to Zach’s, seething all the way.
One of the garage doors was open, the interior brightly lit against the deepening twilight. He pulled the car around to the side by the exterior entrance to Zach’s apartment, then walked back around to the front of the garage to look into the illuminated bay.
Zach straddled a bench, holding a piece of equipment up to the light, frowning at the object in his hands. His hair had grown out some; a lock fell over one eye and he blew upward absently to get it out of his way. David had seen him do that a thousand times before, but never since his return; for a brief moment, he saw the fifteen-year-old Zach, tousled hair hanging in his eyes, the bright light limning shadows along his high cheekbones, elegant nose, and sharp jaw. Then Zach shifted on the bench and the illusion was lost, and it was Zach the man he was watching—his features still fine, but stronger and more defined now, the jaw shadowed with a day’s beard, the arch of the neck and curve of the shoulder strong with a man’s muscle.
He must have made a sound or something, because Zach looked up at him, his crystalline blue eyes bright in the high-intensity lamps, and smiled, brighter than the lamplight.
Fuck Brian,
David thought,
what’s not to be passionate about?
And his bad mood disintegrated under the force of that thousand-watt smile. “What are you doing?” he asked, stepping onto the brickwork of the garage floor.
“Trying to decide if I want to try and repair the alternator to the Mustang or try and find a replacement,” Zach said. “Either way’s a pain in the ass, but I think I’d rather try and fix it; it’s original equipment, and finding a decent substitute for a forty-year-old car isn’t going to be easy. With luck, it’s just something minor.”
“You’ll fix it,” David said confidently.
“How did your classes go?” Zach asked as he set down the alternator and turned his face up for David’s kiss.
“Mmm…. Fine,” David said, deciding right then and there not to tell him about the visit from Brian. “Better now. You eat yet?”
“No, I was waiting for you. DB brought over a slow cooker full of pot roast; I had to come down here to work because the smell was driving me nuts. And I had a late lunch at Maggie’s, too, so I wasn’t all that hungry. I am now.” He got up from the bench and put the alternator on the work-stand at the back of the garage, then turned back to David. “Ready?”
David walked up to him, took his face in his hands, and kissed him fiercely. “Upstairs,” he said, his voice low and husky.
“Whoa,” Zach said, and grabbed his wrists. “Something tells me it ain’t pot roast you’re hungry for.”
“Nope.”
Zach grinned and released his wrists, then reached behind him and hit the switch to close the garage door. “Don’t need to go upstairs for that,” he murmured. “Ever get fucked on the hood of a ’69 Mustang?”
David shuddered and rested his forehead against Zach’s. “No, but I have the feeling that lack is shortly to be remedied.”
“God, I love when you talk smart like that.” Zach ran his hands through David’s hair, pulling him in for another kiss.
David chuckled deep in his throat and reached for the button on Zach’s jeans. Then he froze. “Shit,” he sighed.
“What?” Zach drew back and studied him, frowning. “What’s the matter?”
“No raincoats. No lube.” David reached up and smoothed his fingers over Zach’s furrowed brow. “Guess we’ll have to do the Mustang dance some other time.”
“Got lube,” Zach said, and released him, heading back toward the workbench. Something flashed in the air and David reached up automatically to catch a small jar of Vaseline. “I use it for metal parts, but it’ll do,” Zach said, heading back to David.
“Yeah, but we still don’t have condoms, and even if we did, you couldn’t use that with it,” David objected. “It eats the latex.”
“Who said we’re using condoms?” Zach’s grin was blinding. “Got the results from my blood tests last week in this morning’s mail.”
David stared at him. “Zach….”
“I have been waiting so damn long for this,” Zach said, reaching for the hem of David’s shirt and pulling it over his head without unbuttoning it, then starting work on the waistband of his khakis. “This is it, Taff. This is us, forever and always, right?”
“Forever and always,” David agreed, running his hands over Zach’s chest as he toed off his shoes and socks and stepped out of his pants. He hiked himself up on the hood of the Mustang, his heels on the bumper, his knees splayed wantonly, and leaned back onto his elbows, eyeing Zach with a smoky gaze. Zach’s color was high as he fumbled with the buttons of his own jeans. David leaned forward and grabbed Zach by the T-shirt, dragging him down on top of him. “Face to face,” David murmured as he trailed kisses along Zach’s jaw and up toward his ear. “Skin to skin and face to face….”
“I don’t know how,” Zach gritted out, his face flushed. He rested his hands on the hood of the car on either side of David’s hips and dropped his head so he couldn’t see the scorn in David’s eyes.
“I do.” David chuckled again, tilting Zach’s face up to smile away his lover’s embarrassment. He slid down a little and wrapped his legs around Zach’s hips, using his heels to push Zach’s jeans down to the floor, and slid his hands over Zach’s rump and up under his T-shirt to run his hands over the ragged skin of Zach’s back.
Z
ACH
closed his eyes, loving the gentle touch of David’s hands, the heat where their bodies rubbed together, the scent of David’s neck, David’s soft, rough breathing. David’s body shifted beneath his and then his hands were on Zach, the heaviness of the petrolatum warming and softening as David caressed him, and then he guided him gently in. Zach sank into his welcoming heat, and David pulled him closer, his mouth finding Zach’s, his warm, slippery hands sliding back up over the scars on Zach’s back, holding him, safe in the grasp of arms and legs and body. Zach buried his face in David’s neck as they moved together, came together, and lay together after, sated, nerveless, boneless.
Finally David murmured into Zach’s ear, “I think I’m permanently stuck to the hood of this car.”
“You’ll make a hell of a hood ornament,” Zach drawled, pulling back a little to look at him. “Ugh, I think I’m permanently stuck to you.”
“Would that be so bad?”
“No,” Zach said with a grin, “but I don’t think I can sell the Mustang with
both
of us as hood ornaments. The weight would throw off the engine’s torque.” He pulled away and went over to the side of the garage by the Mustang. He’d parked it in the bay nearest the interior car wash station, because when it had arrived, it had been covered with dust from its trip on the flatbed, and he’d wanted to wash it before starting to work on the engine. Now he ran warm water through the faucet into the floor drain, dampening a shop rag and wiping himself off. But an imp of the perverse made him turn up the pressure on the hose and whip around, shooting warm water all over the Mustang and David.
David lunged for him, shouting, and Zach got him full in the face for a brief moment before David wrestled the hose from his hand and turned it on him. They chased each other around in the warm spray, fighting over control of the hose; then David upped the ante by grabbing the car shampoo Zach had used on the Mustang a couple of days before and squirting it at him. In moments they were both not only wet, but slippery and sudsy. “That’s one way to get you to take a bath,” David gasped just before Zach let him have it in the face again with the spray. He slipped and went down on the wet brickwork, laughing like a hyena.
Zach slid down the side of the Mustang to sit beside him, laughing just as wildly. He peeled off his soaked T-shirt and wiped his face with it. “Not much point in leaving this on, is there?” he laughed, and handed it to David, who put it to the same use.
“You realize all the rest of our clothes are soaked now too?” David asked, and tossed Zach’s shirt onto the sodden pile of clothes in front of the Mustang.
“I’ve got a washer and dryer in the apartment,” Zach said. He reached over and slung an arm around David’s neck, hauling him across to sit in his lap. His other arm went around David’s waist. “That was fun,” he said peacefully.
“Yeah.” David grinned and tilted his head back against Zach’s shoulder. “And we got the come washed off the car too.”