Secret Light (13 page)

about letting anyone become intimate with him.

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He’d completely forgotten how quickly the game could be lost, how many

questions it would raise if anyone saw his circumcised penis.

Rafe dragged his hand away from his belly and forced himself to relax his arm at

his side.

He’d been in America for nearly eighteen years, and in that time, he’d realized that

plenty of American men were circumcised whether they were Jewish or not. Walter

Hart had explained that the army urged it on soldiers, and the practice had become a

commonplace one—in hospital births especially. That it was thought to be cleaner

somehow. But he couldn’t help his fear, which bordered on terror, that anyone would

see a circumcised Austrian man and realize he would never be circumcised
unless
he

was a Jew.

The pain and horror in his past, the loss of his family, and the knowledge that anti-

Semitism was alive and well all over the world had kept him from intimate acts with

anyone, man or woman. He had still managed to carve out a good life for himself, even

though he had to lie about his past. He wasn’t about to give that up without a fight.

He had only to recall stories of the death camps—hinted at grimly by returning

American soldiers and spoken of in terrible, vivid detail by survivors—to realize that

pleasuring himself when he needed it badly enough was a small price to pay for a

guarantee of safety.

But along came Ben, the earnest, engaging, and truly decent man that he was, and

Rafe had willingly placed his cock—literally his life—in Ben’s strong calloused hands.

Rafe let loose a ragged sigh. It didn’t seem so bad to surrender just a little in the face

of his and Ben’s mutual attraction. With what he knew about Ben, he didn’t feel…safe,

exactly. But he wasn’t afraid. He felt vulnerable. He felt anxious and eager and a little

on edge.

He felt
alive
.

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For the first time in years of utter isolation, Rafe had someone to reach out to.

Kindness if he could accept it. Company if he should choose it. Pleasure if he dared to

ask for it…

Rafe gazed up at the ceiling. His arm throbbed. His body felt different, as though

some tap had been turned on that couldn’t be turned off.

Fear like he’d never known swamped him briefly, followed by an equally strong

flush of base arousal.

He thought he could do this.

Maybe he could—at last—be himself with Ben.

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Chapter Eleven

December 16, 1955

It was one thirty in the morning by the time Ben finally entered Cinnabar and made

his way through to the tables in the back. Rafe told him his work associates made the

last Friday evening of the month into a sales meeting in the nightclub atmosphere of

some local bar, and this month, because of the holidays, they were holding it two weeks

early. Cinnabar had a reputation for upscale crowds, potent cocktails, and lots of action

if you wanted it. Married men who called their wives to say they had to work late in a

dozen local, anonymous office buildings trolled the place for fast girls—and there

seemed to be plenty to choose from.

Ben wasn’t exactly thrilled to be there, but he’d promised to pick Rafe up.

Since the attack, Ed had looked after Rafe and Mooki during the day, but at night

he’d been happy to let Ben in and then go home. Ben would strip and crawl into Rafe’s

bed in the dark to kiss and fondle him to orgasm—nothing more—holding him until

they both slept.

Whether or not Rafe expected him to pretend nothing happened, he’d never

mentioned their love play in the light of day. He’d simply fallen into a pattern of taking

care of Rafe, of fixing him breakfast and feeding the dog. Of dressing in his street

clothes and heading off to work as if he really was only there to care for an injured

friend.

But today was Friday, and Rafe had insisted on spending a half day at work,

followed by the evening at Cinnabar, and Ben had promised to pick him up and drive

him home. He’d left his uniform on rather than dress up in a suit and tie, a choice he’d

regretted as soon as he entered. His presence in uniform caused cold spots in the room

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as people noticed him, like frost lacing over a windowpane. The noise level and

temperature dropped around him as he walked.

Finding Rafe’s crowd of tipsy realtors was easy. Seeing Rafe with a pert cocktail

waitress in an indecently tight skirt sitting on his lap was not. The clench in his gut

nearly got past his defenses and showed on his face, but at the last second, he managed

a friendly smile and a modicum of genuine warmth. He understood Rafe well—knew

that this was the sort of public display he’d have to endure if he were to be involved

with him. There was no doubt in his mind or his heart that it meant nothing to Rafe.

There was simply no faking the innocence Rafe exhibited in bed. He might have sat

with a hundred cocktail waitresses on his lap, but he’d never taken one home.

Several of the people at Rafe’s table were already looking up at him with some

curiosity, but Rafe had his back turned. He hadn’t seen Ben enter. The girl laughed at

something Rafe said, just before he blew out a thin stream of smoke, carefully aiming it

away from her. His Dunhills and fancy lighter were on the table in front of him next to

his drink—probably the black label whiskey he liked.

For a second, Ben forgot himself and just gazed down at Rafe, enjoying the view.

He was natty, even with a cast on his arm. He’d managed to dress around it and placed

his arm in a sling. He’d required Ben to tie his tie, and Ben had taken the opportunity to

hold Rafe close for a minute before they had to leave.

Now Rafe’s jacket hung over the chair, and Ben had no trouble imagining the lovely

waitress helping him out of it, offering to help him out of any of the rest of his clothes

later.

She glanced up at him, and finally Rafe turned. Several emotions flickered in Rafe’s

eyes before he spoke. The first—thank heavens—was genuine welcome. He followed

that up with such a sweet smile that Ben’s heart felt like it dropped a hundred feet.

Then Rafe remembered where he was and turned to his colleagues with a sputter of

nerves, no doubt wondering what they must make of the policeman coming to claim

him.

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“Hey, Rafe.” Ben gave him a polite incline of his visored hat.

“Hello, Officer Morgan. Is it that time already?”

Ben made a show of checking his watch. “There’s no hurry. I’m ready whenever

you are.”

To his friends, Rafe said, “Now you know the truth. I’m so very mischievous I must

have a policeman drive me around while my arm is broken.”

Good-natured teasing followed that. The man from the coffee shop, Ash, asked,

“Have you discovered who attacked Rafe yet, Officer Morgan?”

“No, sir,” Ben admitted. “We haven’t.”

Someone else said, “That’s a damned shame. It’s getting so no one is safe.”

“Hush, Elliot. They’re doing the best they can.”

Ben addressed the man’s—
Elliot’s
—concerns. “There wasn’t much in the way of

evidence, so we have little to go on. A blood type. No one saw anything.”

“But you’re keeping an eye on him? Making sure it doesn’t happen again?”

Ben smiled politely. “Not officially, no.”

“Officer Morgan has been kind enough to offer assistance while I’m unable to drive.

His mother has even invited me for dinner.”

“I told her about the attack and the fact that whoever did it hurt your dog.” Ben

shrugged. “You know how mothers are. She was ready to adopt you.”

If anyone was surprised to find he and Rafe would interact socially, no one showed

it. Rafe gestured toward him. “Between Officer Morgan and my neighbor Ed, I’m

unlikely to be alone long enough for anyone to attack me again. I was surprised to find

that people are concerned for a neighbor’s welfare here. Everyone lives so separately.

They drive alone. Dine alone. I never realized anyone would care. Up, bitte.” Rafe put

his cigarette out and gave the girl, whoever she was, a tiny push. He glanced up. “I’m

very grateful. Will you join us for a drink before we go, then?”

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Ben wasn’t about to drink in uniform—especially not with this crowd. “I’m sorry. I

can’t do that. If you want, I can wait outside while you finish up here.”

Rafe’s brows drew together into a puzzled frown. He almost appeared

disappointed. “Why on earth should you do that? I’ll come.” He pocketed his cigarettes

and lighter. With some difficulty, he retrieved cash from his billfold and dropped it

onto the table. He picked up a wooden plaque and showed it to Ben. “Look! I’m the

number one salesman at Paradise Realty again.”

Somebody said, “Wait until next month. I’m counting on that broken arm to break

your streak.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that. I can still outsell anyone here with this”—he lifted his arm a

little—“tied behind my back.”

A chorus of groans followed. Ben watched the exchange with interest. Rafe had a

way of delivering his pronouncements in such a silly, lighthearted manner that he got

away with it, where if another man said the same type of thing, it would sound like the

worst kind of braggadocio. None of his friends seemed to take him seriously. He had a

droll, old-fashioned way of deflecting praise that worked only because he was Rafe and

eminently worthy of it.

As Ben helped Rafe with his jacket, he caught the disappointed expression on Rafe’s

waitress’s face. In his heart, he knew he shouldn’t be glad, but he couldn’t deny a

certain feeling of pride that Rafe was leaving with him—even if no one knew he was the

one who’d end up in Rafe’s bed.

“How was your day?” Rafe asked.

“Long, as usual, but not bad. Calhoun called in sick, so I rode with someone else

today. Older guy named Ted.”

Rafe’s gaze teased him. “Did you prevent a great deal of crime?”

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“The usual. People drink too much this time of year. We got called to three separate

domestics. Ted had some good stories, though. Funny guy.”

“I spent my day taking notes on the phone and then trying to decipher my

miserable handwriting later. Did you know that da Vinci could write with both hands?

Alas, I cannot. And my arm itches like the devil.”

“You need a knitting needle or something so you can scratch it.”

“I need another drink, a smoke, and a good night’s sleep.”

“Anything else, Your Highness?”

Rafe shot him a lazy smile. “We shall see.”

Once they got to Ben’s old Ford, Ben let him in and helped him get comfortable.

They drove slowly through the quiet streets toward Rafe’s place. He planned to take

Rafe home and, as he had the last three evenings, park down the street someplace and

walk back.

Ed had asked him where he parked and why he didn’t leave his car right out front.

Ben had fobbed him off with some story about getting the jump on Rafe’s attacker if he

came back, but he wondered if the old man didn’t know the real reason for his caution.

The cops who patrolled this neighborhood were his friends. They knew him, might

recognize his car, and if it was parked in front of Rafe’s house every night, they might

start asking questions he didn’t want to answer.

They drove in silence because Rafe appeared tired, and he was usually the one to

fill the void with talk. Ben hadn’t missed the brief flash of pain on Rafe’s face as he’d

climbed into the car. He probably hadn’t taken anything for pain since they’d left that

morning, and he wasn’t drunk enough to be numb.

Ben was worrying about that when he felt Rafe shift closer to him. He flicked a

quick glance Rafe’s way and found him staring straight ahead.

It felt good—so very, very good—to be with Rafe that way, just the two of them on

the nearly deserted street. The scene was eerie yet beautiful. Streetlights cast pools of

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light on the pavement, and some houses still glowed with holiday decorations. A light

mist crept in from the sea.

Ben thought he could stay like that, simply driving through the dark with Rafe

forever. He felt a warm flush of hope and a tingle of arousal just sitting next to him. He

knew if they talked, it would be interesting. If they didn’t talk, it would be comfortable.

There hadn’t been a magic moment between them, like in the movies, but when he

looked at Rafe, he felt right; he felt at home.