The Mating of Michael (13 page)

“Nice,” the man said appreciatively as he ran his hands over Lamb’s rear. “They’ve made some improvements since my last model.” The man was talking, but he didn’t seem to really be talking to Lamb. It was a little confusing. “On your knees.”

Lamb knew what was expected of him, and he did it as well as he possibly could. But after the man ejaculated into Lamb’s mouth, he just sighed and said. “Good. Now follow me.”

The man led Lamb down a hallway to a door and opened it. It was a small closet.

“You stay in here when you’re not needed,” the man said.

When Lamb didn’t move forward at once, the man took his arm and pushed him inside. Lamb felt a moment of panic. He didn’t want to be shut in the closet. He searched his memory bank for some way to make a connection to his new owner.

“Wait! What shall I call you?” he asked. He added a sweet little smile that was supposed to be irresistible.

The man stared at him for a moment. “I don’t expect you to talk. But if you have to address me, it’s Feign.”

He closed the door.

Lamb hated the closet.
Hated it.
Time passed with excruciating slowness. He spent hours wondering what he was doing wrong. No matter what flirt routines he tried, Feign never looked in his eyes and never took him out for cuddles or kisses.

Lamb longed for cuddles and kisses. He longed to sit on the couch and hold hands or be at the table with his other half and drink a cup of tea. His body didn’t need food or drink, but he loved the idea of doing something so… human.

Lamb remembered that Feign had said “I don’t expect you to talk,” but after a few weeks, Lamb decided to try words. He spent hours in the closet planning it out. The next time Feign wanted sex, he pushed Lamb onto his bed and had Lamb fellate him and then get on all fours so he could be fucked.

When Feign was done, he flopped back on the bed. “Go back to the closet, Lamb.”

Lamb fought his instinct to obey. He mimicked weakness and lay down next to Feign. He put his hand on Feign’s bare chest.

“I love you,” Lamb said.

Feign looked at him in bewilderment. “What?”

“I love you. Can I sleep here with you?” Lamb looked up from under his lashes coyly, flirt routine #38.

“What the fuck? Get the fuck back to the closet!” Feign said angrily.

Lamb felt cold dread. “Yes, Feign. I’m sorry.”

As he went back to his prison, Feign’s two dogs jumped up on the bed and curled up to sleep. Lamb felt a deep aching pain in his stomach and chest that he had never felt before. In the closet, Lamb discovered that he was capable of tears.

“A
RE
YOU
serious? You’ll let me have him tonight?” The man with the greasy red hair was looking Lamb up and down with greed.

“Yeah. They’re coming to pick him up tomorrow for a recall so I won’t have to think about your jizz and shit. Goddamned factory found out some nutso engineer gave him the wrong programming. Crazy emotional stuff. I wondered why he was always mooning around depressed. It’s ridiculous. They’re bringing me a new one, so, hey, happy birthday or what-the-fuck ever. Have at it. Just don’t damage him. They might charge me for that.”

The man ran his hands over Lamb’s chest. He wore a pair of loose sleep pants when Feign wasn’t using him, but he’d never been given a shirt.

“Any chance they’d sell him to me cheap? He’s a beaut.”

Feign laughed. “Even cheap, you couldn’t afford him. Anyway, they’ll probably refurbish him and put him back on the market. Believe me, you don’t want him like this. He’s a fucking sex toy, and he practically makes me feel guilty for keeping him in the closet.”

The man laughed. “No shit. You feel guilty? That I’d like to see.” He tugged down Lamb’s pants and exposed him. “Wow. Nice.”

“Ain’t it, though?” Feign grew more interested. “I got the uncut model. What a plump little morsel it is too. ’Course, it’s not my thing to bottom, but it’s nice to look at. Get hard, Lamb.”

It took Lamb a moment to recognize the command. He could usually force an erection with ease, but at the moment, he felt nothing but fear and confusion. He tried to think of something pleasant. He pictured being on his knees while the man above him looked down into his eyes with a smile and petted his hair.

“Oh, yeah!” the red-haired man said. “Phew. Perfect cock.”

“Feels real too. My new bot will look just like this one only it won’t be all stupid.”

“Gee, thanks, Feign. Fuck. That’s hot. I really wanna get him home.”

“Just have him back here by eight sharp. I’m not sure what time they’re gonna come get him. And remember, you owe me for this.”

The man led Lamb from Feign’s high-rise apartment. They stood on the street in the rain.

“Wait here. I’ll get a taxi. Don’t move.” The man seemed very eager to find transportation. He walked into the street and held up his arm.

Wrong programming.

So you can love me as much as I’m going to love you,
Winston had said.

Recall. Refurbish.

Lamb didn’t want to be a toy. How much of his mind would they have to take away for him to be happy to live in a closet? He was not a broom.

He made sure the man was looking the other way, and then he melted into the crowd.

T
HAT
WEEKEND
,
Michael picked James up on Saturday and they went to a street art fair in Bellevue. James had a tendency to suggest takeout and movies at his place when they got together, and Michael had a tendency to want to go somewhere. After several such outings, which James agreed to under duress, he had to admit that it was nice to get out of the house, and Michael always made things easy.

James had expected the street fair to be crowded and difficult to maneuver, but people were respectful of the wheelchair and Michael walked in front of him. They made their way from booth to booth with little trouble, examining the wares and making wisecracks.

Michael laughed at everything James said, which made James try harder to be witty. It was addictive making Michael laugh. It was addictive having Michael look at him as if he was the cleverest person ever, as if he delighted in James’s company.

James had never had a friend like Michael Lamont. He was easy to be with. He was so… positive all the time, smiling easily and often. He had a kind of light—gentle and sweet, yet it could turn smoldering in the space between one heartbeat and the next. Being with him was like stepping into a warm cabin after having been lost in the snowy woods. The weird thing was, James hadn’t even been aware that he’d been out there in the cold until he felt Michael’s heat.

Part of what made him easy to be with, despite his uncomfortable level of attractiveness, was that Michael didn’t take himself too seriously. He was particularly fond of taking selfies of the two of them, usually while pulling some ridiculous face. James had a hard time being so unguarded, but Michael coaxed it out of him. He’d e-mailed James one such picture of the two of them taken at the diner. Michael had his arm around James’s shoulders, and he was trying to touch his own chin with his tongue while he crossed his eyes. James was making a silly grimace.

James made the photo the background on his cell phone and found himself staring at it frequently.

Who was the grimacing man in the photo, being silly, goofing off with a friend? He did not recognize that man as James Gallway, the acerbic recluse. The tectonic plates in his life were shifting, and he couldn’t see where it would end—whether a new paradise lay on the other side or whether the landscape of his life would be buried like Atlantis, under the waves of disaster.

But nothing, not even that worry, could make him wish it would stop.

J
AMES
HELD
a few places at a picnic table while Michael got their fair food—a steak sandwich for James and a shrimp-and-veggie kabob for Michael. He brought their plates over and sat down, looking far too dignified considering the fact that he wore a blue balloon hat smooshed over his dark locks.

“Are you picking up reception on that thing?” James remarked dryly as Michael sat down.

“I thought those were tin hats.”

“Tin hats are for picking up signals from space. Balloon hats get signals from the inner core of the Earth,” James said seriously.

“Huh. I wondered where all the demonic laughter was coming from,” Michael said nonchalantly.

James was going to make a smart remark, but then he looked down at his steak sandwich and was reminded, from out of nowhere, about the Millennial Awards dinner. He hadn’t yet sent in his banquet form, and Amanda was harassing him daily about it. Suddenly, he didn’t have much of a sense of humor—or an appetite.

“What’s up?” Michael asked. James looked up to find those baby browns studying him. “You’ve had something on your mind all day.”

“Haven’t,” James protested with a challengingly raised eyebrow. He thought he’d hidden it well.

“Have.” Michael stole a small piece of James’s shaved steak and put it in his mouth. And damn, that was weirdly arousing. “Out with it, Mr. Gallway, or face the tickle torture.”

James grumped, but he didn’t try to joke his way out of it. He couldn’t summon the mood. He sighed. “
Troubadour Turncoat
is up for a Millennial Award.”

“Oh my God, James, that’s fantastic!” Michael grinned broadly. “Congratulations!”

“Yes. Woo-hoo. Except for the part where I have to attend the awards banquet if I’m to have a prayer of winning.”

Michael studied his face. “Don’t you want to go?”

James now regretted having been honest. He couldn’t look at Michael’s pretty, perfectly normal person and admit aloud that he was so ashamed of his legs that he couldn’t face the TV cameras or his peers.

So he just shrugged and took a bite of his sandwich. His stomach clenched with nerves, as if unwilling to receive it.

Michael played with his cup. “I could help you shop for an outfit. We could make you look so hot.”

James gave him an incredulous look. “Your optimism fascinates me, Mr. Lamont.”

“Seriously.” Michael narrowed his eyes and looked him up and down. “I’m thinking a really sharp suit, something edgy like dark maroon or midnight blue silk with a thin black tie. We could probably rent one from a tuxedo shop. A tight shirt underneath—you have an amazing torso.”

James gave him a doubtful look, even though he felt a little thrill at the compliment. “Hmm. I appreciate the suggestion, but… I remain unconvinced.”

Michael tapped his chin thoughtfully and then got a devious glint in his eye. “I’ve got it.”

“I’m all ears.”

“What if I go with you as your guest? I’ll wear all black—something skin tight. Maybe leather pants and a long-sleeved sweater. Ooh! And a choker collar! You can call me Dieter. And I’ll stay by your side all night and call you ‘sir’! And you can order me to get your drinks and stuff.”

James laughed. “That’s brilliant.”

“Seriously! And you have to wear big shades, all night long. And… let’s see, carry something leather—oh! A small riding crop. It’d be awesome.”

James could picture it. A slow smile spread over his face. It did actually, sound like fun. It would give all those big wigs something to gossip about—something besides his legs. It was bold and cheeky and Andy Warhol weird.

After all, if you can’t hide, you might as well be all the way the fuck out there.

“You’d really do that?” he asked.

“Are you kidding?” Michael gushed. “I’d be in pig heaven going to an award dinner with all those sci-fi writers! Even better, I’d be with the very best one.”

James snorted. “You don’t need to kiss my ass. I know you really just want to meet Neil Gaiman.”

Michael’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, shit! Will he be there?”

“He went last year. Change your mind about playing my sycophant?”

“Uh-uh! I can’t wait. We can practice when we get back to yours if you want.” Michael’s smile and his eyes warmed in an unmistakable invitation. He let his eyes travel down James’s body, and then he winked rather lewdly.

James’s mouth went dry, and yes, there his body went again, responding as if Michael had wriggled right down inside him and flipped all the switches on his electrical panel. He needed to change the subject.

“Then let’s do it.” He pulled out his cell phone and brought up his e-mail. He might as well do this before he changed his mind. It would get Amanda off his back at least.

“I have to give them my guest’s name—okay if I use your real one?”

“Sure.” Michael leaned forward over the table eagerly.

“Michael Lamont,” James typed in. “Now the big decision—chicken, fish or vegetarian?”

“Hmmm. How good is the food?”

James shrugged. “It’s banquet food so I’d guess somewhere between ‘barely edible’ and ‘mildly tasty’.”

“I’ll go with vegetarian.”

James entered it and his own info and, before he could second-guess himself, sent it off.

“Done.” He put his phone on the table. He felt both relieved and frightened that he’d committed himself. But going with Michael made it seem not so bad, even without the theatrics. After all, wheelchair or not, he’d have the hottest guy in the room by his side.

Even if it wasn’t a date.

Michael was still leaning forward with his elbows on the table. His face was soft. “I’m proud of you.”

“For choosing the fish?” James asked dryly, though he knew exactly what Michael meant.

“For deciding to go,” Michael said, not willing to be put off. Then he waggled his eyebrows. “It’ll be fun. Let’s go shopping for our outfits soon.”