The Mating of Michael (29 page)

But he’d had a good reason.

Michael had had sexual contact with other people while they were dating.

But far less than he’d imagined, and it wasn’t that threatening the way Dr. Halloran had described it.

Michael had lied. He’d crushed James’s heart.

But….

Shit. People fucking loved Michael Lamont, didn’t they? If James was ever in trouble, who would fight for him like that? No one.

Wrong. Michael would.

It was too much. James wanted to take a nap. He tried for two hours, but it was just not on. His brain was caught in gear. And… he was hungry for the first time in days. Finally, he got up and made himself a cup of tea and a bowl of cereal. Mrs. Chelsey had left the photograph of Michael and Tommy in the hospital. James sat at the kitchen table with it propped up against a canister while he stared at it and ate.

There was something growing inside him—something huge. Momentous, like an enormous airship appearing over the horizon. He could feel the deep shadow and the heavy pulse of it even if he didn’t yet know what it was. It happened with him that way sometimes. A seed of an idea penetrated his psyche and grew until it burst, like Athena, full grown from his head, spear in hand and ready to kick ass. It had been years since he’d felt anything quite as strong as this, though. He stared at the photo and let whatever it was develop, gaining definition and form.

He thought about Michael. He thought about the Michael he knew—pretty, almost fragile-looking, flirty, pushy, insecure, thoughtful, determined, vulnerable, generous, and loving. And he thought about the one he didn’t know, the one in the photograph who had more than befriended a scarred boy. There was a new Michael in his imagination too, one brought to life by the words Mrs. Chelsey had spoken, a being so empathetic he would give anything to help others feel better—even himself.

It took about a half an hour before James realized that what was growing in his chest was not a decision about what to do about Michael. It was a story. A big story. And he could figure out what it all meant later, but right then, it was so hot and dense and powerful he had to goddamn well excise the thing by writing it.

He grabbed his laptop, set it up on the kitchen table, and began.

J
AMES
WROTE
sixty-five thousand words in ten days. He slept maybe four hours a night before he’d awaken when it was still dark and the story was there, dialogue was happening, and he had to get up and get to his keyboard before he lost it. He ate microwaved canned soup at his computer. He got so desperate for real food by day six that he called Amanda. She showed up with a bag of takeout Chinese, took one look at him, and fixed him a plate. She insisted on seeing what he’d done so far. Too distracted to even argue, James saved a draft and e-mailed it to her. She sat there and read on her tablet while he typed furiously.

“It’s wonderful, James. It’s… heart-wrenching,” she said, after several hours. Her face had a strange sort of beatific glow. Perhaps it was an agent’s sugarplum visions of profits to come. But no, that wasn’t fair. She looked
happy
for James.

“It’s good,” he agreed. He knew it was. God, how long had it been since he’d written something this inspired?

“How much longer?”

“Dunno. Few days. A week. It’s all in my head, just have to get it out.”

“Damn. This is… this is really exciting. I’m going to start talking to people.”

James thought she was crazy. “But it’s not edited. It’s not even finished.”

She gave him a tremulous smile. “James, it’s really,
really
good. Trust me.”

That reminded him of a piece of dialogue, and he started typing again. He didn’t hear her leave.

O
N
DAY
ten, at eight in the evening, James finished the novel. He sat skimming over the manuscript, reading bits and pieces, and chewing on the fingers of one hand. He was exhausted, physically and mentally, as if he’d just pushed a boulder up a mountain or maybe given birth to a twelve-pound baby. He couldn’t even think about where this story might go, or what it might mean for his career, he could only be grateful that it was done. It was done, and it was out of him now, and it would have a life of its own, for good or ill. Whether or not anyone ever read it, it was beautiful and he was goddamn proud of it.

He was also incredibly, humbly grateful. Like an alchemist, he had taken something dark and painful and he’d transmuted it into gold. In doing so, he’d created a new reality within himself, a new understanding and a bridge—a bridge to Michael.

He checked his phone. He’d turned it off for most of the intense writing session, other than calling Amanda that one time. He hadn’t wanted to be taken out of his own head. But now he looked for messages. There was nothing new from Michael, not since that original flurry of texts and voice mails that James had ignored after the awards dinner.

He didn’t want to listen to those now. They were messages from a time and place that no longer existed. But he was suddenly worried about how Michael was doing. Calling him felt like too little too late, and, God, he didn’t want it to be too late. So he scrolled to the start of his manuscript and wrote the dedication. He worked that one sentence over more times than he had any other in the book. Then he e-mailed the manuscript to Michael and Amanda.

And went to bed.

M
ICHAEL
CAME
home from his nursing shift at Marnie’s exhausted. It was midnight because he’d stopped by the hospital on his way home. Tommy had regained consciousness a few days ago, and he was doing much better. But he was asleep for the night, and Mrs. Chelsey insisted Michael go home and rest.

He preferred being at the hospital to being at home where there was nothing to do but think about James. Being with Tommy helped give Michael’s heart a more immediate, more selfless heartache than the torn hole in his chest that had James’s name written on it. It was like when Michael was little. He’d been terrified of shots, so whenever he had to get one, he’d dig his fingernails into his palm. Distracting himself from the pain he couldn’t control with pain he could control was effective. In this case, there seemed to be nothing he could do about James, no way to make it better, but at least Michael could do something about Tommy, even if that something was just to sit and hold his hand.

Michael stared at the interior of his fridge without interest. His stomach was a mess. He’d lost a good ten pounds in the past two weeks.

He got a glass of water and a mug of chicken noodle soup and changed into comfort clothes—flannel PJ bottoms and a soft, overly large sweatshirt. He turned on the twinkle lights in his living room, the lights he used when he had clients visit, and settled down on the sofa. He opened e-mail on his phone.

There was a new e-mail from James.

Michael’s thumb paused midpush, and his heart stuttered to a halt. He almost opened it, but he wanted,
needed
, to see it on a screen bigger than his phone. And also, he needed a moment to stop hyperventilating. He grabbed his laptop and sweated through the boot-up, his foot bouncing like mad.

James wouldn’t write to him just to brush him off again, right? Maybe he wanted to talk?

Michael opened the e-mail.

I’m sorry I overreacted. It was wrong of you not to tell me about the surrogacy, but not so wrong that we shouldn’t be speaking to each other. Mrs. Chelsey came to see me and told me about your work with Tommy. You have many minions. I’ve tried to understand. Attached is a story I’ve been working on. I hope you like it.

I miss you, you bastard.

James

A sob of relief escaped Michael’s throat.
Not so wrong that we shouldn’t be speaking to each other.
And, even better,
I miss you
. Oh, thank God! Maybe James would forgive him. Maybe they could actually get past this.

Mrs. Chelsey had gone to see James? Really? And what did he mean by “you have many minions”?

There was a Word doc attached to the e-mail. The title was
Sentimental Cyanide
. It wasn’t a title Michael had heard James mention before. He opened it. On page two was a dedication.

To Michael, the real life Lamb, who must have been given special programming because he loves more generously than any other human being I know.

Michael stopped breathing, his eyes growing hot. Was that
him
? He, Michael? Michael Lamont, Michael? Did James know a different Michael? But if this story was brand new, it had to be him, right?

Forgetting the fact that he was tired and had planned to go to bed, he turned the page and began to read.

E
XCERPT
FROM
Sentimental Cyanide
by J.C. Guise

They were attacking another ship. Lamb could feel the faint shudder, like a distant sonic boom, as weapons hit their shields. He knew what they’d been chasing—a renegade medical prison ship. He’d heard the Chief Strategist say it when he’d called the commander to the MAST.

Apparently, they had caught up with it.

Lamb left the commander’s bed, went to the terminal, and touched the screen. “External view, enemy ship,” he said quietly. The screen flicked to life. Yes, there it was. A prison ship. Its left hull was blackened and smoking from a hit, and it wobbled slightly against the backdrop of a billion stars. She was damaged, and her shields were failing.

“Serial number of enemy vessel,” Lamb ordered.

“YHS333u21,” The computer said.

“Occupants?”

“One thousand three hundred and one living entities aboard. Sixty-eight inert life forms.”

Lamb felt a surge of an emotion he identified as… triumph. Rebben had done it. He’d taken over the prison ship and killed the guards. The last remnants of his species were aboard. All ill, but still fighting.

Oh, Rebben, the mighty! My love.

Another explosion hit the prison ship close to the first, where the shields had failed. Flame and death blew outward.
No time.

“Connect me with the enemy ship’s commander,” Lamb said.

“Not possible. Communication is blocked by our shields.”

“Keep trying.”

Lamb went to the wall where there was a locked panel. He coughed up the small key he had hidden in his throat, a key he’d copied from the one the commander wore around his neck while the man slept. He’d followed instructions he’d found in his database—made a wax mold, melted down a silver buckle, and filed the tiny prongs carefully. He’d never had the chance to test it—opening the panel would alert the MAST immediately. He would have to act fast.

The key stuck. It wouldn’t turn. Lamb jiggled it carefully. There.

Inside the panel was the commander’s emergency com with controls so powerful they could destroy the ship. Lamb hesitated. The commander had not been a cruel master, not like Feign, Lamb’s first. He did not put Lamb in a closet, though he did keep him confined to the commander’s quarters. He let Lamb sleep in his bed.

But he did not look into Lamb’s eyes as he took him. He did not look into Lamb’s eyes at all. There were no whispered dreams, no words of adoration.

“You give me such joy and comfort,”
Rebben had whispered, holding Lamb tight.
“You make my heart soar to the sky. You make me greedy for life.”

The commander had bought Lamb’s body, but he could not buy Lamb’s soul. That had already been freely given.

Another shudder rocked the ship. Lamb touched the keys to bring down the shields. He entered the commander’s passcode.

“Shields down,” the computer said. “Connecting.”

Lamb ran over to the screen. The prison ship was still there. Then the view of it was replaced by Rebben’s face.

“Lamb!”

“I brought down the shields. Fire everything. Fire now!” Lamb ordered.

Rebben hesitated, his eyes drinking in Lamb’s face, his protest unspoken.

“Hurry! Fire now!” Lamb shouted. “Oh, please! Please!”

“Control diverted to MAST. Shields powering—”

“FIRE!” Rebben screamed.

Lamb touched Rebben’s face on the screen and smiled.

W
HEN
M
ICHAEL
finished the manuscript, he was surprised to find himself on his own sofa, he’d been so lost in the story. He put his laptop down and covered his face, breathing hard into his hands.

He couldn’t untangle the mare’s nest of feelings overwhelming him, they were so big, so amazingly huge.

Still trembling, and in no way able to talk, he picked up his phone and sent James a text message.

I read it. Can I see you?

The reply came immediately.
Come over.

Michael jumped up and spent five minutes in the bathroom trying to get his mind refocused on the here and now and to get his breathing under control while hurrying as fast as he possibly could because….
James
.

By the time he came out, there was another text.

Bring stuff. In case you want to stay.

With an inarticulate groan that was part happiness, part heartfelt agreement, Michael packed a bag.

M
ICHAEL
WAS
coming over. It was not yet 6:00 a.m., so if Michael really had read the whole book, he must have stayed up all night. James had gone to bed, but he’d taken his cell phone with him in case Michael called. As soon as he saw the text, he was up and anxious.