The Mating of Michael (4 page)

So, naturally, he lifted his fabric bag full of books onto the table, landed it with a painfully loud thunk, and said, “Hi.”

Up close, J.C. had medium brown eyes that seemed determined to skitter away from Michael’s. His mouth twitched nervously. “Hi.”

“I’m Michael. I’m really…. God. I can’t believe I’m meeting you.” Great. His voice sounded higher than usual, he was so nervous.

J.C. finally looked up into Michael’s eyes, almost,
sort of
, holding his gaze, if you didn’t count the nervous flickers here and there. J.C. didn’t say anything. He tapped a pen on the table.

“I read
Troubadour Turncoat
when I was sixteen,” Michael continued to gush uncontrollably. “You have no idea what it meant to me. I went into nursing because of you. I’ve read every book you’ve written since, like the day it comes out.”

Michael could hear his mouth running like a bad infomercial. He tried desperately to think of something to say that wasn’t more repetitive praise. He’d prepared up all sorts of insightful points to make about J.C.’s plots and themes last night in bed, but seeing the man in person had fried his short-term memory. It was as if J.C.’s magnetism were the pulse of a dirty bomb.

“Thank you. I appreciate that. Do you want me to sign your book?” J.C. asked flatly.

“Oh! Oh, my God. Sorry.” Flustered, Michael battled with the fabric bag and pulled out the copy of J.C.’s latest book that he’d bought at Elliott Bay in advance. He had a baker’s dozen books left in the bag. “You don’t have to sign all these. I don’t know why I brought them. But I would love it if you would sign
Turncoat
for me and….” He meant to ask J.C. to sign the latest one as well, but now that he knew about the wheelchair, he dug out
Gorsham’s End
instead
.
“And… and this one. It’s my second favorite.”

Michael hoped J.C. would get the message. But he pulled the bag toward him, apparently intent on signing them all. “M-i-c-h-a-e-l?” he asked, peering up at Michael again. His eyes seemed darker, and there was a high spot of burning color on his cheeks that Michael was positive hadn’t been there before. And,
man
, it might be silly, but it was totally hot that J.C. was saying his name. Well, spelling it really.

Michael held J.C.’s gaze for a moment, and he smiled, big and slow. “Yes.”

The color on J.C.’s cheeks deepened as he looked down to write, and he licked his lips. Michael was very attuned to sexuality, and his body reacted to the unconscious signal at once, the heat of his nervousness sliding into a different kind of warmth. He paid no attention to what J.C. was writing as he took book after book from the pile and quickly did them all. Michael was too busy studying those high cheekbones and the little blush on them. He was too busy floating on air. There’d been a spark when they’d looked at each other, Michael was sure of it—a serious-ass,
I-think-you’re-cute-and-you-think-I’m-cute
spark. He could not stop smiling, and his heart was going a mile a minute.

He noticed J.C. wasn’t wearing a ring, not on any finger. Michael had never been so in love with bare fingers in his life.

J.C. stacked the books and pushed them back toward Michael. “Thanks for supporting my work like this. I appreciate it.” God, his voice was so rich and deep. It felt like a caress on Michael’s eardrums. J.C. looked Michael in the eye, smiled nervously, and then looked past him.

At the next person in line. Shit.

Damn it.
Michael had had precious seconds while J.C. signed his books when he could have said something, shown how much they had in common, demonstrated his intelligence as a man, the species higher in cognition than, say, a chimp or a barnacle. But instead, he’d just stood there
grinning
like a love-struck mime
.
And now he was holding up the line.

“Thank you,” Michael whispered. He stuffed the books in the bag and moved out of the way.

M
ICHAEL
STOOD
browsing a nearby shelf in the bookstore while J.C. signed. The signing was supposed to be an hour, but when the hour was up, there were still a few people in line and J.C. stayed. After the line ended, Michael watched several lingering fans talk to the author for a good ten minutes while J.C. tried, with varying degrees of success, to appear rapt with interest. Michael kicked himself for not sticking around the table longer and actually talking to the man.

He had to do something.

The trouble was, Michael Lamont was not a bold person. He wasn’t a big guy—five seven, weighing one hundred thirty pounds in good periods and one twenty-five in bad. He’d always been shy, though he was able to overcome it with his patients. But he was not the sort of person who would walk right up to a stranger and ask them out, much less a famous author.

He should just go home with his little bag of signed books because he really didn’t need to have his guts trampled on the floor of Elliott Bay Book Company. Then again, given the fact that this was the first time in ten years J.C. Guise had done a book signing, the odds were high that if Michael walked out the door now, he’d never see J.C. again.

He kept glancing at the author’s table as he pretended to browse the bookshelves, hoping for some sort of sign. J.C. didn’t look at him, but the woman who was at the table with him—his mother? Friend? Manager?—did. She looked over at Michael curiously several times. And she smiled. That smile felt like encouragement and helped him make up his mind.

He waited until J.C. and the woman went to leave. J.C. rolled himself away from the table and, after shaking hands and chatting with the store manager for a minute, headed for the front door, the store manager on one side of his chair and the woman on the other.

Oh God. Witnesses.
Michael was so anxious he felt sick. He couldn’t do it. He really, really wasn’t going to be able to put himself out there.

Go for it right this minute, or you’ll always regret it.

He stepped forward and got between the small entourage and the door. J.C. stopped the chair and looked at him. Michael took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry for bothering you. I was wondering… maybe you’d like to get a bite to eat or some coffee. I know the neighborhood. There’re a few places close by.”

Michael’s voice sounded far away and tinny in his own ears. He could hear his heart galumping in his chest, and he thought it was very possible he might faint in the next minute or so from sheer embarrassment, and wouldn’t that be special. J.C. met Michael’s gaze, blinked a few times, and turned a rather awkward shade of red.

He opened his mouth, said nothing, swallowed, and then mumbled in a very deep voice, “Sorry, I have other plans.” He looked down at his lap where a briefcase was perched askew.

Even through his own mortification, Michael realized at once that he was blocking the path and preventing J.C. from making a much-desired escape. He stepped aside, and J.C. rolled by without another glance.

Michael stood there, looking at his shoes and feeling numb. He couldn’t bear to look up to see who might have noticed the exchange. He was sure half the store must be looking at him in pity or suspicion he was some loser stalker. Which was, in fact, accurate.

Shit, he had totally misread that. Of course, J.C. hadn’t flirted with him or given him any real indication that he was interested. But the way his gaze had held Michael’s several times, the way he’d blushed…. Michael had thought for sure….

He felt a touch on his arm. He looked up to see the woman who’d been with J.C. Guise looking at him with a sad smile.

“You look like a kicked puppy.”

“I’m sorry,” Michael said instinctively. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine. Don’t apologize.” She pressed her lips together and looked conflicted. Michael glanced around, but he didn’t see J.C.

“I took him out to the car. Listen, I really shouldn’t do this….”

Michael had no clue what she was going to say, but suddenly, a little ray of hope pieced his misery. “Yeah?”

“You said you were a nurse? You look very young.”

“I’m twenty-six. And yes, I work for an in-home nursing care company here in Seattle.” It was true enough, though it wasn’t all he did. He knew better than to bring up his other job.

The woman studied his face. “You seem like a nice guy. Please,
please
don’t turn out to be insane.”

Michael laughed nervously. “I was hoping to avoid it.”

The woman closed her eyes briefly as if still arguing with herself internally, and then stared directly into his eyes. She spoke firmly. “Okay. He’s local. He swims at Medgar Evers pool most mornings.”

Something warm blossomed in Michael’s chest. Oh, God. J.C. lived in Seattle, and Michael would be able to see him again. He was so damn
grateful
.
Go, life!
He blinked rapidly. “That’s… Thank you so much.”

She sighed and shook her head. “God, I shouldn’t do this, but he’s….” She sighed and bit back whatever she’d been about to say. “Just, please don’t make me regret it.” Still shaking her head, she left before Michael could assure her, with every grateful cell in his body, that he wouldn’t.

E
XCERPT
FROM
Sentimental Cyanide
by J.C. Guise

“I’m Winston,” the man said in a low voice, his eyes darting nervously. “I’m not supposed to be here with you, but….” He stroked Lamb’s chest with his fingers. Lamb registered the fact that his chest was bare. Being touched while nude was a sexual advance. Lamb tried flirt program #101, parting his lips and tracing the inside with his tongue. Winston stared at Lamb’s mouth with interest, and Lamb made a mental note on the move’s effectiveness.

“The Lamb series is my favorite. You’re so b-beautiful. I’ve been working out some special AI so you can love me as much as I’m gonna love you. I’m gonna get you out of here. I’ll take you home with me, and you’ll be all mine. Wouldn’t you like that?”

It took a second for Lamb to find a similar question in his database so he could gauge the right response.
Do you want me? Does this feel good?

“Yes,” Lamb said. It was the first time he ever heard his voice, and he was delighted by it. It sounded very smooth and soft.

“My name is Winston, and you’ll be only mine. But don’t tell anyone. It’s our secret. Okay?”

“Yes,” Lamb said. He tried a wink.

Winston’s lips twitched in an almost-smile. “I need to shut you down now so I can work on you. Remember me.”

T
HE
VAN
picked James up Monday through Friday at 6:30 a.m. He didn’t like getting up early, but he did love swimming at the pool before the crowds and the kids filled the place. Mornings at Medgar Evers public pool were low key, mostly regulars who came before work, some seniors, and a small contingent of disabled swimmers. There was a handicap lift in the shallow end that made getting in and out of the pool much less awkward for those in wheelchairs.

This particular Monday morning, James was really looking forward to a long swim. The book signing on Friday had been super stressful and had left him tied in knots. On the one hand, he grudgingly had to admit Amanda was right. He’d enjoyed it more than he thought he would. It was the first time he’d allowed himself to meet readers, and the positive comments and, in some cases, weird adoration, were ego stroking and inspiring. It was amazing and humbling to hear in person how much his work had affected others. And the turnout had been excellent. But part of that was because J.C. Guise was such a long-standing mystery. He’d drawn the curious. Unfortunately, that interest didn’t seem to translate to his recent book sales.

But on the other hand, there’d been the pitying looks and awkward attempts to ignore the chair, which made James very uncomfortable. And then there were the cell phone photos that had shown up on the sci-fi forums almost at once. Everyone had an opinion about the revelation that he was disabled. Most were supportive, but a few were fucking rude. One guy even pontificated about how the problem must be degenerative and affect his mind because J.C. Guise’s work had been going steadily downhill since
Turncoat.
James had shut the forums off after reading that.

But the thing that tied his stomach up the most was
Michael
. It was bizarre. Probably fifty people had told James their names on Friday, and he’d written them all out by hand, yet he couldn’t have told you a single one of them now.

But he remembered Michael.

James had been caught by beautiful brown eyes and striking looks the first time he’d laid eyes on the guy in line. Michael was… ethereal. James had looked up to see a lithe body, a thick mass of lovely brown-black hair combed forward in an Emo style, beautiful, delicate features, a mouth so full and sexy it ought to be illegal, and heart-stopping warm dark eyes.

God, those eyes. Especially when Michael had been standing at the signing table, those pretty brown eyes had been so full of life and luscious, sweet, inviting warmth and,
shit
, something like understanding, connection. But that was total crap because Michael looked like he’d be at home in a fashion magazine or possibly in some off-world bar that specialized in the most beautiful boys in the universe. He made every nerve in James’s body wake up and sing.

And then the guy had the audacity to ask James out for coffee and reality crashed around him. Because James was not J.C. Guise, some sophisticated writing god to be worshiped, and he wasn’t any of his on-page heroes either. He was plain old James Gallway, a struggling writer with two useless legs and severe limitations, a tiny house in south Seattle, a pathetically modest income, few friends, and zero experience at sex. He was, in short, no one a guy who looked like that would want.

And the bitterness that evoked was the foulest-tasting remnant of that book signing. That was why it was so much easier not to put himself out there. That way, he never had to see what he was missing. For now, he needed to burn off that frustration by pushing his body as far as it could go.