Astounding! E-Book

Kim Fielding

• Herausgeber: Dreamspinner Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 342

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Carter Evans is founder and editor-in-chief of Astounding!—a formerly popular spec fiction magazine currently in its death throes. Not only can he do nothing to save it, but stuck in a rathole apartment with few interpersonal connections, he can't seem to do much to rescue his future either. And certainly all the booze isn't helping. He snaps when he receives yet another terrible story submission from the mysterious writer J. Harper—and in a drunken haze, Carter sends Harper a rejection letter he soon regrets. J. Harper turns out to be John Harper, a sweet man who resembles a '50s movie star and claims to be an extraterrestrial. Despite John's delusions, Carter's apology quickly turns into something more as the two lonely men find a powerful connection. Inexplicably drawn to John, Carter invites him along on a road trip. But as they travel, Carter is in for some big surprises, some major heartbreak… and just maybe the promise of a good future after all. 2015 Rainbow Awards Best Gay Romance Runner-Up

Leseprobe

Copyright

Published by

DREAMSPINNER PRESS

5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886  USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Astounding!

© 2015 Kim Fielding.

Cover Art

© 2015 Paul Richmond.

http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

ISBN: 978-1-63476-220-5

Digital ISBN: 978-1-63476-221-2

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015905066

First Edition June 2015

Printed in the United States of America

This paper meets the requirements of

ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

CHAPTER ONE!

ANOTHERONE had arrived. Carter knew it as soon as he unlocked his mailbox and spied the familiar manila envelope. He didn’t even have to glance at the neatly written address, because who the hell submitted stories via snail mail anymore? Nobody except the persistent J. Harper.

Carter slid the mail out of the box. Apart from the new story, he’d received an electric bill marked Second Notice, a depressingly thick credit card bill, a postcard from some politician he’d never heard of, and a shoe catalog addressed to the previous resident, who had died fifteen years ago. She must have had a hell of a footwear habit, because the catalog still appeared frequently.

He resisted the temptation to dump the whole lot into the grubby waste bin near the stairwell, and with an aggrieved sigh, he clutched his little pile of paper and began to climb. The elevator usually worked, but it was slow and reeked of piss. And besides, climbing three flights was just about the only exercise Carter got nowadays, and he was developing a paunch. It wasn’t a good look on him, especially with his usual pallor and the gray hairs that had recently appeared at his temples and in his whiskers. Not to mention the weary desperation that showed clearly in his eyes.

Once upon a time, Carter had trotted up the stairs. Now he trudged, sometimes clutching the handrail along the way. He kept his gaze on his feet.

This afternoon, the long fourth-floor hallway smelled like cabbage. Better than when it reeked of fish or dirty diapers, anyway. Tuesday mornings, Mrs. Thurman slowly pushed a mop across the floor, and then the hallway was bleach-and-lemon scented for a few hours. Those were Carter’s favorite times to journey to and from his apartment. Now, though, there was cabbage.

When he entered his place—jiggling the lock to open it, as always—he didn’t immediately take the mail to the room he referred to as his office. It was supposed to be a bedroom, actually, but he slept in the living room instead, on a futon he rarely bothered to fold back into a couch. He dumped the envelopes and junk mail on the little table near the door and dropped his keys into a chipped ceramic bowl. He hung his coat on a hook, set his cell phone atop the electric bill, and kicked off his shoes. With the sound of the neighbor’s TV droning through the wall, he headed to the kitchen in search of something resembling dinner. But his gaze fell on a bottle of Jack Daniel’s first, and he decided that was good enough. He grabbed an almost-clean glass and padded back to his unmade bed.

He’d just sat down when his phone began to play Blondie. Carter glared and didn’t get up, and after a moment, the music stopped. But then the ringtone played again, and again, and on the fourth round he couldn’t stand it anymore. “Shoulda put the fucking thing on silent,” he grumbled as he retrieved the device.

“You’re interrupting me,” he growled.

“Interrupting what?” As always, Freddy’s voice was calm and quiet, maybe slightly amused.

“Dinner.”

“How’d it go, Carter?”

Carter emitted a sigh that was more like a moan as he sank back onto the futon, still clutching the whiskey bottle. “Went like always. Magazines are a dying medium, they said. They offered to buy the name for a few thousand bucks, I think so they can license it for a movie or something. But they don’t want the baby and won’t invest in it.”

That’s what they’d called the magazine from the very beginning—the baby. It had been born when they were a young couple, their hearts light with hope and optimism. But while Freddy’s career took off like a rocket, their relationship fizzled into friendship and the baby remained stunted and underfed. And now the baby was very close to dying completely.

“I’m sorry,” Freddy said, sounding sincere. “Look, I’ll send you a story for the next issue. Something really good. And I’ll talk it up on social media.”

“Your fans don’t want a short story from you. They want volume six in the Stonesfire Saga. They want HBO to hurry up and show the next goddamn season already.”

“And the next goddamn season is going to be a doozy. They’re doing a few major departures from the books, just to keep everyone on their toes. I’m killing off everyone’s favorite characters. And you should see who they’re wooing to play the Cloud Wizard!” Freddy chuckled. “But the fans will have to wait, and they’ll be happy with a nice little short. I’m thinking of a fresh take on the space opera.”

“There arenofresh takes on the space opera,” Carter said miserably. With the phone against his head, he propped the bottle between his knees and unscrewed the cap. He took a healthy swig, just like that. He didn’t need a glass.

“There are, and I’ll find one. And it’ll be enough to keep your head above water for a little while, right?”

“A very little while.” Carter didn’t intend to sound ungrateful. God knew he appreciated the crumbs Freddy continued to throw him long after their personal and professional partnerships had ended. And hell, Freddy had offered plenty of times to give him a loan. But Carter always refused because they both knew he’d never be able to pay it back and because he still retained a molecule of pride and dignity.

After a long pause—long enough for Carter to swallow more whiskey—Freddy cleared his throat. “Car? I know we’ve been through this before, but… maybe it’s time to let the baby go. You’ve given it your best, man. You’ve done great work. But now you could move on. You could—”

“No.” He wasn’t fool enough to believe the magazine had any future. It had been on life support forever, and it was long past time to pull the plug. But all Carterhadwas the fucking magazine and a streak of bitter stubbornness. And his rapidly draining bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

Freddy sighed. “I’ll send you something. Give me a week, okay? Ten days, tops. I’ll get you something nice and juicy.”

“Thanks, Freddy.”

“Are you okay, Car? Really okay?”

“I’m fucking peachy.” Carter waved the bottle in a sort of salute.

“Look, Keith and I have been wanting to get out of town for a few days. Let me write the story and then we’ll fly on up and hang out. We can go camping, even.”

“Sure,” Carter replied unenthusiastically. He and Freddy used to love camping, back when they were students. But there was a big difference between sharing a sleeping bag with your boyfriend when you were twenty and sharing a tent with your ex and his husband when you were thirty-seven. Keith was a nice guy, but Carter was tired of playing third wheel. And if he hadn’t already downed several ounces of Old No. 7, he’d probably be resentful at turning into a complete charity case.

“Carter—”

“I gotta go, Freddy. Dinner’s getting cold. Go write me that story, okay?”

“Okay. Take care, Car.”

He sat for a while on his futon, the blanket bunched uncomfortably under his ass, and nursed the booze until he was just buzzed enough to convince himself he didn’t feel like shit. Somehow, at some point, he’d fallen down a hole without even noticing it, and he’d been falling ever since. Pretty soon that last speck of light would be so far away it would disappear entirely. “No white rabbits for me,” he informed the empty room. “It’s an oubliette. And I fall ever closer to oblivion.”

Rising to his feet took almost more effort than he could muster. He left the phone behind but took the bottle and detoured to the little table to collect his sad pile of mail.

The office was dim even after he switched on the light. The floor-to-ceiling shelves that lined two of the walls sagged under books, magazines, and dusty piles of paper. More books lurked in piles on the floor, ready to trip the unwary. Several filing cabinet drawers gaped like hungry birds because he hadn’t bothered to shut them after he fed them last. He cleared a spot on his desk and booted up the computer, the monitor flickering a sickly green that made his temples throb. The entire room smelled of old alcohol, old paper, old dreams.

Even though he had no interest in new shoes and couldn’t have afforded any even if he had wanted them, he always felt oddly obligated to flip through the catalog before tossing it away. Sometimes he’d pause on a page to wonder who would wear leopard-print stilettos and for what occasion, or to ponder the purpose of boots with sandal-like toe openings. And exactly who decided that pointy toes were a good idea? Were women trying to make their feet look bigger, and if so, why? Was it the feminine equivalent of guys’ jacked-up trucks?

Finally he finished with the catalog. He didn’t bother to read the politician’s postcard; Carter hadn’t voted in years. He hesitated over the electric bill, tempted to throw it away too, but the power company was already pissed off. They might disconnect him before sending a third notice, and then he’d be screwed. He shuffled through the detritus of his desktop and found his checkbook. Writing the check was physically painful, like being sucked dry by Nosferatu. Of course his new bank balance meant the Visa bill was now hopeless, so he set it aside, on top of a pile of other bills he couldn’t pay.

The only mail left was the manila envelope from J. Harper. God, he didn’t want to open it. But the pathetic bastard had taken the time to type a story, neatly address it, and pay to mail it. Carter figured he at least needed to see the title so he could mention it in the rejection letter. He took another fiery swig of Jack and winced as he tore open the flap.

“The Klorak of Gool.” That was the name of the story this time. They all had titles like that: “The Made-Up Word of Another Made-Up Word.” Carter wondered whether J. Harper just typed the names at random or if he spent hours agonizing over each one. They always looked like the product of someone trying to cheat at Scrabble.

This manuscript was thirty pages long, containing roughly ten thousand words. All his stories were that long, and they had arrived regularly each and every month for over a year, always written on a goddamn typewriter. Carter had laughed at the first one, it was so over-the-top awful. He’d even called Freddy and shared a few favorite passages. But as more arrived, Carter’s amusement had turned to pity, then annoyance. He seemed to be smack-dab in the middle of anger right now. He curled his hands into fists as he avoided the temptation to turn the pages into confetti.

There was a Klorak from planet Gool,the story began.He was male. He was precisely two meters tall, with blue eyes and yellow hair and pinkish skin. This is not what Kloraks look like on Gool, but now he was on Earth. He lived in a city called Portland, in a state called Oregon, in a country called the United States of America, on a continent called North America, and he wanted to go home.

All of J. Harper’s tales began like that, more or less. Then they wandered onward for thousands of words of deathly prose as the alien creature experienced such thrilling adventures as going grocery shopping or learning how to get around town without getting run over. Carter flipped ahead a few pages. Ah. This time the alien went to the movies.

As bad as the stories were, the endings were even worse. The alien inevitably remained stranded on Earth, bewildered and sad. The last words were always the same:He wanted to go home.

“I’ll send him there myself on a goddamn rocket,” Carter muttered. He hated how the story’s final sentence made him feel each and every fucking time. The stories were steaming piles of shit. He should not have felt twinges of empathy for the pathetic, boring aliens.

Carter opened a file on his computer, changed the date and story title, and prepared to print his usual rejection letter.

We have received your manuscript “The Klorak of Gool.” Although we are unable to publish it, we appreciate your interest inAstounding!magazine.

But before he clicked Print, Carter found himself erasing everything except the letterhead and date. Then he began to type.

Hoy there, J. Harper,

I will not write “Dear Mr./Ms. Harper” because the lack of gender specificity is damned awkward and because you are not remotely dear to me. You are, in fact, the polar opposite of dear. Detested. Abhorred. Loathed.

You may very well be a lovely human being. You may be kind to animals and the elderly. You may spend all your money and free time doing charity work. You are undoubtedly kinder and better and perhaps even smarter than I am.

But you are not, under any circumstances, a writer.

From this point on, you should confine your literary efforts to shopping lists and Google searches. If you take a creative writing class, your talents might improve enough for you to risk a text message or two, but I doubt it.

Please, for the good of my sanity, for the good of humanity, stop writing stories.

Most sincerely,

Carter S. Evans, Editor-in-Chief,Astounding! Magazine

“Ha,” said Carter, who felt much better after typing those words. Or maybe it was the several ounces of whiskey he’d downed in the process that made him feel better. In either case, his work was done. He’d send the standard boring rejection letter in the morning. Now it was time to collapse in a stupor on the futon until reality shows worked their soporific magic. He rose to his feet—clutching the desk for balance—and weaved his way into the other room, taking the bottle of Jack with him.

CHAPTER TWO!

CARTERWOKE up with a cramp in his back, a thudding ache in his skull, and a fuzziness in his mouth—pretty much par for the course, lately. He stumbled into his bathroom to rinse his mouth and piss, but he avoided the mirror. He knew exactly what kind of gray-faced, red-eyed monster the glass would reveal. Maybe that was a good look among the Kloraks of Gool, but not so much on planet Earth.

He had work to do, though, and he was unlikely to accomplish much at home, where the bed and the whiskey would call his name. Well, not the whiskey. He’d apparently finished it off the previous night. But a bottle of cheap vodka lurked in the cupboard, and if he gave himself half a chance, he’d spike it with a splash of OJ and call it breakfast.

He showered and dressed, skipped shaving, and combed his chestnut-colored hair, which needed cutting. He dressed in jeans, an old gray tee, a pilling gray sweater, and short boots. Then he threw on his raincoat, grabbed his laptop bag, and hoped he looked at least passable enough to avoid scaring small children. He was almost out the door when he spied the envelopes on the little table. Right—electric bill, rejection letter. He was slightly surprised that even in his drunken state, he’d managed to get the stamps on them in more or less the proper location.

As much as he hated trudging up three flights of stairs, walking down them was worse, at least when he was hungover. But there was no way he was willing to face the claustrophobic horror of the elevator. He heaved a sigh of relief when he reached the lobby, and he even remembered to drop the envelopes in the outgoing mail slot.

It was one of those days when the sky was such a dark and uniform gray that the sun seemed to be a myth. The moisture in the air couldn’t quite be called rain, but was a bit too wet for mist. He could almost feel his hair springing into tighter curls.

Coffee flowed through Seattle like oil through Houston, so finding a place to caffeinate was not a challenge. But Carter had a favorite coffeehouse seven blocks from home. He generally walked because it wasn’t worth driving to, and the last thing his ancient Toyota needed was more wear and tear. Perk Up was an obnoxious name, but he liked the gloom of the interior—even on the rare sunny days—and the large scarred wooden tables and the shelves of battered books lining the walls.

The barista took one look at him as he approached the counter and didn’t even bother to ask what he wanted. “Just a sec,” she said before turning around and filling the largest available mug with her darkest roast. She didn’t leave room for cream or sugar.

“Thanks, Cami,” he said after she placed the mug on the counter in front of him. “You saved my life. A medal should be struck in your honor.” He gave her a five-dollar bill and, when she handed him change, dumped it in the tip jar. He knew she’d provide him with refills all morning if he asked for them.

“Rough night, huh?” she asked.

“God. I am too old. I’ve passed from charming party guy to sad, middle-aged drunk.”

She dropped him a wink. “You’re still charming.”

“You only say that because I tip well.”

Her hair changed colors often—never anything found in nature—and she had a lot of tattoos and piercings, but when she smiled, she somehow looked like a teenage farm girl. “You tip well because underneath all that scruff and grumble, you’re a good man. Now go drink your coffee. When your appetite kicks in, I’ve got some ginger scones that’ll knock your socks off.”

He smiled back at her. Cami kept her bakery source top secret, but her offerings never disappointed. “I think it’s going to take a while today.”

“I’ll save you one.”

He made it all the way to his favorite table in the back corner without spilling, which was a major accomplishment. As always, he sat with his back to the wall, and he spread his laptop and papers across the large round surface in front of him. He booted up, frowning slightly as he waited to log in. His last laptop had been practically an antique when it gave up the ghost. Due to his finances, he couldn’t even dream of buying a new one, yet without one he would have been stranded in his office all day, chained to his temperamental desktop computer. But Freddy had somehow magically surmised his situation, shipped him a fancy new Dell, and called it a birthday present because he knew that otherwise Carter would refuse. It had arrived a couple of weeks before Carter turned thirty-seven, and dammit, he needed to get out in the world to work sometimes. So he’d swallowed yet another big bite of his pride and accepted the gift.

Today he had e-mails to answer, creditors to cajole, authors to nudge. He did most of the primary editing himself nowadays, and two stories awaited his scrutiny—both good stories that he’d be proud to print, but both by virtually unknown authors. Neither would bring readers the way Freddy would.

By eleven thirty he’d polished off most of his correspondence and three cups of coffee, and he was ready for his scone. It was every bit as tasty as Cami had promised. While he chewed, he took a break from work, watching pedestrians as they passed by Perk Up’s front windows and trying not to ogle the pair of cute college boys sitting at the corner table.Far too young for you, he reminded himself. Christ, he needed to get laid. It had been a while.

With that depressing thought, he went back to work. More coffee fueled his editing, but eventually his stomach demanded something more substantial. He shut down, gathered up his stuff, and pulled on his coat. “Bye, Cami,” he called as he walked to the door.

“You’re looking much more chipper.”

“Because I’m thinking of food.”

She waved at him. “Have a good afternoon, Carter.”

In fact, it was almost evening. The gloom outside had darkened into murk, and the moisture had intensified into a bona fide drizzle. Carter pulled up his hood and hunched his shoulders as he walked. Tiny puddles splatted under his boots, the droplets wetting the hems of his jeans. But he liked theswish-wushof passing cars and the way apartment windows cast him in a golden glow as he walked by.

No bills or horrifying stories waited for him in the mailbox—not even a shoe catalog or political postcard—and the stairs didn’t seem so bad. The fourth-floor hallway, however, smelled of onions.

He’d never really learned how to cook well, but he couldn’t afford to eat out, so over the years he’d developed a small repertoire of dishes he could handle. Tonight, he decided, was spaghetti night. Paul Newman provided the sauce, the pasta had been on sale at the market, and he even had some frozen meatballs to throw into the mix. He nuked some frozen veggies too, more out of a sense of duty than desire. And he ate his meal alone at the table between the kitchenette and the futon, a propped-up book as his dining companion. Not a bad meal, as these things went. At least it didn’t involve booze.

When he finished eating, it was still a little early for a trip to his usual bar. He decided to get a bit more work done in the meantime—impending deadlines that he couldn’t afford to miss. He did a cursory after-dinner washup and headed into his office.

The computer was in sleep mode; he’d never shut it down the night before. When the screen came to life, what he found horrified him: that terrible rejection letter to J. Harper. “Oh fuck!” he exclaimed as he dredged up a blurry memory of printing the damn thing, signing it, and stuffing it into an envelope. He’d never really meant to send it. Shit, J. Harper might be the worst writer ever, but he didn’t deserve to be treated like that.

For a while, Carter sat at his desk and contemplated writing an apology. But in the end, he decided against it on the principle that Harper might interpret the apology as encouragement to submit another story. And Carter truly did not want to face that.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the empty room. “In a couple of months,Astounding!will go under, and then you, Mr. or Ms. Harper, will be entitled to dance on its grave.”

Guilt sat like a weight on his chest as he completed a little more work. He was relieved when it was finally late enough to go out.

Just as he had a favorite coffeehouse, Carter also had a favorite bar. It, too, was within walking distance—ten blocks rather than seven—which saved on taxi fare when he was drunk. It didn’t have a clever pun for a name, justLou’son a simple painted sign. It shared a quiet block with an upholstery shop, an insurance sales office, a dry cleaner, and a weedy gravel parking lot. If it weren’t for the cars, the entire scene could have been lifted straight out of the 1950s.

The interior of Lou’s was old-school too. Dim lighting, a few flickering neon beer signs, a long dark bar, tables and booths with seats padded in ancient greenish Naugahyde. Sometimes the television over the bar showed sporting events, and sometimes it was tuned to a news channel with the sound turned off. In either case, Lou’s was never crowded or noisy. People—mostly men—came there to drink. And although no rainbow flags hung on the wall and a goodly percentage of the patrons were straight, a substantial minority most definitely were not. Gazes might lock, an eyebrow might rise or the corner of a mouth might twitch, and two men would quietly pay for their drinks before making their slow but deliberate way to the exit.

“Gin and tonic, Murphy,” Carter said to the bartender, a squat, dour man with unsettling gray eyes. Carter didn’t know whether Murphy was the guy’s first name or last, or indeed whether it was his name at all. But everyone called him that and he never complained.

Murphy grunted and filled Carter’s glass.

“I’ll run a tab,” Carter said. He didn’t wait for an answer—Murphy was not the chatty type—but instead walked to his favorite booth in the back corner. The upholstery crackled slightly as he slid in.

Freddy had discovered Lou’s, back when Carter and Freddy still shared a bed and a future. Carter was working on his master’s degree, and Freddy was trying his damnedest to make it as a writer. They both scrambled for whatever crap jobs they could find to pay the bills, and they spent nearly all their free time nurturing their newly birthed magazine. Back then they’d had great hopes for Astounding! Their little mag was going to change the literary world.

Sometimes they worked together at home, but the apartment became awfully claustrophobic after a while. Then they would head to Perk Up if it was daytime or Lou’s if it was night, and they’d feel like genuine grown-ups, like big shots. They were publishers!

Even after they broke up, when Freddy’s career began to climb and Carter’s stalled, they still met at Lou’s now and then to talk over old adventures and new plans. Even if he was a tiny bit jealous, Carter was genuinely happy at Freddy’s success. He enjoyed seeing his former lover light up with joy and enthusiasm over publishing contracts, book tours, fan mail. After a while, Freddy was talking movie and TV options. And right around the release date for the first film based on one of his books, he took his nice fat checks down to southern California, where the sun always shone on his ocean-view villa. He invited Carter to visit. But Carter stayed in Seattle, where he went to Lou’s by himself. Sometimes he left with another man—but mostly not.

Tonight Carter sipped his gin and tonic and brooded. After a while, Murphy replaced the empty glass with a full one. Carter ran a finger through the moisture ring on the table, creating designs that quickly dispersed.

Halfway through the third drink, Carter noticed the man sitting on a barstool near the door. He was probably a little past forty, but he was trim and handsome. The man caught Carter staring and smiled at him.

Carter quickly emptied his glass. Then he slid out of the booth and crossed the room to stand very close to the man, but without touching or looking at him. “I’m ready to close my tab, Murphy,” he announced.

“Hey. I’ll get it.” It was a slight breach of Lou’s protocol—men generally paid their own tabs, even if they were about to hook up—but Murphy seemed content enough to take the guy’s cash, and Carter wasn’t about to bemoan saving some money.

After giving his benefactor a nod, Carter shrugged into his jacket and left the bar. But he waited a few minutes out on the sidewalk, rubbing his hands together for warmth, until the door opened and the man stepped out.

“I’m Rob,” the man said, not offering to shake. He was shorter than he’d seemed while seated.

“Carter. And thanks for the drinks.”

“My pleasure. Want to go someplace else? I know a great joint in Belltown.”

“Not really,” Carter said, looking him straight in the eyes.

Rob’s grin looked slightly predatory. “I have a room at the Marriott. Come with?”

Carter didn’t especially want to, because it meant that afterward he’d have to get a taxi home, and there would go the money he’d saved on drinks. But he certainly didn’t want to bring Rob to his apartment, and he couldn’t face just heading home to a night of solitude.

They didn’t talk as Rob drove them downtown; they really didn’t have much to say to each other. Carter was mildly curious whether Rob was from out of town or a local, but it wasn’t as if Carter was expecting any long-term commitment from him. He just wanted sex.

The hotel lobby was as bland as he expected, and although the sixth-floor room probably had a nice view when the curtains were open, the interior was unremarkable too.

“Home sweet temporary home,” Rob said, tossing his coat onto a chair.

“Love what you did with the place,” Carter joked back.

Chuckling, Rob dug around in the suitcase that was open on a stand, making a small sound of triumph when his hand emerged clutching a couple of rubbers and a small bottle of lube. He set his prizes on a nightstand, then clicked off all the lights except a dim one near the door. “Do you want a drink?” he asked as he began to unbutton his shirt.

Carter had to think about that for a moment. He wouldn’t have minded a little more booze, but he was suddenly overcome with an urge to simply get things over with—to get off, get dressed, and get home. He shook his head. “I’m good.”

“A man of action. I like that.” Rob came closer and proceeded to strip in an orderly, businesslike manner. His chest was only slightly hairy, and the bush at his groin was neatly trimmed. His slender, cut cock was partially erect. “See anything you like?” he asked with a grin.

Still fully dressed and not even slightly hard, Carter nodded. “You work out.”

“I bike. You?”

Carter sighed. “I climb stairs.” And because waiting any longer seemed rude, he took off his clothes too and stood awkwardly, self-conscious about the pudge around his middle. Just as he became sure Rob was going to reject him, Rob took a few steps closer and crushed him with a very manly embrace. “I’m glad you came here with me,” Rob murmured into his ear. “I’ve been lonely.”

And that pretty much did it for Carter, probably because he’d been so lonely too. It didn’t matter if Rob was lying; his words resonated in the empty place deep inside Carter, finally awakening his desire.

They made out for a while, kissing deeply as they groped each other. Then Rob surprised him by dropping to his knees and taking Carter’s cock into his mouth. Nobody had given Carter head in a long time, and the warm suction felt so good that he couldn’t judge whether Rob was especially adept or Carter was just especially grateful.

Carter felt an orgasm building and managed a guttural warning. Rob pulled away and looked up at him, his wet lips parted in a wide smile. “Ready to take this to the bed?”

“Yeah.”

The hotel comforter bunched uncomfortably under Carter when he sprawled on his belly. Rob rolled on a condom and applied a healthy dollop of cold lube to Carter’s ass, poked around with a finger or two for a minute, and then dove right in. Not exactly record-breaking passion, but better than Carter’s solo right hand. Carter came quickly, a brief flash of pleasure and release.

Rob, however, wasn’t done. Carter gamely kept his ass raised high and listened to Rob’s grunts and the slap of flesh against flesh. He heard a television laugh track too, probably from the next room, and he wondered if the occupants could hear him and Rob fucking. Then Rob answered that question by uttering a loud, triumphant shout. He froze deep inside Carter, took several unsteady breaths, and slowly pulled out.

“You okay?” he asked after standing up straight.

Carter tried to sound enthusiastic. “Yep. That was great. Just what I needed tonight.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but close enough.

“Want to go down to the bar and get a drink?” Rob asked as he tossed the condom into the trash.

“I’m going to call it a night. I have to work in the morning.” Another untruth, seeing as he could keep whatever work schedule he wanted.

While Carter got dressed, Rob fussed with his suitcase, moving a few things around and readjusting the stand. For some reason, those actions struck Carter as the most endearing things he had done all night. Carter hoped Rob’s next pickup would be someone less hopeless than an impoverished magazine editor.

Still in his underwear, Rob walked Carter to the door. He gave Carter’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “Thanks. I had a nice evening.”

“Me too.”

“I’ll look for you next time I go to Lou’s.”

“I’d like that,” Carter said. He gave Rob a little wave before making his way to the elevators. He hoped he didn’t have to wait too long for a cab.

CHAPTER THREE!

FREDDY’SSTORY was fucking amazing, of course. They nearly always were. As promised, he had tackled a space opera, only his hero was a transwoman who rescued a brutalized male slave from the clutches of an evil android emperor. And the entire story somehow managed to be a clever commentary on American political apathy—while still being entertaining as hell.

“I hate you, Freddy,” Carter grumbled after he finished reading the story. Not because of his ex’s stubborn inability to decide whether to use the Oxford comma, nor because Freddy had an irritating tendency to overuse em dashes. Really, his manuscripts were quite clean, and editing them never caused Carter to sweat blood. No, he hated Freddy because the guy could write and because he could toss off a fantastic story like this in a matter of days, then afford to give it away to a dying magazine. It was as if a direct connection ran from his brain to a whole gaggle of muses, and it wasn’t fucking fair.

“Good job, Evans. Have a jealous conniption over the hand that feeds you.” He rubbed his temples slowly. The real problem was that no matter how magnificent Freddy’s new story was, it wouldn’t feed Carter for long. Freddy had hordes of die-hard fans who’d probably pick up the next copy of Astounding! even though the story had nothing to do with their beloved Stonesfire Saga. And maybe a tiny percentage would end up subscribing, either because they fell in love with the magazine or, more likely, because they hoped for more of Freddy’s stuff. But that tiny percentage just wouldn’t be enough.

Carter fired off a quick e-mail to Freddy—Got it, you brilliant bastard. Thx.—and shut down his computer. It was barely past noon, and with his whiskey holdings recently restocked, he was sorely tempted to get really drunk. But no, he needed to cut back on the drinking. The weather was gorgeous, one of those rare gifts of a spring day when the sun sparkled and everyone renewed their acquaintance with Mount Rainier. The parks would be full of people skipping work to soak up a little vitamin D, and everyone would be saying, “See? It doesn’t always rain in Seattle.”

He decided to take a walk.

He didn’t stop at Perk Up, even though the scent of coffee wafting out the open door tempted him mightily. He didn’t stop anywhere, in fact, at least not until he reached a little green park and realized his feet ached. Then he sat on a bench for a while, not thinking about much of anything, just watching the newborn leaves flutter in the slight breeze and eyeing a flock of starlings that conversed noisily over a patch of grass. The sun was warm on his head and shoulders. Not southern California warm. Not sitting on your oceanfront balcony and chatting with movie producers warm. It was… Washington warm. Enough to dry him out a bit and make him think of laughter.

Carter took the long way home, meandering down unfamiliar streets. Sometimes he stopped to admire a particular house. He used to dream of owning his own place. Maybe a nice little Craftsman bungalow with a porch out front and a little yard in the back. He could get a dog or maybe a cat—he hadn’t owned a pet since he was a kid. He liked to picture himself puttering around the place, doing small fix-it chores, perhaps planting a few veggies in back and some roses out front. But he didn’t know how to garden or do home improvement, and he could barely pay his rent. Even when the magazine was relatively flush, he had never come close to saving enough for a down payment. Any mortgage lender in the world would laugh at the thought of lending him a dime.

“Stop with the self-pity,” he mumbled. Then he looked around quickly to see if anyone had caught him talking to himself. Bad enough he looked slightly off, with his messy hair, unshaved face, and rumpled clothing. He didn’t need to act slightly off as well.

Time to go home, he decided. Before he forgot altogether how to behave like a regular human.

The mail carrier was just leaving his building. Carter held the door for her and the little wheeled cart. “Out enjoying the weather?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“Days like this, I’m glad I’m not stuck indoors behind a desk. And some people think it never stops raining here!” With a merry laugh, she trundled down the sidewalk.

Carter shook his head and went to fetch his mail. He froze, however, when he saw that his box contained the familiar manila envelope. It was too soon—he’d received J. Harper’s last submission less than two weeks ago. Besides, surely Harper wouldn’t dare send in another story after receiving that awful rejection letter.

But dammit, the envelope sat there with Carter’s name, address, and title as neatly printed as always.

There was no other mail. Carter hesitated a long time before reaching in to take the envelope, as if he were afraid it might sprout teeth and bite his hand off. But it simply sat there, silently accusing, until he sighed and pulled it out.

The stairs were especially steep and claustrophobic, and the fourth-floor hallway smelled like pot.

Carter’s phone buzzed just as he was in the middle of jiggling open his front door. He spent a moment fumbling phone, keys, and envelope but managed to get the envelope and keys onto the little table without dropping anything.

“I e-mailed you about your story’s brilliance,” he said into the phone. “Do you need to hear me say it too?”

“Sure. It’s not like I can be overpraised. Fanboy me, Carter.”

Carter raised his voice an octave and pretended to be breathless with excitement. “Ooh, Freddy! Mr. Morgan! You are such a genius! Will you autograph something for me? Will you autograph me?”

“You make a cruddy fanboy.”

“Yeah? Well, I know what you look like when you have the flu, buster. Hard to feel giddy over you with that image in my head.” As he spoke, he toed off his shoes and shoved them against the wall with his foot. He walked to the kitchenette with the phone still held to his ear.

Freddy laughed. “Yeah, okay, I’ll give you that. Remember the time you were trying to nurse me back to health and I puked all over your feet?”

Carter grunted and grabbed a pitcher of water from the fridge. “It was a pretty memorable event.”