Summer Lover E-Book

B.G. Thomas

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

Seitenzahl: 646

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

Seasons of Love: Book Two Scott Aberdeen doesn't believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, or God. Or love—at least, he knows no one will ever love him. After all, he has carried a torch for his best friend Sloan for a decade, hoping his feelings will be returned one day. But when Sloan finds springtime love with another man, Scott's fantasies are crushed and his skepticism confirmed. Cedar Carrington, raised by rock star parents, leads a free-spirited, nomadic life, never staying in one place for long. Due to a dark past he refuses to share or even think about, he is willing to let men into his bed for sex, but never for the night. When Scott finds himself camping in the middle of nowhere with over a hundred men who all believe in love—and faeries and a magickal gay brotherhood—he's pretty sure he's in the wrong place. And when Cedar connects with cynical, critical Scott, he wonders how he could be falling in for this man of all men. But hearts and lives have been transformed at the Heartland Men's Festival before, and it might be just the place where two very different men can release their pain and find true love at last.

Leseprobe

Readers love Spring Affair

by B.G. THOMAS

“This book is full of pain and hurt, but also hope and elation. He really hit it out of the park for me with this one.”

—My Fiction Nook

“I enjoyed this book very much. The characters are engaging and the storytelling pulled me into their lives. I was pleased with the conclusion and I am happily looking forward to the next book in the series.”

—Live Your Life, Buy the Book

“B.G. Thomas’s special touch in dealing with… issues, his humor, and the way he lets the story play out make it a fascinating character study and a touching, gentle romance at the same time. Bravo!”

—Rainbow Book Reviews

“Spring Affair by B.G. Thomas is more than a simple love story. It is an exploration of all we can be and all that we push away in fear that we will never be the person others expect of us.”

—Joyfully Jay

“I found this book well written. The main and secondary characters were interesting and realistic… I can’t wait for the next book in the series.”

—Hearts on Fire

“Overall, this story is all about letting go and living free. Free of guilt, free of lies, and most of all being free to be who you are. I highly recommend this for everyone.”

—The Novel Approach

“This book is very full, and it is the sort of story you want to read when you need to be filled up.”

—Prism Book Alliance

By B.G. THOMAS

All Alone in a Sea of Romance

All Snug

Anything Could Happen

Bianca’s Plan

The Boy Who Came In From the Cold

Christmas Cole

Christmas Wish

Desert Crossing

Grumble Monkey and the Department Store Elf

Hound Dog and Bean

How Could Love Be Wrong?

It Had to Be You

Just Guys

Men of Steel (Dreamspinner Anthology)

Riding Double (Dreamspinner Anthology)

A Secret Valentine

Soul of the Mummy

Two Tickets to Paradise (Dreamspinner Anthology)

SEASONSOF LOVE

Spring Affair

Summer Lover

Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

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.

Summer Lover

© 2014 B.G. Thomas.

Cover Art

© 2014 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: 978-1-63216-132-1

Digital ISBN: 978-1-63216-133-8

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014940015

First Edition July 2014

Quote by James Broughton used with permission of Joel Singer, heir to the estate of James Broughton.

“Altar Of Love” words and music © 2007 Karen Drucker and David Ault. Used with permission.

“Open Road” words and music © 2003 Heather Thornton. Used with permission.

“Time to Shine” words and music © 2002 Heather Thornton. Used with permission.

“The Hoo Hoo Song” words and music © 2007 Lori Whalen, Celia, and The Trestle Foote Faerie, by Red Granite Goddess Music. Used with permission.

Printed in the United States of America

This paper meets the requirements of

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

This one is for my Faerie Brothers at MMF and those not yet met all over the world. You hold my heart in your hands. May we all dare to dwell in beauty, balance, and delight.

I want to dedicate this book to two men who touched me and changed me more than words will ever be able to say: DeeDee Pfeiffer and JayBee Becker. You were my gurus and my guides. I will love you as long as I breathe.

Special thanks to Andi Byassee for all her work (I don’t know what I would do without you!) and VJ Summers for her sharp eyes (you are a lifesaver!).

Summer passes and one remembers one’s exuberance.

—Yoko Ono

I hate camping, but I love summer camp.

—Zooey Deschanel

Aaah, summer—that long anticipated stretch of lazy, lingering days, free of responsibility and rife with possibility. It’s a time to hunt for insects, master handstands, practice swimming strokes, conquer trees, explore nooks and crannies, and make new friends.

—Darell Hammond

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.

—Ecclesiastes 3:1, KJV

Listen   Brothers   Listen

The alarms are on fire

The oracles are strangled

Hear the pious vultures

condemning your existence

Hear the greedy warheads

calling for your death

Quick while there’s time

Take heed  Take heart

Claim your innocence

Proclaim your fellowship

Reach to each other

Connect one another

and hold

—James Broughton

from Shaman Psalm

CHAPTER ONE

ITWAS June seventh, and that made it the first Saturday of the month, and first Saturday meant it was Porch Night.

Scott Aberdeen rushed around the apartment seeing to last and final touches. Everything looked good. There wasn’t even an old filter in the Mr. Coffee maker. He adjusted his Versace glasses and checked the time, then dashed to the bathroom and checked his hair one more time. It looked perfect. When he glanced down at the sink, he saw he had remembered—excellent—to put everything away. He knew if he hadn’t, the guys would tease him. So what if he used a lot of product, both on his face and in his hair? The key to good skin was moisturize, moisturize, moisturize! The way to have nice hair was to take care of it, condition it, and make sure it was in style. He might not be all that much to look at, but he was going to have smooth skin long after they were all looking wrinkly!

He checked his hair one—more—time.

Flawless. And it should be for what he paid for a haircut!

If nature hadn’t given one the looks it had given Asher, Sloan (oh, Sloan!), or even chubby little bear Wyatt, then one had to improvise. Why else had he bought Versace when they were only reading glasses? Well, dammit! If he was going to wear glasses, they would be the best glasses and not some cheap-ass Walmart or Dollar Store brand.

Scott went to the kitchen, opened the freezer, and checked the cocktails. He’d finally decided on margaritas—the frozen kind. They were easy and they were tasty, and he didn’t like to spring new cocktail recipes on his friends. You never knew if a concoction was going to turn out all right or not, and he didn’t want (or couldn’t afford) to spend a lot on alcohol and have the outcome be less than spectacular. Not when it was for his closest friends, the members of the Fabulous Four.

Or as Wyatt liked to say, the Fabulous Four.

There would be no cosmopolitans with pink sugar on the rims of the glasses tonight. No chocolate martinis. And no watermelon breezes with coconut milk.

Nope. Not happening. With the price he paid for a haircut—and his “fiends” would never stop giving him shit about that, either—there were times when Scott worried the utilities might be shut off. So the margarita buckets would have to do. They’d been on sale (Buy One, Get the Second Half Off!) and with some cheap tequila and water thrown in the container with the mix—voilà—cocktails! Cheaper than the martinis and ten times as much to drink. Maybe twenty.

What was really cool was all you had to do once you mixed them was stick them in the freezer. Scott wasn’t sure how they worked, but instead of freezing solid, they came out slushy-wonderful, and he didn’t even have to get the blender out. They were perfect for a summer day, and even though it was only the seventh of June, the heat was coming, baby. It was going to be a scorcher of a summer if today was any indication.

Scott heard laughter, peeked out his balcony doors, and saw it was Sloan—his blazing red hair unmistakable (and—oh!—there was that familiar sharp ache in his chest at the sight of him). And there was Wyatt, of course—short, a tad thick in the middle, and just as unmistakable wearing a rainbow beanie, complete with propeller, and a matching striped tank top And jeeze! Could the two of them drive anywhere separately? Terra’s Gate wasn’t that big a town!

Scott went to the door of his apartment with a flash of guilt at the damned ten-dollar bucket margaritas (at least he had bought the second one) because, after all, this was about Sloan’s promotion. Would it have hurt him to spring for a little more booze? He only had to host once every four months, after all. And this was about Sloan.

A dizzy little feeling rushed through Scott. Sloan!

Scott stood at the open door of his apartment and waited for the intercom to let him know to buzz his friends up. But there was nothing, and then he heard them below, laughing and coming up the stairs. Some asshole must have left the security door propped open. What the hell was the use of paying for safety measures if his fellow tenants were going to leave the door open? Anyone could come in! He would have to complain to management again.

Wyatt was saying “… and damn, girl! You should have seen him. Hunka-cola, mm-hmm,” followed by Sloan’s laughter, happy and musical (and why shouldn’t he be happy?), and then they had both reached the halfway point in the staircase and were now coming around the bend.

And damn but he was in love with Sloan!

Sloan, who was gorgeous—with beautiful skin the color of thick white cream with about a thousand red freckles across his cheeks and his cute button nose. And, oh oh oh, that new-copper-penny hair! Not to mention his eyes…. Golden brown like graham crackers.

Sloan, who didn’t have a single clue how Scott felt about him.

Sloan, who for a long time had carried a frigging torch for Asher—the Greek god of their little quartet—a man who didn’t know what love was and didn’t or wouldn’t or just plain couldn’t love Sloan back. Certainly not the way Scott loved Sloan. Loved him an ocean’s worth that constantly threatened to burst through the docks Scott had set up to keep himself from drowning.

Sloan, who had finally gotten over Asher only to fall for Mr. Goddamned Perfect, a man who actually loved him back. The new love had even come equipped with a son for them to raise—a gay son—and now the three of them were one big happy gay family.

“Hey!” said Wyatt, finally noticing Scott standing at the top of the stairs. “What’s up, buttercup?”

“What’s the deal, banana peel?” Scott replied.

Sloan grinned up at Scott, his eyes squinting and those dimples appearing in his cheeks, the right one deeper as always. Scott’s heart skipped a beat. He felt it. “Scott!”

“What’s cookin’, good-lookin’?” Scott said.

“Hey!” Wyatt pouted. “He’s good-lookin’ and I am a banana peel?”

“You sure eat enough of them,” Scott answered.

“Well, that’s certainly true,” Wyatt said as he and Sloan reached the top of the stairs. “Hey. I got a joke for you….”

Of course he did.

“What goes ‘Aaaaahhhhh?’”

“You when you’re getting it up the butt?” Scott answered.

Wyatt put his hands on his hips—Scott noticed that his shirt said “Nobody Knows I’m Gay”—and glowered at Scott. “Very funny.” Then his brows shot up and he grinned foolishly. “You know, I probably do make a noise like that.”

“Gross.” Scott wrinkled his nose. Imagining Wyatt getting fucked by his big-gutted and balding boyfriend had not been on the agenda.

“You’re the one who said it,” Wyatt reminded him.

“Forget it, then,” Scott shot back. “Just tell me the answer to the joke.”

“Maybe you should save it until Asher gets here,” Sloan suggested.

“I am here,” came a deep voice, and sure enough, here came Asher, looking like Apollo with dark blond hair (or was it light brown?), flashing blue-green eyes, and a body to make Channing Tatum turn green with envy. He even walked like some ancient god, set down on Earth to care for mere mortals. All Scott had to do was look at Asher to know why he had never stood a chance with Sloan. It wasn’t the first time Scott had had that thought. It wasn’t even the thousandth. Asher was beautiful. He was perfect. And Scott knew all he would ever be was plain as a brown paper grocery sack. Ugly. That’s what I am. Ugly!

“Asher,” Wyatt cried excitedly. “What goes ‘Aaaaahhhhhh?’”

“I don’t know,” Asher replied and leaned against the top of the staircase handrail. He looked like he was posing for a fashion magazine. “What does go ‘Aaaaahhhhhhh?’”

“A sheep with no lips!” Wyatt burst into laughter.

They all joined him, even Scott (albeit reluctantly). It wasn’t a great joke, but then Wyatt was just getting started.

CHAPTER TWO

ASHERBROUGHTchampagne. Of course he did.

“How else can we celebrate Sloan’s promotion,” Asher asked and opened the bottle with a loud pop! He did this on the balcony, and the cork shot a remarkable distance and bounced off the roof of a car in the parking lot. The view from Scott’s apartment was less than picturesque. “It’s not Dom, but it’s the thought that counts, huh?”

Everyone agreed, but to Scott it seemed as if Asher were saying he’d spared Sloan no thought at all.

And, no. The champagne certainly wasn’t Dom. Cheap Asti all the way. And if Miller was the champagne of beers, then Asti was the beer of champagnes.

It wasn’t even champagne! It was a sparkling wine. It had to come from the Champagne region of France, or it wasn’t Champagne. This shit was probably no more than about ten, twelve bucks. The two buckets of margarita mix, even with the buy one, get one free price, was more expensive. Hell, the bottle of Sauza tequila cost more in all probability. But Asher would get the glory and Scott would barely be thanked at all. Why did he bother even trying to host these things?

Luckily, Scott had champagne glasses, nice ones he’d found along with a crystal ice bucket at an estate sale, for a steal. He’d looked them up online and to his glee discovered the ice bucket was vintage, made by Cartier. It even had the Cartier signature on the bottom and was worth two hundred dollars. And the glasses, also by Cartier, were worth over twice that. He almost felt guilty. Almost. He’d thought about selling them on eBay, but thankfully he hadn’t. How fortuitous that decision (procrastination) was today.

So they drank to Sloan’s promotion.

“Here’s to you,” said Asher.

“You deserve it, my friend,” Scott said and felt so proud of him he almost teared up.

“Wise, kind, gentle, generous, sexy,” Wyatt added. “But enough about me. Here’s to you, Sloan!”

And sure enough, Sloan laughed—even though Scott wanted to pop Wyatt one. He elected to take a drink instead. Because dammit, Sloan did deserve it!

Sloan worked in a call center and had been miserable for at least the last year. Then one day he took a chance and told the owner of the company what he thought of the scripts the operators had to use when serving the customers. What he said was that they sucked. It was pretty ballsy, considering the man he was talking to was none other than Peter Wagner.

Peter Wagner was not only the richest man in town—with a huge mansion on the hill overlooking Terra’s Gate—not only a man with a college, a park, and a street named after his family, but was one of the richest people in the country as well.

Luckily, Wagner admired Sloan’s balls and gave him a chance to rewrite one of the company scripts. It had gone over like a go-go boy at a gay bar. Dozens of calls and letters came in praising the operators for how helpful they’d been. It was clear Sloan was the cause.

Scott had been thrilled for his friend. Sloan had been miserable because he’d been relegated to mediocrity, and Scott knew he was genius just waiting to be discovered.

That script led Sloan to be discovered.

Soon he was writing more, and as of this week, he’d been promoted. Now everything a call representative read off their computer screens went through Sloan first. Apparently, it hadn’t sat well with his supervisor, but fortunately, his promotion made the woman his peer.

Sloan was in a terrific mood, but then why shouldn’t he be? Not only had he moved up in life, but he had that new lover. A hot, gorgeous lover who didn’t look anything like skinny, ugly Scott!

“I’m so in love, I’m giddy” he was saying. Asher nodded and Wyatt squealed like a schoolgirl.

“I knew it! I knew Mister Man was family. And I knew he wanted you to be his Mrs. Man.”

Sloan is not a Missus.He’s a man! Scott wanted to scream the words aloud, but of course he didn’t.

“Besides,” Wyatt continued. “Someone that hot should be required to play for our team.”

Hot. Hot! Scott ground his teeth together.

First Sloan was in love with Asher (and not Scott!) and had pined for the man for three damned years. And damn damn damn, but Scott couldn’t even hate Asher, because god and slut he might be—but he was also a good man (at least most of the time), even if he wasn’t always a nice guy. The paradox was infuriating.

Not fair!

Then—finally—when Sloan got it into his fool head Asher was never going to love him back (not in the way Sloan wanted to be loved), he all but instantaneously found someone else. At first, the only reason Scott hadn’t gone crazy was the fact that Sloan’s new obsession was married and straight. But then it fucking turned out that the man was in fact gay. He split up with his wife and now he and Sloan were together. They were a couple!

Not fair!

Not fair not fair not fair!

Scott had loved Sloan forever, and he met that son of a bitching “straight” and he’d been snatched away quicker than beer turned into pee. Scott had known Sloan for better than ten years. He’d fallen in love with Sloan during the first week after they’d met, in a class (he couldn’t remember which one—business something?) at Wagner U.

For ten years Scott had carried his torch. And now it looked like it had blown out forever.

“How is he in bed?” Wyatt was asking (of course he was).

“Wyatt!” Sloan laughed, throwing back his head, joy rolling out of him. Even Sloan’s throat was beautiful—the skin the color of alabaster. And his mouth was so kissable. But the only kisses Scott had ever received from Sloan were the friendly kind. Those kisses gay friends always shared.

“Come on. Dish!” Wyatt was actually jumping up and down. “You don’t have to tell me his dick size—”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“—although I will remind you I had a chance to see it once in the gym shower, and you wouldn’t goddamned let me!”

“Knowing you, Wyatt,” Scott said, “you’ll figure out a way to make that happen anyway.”

“Unless I never let Max shower at the gym again,” Sloan added.

“Oh, like you don’t want to see his schlong, Scott!” Wyatt furrowed his brows at Scott.

In fact, he didn’t. Not at all. He did not want to see what Max had, for surely it was much bigger than Scott’s. He couldn’t see what Max used when making love to Sloan. No!

“I can hope,” Wyatt said.

“Jeeze,” Asher said. “You would think you’ve never seen a dick before.”

“Come on, Sloan. You can at least let me know if he knows what to do with it,” Wyatt continued.

Sloan smiled happily. “Oh, he knows what to do with it!”

“That’s good,” Asher said. “A lot of times straight men are so damned boring in bed. They’ve been taught all their lives to be slow and quiet and gentle.”

“Well, let’s just say he was a quick study,” Sloan said and drank the last sip of his champagne.

“Thank God.”

“Took to it like a duck to water, actually,” Sloan added.

“Good,” Asher said. “Because all that stuff about men giving better blowjobs because they know what they like is pure bullshit. Straight men usually give the worst head ever. They hardly touch your dick with their lips, and you have to keep telling them to use their tongue. God! It’s like they think if they don’t really suck on it, then they’re not gay. At least the few times I went down on a woman I got my face in there.”

“Eww!” cried Wyatt. He clamped his hands over his ears.

“Faggot,” Asher said. “A little pussy never hurt anyone. Just like a little cock never hurt anyone, either.”

“Well, certainly not a little cock,” said Wyatt with a giggle.

“Enough!” Scott exclaimed. “God, you guys!”

Maybe Max is just a rebound, Scott hoped and then hated himself for the thought. But he couldn’t help it. Maybe Max will realize he’s straight after all and go back to his wifie, and I’ll finally get my chance.

Yeah, right. You’d be too afraid. Just like you’ve been too afraid to tell Sloan how you felt for ten years now.

But how could he have told Sloan?

I’m not nearly in their league. Not like Asher with his movie star looks. Or Max with his rugged, macho Wolverine thing going on. Not like Sloan, whose beauty wasn’t macho but more magical, like something out of a book by Tolkien.

Even tubby little Wyatt is hotter than me.

Hell. Weren’t bears the new black?

And I’m Spider Woman!

Isn’t that what Wyatt liked to call him, even though it made him so mad he could bitch slap the doofus? But why shouldn’t he have such a nickname? He was skinny. Skinny skinny skinny! He had almost no definition despite how hard he worked out. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he swore he saw his rib bones, though his friends said it wasn’t true.

“You’ve got some pecs there,” Wyatt had once said to him in the locker room after they’d worked out and then reached out and palmed his chest right there in front of everyone.

“Wyatt!” He’d jumped back. “Goddamn!”

“You know, for a guy who doesn’t believe in God, you sure do use his name in vain a whole lot.”

“And you’ve got some biceps,” Asher had contributed. He squeezed Scott’s upper arm. “Flex for me.”

Scott did. Or tried.

“They’re not huge, but you got ’em.”

“And do you know what most men would do for your fat ratio?” Sloan asked. “What are you? Like, five percent body fat? Less?”

“Except for that butt!” Wyatt whistled. “You have a great butt.” Wyatt reached for that too.

Scott danced out of the way. “No! No way, José. Don’t you dare grab my ass.”

A great butt….

He thought maybe it was true. At least he thought of it as his one “asset.” He’d fuck a butt like his. Not that anyone ever gave him the chance. He rarely if ever got to top. When a man did want him, it was invariably for his ass.

Wasn’t that how Garrett from Bangor, Maine, had happened? If that had even been his real name.

They had met through E-MaleConnect, and “Garrett” had started chatting with Scott after seeing pictures of his butt, his family jewels concealed by a jockstrap.

“Baby, if you’ve got it, you have got to flaunt it,” Wyatt had said to him one day while coaching him on how to set up the “ideal” profile. Scott had actually—through some madness—allowed Wyatt to take the pictures.

“I don’t understand why you won’t pose naked for me. I’ve seen you naked like a thousand times!”

“You are not looking at my junk!”

(And he really did think of his genitals that way.)

“Like it’s going to make me lose control and attack you or something? Goddess!” Then Wyatt had asked him if he had a jockstrap. Ha! Did he have a jockstrap?

“Sure,” he said. “You know I do?”

“Anything but your boring white ones?”

Did he? If Wyatt only knew. And yet he’d worn a rather boring black Bike jockstrap that day. At least Wyatt had approved. “It’s the perfect combination of naughty and nice,” he’d informed Scott. “And boy, you really do have a nice ass.”

“Please, Wyatt,” Scott had said while his friend took pictures. “This is tough enough as it is.”

“Okay, Sweetie. Sorry.”

And that was the picture Scott had posted. He actually locked his face pics, because God—what if someone he knew saw he was posting his ass on a gay contact site?

Soon Garrett was sending him message after message, waxing poetic about how beautiful his “bottom” was. Garrett had a wife, was very unhappy, and beginning to realize he was a gay man trapped by marriage. He desperately wanted to meet Scott and to have sex with a man for the first time.

It had all gone to Scott’s head, despite the fact that Garrett wasn’t the first. For over a year, Scott had been having online romances, falling in love with pictures on his computer screen and fantasies of the men he chatted with.

When Garrett got him to unlock his face picture so he could see what Scott looked like—and Scott had been terrified to do so—instead of rejecting him, Garrett began to profess his undying love.

Scott was sure he was in love as well. Garrett had come to see him—it was supposed to be for four days—saying if the time was as magic as he knew it would be, he’d divorce his wife and move to Terra’s Gate.

Well, needless to say that hadn’t happened. Instead…

Heartache. Heartache once again.

What was wrong with him? He knew he wasn’t “hot,” but he wasn’t the Medusa. He wasn’t as unattractive as some men he knew were in relationships. Would he ever find someone who was right for him?

He had been on so many dates in his life, and the men never called again. Why? He was smart. Really smart. He had a decent job working in a law office, even if he wasn’t the lawyer he’d dreamed of being. It was in desperation that he’d turned to online dating. Hell! Maybe he should ask Wyatt to work one of his spells for him. Ha! Like he would ever be so desperate he’d go against everything he believed. Spells. Goddesses. Witches! It was no better than his parents’ church mumbo-jumbo.

“Hey, Wyatt,” Scott said, trying to keep the sneer from his voice. “Isn’t this the month you go to witchy camp?”

Wyatt glared at him. “It’s next month. And I’ve asked you about a thousand times not to call it that.”

Scott clenched his teeth. “Fine. But that’s what it is, isn’t it?”

“You’ve asked me this before, and no, that’s not what it is. Yes, there are men who go who identify as being witches—”

Scott rolled his eyes.

“—and most of us follow an Earth-based religion—”

Scott rolled his eyes in the other direction. “‘Earth-based religion.’ What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“The old religions,” Wyatt said. “The way humans worshipped for thousands of years, before it became all about bowing down before some old bearded guy who sits on a big throne up there in the sky.”

Scott had heard it before. He’d heard it all before. “You mean like Zeus?” Old religions indeed!

“Older than that,” Wyatt said. “Back when we knew our connection with the Earth. That we’re all part of the circle of life—”

“Like in The Lion King?” Scott asked.

Wyatt crossed his arms. “Yes. Like in The Lion King.”

“So you worship Simba the Lion King?”

“No!”

“All right,” Asher broke in. “No need to make fun.”

Scott’s eyes went wide. “You’re telling me not to make fun?” He clutched at his chest. “It’s the big one! You hear that, Elizabeth? I’m comin’ home to you!”

“You guys!” Sloan burst into laughter. “Come on! Let’s be nice.”

Let’s be nice!

Scott looked at Wyatt and saw hurt in those big brown eyes of his. His stomach clenched. Shit! “Sorry,” he said.

“Huh?” Wyatt replied.

“I… I said I’m sorry. I can’t help it. It’s the whole religion thing. I never understood it.”

Wyatt gave a single nod. He looked uncertain.

Shit. Making fun of Wyatt was like spanking a puppy. Asher deserved sarcasm. Wyatt really was a big teddy bear. A big old flamboyant teddy bear. “No. Really,” Scott said. “I’m sorry.” He meant it. He loved Wyatt. Dammit. “If that’s what you’re into, I suppose it’s a lot better than hellfire and brimstone.” And it was true.

“You know, Heartland really is about a lot more than religion,” Wyatt said.

Scott nodded distractedly. Margaritas. He had to get them out of the refrigerator.

“Scott?”

He turned. Those eyes of Wyatt’s¸ so dark they were almost black, were looking right at him. “Yes,” he said, standing up. Margaritas. That was what they needed.

“A lot of guys go who don’t believe in the old ways.”

Old ways? Scott opened his mouth to say something, then was stopped by the look of pure sincerity on his friend’s face. Wyatt really believed in that stuff. And it bothered Scott. A lot. How could an intelligent, rational man fall for that shit? Didn’t Wyatt know the modern so-called pagan movement was pure bullshit? That it was all made up by some horny old codgers like Crowley and Gardner back at the turn of the century and through the 1950s as an excuse to get naked with women? That they’d just made up a religion, like L. Ron Hubbard made up Scientology or Joseph Smith made up Mormonism? Today people actually thought they were practicing some ancient religion with their rituals, standing around in circles with their junk out there for all to see while they chanted the witchy-woo-woo version of kumba-fucking-ya! But it was all fake. It was no more real than the Pope’s brand of crap. Or the loud, confused, empty rhetoric his Baptist parents believed in. They’d tried to indoctrinate him, but he wasn’t having it. He was too smart.

Not real! Not any of it.

But then Scott saw Sloan and Asher looking at him, the expressions on their faces. Sloan with this pleading look and Asher, eyebrow raised, his face saying “Scott is about to be an asshole again.” And it just wasn’t fair!

Scott sighed. Shit.

Didn’t they know he just wanted them to see reality? Karl Marx said it best: religion was the opiate of the masses.

But fine! Tonight was about friendship.

So Scott swallowed the comments he wanted to make and simply asked them if they were ready for margaritas instead.

They were.

“Who wants salt?” At least he had a tin of fancy salt. He’d found it at the dollar store.

When Scott came back with the drinks—they were in thick, heavy glasses, the stems shaped like a saguaro cactus—his friends were still talking about Wyatt’s camping trip. Shit.

“It does sound like it could be nice,” Sloan was saying. “As long as I could wear one billion sun block. You know how I burn.”

“Yeah, poor baby,” Asher said and laid a hand on Sloan’s shoulder. He gave it a squeeze. “I remember one time when your blisters had blisters.”

“I had to take tea baths for a week! I had to call in sick for work.”

“Well you didn’t get burned when we went to Sanctuary,” Wyatt said, referring to the day when the two of them headed out to the camp for the day on a Saturday. Scott had not been invited. He’d been a little bitter about that.

Of course, who could blame Wyatt? The place was holy to him, and Scott had to admit he would probably have made a comment or three that Wyatt wouldn’t have appreciated. Scott had no filter; he knew it. A thought tumbled out of his mouth before he evaluated how people might react to his honesty. And that is what it was. Honesty. He was honest to a fault.

“You poured sun block on me!” Sloan said and started laughing in that delightful way of his.

Scott felt a burst of old jealousy. Imagine Wyatt getting to rub lotion all over Sloan’s body. He was just thankful that, according to Wyatt, Sloan had been too shy to take off his shorts and go naked, which Wyatt had had no compunction about at all. Had the bear put sun block on Sloan’s lovely round ass, Scott would have gone crazy. Surely Sloan wouldn’t have let Wyatt anyway, right?

“Didn’t we have fun?” Wyatt asked.

“It was nice,” Sloan replied. He looked at Scott. “Peaceful. Quiet.” He looked sad for a moment. “That was right before I found out about Mom’s cancer.”

“Is that why you haven’t gone back with me?”

Sloan shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He took a drink of his margarita. “Hey, this is pretty good, Scott.”

“Thanks,” Scott said. Sloan was being polite. He’d served the frozen brand before.

“Yeah,” Wyatt added. “Not bad.”

And now Wyatt. Was everyone a better man that he was, Scott wondered.

“I hear your Camp Sanctuary is a pretty cruisy place,” Asher said with a smile. “Maybe I should go out there for the day sometime.”

“Asher, please!” Wyatt cried.

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it? I hear it’s a great place to go and get some dick. And if everybody’s naked, you know just what you’re getting ahead of time, and no one has to buy anyone a drink.”

“But Asher! Sanctuary is supposed to be a sacred place, not a pickup joint.”

“But I thought you said sex was sacred,” Scott cut in. He couldn’t help himself. “What’s that thing you say? Something about pleasure being worship.”

Wyatt sighed. “For behold, all acts of love and pleasure are my rituals.”

“See? Fuck for the gods!” Scott said. “Maybe there is something to your religion. If I had been able to get it on with my youth pastor, maybe I’d still be going to church today.”

Ah, Pastor Bob. He had had such a crush on Pastor Bob with his jet black hair—almost blue, like Superman’s in the comic books—and steel gray eyes. Sadly, the man had never taken a hint, not even a strong one or two at church camp, although by luck, Scott had gotten to see him naked in the shower house late one night and marveled at his adult penis, surrounded by a thick thatch of that blue-black hair. (Scott had very suddenly realized he was that bad word he heard people say sometimes—“cocksucker”—and didn’t care in the least).

“Please don’t make fun,” Wyatt said, and Scott closed his mouth with a snap. He’d done it again. Made fun of his friend. Wyatt was right. This wasn’t teasing. It was worse. It was making fun. But Scott hated that anyone, especially his friends, could so delude themselves into thinking there was a “god,” male or female. There weren’t any ghosts either, holy or otherwise. There was here and there was now. That was it. Belief in something “more” was plain ignorant. Couldn’t they see that? There had been more death, more wars, in the name of religion than anything else in history.

“Well,” Sloan said, “whatever your camp is, you always come back from your camping trips so happy and refreshed—”

Of course. Sloan. The nice guy.

“—so I can imagine a week at a place like that would do wonders.”

“Go with!” Wyatt exclaimed.

Sloan shook his head. “I can’t. Not right now. Go on vacation barely a month after my promotion? I don’t think that would be a good idea, do you? Shelia would jump on that with both booted feet. Maybe next year.” He looked over at Scott. “What about you?”

Scott laughed. Yeah, right!

“I’ve tried to talk him into it,” said Wyatt. “No go.”

“‘No go’ is exactly right,” Scott said. “I’ve told you before. I’m not using my vacation time to run around naked in the woods with my dingle dangling, especially when it can be a hundred degrees at the end of July.”

“And I keep telling you that you don’t have to run around naked. Out of a hundred and twenty-five, -fifty, men, only about five or six go nude.”

“And the rest wear dresses,” Scott snapped. Shit. There he went again. Reel it in.

“No! Well….” Wyatt sighed. “Some of us wear skirts. But most wear sarongs—”

“Dresses,” Scott said before he could stop himself.

Wyatt shrugged. “Sarongs aren’t dresses. But I guess they’re only a step away from skirts. But see, it’s all a part of the faerie thing—”

“Does anybody need more margaritas?” Scott asked. It was the quickest way to change the conversation. Because something magic really would have to happen to get him to go to Wyatt’s witchy-woo-woo camp.

And there was no such thing as magic.

CHAPTER THREE

ASALWAYS, Scott checked his e-mail before he went to bed. He was quite tipsy—fairly drunk, if he cared to admit it—and knew it was a mistake. Once, he’d ordered a T-shirt off of eBay or Amazon or something and had no memory of doing so. It was a stupid shirt, too. Another time his inhibitions had been low enough that he’d spent way too much money on an online auction for some product for his hair made of “all natural ingredients.” He wound up hating the stuff.

But despite the fact that he knew better, he opened his e-mail anyway.

Oh! He had a Facebook notification that God had made a post. He had to see. Sure enough, the comedian with the handle that had offended so many people had posted something funny. Today’s was a picture of Jesus with the caption “My Father says if I get 1 million likes, I can come back!” Hilarious! If there really was a God, then this was the kind Scott knew he could get into.

He had an e-mail from UnderDudes. Probably nothing he was interested in. The daily deal was almost always some stupid underwear, like an elephant with a “trunk” for you to stick your dick in. Who would wear something that stupid? But what the hell, the price was almost always right. So he checked and sure enough. Dumb. Today’s special was gold lame´. Really? Really? Who would buy those? Who would wear them?

Wyatt would, of course, that’s who. But that thought made him shudder. Not a pretty image.

There was something from his mother with the subject line “Jesus Can Do Anything.”

Delete.

An e-mail that had something to do with a king of some foreign country he’d never heard of giving away millions of dollars. Nice if it were true!

Delete.

“Single Horny Girls Near You!!!!”

Delete.

A plea for a donation.

Delete.

Discount over-the-counter prescriptions.

Delete.

Buy Viagra and Cialis Online C-H-E-A-P!!!

Delete.

Something from E-MaleConnect.

Fuck.

Delete it!

Because look what happened last time!

Scott had been sure Garrett was finally the man who would love him. The e-mails had been so wonderful. He’d professed his love for Scott over and over. And his pictures! Such a hot man. His cock, perfection.

But then when Garrett had finally come to Terra’s Gate to meet him, Scott hadn’t recognized him at first. Then he realized Garrett had done what had been done since the beginning of “online.” No. Since long before. Since ads in the back of magazines—imagine meeting that way!—or mail-order brides. Garrett had sent a picture that was at least ten years old.

Over dinner at Jasper’s—a very nice restaurant—Garrett’s looks no longer seemed to matter. It was his heart that was important, right? What was on the inside? Especially as he kept telling Scott how handsome and sexy he was. The words had thrilled Scott.

So he’d invited Garrett back to his apartment and Garrett had fucked him as if it were the last time he’d ever fuck in his life. It had been intense, partially because Scott really didn’t care all that much for bottoming. But since he used his ass to entice men into his life in the first place, what could he do but let the man fuck him? But it was more than that. Garrett had been wild. Not at all the sweet, gentle lover Scott had imagined he would be. And then, while Scott dozed off afterward, Garrett got up and left….

Left the state.

Left the frigging Midwest!

Went home to Bangor, Maine.

The plan had been for them to spend four days together. Four days of romance. Scott didn’t get four hours. Worse, Garrett told Scott to leave him the fuck alone. That there wasn’t a chance in hell he was leaving his wife, and “Christ on a cruise missile, don’t you fucking know that?” Then he let Scott know he was throwing the phone he’d gotten from Walmart for twenty bucks in the garbage.

Twenty bucks. Garrett had had him—bareback!—for twenty bucks. A hundred and twenty if you counted dinner (that last hadn’t been cheap. Scott had paid a male escort who charged more than that. Twice as much, actually.).

Garrett had gotten a deal.

So Scott knew better than to open the e-mail. Garrett had not been the first to lie to Scott, get him to believe, then hurt him.

He knew better.

Scott opened it anyway.

“Dear Allen,” the e-mail began (because he’d used his middle name in his profile to keep anyone who knew him from guessing it was his).

Dear Allen,

My name is Daniel, and after reading your enchanting profile, I HAD to contact you. I could not believe it! It was wondrous.

Wondrous? Scott read on.

I guess I should tell you about myself since my profile says almost nothing. First though, I must be honest. I am older than the age group you prefer. I tell you this up front and forthwith. In my first draft of this missive, I waited until the end and almost sent it to you. But then I found I could not. It felt somehow like a lie and what could be more wrong?

Lie? Honest? What the hell? And just how old was this guy? Scott toggled over to Lookin4Heart’s profile. Well one thing was true. The profile said almost nothing. Daniel, which may or may not be his name. Male. Smoker: No. Drinker: No. That was about it. Hmmm…. Certainly not the near novel he himself had created for his own profile. A romance novel at that, with lots of stuff like “looking for my soul mate” and “you don’t have to be perfect.”

I am forty-one years old. That makes me ten years your senior and therefore I can only hope that you are still reading and not reaching out to delete my letter even now.

Forty-one? That wasn’t so bad, although not so very long ago it would have seemed ancient. For a minute Scott had been afraid the guy was sixty, or seventy or something like that. It had happened before. Once, this man had sent him a picture of a muscle stud who could have been a porn star. Someone in at least his late fifties had shown up and he’d been fat. Big. The seams in the back of his black dress pants were showing and looked ready to burst.

Why do you even care? This guy can be nothing but trouble. Scott tried to think about the string (the host) of disappointments and heartache, but curiosity won over. Hey. He knew couples who had found each other on the Internet. And besides, E-MaleConnect had testimonials. Videos too. Gay versions of those eHarmony commercials on TV.

And you honestly think those are real?

They could be.

In fact, Scott needed to believe they were real. Couldn’t they get in trouble for falsely representing themselves?

Yeah, like anyone cares about a faggot dating service!

So now, if you are still reading, and I so hope that you are, here is my story.

I come from very religious stock. I married when I was a young man—

Oh, fuck me! Religion? Religion again? And he’s another fucking married man!

Scott almost hit the delete button right then, but something—desperation? hope? a silly romantic soul?—made him read on.

I come from very religious stock. I married when I was a young man and had three children in quick succession, the youngest of which is eighteen and ready now to leave the nest and fly off to college, he did very well in school and has, for all intents and purposes, a free ride.

My life has been good. All except for the fact that I have had a secret that until now, with you, I have kept. I have always desired other men. There! I did it! I’ve never typed those words before. My God, my heart is pounding!

And for some reason, Scott’s heart was pounding as well. The words on his laptop screen had him now. He couldn’t stop reading if he really had wanted to.

I tried to deny it, Allen. I tried to fight it, but these desires have only grown throughout the years and I have come to see that these are needs that I feel and not wanton yearnings.

I began, in earnest and in secret, to research the seven scriptures in the Bible that speak about homosexuality. To my surprise I found that many theologians and historians shed new light on the subject. I discovered that there was a bias in the way the verses had been translated and that perhaps God was not against men loving other men after all.

Shit. Why does he even care what the Bible says? In all that research, didn’t he find that the Bible was nothing but a collection written by ancient, ignorant men who were trying to understand the universe, and the only way they could was by blaming it all on gods and magic?

What a relief this was to my soul! Because I knew what I was feeling was not a “vile affection” and it was more than some lascivious cravings. I felt a love for other men! I saw how unspoiled my feelings were. The Platonic-Socratic view was that only the love between men could be truly equal. Yes! That is what I have always felt!

But then, dear Allen, something happened that not only tore my family asunder—

Asunder? Scott asked himself. Really? Asunder? Scott kept reading.

But then, dear Allen, something happened that not only tore my family asunder but rocked my entire church as well. It was revealed that my pastor and my wife were having an affair and it appears that it had been going on for years with none of us the wiser. In retrospect I should have known something. My wife had stopped pressuring me to do my husbandly duty right after her third pregnancy and she took the job as church secretary. I never wondered why and I suppose it had a lot to do with a certain relief I had felt over the matter.

Nonetheless, I cannot tell you how all this affected me. My marriage had been the center of my life, and I have read that some prisoners are completely lost when their time has been served. I was set free, but my life had been turned upside-down! I kept asking God, “Why? Why?”

There was no answer. Just as there had been no answer in all the years when I inquired, no begged, God to tell me why I had been created with the wish to “lieth with a male as one lieth with a woman.”

Was He perhaps some cruel trickster? Some dark Lord, laughing up there on His throne in heaven over the plights of simple mortals? Was He like a boy who pulls the wings off flies, then drops them into the jaws of a Venus flytrap? Was He having fun at our expense? And my wife! Not once did I cheat on her. Not once, albeit I had the opportunities. I was true! I was faithful! How could God have allowed this to happen?

And there was also, of course, our pastor, tasked to watch over his sheep, and standing in that pulpit for years lying!

And then, Allen, I knew! I knew!

There is no God!

Scott sat back in his chair, eyes wide, astonished. This man, he thought. This poor man! Pouring out his heart to me! To me!

What was it in his bio that made this man open up to him?

How could there be a God? No! Of course not! And the more I thought of it, the more ridiculous it all seemed. How ironic to quote the Bible with, “O foolish people, and without understanding; which have eyes, and see not; which have ears, and hear not!”

No God!

Of course not!

And the knowledge set me free, Allen. I am a man whose shackles and chains have fallen away. I am no longer a slave to a heartless and evil god.

Scott could hardly keep still. He was squirming in his seat. He wanted to leap to his feet and cheer.

Yes! No God was right. Finally, an intelligent gay man—and from Daniel’s language Scott knew he had to be intelligent—who didn’t believe in God! He was convinced half the reason his dates never worked out was that almost all gay men were obsessed with one religion or another. Why, nearly every gay man he knew—except for his three best friends—lived in terror that he might one day be going to hell because of something he couldn’t do anything about. Being homosexual. Even his friends believed in something kooky. Ghosts. Reincarnation. Goddesses.

But not this man who had found him on a gay dating site.

And so at last I found this gay man’s dating site, E-MaleConnect. What a name! But at least it seems real. Men looking for more than just sex. I want sex! I have waited a lifetime for sex with a man. But I want, I need, more. I had discovered it in my secretive years and knew this was the place. At last, trembling in anticipation, I made my first profile! It took me days! Once I was done I began looking and, oh, so many! So many men! So many like me. Like me?

Like me! I said it again! Men like me!

And my heart went out to them. Men. Looking for the love of other men.

And that is how I found you. Oh, Allen! What a profile you have! Your words went straight to my heart. It is like I know you, yet of course we have not met. But then I was confused by what seems a dichotomy. I was confused about the pictures you chose to place at your profile. Your words say one thing, but your photographs say something else.

Scott found he was blushing. Shit.

Of course the guy would be confused.

I posted pictures of my ass!

Pictures of his ass framed by the straps of several different athletic supporters attached to a profile that claimed he was looking for love. How to explain that to a man who had been conservatively religious and married his whole life? It did seem like the two didn’t go together.

That’s because they don’t and you know it.

But hadn’t those pictures gotten him attention? Hadn’t Wyatt said he needed to flaunt his best features? That surely wasn’t his face!

Sure. Attention. Men who want to fuck you. Guys who make false promises. But has even one of them given you something more? Why would they? There wasn’t even a picture of his torso, like so many others posted. He was too ashamed of a body he could only consider skinny. The man in the e-mail was right. He was presenting himself as nothing but an ass to fuck!

But then dear Allen—

And that name—Allen—being used over and over again. It felt wrong. Even though it was his middle name, it felt like a lie.

—it occurred to me that while I have abandoned my God it did not mean that there was not any wisdom in the Bible. And don’t those teachings—God or no God—say that we should judge not. Lest we be judged? Who am I to pass any kind of verdict when I know you not? There may be some reason why you do not show your face. Maybe you are a public figure (although I hope not a pastor or priest).

Hell no, not a pastor or priest!

Maybe you have scars or burns or some other disfigurement. My imagination flies, I cannot help myself.

No. No scars, Scott thought to himself. I’m just plainer than white bread.

I cannot even say anything because, one, I have not presented a picture of my own face—

No. But you didn’t post a picture of your ass or cock like almost everyone else on this “looking for love” site!

—and two (and I hope I do not doom my chance of meeting you by admitting this), your bottom is one of the most lovely I have ever beheld! Is it all right to use the word “bottom?” I know you are a man and not some little boy, but “ass” seems wrong somehow and “buttocks” is too scientific. Too cold.

I daresay your bottom rivals that of Michelangelo’s David.

Scott blushed again. Grinned. Really? Michelangelo’s David may have a pretty tiny dick, but his ass was fine!

Despite that, it is your words to which I keep returning. So many men, myself included, have left so much blank in their profiles, so much to wonder about. And despite the fact that this site presents itself as one for men looking for love, it is obvious that most are hunting for something that springs from a far baser nature. Something far more transitory. You seem so different. You seem sincere, real, and best of all, intelligent. I keep thinking that you are just the type of man I want to meet.

But I have gone on forever. I should sign off now. I hope that you are still reading this and that I have not “weirded you out” as my daughter Naomi would say. I hope that you will write me. I wish that I may have discourse with you.

Please consider me?

Sincerely and with best wishes,

Daniel Witherspoon

Scott sat back in his chair. He didn’t know what to do. He was surprised. Everything about the situation had surprised him nearly sober. Nearly sober. He was still tipsy enough that he wasn’t sure how to react. How to think this through.

First of all there was the sheer length of Daniel’s message. Scott was used to messages that said something like “nice ass. I think I want 2 fuk u. stats?”

He would send messages back when they were at least a little less like a response from a Criagslist sex ad and ask them questions about themselves, trying to see if they were dating material and not just a means to get off. He figured even if the odds were against him, surely there would come a day when the statistics said he’d find someone nice. But usually, he was lucky if they answered more than one of his questions, often with one or two word answers and more often than not with Internet slang and abbreviations, rarely spelled correctly, with no punctuation or capital letters.

Daniel, on the other hand, had practically written him a novel. And the contents! The mysterious man seemed so real. Garrett paled in comparison. Yes, Daniel had been married, but he wasn’t any longer. No little woman he was promising to leave when the time was right (a time that would never come). So no worries there.

Daniel had grown children, but two were already off at college and the third was ready to leave the nest. The man was older, but not that much older. Scott had read a book once called The Male Couple, and the authors suggested that when there was at least ten years difference in the age of the partners, the two men were far more likely to have an enduring relationship.

Oh! Daniel didn’t believe in God. Happy day! Huge plus. No religious guilt. No fear of hell or worries about whether he was going to heaven because he was gay.

And Daniel thought Scott’s ass—his “bottom”—rivaled the famous statue of David.

Would he be disappointed to find out that Scott’s dick was about the same size as well?

He’s not going to see my dick. I’m done with Internet men. Done! I’ve been hurt too many times.

But what if….

No!

But it wouldn’t hurt to exchange a few e-mails. What could that hurt? Really? What?

“… your bottom is one of the most lovely I have ever beheld.”

Scott closed his eyes, his stomach flipping hard. God. Was Daniel being sincere? Was he nothing but a “bottom” to the man? Was Daniel just one more man who wanted to fuck his ass?

Could he have any to blame but himself if Daniel was, Scott realized. His pictures on the site were of nothing but his ass—a site he’d joined to find love.

Someone to save him from his obsession with Sloan.

Then—whether it was because of all the margaritas he’d drunk or something more—Scott made a split decision. He changed his profile. He completely deleted the pictures—didn’t even lock them. He uploaded one of the only pictures he actually liked of himself. Sloan had taken it. The smile had been because he was looking at Sloan, very much in love with him that autumn day. Wouldn’t it be ironic if a picture of him in love with a man helped him find the love of another? And why not?

Scott saved the changes. Looked over his profile again very quickly and decided not to change one verbose word of it.

He checked Daniel’s profile. As warned, it didn’t say much. To his disappointment he saw the man lived in Los Angles, but he supposed anything closer or more convenient would be asking for too much.

What Daniel’s profile did say seemed promising, especially if he read between the lines….

Fool yourself, you mean.

But he thought what the fuck, anyway, and did it. He wrote to Daniel. Signed it Scott and admitted Allen was his middle name and damn Daniel if he didn’t understand.

Two days later they talked on the phone. The next day they Skyped with their cameras on, and Scott saw that while the man looked like he could be older than forty-one, he wasn’t bad-looking. The conversations turned out to be delightful. Scott’s heart swelled, even though he knew he was probably doing it to himself again and setting himself up for a fall.