Chapter 9
“MOST of your classes will be here in the computer lab,” the teacher liaison said, opening the door to the state-of-the-art lab. “Having Tyler Tech in our district isn’t just a benefit at tax time—Richard Tyler contributes a lot to all the schools in this district, public and private, not just to the one his son went to. Wesley’s very lucky to have him as a resident. I understand you worked for him for a while?”
“Part time in high school, then for a year or so between high school and college,” David confirmed. “It was a good experience—very challenging, but they have a great environment to work in.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t go back there,” Bill Hernandez, the administrator, said. “He had nothing but great things to say about you when we called him for a reference.”
David shrugged. “I like teaching. But I like working with people with a little more interest than the average high school student. Teaching high school is like herding cats.”
The administrator laughed. “No question. I understand you’re also teaching a couple of real art classes?”
“Computer art is real art,” David said, “but yeah, I’m teaching basic drawing techniques and an introduction to watercolors class. I wanted full time—I know most of the teachers here only teach one or two classes, but I like to keep busy.” He glanced around the computer lab, then settled at the teaching console to pull up the programs he’d be working with. The majority, of course, were from Tyler Technologies, but they had a nice sprinkling of some competing programs. “This is good,” he said. “There’s what, three weeks before the summer session starts? I’ve got some preliminary lesson plans and syllabuses—syllabi?—laid out, but I’d like to come in and work a bit on my own to familiarize myself with your network, if that’s okay.”
“Sure, no problem. The school’s got classes going all the time, but I’ll get you a schedule for the lab so you can come in at a time when no one’s using it. Same for the art department. By the way, they’re having their quarterly cocktail party—I don’t know why they call it a cocktail party when all they ever drink is beer and wine—on Friday night, and they said to make sure you know you’re invited. Did you meet Jack Larssen?”
“The head of the department? Not in person, but I talked to him yesterday. He’s supposed to be here today, so I said I’d look him up when we were done here.”
“He’s a good guy, but he’ll probably try and hook you up with his daughter Janet. You’re not married, are you?”
“No,” David laughed. “I’m way too young.”
“You are at that. I think Janet’s thirty, anyway. Not that that would matter, if you were attracted to her. She is a pretty girl, and I think Jack embarrasses her with his husband-hunting.”
“Thanks for the warning,” David said. “How many people are in the art department, anyway?”
“Six, including some that also teach other classes,” Bill said. “Wesley’s a pretty big school, for all it’s a community college, but then part of our district overlaps Colorado Springs so we get a lot of students from there. And there’s a real active seniors population going back for classes; we probably have an equal split between the techies and the artsies. You, of course, fall right in between them.” He followed David out of the computer lab and locked the door behind him. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“I understand that you actually live in the Tyler compound.”
“Yeah, my mother’s their housekeeper,” David admitted warily. “Why?”
“I’m just curious. About their kid? Zachary? The one that was held hostage by that drug cartel all those years?”
“It was a paramilitary organization, not a drug cartel,” David corrected, “and what about him?”
“I just wondered if you’d ever met him. They say he’s kind of a recluse. He’s kind of a mystery around here; no one even knows what he looks like. They say he was horribly disfigured….”
“That kind of gossip is for shit,” David growled. “He’s perfectly normal. He’s just not very social, that’s all.”
“My kid went to school with him,” Bill said. “He said Zach used to be really outgoing.”
David frowned, thinking. “Frankie Hernandez? That your kid?”
“Yeah.”
“I remember Frankie. He played soccer with Zach. I used to give him rides home. What’s he doing now?”
“He’s in law school at John Marshall. He was really excited when Zach came home a couple of years ago, but he sent him a letter and Zach never answered.”
“Not my business,” David said, “but I’m sure when Zach’s ready to contact people, Frankie will be at the top of the list. I don’t see him much myself.”
“It had to be really hard, coming back. I’ve heard that people held hostage have all kinds of psychological issues. Not that it’s any of my business,” Bill said hastily. “I mean, I know it’s not. I just feel bad for Zach. You see him, you tell him Frankie and I were asking how he was doing.”
“I’ll do that,” David said.
ZACH ran his hands down the long, golden-skinned back, feeling the muscles moving beneath his palms as the spine arched in pleasure. His lubed thumbs traced the deep dimples in the apple-cheeked ass before sliding down the crease and pressing gently on the rosy opening. The muscle relaxed and he pushed his thumbs in, rubbing; then he slipped a finger in, probing for the magic spot. He felt the bump just as the owner of that perfect ass moaned, “Oh, fuck me, please. God. Fuck me.”
“Not yet,” Zach murmured, and put another finger in, stroking inside the tight, hot channel. He waited until the moaning was almost continuous before pulling his fingers out and pushing the head of his latex-clad cock inside the entrance, feeling the sphincter open willingly at the pressure. He slid deep, his fingers digging into the slim hips in front of him, pulling the guy’s ass closer and higher so that he got exactly the right angle.
The guy whimpered faintly. “Oh, fuck, that’s good.”
Zach didn’t answer, just started to move, his hips driving forward, his left hand holding the guy steady with a tight grip, his right hand snaking around to close around the dripping head of the guy’s cock. He rubbed the head hard, then used the guy’s own juices to lubricate the shaft as his hand slid down to pump him in rhythm with Zach’s own thrusts. He felt the guy tensing and moved his hand up toward the head again, pressing into the slit with the ball of his thumb. The guy groaned and came, his ejaculate soaking Zach’s fingers. Zach kept pumping, both hand and cock, until the guy started whimpering again; then he released the guy’s now limp dick and moved his hand back to his hip to steady himself as he fucked him harder. Zach came with a gasped, “Taff,” and leaned forward, resting his forehead a moment on the sweaty back before him. But only a moment. Then he straightened and reached down to hold the condom in place as he withdrew, tying it off and tossing it into the garbage can by the door before pulling his jeans back into place.
“Wow,” his partner said, looking over his shoulder from where he still sprawled over the chair arm. “That was fantastic.”
Zach looked at him. “Brian, right?”
“Yeah,” Brian said. “I didn’t think you knew my name.”
Zach shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“No. But it wasn’t what you said in the moment. Got it bad for that David guy that was at Terry’s the other night, huh?”
“What?” Zach was stunned.
“That David guy. The one you had the fight with. Though it wasn’t much of a fight, I guess. I figured you knew him. Then you said ‘Taff’ when you came, so I figured it was him.”
Zach gave him a what-the-fuck look. Brian grinned. “My grandfather’s named David too. He’s Welsh. His brothers all call him ‘Taffy’. It’s a nickname for David. So I figure ‘Taff’ is Taffy for David.”
“Not Taffy,” Zach said automatically.
Brian shrugged. “Whatev. Anyway, I figured it was him. Gimme the Kleenex, willya?”
Zach tossed him the box of tissues that the room came equipped with, and he sat up, wiping his stomach and groin before pulling his jeans back up and buttoning them. “Can’t say I blame you—he’s hot.”
“It wasn’t David,” Zach said numbly.
“No?” Brian shrugged again. “Then it’s okay if I go for him?”
Zach clenched his fists, but said only, “He’s got a boyfriend.”
“You, maybe,” Brian said. “He’s hot for you, you know.”
“No, he’s not.” Zach picked up his jacket. “You don’t know jack shit.”
“Maybe not, but he got all hot and bothered when I said I’d fucked you.” Brian snickered. “I think he was jealous. So, what? You two haven’t done the deed yet? What, is he married or something? I doubt it.”
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” Zach said, and left, slamming the door behind him. In the dank hallway, he leaned back against the concrete wall and struggled for breath. He’d known coming here tonight was a bad idea, and it was just pissing bad luck that he should happen to hook up with someone he’d fucked before, let alone someone who’d seen him talking to David. Who’d talked to David. Who’d had the unmitigated brass balls to even mention David’s name. He wanted to go back into that room and beat the shit out of the guy.
Instead, he turned and walked stiff-legged out the back door of the club and around the side where he’d left the Ducati. The Brian guy had said David was hot for him, but he hadn’t seen David that night, sitting on the arm of Zach’s sofa, his face tired and sad, willing for Zach to fuck him just to get him to talk to him. There had been nothing of desire in David’s face that night. He’d just wanted them to be friends again. Zach swallowed hard against the pain in his throat. David didn’t want him as a lover, just as a friend. He had a lover, the absent Jerry, who Zach knew would change his mind and want David back again. He had to. He couldn’t imagine loving David and letting him go. It was okay. He and David were friends; Zach could live with that.
But this was the last time he was coming to the Dirty Dick, or Fat Charlie’s for that matter. He could drink at Terry’s if he wanted to go someplace to drink. As for the sex…. He felt the stirrings of nausea and shook his head roughly. No more sex. It wouldn’t kill him to go without, at least not until he met someone who meant something, someone who didn’t care about the mess that Zach was, physically and mentally. He didn’t want any more anonymous hook-ups. He wanted a Someone, like David had. He wanted a Jerry.
He wanted David.
“Fuck,” he said, and started the bike, shifting into gear and rolling out onto the streetlight-streaked road. He turned toward home, early for the third night in a row, but this time he wouldn’t make the same mistake. He’d use the south gate, away from David’s house with its warm lighted windows. They weren’t for him. They would never be for him.
DAVID erased a few lines, then redrew the jawline, adding a deeper shadow beneath with cross-hatching. There. That looked more like Zach. He was working from memory, trying to reconstruct the expression Zach had worn that morning as they were joking around, the laughing face that merged the two Zachs, the grown man with the merry boy. For that instant, David had seen the man Zach had been meant to be, not the bitter, angry one he’d become.
He flipped back a page or two in his sketchbook to the drawing he’d been working on when he’d called Zach last night. It was a full-length study of Zach in his black jeans and motorcycle jacket, just a quick sketch, again from memory, of the way he’d looked in Terry’s Bar, done in a few strokes of charcoal. The face was shadowed but the body almost quivered with suppressed energy—anger, rage, frustration—and how much of that was the feeling he’d gotten from Zach then and how much was himself projecting, David couldn’t begin to guess. He just remembered the feeling he’d had when he was working on it—that Zach was in the room with him, watching him, wanting him…. Not bloody likely. When David had offered himself to Zach the first night he’d seen him, Zach practically tossed him bodily out the door.
It was probably only natural, David thought as he closed the sketchbook. Today Zach had shown him that he wanted things to be the way they were, before the kidnapping, before the kiss—just the way they had been when they’d been kids. That was okay. He could keep it that way, even if his body chimed like a carillon every time he was near Zach. But despite Zach’s apparent promiscuity, he seemed awkward when anything remotely sexual came up between them. He even seemed disturbed by the idea of David having had a relationship. David supposed it was because of their previous friendship; he’d been like a big brother to Zach their whole lives, and he expected that Zach wanted to continue that. Like parents, a big brother shouldn’t project sexuality; Zach was probably squicked out by the whole idea. So he’d be the big brother to Zach again.
Even if he didn’t feel like one. He flipped open the book again, to the second of the sketches he’d worked on last night. This one was different, done in pencil instead of charcoal, softer, more detailed, and unlike the previous drawing, purely imaginary.
In the drawing, Zach sprawled nude on a bed against a pile of pillows as if he’d just made love, his knees bent, his left leg on the bed, his right at a forty-five degree angle, and the soles of his long, high-arched feet touching. His face was soft, his lips parted, his body lax and his sex lying long and limp between his thighs. David hadn’t seen Zach’s penis since they were both little, but he knew they’d both been circumcised, so he drew it as he imagined it might look now. He drew Zach without his scars; he knew he had them, of course, but he couldn’t very well draw them without knowing what those looked like. The rest of him, though, that part he knew. He penciled with delicate detail: the long legs, the shadows of the solid, muscled thighs; the tendons of the hands, one resting on his leg, one lying upturned on the bed, the graceful fingers curled up; the broad, square shoulders and the acute curve where they joined the neck. Here he did include the scar he knew, circling the long column of Zach’s throat just where a pearl choker would lie on a woman’s neck. And of course, the strange/familiar face, with its echoes of the boy David had known.
There was a tightness in David’s throat, an ache different from the one he’d had when working on this picture. Then, he’d had some faint hope that maybe they’d be able to work through their issues, to find some common ground where a relationship would be possible. The secret fantasy of that had fired his blood, aroused him mercilessly until he’d surrendered and brought himself off with his hand.
This morning’s conversation made it clear to David that his secret fantasies were just that: fantasies. Zach didn’t want him.
He ran his finger down the ragged edge of the sketchbook’s pages. So this was what Jerry meant. Jerry, and Steve before that, and Chris before that. “Emotionally unavailable.” That meant being in love with someone he couldn’t have, while failing the ones that were in love with him. Jerry. And Steve before that. And Chris before that. All great guys. All serious about their relationship with him. All of them—gone. Because of this. Because in seven years, he still hadn’t rid himself of Zach. He’d backed off of Zach when Zach wanted him, and sent Zach into hell, because Zach had scared him. Now Zach didn’t want him, and he wanted Zach. How fucked up was that?
But what Zach wanted, he could give him—his friendship. It was little enough to pay for what he’d done in sending Zach away seven years ago. He’d have to fake it for a while, but it was doable.
It would be okay. Sooner or later the attraction would ebb, and then he’d be able to really be Zach’s friend. Maybe by the time they were in their eighties….
“Fuck,” David said, and shut the sketchbook.