Patricia Nolan had left another card tucked into the front door of the lodge. Frank could feel his jaw setting as he tucked the card into his pocket.
“What was that?” Tom asked.
“Nothing.”
Because her campaign of harassment wasn’t going to work. In fact, every card she left at the door only fueled Frank’s resolve not to sell—whether she was responsible for the dead raccoons and stalkers or not. He and Tom might have just started their evaluation of the competition, but Frank could already see where Bossen Hill fit. Why it could work—work being a fairly operative word. They had a lot of it ahead of them.
Frank opened the door and stepped inside to the faint odor of mold and neglect. A hell of a lot of work.
He turned to Tom, who was holding two camera bags, one in each hand, and smiled. “Do you think we could sell the scent of mold as authenticity?”
Tom laughed. Shook his head and held up his bags. “Going to take these downstairs and then I need a shower before my shorts fuse permanently to my junk.”
“I’ll warm the water up for you.”
Tom eyed him speculatively for a second, as though sorting through a collection of polite refusals. Then he grinned, shyly. The abashed smile threw Frank back across the years with dizzying speed, which he’d give as his reason for stumbling forward to press his lips to Tom’s. He kissed that smile. Through it. Put his hands to either side of Tom’s face and kissed the afternoon from his skin.
“Situation in my pants is getting more dire,” Tom murmured between kisses.
Frank leaned away, dropped another quick benediction onto Tom’s lips, and said, “Hurry back.”
Tom was back upstairs and inside the door of Robert’s bathroom before Frank even had time to finish undressing. The rest of his clothes, and half of Tom’s, ended up in a messy pile on the floor. Then it was time to peel Tom’s boxer shorts away.
“Ow, ow . . . hold on.”
“Had you not come in about a year? Jesus.”
Tom plucked Frank’s fingers away from the elastic. “I had to sit in your tiny little car for about half an hour afterward. Not to mention the hike back to that tiny little car. Everything is squished everywhere.”
“So I can see.”
“I think I’m going to get into the shower with them on and unstick them that way.”
“Probably for the best.”
Frank followed him into the narrow shower and tried closing the door behind them. It bounced off his ass and swung back toward the wall. “Okay, new bathroom renovation note: showers big enough for two.”
“And maybe those handheld showerhead thingies for rinsing down come-stuck underwear.”
Frank grinned. “I’ll be sure to put that in there.”
Tom was peeling his shorts down with a wince, and while excitement tried to surge through Frank’s veins—finally, he was seeing Tom naked—the ridiculousness of their situation dampened his arousal. His ass was getting cold, the spray from the shower kept stinging him in the eyes, and Tom’s pubes were a mess.
“This isn’t as sexy as I imagined it would be,” Frank said.
Tom snorted. “Life rarely is.” His shorts dropped to the floor with a wet plop.
Frank reached for the soap. “Let me.”
He pumped a puddle of caustic yellow liquid into his hand and lathered it up into antiseptic bubbles. “What the hell is this? Carbolic or something?”
“Dial. Robert’s favorite.”
The sensation of being in the shower with a dead man only lasted a few seconds, but it was enough to ensure Frank wouldn’t be getting hard for the next while. He began spreading soap down from Tom’s navel, sweeping the bubbles toward his pubic hair before beginning to work the matted tangles apart.
“This isn’t as sexy as I thought it’d be,” Tom observed.
Frank started laughing. “Give me a minute.”
“Here, just let me do this part. Pain is not my thing and you keep pulling on my pubes.”
“I get to wash your dick.”
“Yes, sir.”
As soon as Tom was reasonably clean, Frank pumped out another handful of yellow bile, lathered it up, and took a handful of Tom’s penis for the very first time. His ass still waved in the breeze and they were probably creating more mold issues, first floor to cellar this time. The soap smelled awful. But having Tom’s dick in his hand was a moment of wonder. A memory he’d tuck away forever.
Frank stroked from root to tip, tugging as he did so, encouraging the shaft to thicken and lengthen. Groaning softly, Tom leaned in to drop his head to Frank’s shoulder. His fingers caressed Frank’s hips and stayed there, loosely attached. Frank could feel Tom’s lips plucking at his wet skin. He concentrated on stroking and squeezing, learning the shape of Tom’s cock. Enjoying the increasing weight as it plumped in his hand. Once it was hard, he began tracing the veins he could see, his index finger pushing against that all-important one along the underside.
Tom’s groans deepened. He curled his fingers a little more tightly into Frank’s hip.
Frank reached beneath to play with Tom’s balls. Rolling and squeezing. He could almost feel them tightening beneath his fingers.
Tom gasped. “Fuck.”
The water cascading over the back of Tom’s shoulders, splashing onto Frank’s chest, started to cool. “I’m going to make this quick,” Frank said.
“It’s going to be quick, either way.”
Frank started stroking in earnest, pulling from the nest of curls at the base of Tom’s happy cock, all the way to the head, twisting as he went. He paid attention to the upper half, circling his fingers, brushing his thumb over the slit. Pressing down and tugging. Tom shook against him and dug into Frank’s skin. He started rocking. Mumbling.
“Yeah, yeah. Just like that.”
“Like this?” Frank asked, circling and tugging the head again.
“Yeah. But longer. Squeeze harder.”
Tom was ready for the coming-home strokes. Frank complied, lengthening the journey of his fingers, root to tip, squeezing the firm length in his hand with every stroke, making the passage of his fingers as tight as he could. Tom’s hips bucked frantically. His breath rasped. His teeth came down against Frank’s shoulder, a hook and a handle. He clutched at Frank’s hips. Moaned and whimpered.
Then he yelled, the sound loud and almost mournful in the confined space of the shower, and shot against Frank’s thigh, his semen warmer than the tepid water falling across their skin.
The water was cold by the time they’d washed off a second time. Tom was shivering as they toweled dry.
Frank kissed his temple. “It’s the middle of summer. You shouldn’t be cold.”
“I can never get warm enough when I’m tired.”
“You need to eat.”
Tom lifted one shoulder. “I wouldn’t turn down food.”
“I’ll fix us something.”
The rest of the evening passed pleasantly. Frank had expected more awkwardness. He’d also expected more . . . more floating? More feet-off-the-ground excitement. Instead, deep contentment pulled at his limbs. The wine with dinner slowed his thoughts further, and as he nodded his way through the approximate thousand pictures Tom had taken that day, Frank could imagine doing this for the rest of his life.
He still wanted to write. He had most of a story fleshed out. Several articles had been published over the past few years about the failing resort industry in the Poconos. His story was going to be different. He had a local perspective and different questions. He also had something else to offer: himself and his plans for Bossen Hill.
“What are you thinking about?” Tom asked, pausing the slide show.
“My pillow, mostly.”
“One blowjob and you’re toast. That’s not much of a refractory period.”
“‘Refractory period’?”
Smiling, Tom leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Want to go upstairs?” he murmured.
“I’m assuming the plan is not to tuck me in and sing me a lullaby.”
“Is that your kink?”
A short laugh left him. “No, though it could be. Gah, why am I so tired?”
“Because I sucked you hard, baby. Also, you’ve drunk most of that bottle of wine.”
“So I have.” Frank tilted his head. “When you stay over, when you’re keeping an eye on things, do you always sleep on the couch?”
Tom stiffened, seemingly surprised by the question. He drew back a little. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times before he finally said, “Ah, yeah. Why?”
“You should use Robert’s room. If that’s not weird?”
“I figured you’d . . .” Tom waved his hand weakly toward the wall.
“We could both stay in there tonight. The bed is larger.”
Tom’s posture relaxed a little. “Are you asking me to spend the night with you?”
“In the most awkward way possible, apparently.”
Tom said nothing for a while. Sat looking at him, his brow lightly furrowed. Then, “When we were kids, I never quite got that you were shy. You were . . . different. You liked to talk and people liked to listen and you were always so bright and . . .”
“Noisy?”
“Yes. But when I think back now, it’s like that noise was camouflage. Because I can remember you being social, but you spent every free afternoon and weekend with me.” He held up a hand. “Not going to ask why, just trying to figure you out.”
“I think you already have.”
Tom shook his head. “Have you had a lot of . . .”
“Relationships, lovers?”
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
Frank shrugged. “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine?”
A sideways grin pulled at Tom’s mouth. “Well, you already know I was with Gerry, then Sandra. Both relationships died a natural death, I think. Gerry met someone else, and Sandra said she got tired of waiting. I always thought she meant for me to get down on one knee, but I think it had more to do with the situation with my mom. Nothing serious since then.”
“Why?”
“Are you asking if I was pining for you?”
Yes. “No. I’m interested. Let’s call it self-preservation. Are you boring in bed?” Frank was aware his tone wasn’t quite as light as he’d hoped. Also, what the hell? As if Tom could ever be boring in bed. And so what if he was? Already this felt deeper than—
“I’ll answer that if you tell me why you’re not with someone. I’ve browsed your Twitter feed. You’re always at openings and parties and dinners with interesting people. I’ve wanted to kill about twenty of them, mostly the ones who got to . . .” Tom looked down.
Heat rushed to Frank’s cheeks. “Got to what?”
“Nothing. It’s the wine talking.”
“Your whole glass.”
“You were hogging the bottle.”
“Why do you stalk my Twitter feed?”
“Same reason you buy my prints and I buy your magazines. Only I’m one up on you on the pathetic scale.”
Frank leaned back in the creaky office chair and folded his arms behind his head, stretching out his shoulders. He could feel a slight pull of muscle on the right side, the same side as the hand he’d used to pull an orgasm out of Tom in the shower. “I should have come home sooner.” It wasn’t with sadness he admitted this, but regret. “I thought about it, a number of times. More often over the past year when I started visiting Simon down in Bethlehem. But . . . I’m a stubborn fool, I suppose. You never answered my letters and I took that to heart.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It is what it is. And the truth about my Twitter feed . . . about me. I like to flirt, Tom. It’s a game of words and you know how I’ve always loved words. But Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, the bio at the top of my columns, on the website my PA maintains, it’s all the Frank people expect me to be. Underneath it all, it’s just the same boring Frank who can think of no better way to spend the day than follow someone else around and tell their story.”
“Meaning?”
“There hasn’t been anyone else, Tom. Not since you.”
“You’re telling me you haven’t had sex for—”
“God, no. No relationships, though. Not really. Just a handful of usually unsatisfactory encounters.”
“That’s . . .”
“Sad. I know. Which is why I pretend I’m someone else when I have to.” Shrugging, Frank lifted his hands from behind his head. Placed them in his lap.
“What about Simon?”
“We slept together once. It was . . . I enjoyed it more than he did, I think.”
“Ouch.”
“If it had been mutual, yes, I think Simon could have been someone I— No. He is someone I love as a friend. He’s been good to me. Loyal and kind. The best friend a man could ask for.”
“Now I am jealous.” Tom’s smile was light, though.
Frank returned a similar smile. “Did you love them? Gerry and Sandra?”
“I guess. In an ‘I enjoy coming home to you every night’ kind of way.”
“Still my beating heart.”
Tom snorted. “I wasn’t that cold. I did love them and care for both of them, even now. I don’t think you can be intimate with someone you don’t care about.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I mean on a daily basis. When you’re not having sex. But I’m not an easy person to be with. There’s my mom for one thing.” Tom’s jaw clicked softly. “It’s . . . If we do this, it’s important you know that she’s a priority. She hasn’t always been there for me, I know. She was a shitty mother, but she could have quit that at any time. Up and abandoned me, left town, or fallen so far inside a bottle no one could get her out. It was a slim difference, sometimes, but she managed to keep a job and to keep just sober enough to get me through high school. She did that for me, Frank.”
Frank could only nod. Tom’s logic was twisted, but love did that, and in Tom’s place, he’d probably feel the same. He’d seen Tom and Wendy together when Wendy had been sober, and the fact she loved her son had never been in doubt. He was her reason for being.
“I’d never come between you and your mother, Tom.”
“I know. But am I going to keep you from everything else?”
“What do you mean?”
“The Frank who likes to talk, who is smiling in every single one of those photos, whose interest in every person he interviews bleeds through every word he writes—is he going to be content to stay here with a two-bit photographer who hasn’t cut the apron strings?”
“You’re an amazing photographer. You’re also a successful businessman. I’ve trawled your website too and I’ve read the testimonials. Hell, I’ve bid on your prints in those charity auctions you put them up for. You’re good at what you do, Tom, and I don’t see you staying here as failure. You made that choice. Somehow you’re balancing what you want with your mother’s needs. There are very few who could do the same. And, on top of that, you kept this place and Robert going. You’ve been leading a remarkably full life.”
Why was he only just realizing this now?
For weeks he’d been seeing Tom through the lens of his own guilt. Had assumed that because he’d left and followed their dream, Tom had been unhappy. Somehow, he’d discounted all Tom had done with his life and that . . . that had been extremely narrow-minded of him. Of him.
Question was, though, did Tom appreciate the fullness of his life? He must know what he had. Must understand what he’d accomplished.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Tom said.
“I didn’t?” Frank thought back: Tom had been asking if he could stay. If he would. “Who says I can’t have it all? That we can’t? Yes, I want to stay, and no, I’m not going to resent you for needing to stay. But our situation is different now. I can take a day in the city and still come home. Hell, I need to go to Jersey next week. If a story comes up, one I want to write, I can fly out to nearly anywhere and be back in a day or two. Truth is, I don’t travel as much as I used to, and . . .” How to put this delicately.
“My mother isn’t going to be alive forever.”
Frank winced. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s true and it’s not as if I haven’t made plans.”
Frank thought about the notebook Tom had tucked into the bottom of a shelf in his basement office. Had he updated it? “Where would you go?”
Tom’s laugh was short, but not bitter. “Probably nowhere because you’re right. I’m overwhelmed at the moment. Taking care of Robert, keeping up with my mom, the photography, the lodge. I’m tired. I’m fucking tired. But . . . this is home. I love this house. I love the woods and the creek and the view from the top of Big Pocono and the damn frogs at Lenape Lake and even those stupid champagne-glass hot tubs, because when I see those things, I know I’m home.”
Rather than feel sad that Tom’s plans didn’t include around-the-world tickets, a different emotion nudged Frank’s chest. What Tom had described was exactly what Frank had been missing, and he recognized it with one of those cool, clear moments. Felt his chin lift and his heart move. Home. He’d been missing home.
He swallowed. Reached across the small space between them, the creaking of his chair another reminder of all of it. The mold he couldn’t smell because he’d been sitting in it for three hours, drinking wine, and the simple fact of being here, with Tommy Benjamin.
But the moment was altogether too heavy. Frank smiled. “I think we’re supposed to have this talk after we have significant sex.”
“I’m going to say that handjob in the shower was pretty significant. Tangled pubes and all.”
“Ditto on my blowjob.”
Tom took Frank’s hand. “Frank Sinatra just started singing in my head.”
Frank blinked. “That’s a little morbid.”
“Not if you focus on the part where he did it all . . .” Tom hummed softly before singing, “My way.”
Frank raised their joined hands and kissed the back of Tom’s. “How about if we go to bed and have sex in the morning?”
“The way middle-aged people do?”
Frank laughed. “Just so.”