The next morning, Christophe had nearly returned to normal—or as normal as he ever felt after a dose of suppressant. In other words, as if he’d just awoken from a nine-day bender that had involved a turn-up with at least half a dozen masked bravos.
He’d managed to feign recovery sufficiently last night to get Anton to leave—no point in his brother being forced to keep watch at his bedside.
After downing a couple of ibuprofen with a bottle of Vitaminwater, he took the hottest shower his sensitized skin would tolerate. As he dressed afterward, with each familiar article of clothing—briefs, undershirt, shirt, pants, socks, shoes—his humanity settled over him, bit by bit. By the time he donned another of the new jackets, he felt civilized enough to greet the day—and face his mistakes from yesterday.
He needed to contact his father soon, to start the conversation about his decision to leave the company. For that, he needed fortification. Not only nutritional, but emotional.
Trent.
Christophe paused in the act of mixing his morning protein shake. Why would his first thought for moral support fly to Trent? Because last night, you felt it—the connection. Something about Trent resonated inside Christophe, like the strike of a tuning fork, their inner shadows vibrating with the same frequency. We could understand each other, I’m sure of it.
But how could Christophe force the knowledge of his curse on another? It was difficult enough for him to bear alone. But wouldn’t sharing the burden with someone—with Trent—lessen it? I could share his as well.
Attraction was a complicated knot—he’d learned as much in his abbreviated genetics studies. The markers for what someone would crave or avoid—why kissing one person thrilled but the mere thought of touching another revolted—were buried deep in each individual’s DNA.
This was the first time Christophe had experienced such a strong, intuitive pull toward someone else. The only thing he could compare it to was its inverse—his instinctive revulsion for Etienne Melion, the only other male shifter of his generation.
Whatever the cause, he intended to explore it, provided Trent could be persuaded to speak to him after his unconscionable exit last night.
Anton had left a hard copy of the conference itinerary on his breakfast bar, so Christophe studied it as he drank his shake. A nine o’clock meeting with the CEOs of Merrick Industries, Melion GmbH, and of course, Clavret et Cie.
Best begin as he meant to go on, and let his father get used to his absence.
He texted Anton.
I don’t feel equal to meetings today.
Do you need anything? I could come by.
No. But could you cover for me?
Naturally. Have you spoken to Papa yet?
No, but please give him my regrets and let him know I have much to discuss with him after the weekend.
As you wish.
So. His schedule was now free. He knew exactly how he wanted to fill it, but the question remained whether Trent would agree to the plan.
His cell phone rang. The caller ID surprised him.
“Riley? Good morning, mon ami.”
“Hey, Christophe. Are you . . . I mean, is this a good time? I know it’s a little early.”
He chuckled. “Do you mean, am I alone?”
Riley laughed. “Not exactly, but yeah, I guess.”
“Sadly, yes. But I hope to rectify that soon.”
“I wanted to warn you. Logan sort of . . . followed you and Trent back to his hotel last night.”
Christophe’s vision shifted, the green of the ficus tree fading to gray. “Indeed. That was rather presumptuous of him.”
Riley snorted. “Tell me about it. But Trent was his best friend once, and he hadn’t seen him since October. I think he wanted to make sure he was okay, you know?”
“Understandable.” Christophe had wanted the same thing.
“He didn’t stay. I mean, he wasn’t staking the place out. Nothing stalkerish. But later, I saw you walking past the bar again. He went back and talked to Trent then.”
“Was he—” Christophe swallowed. “Did he seem well?”
“We . . . ah . . . didn’t go into it much. But I wanted to tell you that if you thought he might be hung up on Logan or anything? He’s not. Or at least Logan doesn’t think so.”
“Do you think he’s only telling you what you want to hear, cher?”
“No. I can tell when he’s lying. He really sucks at it.”
Excellent. The field was clear for Christophe to pursue Trent, if Trent would allow it. His vision returned to human-normal. “I hope for your sake that his sucking abilities are spectacular.”
“Chwistophe!”
Christophe chuckled. He’d never imagined he could detect a blush over the phone, but judging by Riley’s tone, he was probably as pink as a Paris sunset.
Another voice rumbled behind Riley’s splutter. “Gimme that.”
“Logan, no, I was—”
Judging by the grunts, gasps, and occasional squawk, Riley and his lover were engaging in a rather X-rated version of keep-away with the cell phone. Given Logan’s size, however, Christophe wasn’t surprised that his voice was next on the line.
“Hey.”
“Mr. Conner. A pleasure.”
“Yeah. Don’t bother. I’ve got one thing to say to you.”
“Indeed? I’m pleased we have this opportunity to speak. I believe I must request a favor.”
“If it has anything to do with Riley—”
“I do not poach, especially when it is clear that you two were meant for one another.”
“Oh. Good.”
“But if you would be so kind as to give me Trent’s cell phone number?” Perhaps he should ask for his last name too, but he had no wish for Logan to think the connection between them had been so slight Trent hadn’t even trusted him with his name.
Logan hesitated. “I don’t know . . .”
“If he doesn’t want to speak with me, he can always decline the call or block my number. But like you, I want to make sure he is well.”
“It’s not that. I mean, he can use friends. He . . . Oh hell.” He rattled off the number and Christophe noted it on the margin of the useless itinerary. “Trent’s in a weird place right now. He’s been a little . . . out of touch.”
“Certainly with you, it seems.”
“With everybody. He needs—”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit patriarchal of you to assume you know what he needs?”
Logan practically growled. If Christophe were in his wolf form, his hackles would have risen in response to the challenge. “Just don’t fuck with him, okay?”
“‘With’? Ah, your English prepositions,” Christophe drawled in his most urbane tone. “So confusing, don’t you agree, when one is not a native English speaker? One never knows exactly how to use them. Or when.”
“Listen—”
“Au revoir, Mr. Conner.”
As soon as he disconnected the call, he immediately tried Trent’s number. It rang, but eventually went to a generic voice mailbox. Christophe frowned, tapping the counter. Trent didn’t know Christophe’s number yet, so he couldn’t be refusing the call on purpose. Unless he was declining calls from any unknown number.
Whatever the cause, Christophe had no intention of abandoning the hunt so easily. He knew Trent’s whereabouts. Unless he’d checked out of his hotel already, he’d be there at some point today. If Christophe wanted to be welcome, however, he needed to arrive bearing gifts.
Considering Trent’s apparent youth, and his general unfamiliarity with Portland, Christophe decided to go with the standard treats. He refused to trust his transportation to chance as he had the previous evening, though, so he texted his driver to meet him downstairs in ten minutes.
Consequently, when he arrived at Trent’s door an hour later, he carried the signature pink Voodoo Doughnuts box and a personal carafe of Peet’s coffee. The Do Not Disturb sign was still in place and the sounds of the television bled through the door.
Excellent. Trent was in, unless he was the type to leave his appliances on when he left the premises. Christophe juggled his offerings and knocked. There was enough of a pause that he feared the second option might be true, but before he could knock again, the door opened and Trent stood there, tousled and beautiful in a pair of plaid flannel sleep pants and a blue T-shirt.
“You know,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, “when I put the DND sign up, I didn’t mean for it to apply to you. You could have woken me up before you bailed.”
“Yes. I am sorry. I should have said good-bye, but I had a sudden emergency and didn’t want to trouble you.”
“Nice story.”
“True, nonetheless. But as you see,” Christophe held up the pink box, “I’ve come bearing conciliatory gifts.”
Trent eyed the box. “Is there a maple bacon bar in there?”
“Two.”
“All right. You can come in.” He stood aside. “You’re still on probation though.”
“I shall do my best to comply with the terms.”
The instant Christophe set the doughnut box on the desk, Trent lifted the lid. He didn’t grab a pastry, however. He simply closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.
“Jesus, these smell amazing. You don’t know how I’ve missed this.”
“They don’t have such things where you are from?” Christophe kept his inquiry light, in case Trent was leery of sharing too much personal information.
Trent smirked at him. “Fishing for data much?”
Christophe shrugged. “Whatever works, as they say.”
“‘They’ say a hell of a lot that doesn’t make any sense. Is that coffee?”
“It is.” He pulled the little bag of sugar and cream packets from his jacket pocket. “With all the necessities except cups.”
“Got it covered.” Trent retrieved two heavy white ceramic mugs from the hotel’s complimentary coffee service tray. Christophe poured them both a cup. He was interested to note that Trent took his coffee black. Unusual for young American men these days.
Christophe pulled a wad of folded napkins from his other pocket. “Please help yourself.” Lord, his tailor would never forgive him for the abuse he was heaping on his poor new jacket. The man complained constantly about how storing bulky objects in the pockets ruined the line of the coat.
Dropping his guarded look for the first time since opening the door, Trent grinned. “Thought you’d never ask.” He captured one of the maple bacon bars, licking a stray bit of icing off his fingers in a way that made Christophe sorry that his pants fit quite as well as they did—they were now a half size too tight in the groin.
Given Logan’s warning about Trent’s supposed fragility, though, he shouldn’t rush into intimacy. So to get his mind off Trent’s mouth, he nodded at the television. “What are you watching?”
For some reason, that caused Trent’s face to shut down again. “Just catching up on movies. Got a lot in my TBW pile. Hotel has free on-demand.” He shrugged. “No-brainer.”
“You haven’t stayed abreast of the latest films? And you a theater major.”
“I was stage, not screen.”
“Nevertheless—”
“Can you please drop it? I haven’t seen the fucking movies. Now I’m watching them, okay?”
Christophe inclined his head. “Of course. I meant no offense. I myself have little time for movies or television.” He offered his best ingratiating smile. “One of the reasons I’ve never watched Riley’s show.”
Trent peered at him, chewing and swallowing a mouthful of doughnut. “Seriously? You haven’t seen any of the episodes? Not even the one Riley was in?”
Christophe shook his head. “No. We weren’t seeing each other at the time. I saw an announcement of sorts.” The video of Logan’s proposal, in fact. “However, I have never managed to catch the show itself.”
Oddly, this news made Trent’s shoulders lift, his back straighten. He took a sip of coffee and grinned. “So. Want to watch a movie with me?”
Just knowing that Christophe hadn’t seen the Haunted to the Max episode in which he’d made an unintended cameo made Trent feel almost normal. If nobody knows about your freaky-ass shit, they can’t judge you for it.
So keep it secret. Yeah, that was the ticket. If he kept his mouth shut about the ghost war, maybe Christophe would stick around long enough for more sex. Because, Jesus, I need more touching.
He moved the Voodoo Doughnut box to the coffee table, in easy reach of the suite’s love seat, and patted the cushion next to him. Christophe brought the coffee pot over—coffee and doughnuts; I think I’m in love—and settled next to Trent, their shoulders brushing. Thank God for hotels that don’t spring for full-sized sofas.
Christophe took a bite of his own maple bacon bar—a bare nibble of the corner as opposed to the way Trent had practically inhaled his own. Guess you learn how to eat like an adult between nineteen and twenty-six. Not that he was deficient in theoretical education when it came to manners. He’d been to the fucking etiquette classes, suffered through the cotillion lessons along with the other kids in his parents’ social strata. But fuck rules when Voodoo Doughnuts were on the table.
Anyway, he’d shed that shit when he’d opted for the theater crowd rather than the golf-and-tennis set. The theater kids had tended to be scholarship students from North Providence and Pawtucket. They’d been a hell of a lot more fun to hang with—and they’d introduced him to legend tripping. Not that he wanted to think about that now.
But the taste of maple icing mingled with coffee made him wistful for the old days, when he could chase down the thrills and screw the consequences. The promise of the unknown, the possibility that it might be true, had been way better than finding the one that really had been true and having it kick his ass.
Kind of like the difference between the anticipation of Christmas and the letdown afterward, when the holiday, for all the endless hype about family and togetherness and yada yada yada, ended up being another day of disappointment and disapproval.
Christophe topped off their coffees, frowning at the big-ass TV. “Is such a large screen necessary for a room this size?”
“Hey, don’t dis the amenities. This place doesn’t scrimp on the important stuff.” The bed was awesome too. Trent cast a sidelong glance at Christophe. Was he up for giving the bed another try later? He hadn’t made a move since he’d arrived, but hey, he’d brought peace offerings.
That had to be a good sign—a sign Christophe didn’t consider Trent a total waste of time and effort. Trent hadn’t wanted to admit how hollow he’d felt when he’d woken up alone last night.
Alone. He’d had enough of that, since he’d essentially been in solitary confinement for seven years. It’s not like the ghosts had ever become his pals, or listened to his pleas, or even varied their own actions by so much as a different hand movement. He’d been stuck in a hologram with sight and sound, but no taste, virtually no smell, and the only touch that of the rough hands dragging him to his fate. And the rope. Let’s not forget that. Always the fucking rope.
No, damn it. Let’s totally forget the fucking rope. Christophe was here—with scents and tastes and the promise of touch. For now, that was enough.
Christophe sipped his coffee. “What is this movie?”
“X-Men: Days of Future Past. You know, from the Marvel comics.”
Christophe looked blank.
“Hunh. Guess you have a different frame of reference than I do.”
“Perhaps. The movies I’m accustomed to tend to be rather less . . . emphatic.”
Trent grinned and reached for another doughnut. “Foreign stuff or indie art films, am I right? I can get into those too. But sometimes, you’re in the mood to blow shit up, know what I mean?”
“Indeed. I assume by the peculiar costume choices, however, that this is not intended to be taken seriously.” Christophe smiled, and at the sight of those sharp canines a thrill jolted Trent from throat to balls. He gulped some coffee to chase away the shiver.
“The hard-core fans take it plenty seriously, believe me. Most of ’em know the characters better than they know half their family, which makes it easy on the filmmakers. They don’t have to introduce the characters or spend a lot of time on character exposition. Everyone knows who Wolverine is and what he can do. Everyone knows Storm controls weather and that Magneto is essentially unstoppable if there’s any metal around and he’s wearing that stupid-ass hat.”
“I see.” He frowned at the screen.
“Yeah.” Trent sighed happily. “I love superhero movies.”
“Superheroes.” Christophe’s tone was tinged with disgust. “Yet their behavior is not always admirable, let alone heroic.”
“Well, okay. Technically, they’re mutants, not superheroes.”
“Mutants?” Christophe spilled coffee on the table. “Shite. I’m sorry. So clumsy.”
“Hey. No worries.” Trent tossed a bunch of napkins on the spill. “See, they’ve all got a random genetic mutation that gives ’em special abilities.” He nodded at the screen. “That’s Mystique. She has the best powers.”
Christophe watched Jennifer Lawrence take down a room full of military dudes. “So. She is a . . . a shape-shifter?”
“Yeah. And like her feet are almost as useful as her hands when she’s kicking some guy’s ass.”
“The way she transforms. It is not in the least credible.” Frowning, he pointed to the screen. “She changes her bone structure, her mass, her size, even her clothing. Yet she shows not the slightest discomfort, and can do it in an instant. No. That sort of change—” He leaned back, his arms crossed. “It must have a cost.”
“You act like this stuff is real.”
“Who’s to say it is not?”
“Seriously? Mutants with superpowers?” Trent rubbed his hands on his thighs with a burble of nervous laughter. “Might as well believe in ghosts.”
“I do.”
“What?”
“I find it more expedient to believe in everything until it’s proven false than to disbelieve everything until it’s proven true.”
“Either you’re really open-minded or totally nuts.”
Christophe chuckled. “Not the latter, I trust. But if we assume impossibility, we risk missing out on the extraordinary. Don’t you find the notion of a world that holds nothing new incredibly dreary?”
“I . . .” Trent swallowed against a lump in his throat. “I suppose.”
I used to feel that way. Exactly. In that visit to Forest Park with Logan, anticipating the ghost war. Shit, seeing the ghost war. It had been unbelievably thrilling. Even when he’d first entered it, taken the part of Danford Balch, the excitement in his chest had felt like a short-fused cherry bomb about to explode. Right up to the moment he’d played his part too well and shot poor Mortimer Stump in the face.
Of all the things he’d have preferred to smell in that hellish world—mud, rain, even horse shit—he’d been able to smell nothing but Mortimer’s blood.
“Trent. Trent!” Christophe shook his arm gently. “What is wrong?”
Shit, did I just space out? “I— Nothing. I’m tired of this movie. Let’s watch something else.”
“Whatever you’d like.”
“You don’t have to be somewhere?”
Christophe smiled. “I am exactly where I want to be.” He stroked a strand of Trent’s hair back, and the gentle touch eased Trent’s nerves.
I’m not trapped anymore. I’m here with someone who touches me with gentleness, who brings me coffee and doughnuts that I can eat and drink and taste and smell.
He gazed into Christophe’s eyes, and the heat there chased the last of his chills away. He leaned forward, inviting a kiss, and Christophe accepted, pressing his lips to Trent’s in a maple-and-coffee-flavored mating of tongues.
After a thankfully long moment, they separated and grinned at each other. Then Trent nestled against Christophe’s side and Christophe wrapped an arm around Trent’s shoulder, holding him close.
Oh yeah. Maybe he could make it through this movie after all.