Of all the things that could have happened during a Thanksgiving meal with a near stranger, this wasn’t anything Trevor could have dreamed up. The poor guy looked like he might squeeze those trade paperbacks right down into their constituent atoms. Had he truly gone his whole life thinking he was the only guy who liked guys?
Was Trevor the only adult male in Montana who didn’t know how to build a fire?
And so sweet about it, too. So virginal at such a late age. Wanting nothing more than to borrow a book. No lunging or grabbing or making assumptions he expected Trevor to fulfill. And especially no nose-punching or rib-stomping. Trevor could breathe again almost before Harper asked about libraries, but man, had he been poised for fight-or-flight.
Sounded like Harper had paid for the wanting.
He’d stayed only long enough for Trevor to select him a good book to start with, something with forest rangers who weren’t sure about each other’s interest, and then he’d fled. Bandit had barely been able to keep up with him. Hope he got all the way home before he started reading: crashing into a tree with that book in his truck might raise some eyebrows.
Best part: Trevor could absolve himself of perving while Harper worked—the admiration wouldn’t have come that far amiss.
Oh damn, hope this didn’t make things awkward between them. Because Trevor really did still have a broken heart that needed to be healed with dastardly deeds committed on page against a perfidious ex.
So why was he making notes about the way Don held an armful of romances? Trevor should be describing anguish and blood for “The Pulverizing of Antony G.”
“Wonder what he did that got him into so much trouble?” It could range from a participant calling foul on a circle jerk to getting caught in mid-penetration. Sabrina didn’t have anything to add to the speculation: she was too busy burying a squeaky toy in her dog bed.
“He’s got great eyes,” Trevor told Sabrina. “And great shoulders and he filled out those jeans pretty nice. And he seems like a really nice guy. Think we scared him off?”
Maybe not too far off: a man known to be reliable had borrowed a book from a man who had more such books. He’d be back.
Which would be damned distracting. Trevor needed to put words on the page.
***
Oh, man. Everything he needed to know, between two covers. Don ran the only two stoplights between Trevor’s place and his cabin.
So what if he hadn’t read a book since struggling with Ivanhoe nearly twenty years back? Don fell into the big easy chair by the fireplace and fumbled to page one.
Oh, holy... This guy was like him! Unsure, and worried, and... and only scared of not being wanted back. Don turned the pages slowly. Not just because reading was unfamiliar, but... He needed this sense of sameness to last. He’d ache along with the character, and yeah, there was kissing in this book, and more, Trevor said. He wanted to hurry along to the kissing parts, but he didn’t want to miss a clue along the way.
Just tell him what you want! Oh yeah, so easy to say that to a character, when Don hadn’t managed to tell anyone ever. But they both had good reasons to stay quiet... And then on page thirty-seven, yeah, oh yes, if it wasn’t sex together, it was sex and wanting, and yearning... Don knew way too much about stroking off with someone’s face in his mind’s eye. With someone’s other parts in his mind’s eye.
He opened his jeans and helped the character along.
***
He’d fallen asleep with the book on his chest somewhere after the midway point—kissing stuff at last! And other stuff, a lot of other stuff, confirming what Don always suspected—two men could do it! Fuck yeah!
Don helped them celebrate the revelations, and dreamed of more. Somehow the other man in his dreams didn’t look much like a forest ranger. More like a city slicker in a cashmere sweater that came off with a wish.
He woke, terrified he might have crumpled the pages, or stuck them together. No and no—he could keep reading without a freakout—and rereading this middle section was a great way to start the morning! But this was only half way through the book, something was gonna go wrong, they couldn’t just be happy and have more sex for a hundred pages, could they?
No, they couldn’t—Don sweated along with his guides to starting a gay relationship, until they admitted how much they wanted each other, and Bandit whined to be let out. Don managed to throw the kibble mostly into the dog dish, and then he was right back in the book, finding out how good the next kissing and stuff part was gonna be. Oh, sonova... guys really did that! Good thing one of the characters knew what he was doing, because the other sure didn’t, but he was learning fast. Don could learn fast too.
Just as well he hadn’t bothered putting his britches back on, because the men in the book needed a helping hand with what they were doing. Two or three times.
He lay back against the pillows, breathing hard. A white blob left a snail trail down his ribcage.
Sex. Love. More sex. And love, and respect between them. And love. In a book. In lots of books. Trevor wrote this book. He wrote lot of these books, and other authors did too. And maybe nothing was quite like it was in the books, but this could be real. He could have something like it for himself. Maybe. Even.
For the first time since he’d been caught under the bleachers with Jimmy Redfeather, he had hope.
***
Surrounded by sheets of paper covered in thought-webs, Trevor spent a productive day plotting. Sure got dark early around here, not even three o’clock and the sun was low in the sky. Did that qualify as a day’s work then? He jumped at the sound of a rap at the door. Who...?
He opened to find a blushing Don Harper, a familiar book clutched in a two-armed grip against his chest.
“Everything okay?” Trevor welcomed him in.
“Fine. Uh, real fine,” Don stammered. “Um, I brought your book back.” Handing it over seemed to be actively painful. “Very good book.”
“Glad to hear it.” Trevor fought a grin to a standstill. It was one of his favorites, after all.
“Um, think I could get a copy?”
That looked like one well-read book. Trevor didn’t have the heart to take it away from him. “Why don’t you keep this one?”
“You mean it? Thanks!” Don crushed it to his chest with an audible thud. “I’m gonna need more books. Can I buy them down at Facts & Fiction?”
“Online. Definitely online.” Oh shit, Trevor hadn’t considered getting outed as part of growing his literary following. He could only imagine a Twyla or Betty Jo or Lynette taking the order and turning into Calamity Jane.
“Oh.” Don’s face fell, and he braced like he might lunge at the wall of bookshelves. “No internet.”
Oh, hell. He’d said he didn’t have television: Trevor should have expected that. “You could go online here, if you wanted to.”
Brightening slightly, Don might be revving up to say yes, but then he wilted again. “Guess I better get a credit card first.”
What kind of world did Don live in? Trevor couldn’t live without plastic. Don had said “turn the calendar back thirty years. “I have a better idea.”
He led his guest to the bookshelves and started pulling out volumes. “Read this one next: same couple, next adventure. You’ll like this one, and this one...” He loaded Harper’s arms with another five. “Is that too many?”
“No, not at all!” Don stared down at the top cover, featuring a cowboy and a man in a tux. “Thank you!”
Well if the man had to drive ten miles into town for a reading fix, Trevor would make it worth his while. “Say, I have leftover feast. Want to stay for dinner?” Early though it was, Trevor would offer, and they could do something around town. The companionship yesterday was addicting.
“Thank you kindly, but not today.” Harper started edging toward the door. “Must be getting home.”
Wrong invitation—maybe Trevor should have offered the couch and the reading lamp first. Or the bedroom—that slightly maniacal face portended a one-handed read. “Next time?”
“Next time!” Harper shot out the door, bestowing the barest of pats on Sabrina, who danced in a clatter of claws after her new second-favorite human. “Yes! Thank you! Bye!”
Darn. If the novelty didn’t wear off, attracting Harper’s attention for some facetime might require lending him shorter piles of books. Then he’d have to come back more often, and stay a little longer.
“Well, hell, girl.” Trevor reached for Sabrina’s leash, which made her dance harder. “Let’s go take a walk while we have some daylight.”
He managed to get the booties on her, all the while wondering if he ought to find doggie snowshoes: the snow hadn’t stopped since yesterday, and seven inches covered the sidewalk. Note to self, buy a snow shovel. And a hat.
Trevor kept a careful eye on the street signs: he didn’t know his way around the neighborhood by Braille yet, and wanted to get home again by deliberation, not random chance. Mercury Street, Aluminum Street: Trevor was sensing a theme here... He let Sabrina march him up the road, which ended in a T-junction at Zinc Street, or what might have been a four-way intersection, except the road ended even with the houses’ back yards at a chain link fence.
Okay, what... Trevor crossed the street to peer through the fence.
A pit in the earth gaped before him, bigger than his mind could fathom.
Was that water? He’d never seen water so many colors, blue, red, orange at the edges, a weird purple. He swayed, overwhelmed with imagining the sheer volume that must have been dug out of the ground, because no way were those rows of even, flat terraces natural. Trevor hooked his fingers into the chain link, fighting to comprehend.
“Hi, mister!” A small boy in a stocking hat made Trevor turn around. “There’s no birds on the water, are there? There shouldn’t be birds.”
“Um, why not?” That lake in the pit had room for a million birds to touch down and paddle around.
“You didn’t know, mister? That water’s poison.”