Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/rural/lake-desolation/) for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex between adult men. Go away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty TODAY at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.
The two shake hands. Thank GOD for the stiff, biting wind. Eyes always tear up because of that... not that what Logan said is making me cry or anything. My heart is so big right now that I'm afraid everyone will notice my chest swell up. I can't look at Logan. If I do, I'll simply lose it. 'Yes,' I tell Maria silently, 'yes, I swear to God that I'll let him love me.' I feel the warmth of her smile.
Lake Desolation 13: It Had to be You
By Bear Pup
Sunday (7)
The ride to Tinny's is anticlimactic. I notice that the heat is on high and gesture to Logan to keep the gloves on. He looks perplexed, then nods. Fingerprints. I chat with Hal who is more than eager to pretend nothing has happened. When we get to the Miller home and drop Hal off, he tries to apologise and I cut him off.
"You were doing your job, Hal, and I overreacted. I'm sorry." I turn and put a hand on Joshua's shoulder, "And that goes for you, too. You care about me and I repay you with anger. It was stupid of me, Joshua, and I apologise." Joshua relaxes like a tense spring with the pressure slowly released.
"Thanks, Stettler."
Hal promises to keep an eye out for anything happening at the cabin and I pretend to believe him. Since it would require him getting out of his nice, warm cruiser and hiking a mile in the snow, I know it's more symbolic than anything.
We grab our bags at Tinny's and Joshua rumbles off back to the house. Maggie spots me and calls back, "Drop some wings, Jack!"
I go up to the bar and introduce Larry. Maggie will have details around town in no time, which is a very safe thing to have happen; she'll instantly back-date the tale of meeting him to his (fictional) arrival date. The idea of NOT being the first to know everything that happens on and around the Lake is anathema to her very being. She is familiar with the car service picking me us and smiles when I say Christopher will be here. She turns and tells Jack to have tenders ready to drop; it's something that Christopher can eat one-handed as he drives.
The wings come out with the menus, delicious as always. Tinny's is one of the places that has not adjusted their seasoning levels to the 'melt you face' standards of the day. Hot is still nice and edibly-spicy, just enough to make the house-made bleu cheese dressing and sticks of celery the perfect foil. I get the fish and chips while Logan opts for a BLT with fries. All of it is delicious. The food deteriorates in the height of season since they have to bring in extra help, but in the winter, the meals are perfect every time.
Christopher arrives just as we finish and loads our gear, grabbing the steaming box of tenders from Maggie and dropping ten-dollar bill to cover that and the tip, only, as always, to be told I've already paid. Within minutes we are in the back of the limo heading toward Middle Grove and Christopher begins his scripted patter of what was where for Logan's sake. Logan settles into the side seat and pops open a juice drink they stock as a mixer as I lay back.
And just like that, the enormity of what I've done, what I am in the process of doing, hits me like hammer. I've already harboured a fugitive, lied to the police and helped him escape justice. I'm now getting ready to blithely commit any number of felonies to create a fake identity for him. The panic is rising in my throat until I look over at Logan. He's watching me, nervous and scared as if he can sense the direction of my thoughts. I flush and look down, ashamed.
The cycle repeats itself several times on the half-hour journey to I-87. Finally, I motion for Logan to join me on the back seat and I bundle his shoulders into my side, arm across his broad if painfully-thin shoulders. I see Christopher look in the rear-view and smile serenely. His phone rings and I tense, nervous as a rabbit; apparently, he's just getting news from his dispatcher.
He half-turns and says that there is something wrong on the George Washington, some sort of protest or something, and that the Tappan Zee is a shambles. Instead of going around Albany to the west on I-87, he jumped across to 90 which takes us along the east side of the Hudson valley. Christopher suggests we check out a new feature. The limo now has Wi-Fi and there is a tablet for surfing in the box where snacks are kept.
Logan takes it out and fiddles for a while then suddenly stiffens. His breathing becomes a panicky, shallow thing and I look down with alarm. He has a story pulled up, 'Anti-Immigrant Protest Disrupts Traffic'. A video (Logan has the sound off) pans across a crowd that has spilled from George Washington Park on the ramps on the Manhattan side of the bridge. Amid banners screaming 'MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN' and 'BUILD THE WALL' are giant faces of President-Elect Trump. The banners that make my blood run cold, though, all have a grainy image from a security camera of a kid with a gun. The words read, 'Stop Drug Violence at the Border'. The face in the image is Logan's.
I share a look with Logan who sits silent, utterly undone by the image. I pull the tablet from his unresisting hands and start to peel back the layers of stories. The news is not as dire as it seems. The police are stymied in Saratoga Springs. They recovered the gun and two angles of security footage, neither particularly clear. Due to a 'disappointing lack of physical evidence', the police are hoping that someone knows the perpetrator, tentatively identified as an illegal migrant worker, and will come forward.
They have three possibilities. Two are based on security footage, one in the northwest corner of Saratoga Springs and the other far to the south in Malta. In both cases, an industrial plant's perimeter security caught an image of a lone figure that seems the right general size and shape and appears at a reasonable time to be the unknown subject (the former, Stewart's Manufacturing, actually was Logan). The third theory is that he has never left the city at all and is simply be sheltered by family.
The godsend is the eye-witness descriptions and sketches. People see what they expect to see. The kid in those flyers is clearly Mexican, rough and narrow-eyed, often with a goatee. Logan couldn't grow a beard with gallon of Rogaine and a three-year head start! The best of the security camera stills might look like my... Logan; each of the sketches looks less and less like the kid huddled and terrified at my side.
I lean down and whisper, "Logan, it's fine. It's better than fine. Those bigots are making you safer. By trumpeting an illegal Mexican immigrant, they make it less and less likely that anyone will look at you twice. You hear me, son? I love you Logan. I'm not lying to you, and I will keep you safe."
Logan nods miserably. It's not so much that he doubts me as he has so little hope and confidence that anything can snuff it like a candle. And having a bunch of hate-filled bigots screaming for blood under a banner with your face on it? Who (other than the politicians who incite such displays) could fail to be horrified and scared?
His tension increases markedly as we get into the outskirts of The City and open spaces become more and more infrequent, replaced instead with manicured parks and golf links. By Chappaqua he is jittering; by Yonkers he is shaking. I try to take his mind off it with sightseeing titbits like Yankee Stadium and the NYC skyline, but it doesn't help much. When we cross the RFK onto Manhattan itself, I have to hold him tightly and mutter soothing things to him. Christopher notices.
"I'm sorry, Mr Mallory. I hate it too. The City is just too big, too confusing, too... much. I'll try and get us to the hotel as smoothly as possible." And he is true to his word. He keeps up an occasional patter, like pointing out when we pass under Gracie Mansion or the United Nations or Battery Park. We're in luck and there's only one cab in front of the Marriott.
Christopher, as always, offers to carry the bags. "Don't be silly! It's just a couple of overnight bags. I'm not sure how long we'll stay..."
"Do you want me to stay in town as a driver?" There is a note of eagerness in his voice, but also one of caution. Being our on-call driver is lucrative, but eliminates any chance of carousing, which he clearly is excited to do.
"No, no." I hand him an envelope. "Open that after we're inside. And Christopher, enjoy The City, son. You're a good kid." The envelope has an extravagant tip, enough to pay for at least one night of carousal and two if he's frugal. Maria always doted on Christopher and since she passed, I haven't had much interest in using a limo.
Logan takes a very deep breath and relaxes slightly once we're inside and out of the bitter wind rushing through the city's canyons. I brush away an offer of a bellhop, perhaps more-brusquely than I normally would. Logan's tension has infected me no matter how hard I fight it. I check us in, grumbling a bit that I've slipped to Gold Elite from Platinum; I could never slip lower because of the number of nights I'd stayed at Marriotts around the world.
I am surprised when they don't have the room I reserved. This is not unprecedented but unusual. "Unexpected repairs" have been required on a large block of rooms of the type I prefer. I know that is front-desk code for either a crime scene or bedbugs, so I just smile. The girl is charming and blushes, then hands me two key-cards, apologising that they don't have even one double-queen available. I'm irked, but not that upset. We enter the luxurious copper-tiled foyer for the elevators and go up to 37. Our room is at the end of the hall, more irksome since I prefer near the elevators and that's in my file, along with extra feather pillows and extra towels from when Maria and I travel so much. When I open the door, though, all disappointment vanishes.
It is an executive suite and beautifully furnished, sleek and modern but with rich, comfortable wood everywhere. To the left is a large, north-facing window perfectly framing the new Freedom Tower and looking down over 90 West, straight into the fountains of the 9/11 Memorial. The bedroom has a window facing east with views of the Financial District, the beautiful Equities building in the middle distance and the Chase Plaza tower behind it. I sling my case on the luggage rack and turn to find Logan transfixed, staring at the impossibly-high tower, I have to admit, it is a humbling and impressive view.
I pull the pack from his shoulder and set it aside, then pull Logan to the couch that more-or-less faces the window. He starts to tremble again as I gather him into me, rocking slightly. He mumbles, "I'm so scared." I simply sit there, soothing him for perhaps thirty minutes. By the time he calms we are well into dusk, the light off the angled panes of the tower striking across the shadowed city. I pull Logan up and we refresh our appearance in the nicely-appointed bathroom, then I pull him down the hall.
Right across for the elevator lobby is the concierge suite. I key us into the room. It's a simple, elegant room with nibbles and drinks. If it weren't New York, there would be wine and champagne on offer. Instead, we have vouchers for Bill's Burger Bar downstairs. Technically, there is a view of the Statue of Liberty and a sliver of Ellis Island from the room, but the winter haze and fading light make them all but invisible. I get a selection of hot snacks and bring them with a bottle of juice to Logan, having just water myself. The concierge lounge is a great place to overhear the business mood of any city.
What I hear relaxes me completely. The protests aren't even mentioned except as a traffic snarl. Not a word about crime or drugs. The protest was isolated and considered fringe at best. Behind us, talk is of BREXIT and what that means for transnationals who've spent the last decade consolidating EU operations in London. In the other direction, the talk is Broadway shows and whether anyone could score Hamilton tickets for under a jillion dollars.
I gather Logan in my wake and we return to the room. I talk and explain why everything is good news. Logan still seems jittery. We strip down to dress for the evening and I pull him to me again, this time for a deep kiss. We end up on the bed, wriggling playfully until I feel the last of the tension start to seep away. We get dressed and I make a stop at the concierge, a woman who looks very much like a fashion model except she still knows how to smile.
"Can you give me an idea of where we might eat as short notice? I don't have reservations. Anytime this evening?"
"Any special event or preference, Mr McKay? Do you want to stay in the Financial District?"
"No, none."
"Well, if you're willing to wait until 7:00, I know we can get you into several places in the Theatre District."
"That would be perfect. We are in your hands, my dear." She blushes prettily and makes some quick, hushed calls. She soon comes over and hands me a card, wishing us a good and pleasant evening. The card reads, 'Trattoria Trecolori', and a time, 7:00pm. Below, "Have a great dinner, Samanth!" I look in vain for the 'a' at the end and sigh. Anything to be unique. I've eaten in this city for most of my adult life; it's the inevitable centre of all things literary. But I never make my own dinner reservations. The dining changes by the hour, and folks like our concierge make their living by knowing who is eating what and where.
The light has faded to a dim glow in the west as the Doorman hails us a cab. I loathe subways, even ones as well-tended as some European hubs. We get in and I tip the Doorman who leans forward and says, "47th & 8th."
The cabbie pulls away and asks without turning, "Any preference?" I think for a moment.
"Actually, no, but let's do, um, 44th & 7th instead?"
"You're the doctor."
All the stress I'd worked out of Logan is back within minutes. The driver isn't (thanks be to God) one of the crazy ones, but Manhattan in the evening, even a Sunday, is a penance. I pull my l-l-lover (I still trip over the thought of that word) into me again and point out some of the more-obvious sights. I've already run my card through the machine included an average tip when we pull over abruptly 30 minutes later. As it turns out, we aren't exactly on the corner. In fact, we are behind a cab unloading folks at Carmine's, a place where lunch meetings frequently happen ever since they opened in the 90s. I pull Logan out with me and the glow of Times Square draws us forwards.
It is impossible to overstate the impact Times Square has at night. The explosion of light and colour are unmatched outside the Pacific Rim where an assault on the senses has been elevated to an art form. EVERYTHING moves, glows, flashes, jumps, jitters. I smile as I watch the wonderment on Logan's face. He is tense, certainly, but also transported.
We've been standing there perhaps twenty seconds when Logan jumps and cries, "HEY!" to the fleeing back of a kid in a hoodie. He turns to me, "Stettler! He stole my wallet!" I look at him for a moment and burst out laughing. My own wallet, from decades of habit, is in a pouch inside my pants, suspended from a leather loop that my belt runs through.
He stares at me like I've lost my mind and I lean in and say, "Son, what is IN that wallet?" Logan looks confused, then the penny drops. The only thing in that wallet is a load of folded up magazine clippings I'd put in there to give it bulk! He is suddenly laughing with me. "Logan, come on. Let's walk before he comes back and asks for a refund!"
I get a genuine smile from Logan at that and we stroll up Times Square, gazing in shop windows and at the utterly bizarre variety of buskers and 'performance artists' that infest the area. I actually pause to watch a pair of kids drumming in a commanding African rhythm that is almost hypnotic. I drop a couple of dollars into the bucket and we move on. It is astounding how quickly The City swallows even those powerful drumbeats.
We get to the restaurant at 6:15 and they are absolutely packed. We can't even really get inside the door. Within five minutes, it's as if the tide has gone out and only those in mid-meal remain. The shows have started (Sunday is an early performance for those that even have one). I approach the hostess and present the card even though we're early. She smiles and says it's no trouble at all and seats us immediately.
A young waiter is there instantly asking if we'd like water and whether we know if we want wine. I say yes to the water and tell him that we'll pick a wine after we order. We get their signature appetiser, Antipasto Trecolori, a mix of meats and cheeses, and decide to split a pasta and each get an entrée. There is a gnocchi special and Logan says he's never tried gnocchi, so that it an instant choice. I go for a Scarpariello, chicken and sausage in a wine and herb sauce. Logan chooses Piccata Alla Trecolori, another signature dish, veal in a lemon-butter-wine sauce with peppers and capers.
The wine steward arrives seconds after the waiter takes the order. Thorough some telepathy, he knows every dish we're getting and I'm a bit shocked he doesn't steer us to top-shelf offerings. Instead, he suggests a simple Sangiovese for the appetiser and pasta, and Gavi di Gavi for both of our entrees. The steward takes a look at Logan, "Do you have-a ID sir? We have-a to ask."
Logan blushes and looks down. I answer instead. "His first time in Times Square and his first pickpocketing! We didn't make it thirty seconds! He is 22 last week, though. If you can't serve him, that's fine. We understand."
The steward smiles slyly and says, "My wife, she willa disown me if I say no to Signore McKay." I'm shocked, as it is rare for anyone to recognise me, especially since my dustcover pic is a decade old. Ahh. Samanth at work! Interesting.
The appetiser and wine arrive; both play perfectly against each other. The pasta is a huge hit with Logan, the delicate pillows of potato pasta are in a light pesto sauce, again the ideal foil for the wine. The entrees are divine, and the dry, white Gavi di Gavi is crisp and brilliant against the white-wine based sauces. We demur on dessert and find we've spent nearly 90 minutes over the very impressive meal. I tip generously for the superb service.
The wine and the meal have done amazing things for Logan. We catch a cab back and I find him looking at everything, seemingly not worried at all. We get back to the hotel and I ask for an envelope and a piece of stationery. I write 'Samanth' on the outside and write on the paper, 'It was more than I ever expected, and I appreciate your hard work. Please accept this as a token of our thanks for a truly wonderful meal, and a great evening.' I slip a bill inside along with the card she gave me. On a second piece of paper, I write, 'Samanth, Thank you for a wonderful meal!' and sign my famously-extravagant Stettler McKay signature. Who knows; one day it might be worth something, and it never hurts to advertise.
We go up to the room and Logan stands, smiling at me. He goes to the TV and finds a music menu, selecting something called 'Crooners'. It's mid song and Bing Crosby warbles, "It had to be you, it had to be you, I wandered around and finally found the somebody who could make me be blue, could make me be true or even be glad, just to be sad, thinking of you..." He moves in and wraps me in his arms and slowly kisses me. "Take me to bed, Jake, please?"
There in the lights of the City that Never Sleeps, we begin to kiss. Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole and Dean Martin take turns serenading us. I lay my beautiful young love on the bed and undress him slowly, shucking my own clothes in the process. I kiss him then, long and deep, taking my time and relishing the taste of my young lover and out shared meal. I feel his hardness against my own, the heat of his young body next to mine. There is a fire here, but a new type; a low burn that does not consume.
I kiss across his cheeks and even his eyes, and nuzzle deeply into his neck, making him arch his back and moan deeply. His hands rove my back and one latches onto my neck, keeping my head in place right there in the hollow of his clavicle.
I kiss slowly down his body, stopping to lick and lip-nibble his nipples, relishing the way it makes him squirm. He begins to pant and suddenly flips me on my back and latches onto my mouth, kissing me fervently. He pulls back as Nat King Cole croons, "Do I want to be with you as the years come and go? Only forever, if you care to know."
"Only forever, Jake. I love you like that." He kisses me again and it becomes something else again. We now make love without even thinking of sex. Nothing matters but the emotion that locks us together. I finally feel him begin to flag, the worry and tension and wine and pasta taking their toll. I pull him into my arms and snuggle him into the covers, kissing his back and shoulder and neck, gently stroking his sides and arms. The disgustingly-sweet voice of Dean Martin sings "Goodnight, Sweetheart" as he dozes off. I always hated that voice, but it is suddenly something to cherish.
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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay... Canvas Hell: 27 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/ Beaux Thibodaux: 19 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/ The Heathens: 20 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/ Lake Desolation: 13 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/ Dear John Letter: 3 chapter .../military/dear-john-letter/ Shark Reef: 6 chapters .../adult-youth/shark-reef/ Culberhouse Rules: 3 chapters .../incest/culberhouse-rules/
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