Owen

Owen

Chapter forty-six

By Roy Reinikainen

Riley smiled a greeting, and threw the doorman to Bailey's apartment building a casual salute as the crisply dressed man opened the door for him. The look of distaste on the man's face was priceless. 'Looks like he's been sucking on a lemon,' Riley laughed, to himself. 'No matter how many times I've been here, and even though Bailey has introduced me to him, he still isn't quite sure I belong anywhere near this building, much less in it.'

"Mister Wilkins said to be expecting you, sir," the doorman managed, in a pseudo British upper class accent, doing his best not to look down his aquiline nose at the visitor, and the large bouquet of pale yellow lilies he carried. "He asked that I send you up to his apartment. Directly," the doorman added, as if Riley might wander off on his own and scare one of the other "pure breads" which seemed to fill the building.

"Relax, Mister Witherspoon," Riley grinned, deciding to have some fun with the man who was entirely too full of himself. "I'm aware that you cook the chickens 'round here. I'm not fixin' to do anything to embarrass you."

He studied the high ceiling, and the surrounding lobby, then turned his brightest smile on the man who involuntarily backed up a step. "This place reminds me of my old stompin' grounds," Riley drawled, playing up his accent. "In fact," he leaned closer, causing Witherspoon to move back, yet again. "Come t'think about it, you, and my mama and daddy's butler could be twins." Riley theatrically suppressed a shudder. "He gives me the heebie-jeebies too."

The doorman sniffed his indignation, and attempted to make a dignified retreat. "Indeed," he huffed, looking to his left, then right, seeking a clear route to escape. "I'm sure Mister Wilkins must be anxious for you to go up to his apartment, as soon as possible. The, 'and leave me alone,' went unsaid. "Perhaps it would be best for you to go . . . now. We don't want to keep Mister Wilkins waiting." The man went so far as to make small shooing motions with both white-gloved hands.

"Yeah, you're prob'ly right," Riley responded, lazily, refusing to be coaxed into leaving. "I'm gonna suggest t'him that you, him, and me go out for a drink, real soon. Y'know, since we're all such good buddies, n'all. I just love havin' a couple beers and swappin' stories." The doorman's eyes widened as he imagined spending an evening with the young man and Mister Wilkins.

Riley could almost hear the stuffy man's thoughts. 'If Mister Wilkins' father didn't own the building, I'm sure this . . . person . . . wouldn't be allowed to step foot into the lobby, much less go upstairs.' He shook his head. 'What is the world coming to?'

Riley turned away then looked back and waved as the older man tugged at his uniform's jacket, and heaved a sigh of relief.

'His attitude is nothing a good roll in the hay wouldn't cure,' Riley smiled to himself, as he crossed the granite-floored lobby, with a spring in his step. 'Makes me wonder what the poor man's wife must be like. Or, boyfriend,' he added. 'Now that I think about it, that does seem likely.' He suppressed a shudder, pitying whomever might be Mister Witherspoon's . . . partner . . . bedmate . . . friend.

As he waited for elevator he smiled broadly at a woman who appeared to be not quite sure if she wanted to be near someone who appeared to be dressed in second hand store rejects, much less share an elevator with him, even if he was carrying a beautiful bouquet. She surreptitiously looked around, obviously praying someone would join them and ease her discomfort.

"Howdy, ma'am," he drawled, tipping his illusory hat as he and the woman stepped into the elevator and the door silently slid shut. "Sure is a purty place, isn't it?" He squinted at the fur stole draping her shoulders, and lowered his brows, leaning closer, as the woman leaned equally back. "Y'mind me asking' what that poor critter was, when it was living?" The woman made a non-committal noise, smiling fixedly at him as she jabbed at the elevator buttons, never taking her eyes off his. The elevator sighed to a stop. "Have a nice day, y'hear?" he shouted, as the as she scooted, sideways, between the barely parted doors in an unseemly retreat.

'I've got to stop this,' Riley scolded himself, while the elevator stopped at every floor for which the recent escapee had pressed a button. 'I may get Bailey into trouble, and it wouldn't be worth me having a little fun with all these stuffed shirts.' He shook his head. 'People are just so impressed with themselves they're unwilling to have a little fun.' He smiled. 'I'm glad Bailey's loosening up some.' He stepped out of the elevator into the dimly lit elevator lobby of the floor with Bailey's apartment. 'Corey,' he smiled to himself, 'I wonder if you realize what a wonderful person you left behind.'

Lucas turned out the lights and swung open the two large French doors which opened onto, what he thought of as a Romeo balcony, and inhaled the night air. "I'll never get tired of this," he said, without turning around to face Owen and Sam, who both sat on the big bed, their backs against the headboard. "It's so quiet . . . and dark." A dog barked, in the distance, causing Lucas to smile. 'Just as I described it to Mother,' he thought. 'The sound carries on the still air.' Below, the town's four streetlights cast widely spaced yellow pools of light on the deserted main street, while, closer by, the sidewalk was lit with the flickering sign in the window of Sally's restaurant.

"He likes standing naked in front of the window, exposing himself to the world," Owen muttered. "His long-term goal is to start showin' off, in the daylight." Sam nudged him with an elbow.

"Can you explain to Sam and me what we just experienced, out on the stair landing?" Lucas asked turning to the two men. He crossed the room and climbed into bed, at Owen's side. "I'm worn out, just watching the poor guy. I can't imagine what he must be feeling." Lucas leaned closer, as Owen laid an arm over his shoulder, pulling him close, just as he'd done with Sam.

"I can only fill you in on a couple generalities." Owen spoke into the darkness. "Corey's never been able to talk about . . . stuff . . . because he's never been close enough to anyone to talk about what his childhood was like, or how he feels about . . . things. What he did, a while ago, out there on the stairway landing, took a lot of courage." Owen sighed. "When I met him, he'd been holdin' stuff in for so long, he was hardly able to even think about it, much less talk. He has a long way to go, but he's begun. That's the important thing." Owen tightened his one-arm embrace, around Sam's shoulder. "You remember how rough it was for me to . . . start?"

Owen turned to Lucas, even though he was close to invisible, in the darkened room. "Sam and I used to lay on the grass in our meadow, lookin' at the stars. He'd ask me what was botherin' me, and I couldn't answer. It seemed I was being critical of Pops, or something. I figured I should be able to handle things on my own. That's what Corey's been doing . . . trying to handle things on his own. He's like me. We both built walls around that part of our past which was painful. My walls haven't been completely torn down yet. Corey's only beginning to work on his."

"What do you have yet to do to . . . tear those walls down?" Lucas murmured, running a hand over Owen's thigh, amazed, as always, by its smoothness.

"I have to learn to . . . handle the hate, the anger, and the fear, I still feel. Sometimes those feelings 'bout take me over." He lowered his voice. "Then, I go out for a run, or somethin'. I actually hate running. But I'd rather run than . . ." He shrugged, in the darkness. "I've got a lot to do yet. I'm thinkin' that maybe, I'll never finish, but, I figure, just like with Corey, if I'm chipping away at all there is to do, maybe, someday, I'll be able to handle . . . those things, I feel."

"Will Corey be okay?"

There was a brief pause, as Owen thought. "He'll be okay, Sammy. It looks like he's havin' a bad time of it, but really, he's beginning to do something he's wanted to do for years. By us all giving him our support, he's feeling safe enough to do what he needs to do. It'll still be rough for him, but, since talkin' to us, things'll get easier.

Lucas spoke into the silence. "What's all this about?"

"He's beginning to come to grips with a pretty terrible childhood."

Lucas tilted his head back and asked the ceiling. "Has anyone around here had a happy childhood? Geez," he exhaled, in a gust of breath.

"Mine was fine," Sam volunteered. "The only thing which would have made it better was if Owen had been happier. Sometimes, that was . . . difficult."

Owen drew Sam closer. "Corey's a survivor. He n'I have talked, and talked, and argued, and talked some more, until we're both exhausted from all the emotions. He has to find a way to forgive, otherwise his childhood will become the thing which rules his life, affecting everything he does or thinks. His childhood is past . . . over with, just like Jonah's and mine. He . . . all of us, can't continue to live in that past, and stay sane. Jonah and I, just as much as Corey, are survivors. We've won! Realizing that . . ." Owen lowered his voice. "It helps."

"Owen . . .?" Lucas murmured. When Owen made a noncommittal sound, he continued. "Are you talking only about Corey, or is there a little bit of advice for Owen thrown in there with what you just said?"

"Geez . . . I don't know." He paused, then softly snorted. "Yeah, I guess there is. Maybe more than a little, in fact." He leaned his head back against the headboard and took a shuddering breath. "Damn, guys . . . this is rough. Kneelin' there, watching Corey was like I was reliving all the bad stuff in my life. I think I've overcome . . . things, only to have them slap me in the face.

"Sorry for bein' so preachy, guys. It's easy for me to say what I think is good for Corey; it's an entirely different thing when I try to decide what's best for me."

"What . . . ?"

Owen interrupted. "It's not only stuff that happened between Pops n'me. It's also about that picture of you'n me, Sammy." He glanced toward the nightstand where the photograph, propped against the lamp, was nothing more than a grey shape, in the darkened room. "I've tried . . . hard . . . but I still can't figure out what that photo represents, to me. I've tried to throw it away a couple times, but I just . . . couldn't do it."

"Then, let's not get all worked up, trying to figure it out," Lucas, always the calming influence, intervened. "Have you considered that maybe it doesn't mean anything? Maybe you keep it because it's a great picture of the both of you. It symbolizes how much you love each other, just like the photographs of the three of us show what we feel. That's what I prefer to think. Analyzing things to death, sometimes doesn't help produce any answers. It seems that the only thing all this talk of one's childhood may do is serve to keep the past stirred up. Maybe, it would be best to let the past remain in the . . . past."

"I think you're wrong, Lucas, at least about tryin' to think things through. To me, it just doesn't seem . . . healthy . . . tryin' to keep things bottled up, allowing all those memories to fester and change the type of person you are. People like Corey and me have to believe that, while the past can't be changed, it might be . . . I don't know . . . understood, maybe. We have to believe that we can do it. We don't know how long it'll take to get where we want, but as long as we believe that the goal we're seeking can be reached, reaching it is at least possible.

"Recovering from something takes a long time; possibly even a person's whole life. But, not trying to recover is a sure road to unhappiness. Tonight, Corey took his first step toward makin' his life better. I'm proud of him . . . more'n I can say. What he did, considering what his background is, took courage."

"I understand both sides of the argument, Cowboy." Lucas leaned close and kissed Owen's cheek. "I really do. I guess that, since I've never experienced the stuff you and Corey have, I shouldn't be so free with my opinions. I'll try to keep them to myself."

"No, don't do that. Guys, neither of you should be afraid of telling me what you think. Just 'cause I say, or think something, doesn't make it so. Sometimes, I get the feeling that folks think I'm some sort of super-human person, who can do no wrong. All I do is listen to people who want to talk about something important to them. I don't actually do anything, other than sorta give 'em permission to talk, by paying attention to them. When I do say something I'm just saying what I think. You and Sammy should feel free to do the same thing. Deal?"

"It's a deal."

"Deal," Sam added, to Lucas' agreement.

"So, before we do anymore talking about Corey, let's give him a chance to do it on his own. It'll be hard for him, but he's strong, and, with Jonah standing by his side, he's stronger than ever.

"Jonah's good for him," Owen stated. "He'll give Corey confidence he never knew he had. Jonah's like that. Right now, Corey hasn't become accustomed to thinking of Jonah as the person he should be talkin' to. That's why he asked me if he was doing okay. Soon, he'll be talkin' only to Jonah."

"I understand what you're saying," Lucas hesitated. "But, you're wrong about something."

"A lot of things, surely," Owen chuckled.

"Maybe . . . but, Owen, you do more than listen, and give folks and chance to talk. Anyone can do that. You are an example to others. Knowing you makes them . . . me . . . all of us . . . feel like we can do more. We can be better people."

From Owen's opposite side, Sam murmured, "Got that right

Jonah turned to Corey, who was sitting on a barstool, leaning on the counter top of the kitchen island. He'd understandably been quiet since describing some of his childhood, and Jonah was worried. 'That little talk took a lot out of him.'

Jonah dimmed the lights. "D'ya want me to close the door?" he asked. The front door to his and Corey's apartment was hardly ever closed, the same as that of Owen, Lucas, and Sam.

"Nah." Corey straightened and looked over his shoulder. "I'm okay, Jonah . . . really. I'm just feelin' a little drained, that's all."

"I'm glad to hear it." Jonah met Corey's lips for a tender kiss then rounded the counter into the kitchen and began preparing some soup and a sandwich. "Things were pretty rough out there."

"Yeah . . . rough, but not as bad as I thought they might be. Just thinking about . . . some of the things I talked about has always scared the beejeebers out of me. So I didn't think about 'em. Owen was right. Not thinking about . . . things . . . was a mistake.

"I don't know how I managed that," he snorted. "I've always had that painting, and those photographs, close-by. I've looked at them every day, since goin' to college. But," he shrugged, "I guess there's a difference between lookin' at those things and really seeing them. Tonight, I saw them, for the first time, in years.

"I'm embarrassed though, 'cause of how I behaved." He reached for Jonah's hand. "I want to apologize to you for turning to Owen instead of you."

Jonah's brows lowered into a frown. "First off, there is nothing to be embarrassed about. Remember, back in the shower, the other day, when Lucas was talkin' about the five of us sharing things?"

Corey nodded. "Our good times, and out bad."

"Our laughter and our tears," Jonah concluded. "All of us feel honored, that you were comfortable enough to share that bit of your past with us. Trust me, our turns will come, and none of us should be embarrassed any more'n you should.

"And . . . what's to apologize for? From the sound of it, you and Owen have been discussing all this, for quite a while. While I can sympathize with your feelings, I was not the person who could comfort you. Only Owen could do that." Jonah smiled. "I'm just glad he was around, when you felt a need to talk about things." He lowered his voice.

"Y'know, Corey, you're not the only person who was benefitting from talking about your childhood. Maybe you didn't notice, but my brother was hanging on your every word. It was like you were speakin' both for yourself, and for him." Jonah snorted. "Everyone thinks Owen's in total control of his own emotions. That's not the case. My brother holds himself together by sheer strength of will. He learned to do that while we were growing up, 'cause of our father. He built this wall up around himself, cutting himself off from Pops, but fencing himself in. It's not somethin' he did consciously, and I don't know if he'd even agree with me that that's what he's done.

"He's always been afraid to allow himself to look out past that wall he's built. I don't know if it's because he's afraid something will hurt him, or if he just plain, can't. Whenever, he's helpin' someone, like what I hear he did for Bailey, or you, or the doctor, or Sam's dad, or his little friend Nicky, or whoever, he's also tryin', a little bit at a time, to come out from behind that wall of his.

"I was really afraid for him, when he left for college. He was cut off from Sam, Mama, and me . . . all of us who supported him. I wasn't sure how he was gonna be able to handle it all. I breathed a sigh of relief when I learned he'd met Lucas. He needs that . . . I don't know . . . support, I guess, whether it is Mama, or me, or Sam, or Lucas. He needs someone to treat him differently . . . better . . . than our father treated him. Maybe more'n any of us, Owen needs to feel useful, to know that he's contributing . . . that he . . . himself . . . is worth something. Pops, constantly told Owen how worthless he was. Owen believed more of what Pops said, than he would like anyone to think.

"I guess what I'm sayin' is that, as difficult as it may be to believe, you have made more progress toward recovering from your childhood, than my brother . . . even though it seems the opposite is true. All of the help Owen provides to folks like you n'Bailey, Lucas, n'all, is sorta like a safety valve for him. You all are giving him an opportunity to create himself in the image he hopes to be. By your actions, you all are tellin' him that he's a good person. You're helping undo some of the damage Pops did.

"Y'see, his entire self image was built on our father's constant criticism, telling him he wasn't good enough for anything worthwhile, that he shoulda been born a girl, 'cause he was 'bout as useless as a girl. Everything Owen loves, Pops would either belittle or destroy. Owen could do no right . . . None. Hearing that sorta thing all your life is bound to affect a guy. So . . . Owen's always trying to convince himself that he is a good person, and that his life does have a meaning."

Jonah took a deep breath. "When Pops was laying there, dying, in that courtroom, he told Owen n'me that he was sorry for how he treated us . . . that he wished he'd been a better father. For Owen, it was too little and way too late to hear that. It helped, but it didn't wipe away a lifetime's worth of hurt. It couldn't. I'm not sure anything can do that. But, talkin' can help.

"Y'know, everyone has to overcome things which happened while we were growin' up. We could have had a happy childhood, but we're still overcoming something, expectations, unrealistic dreams . . . something. We're all workin' to make ourselves better people. We all are hopin' for a better future, no matter how sad or happy our past was. And, no matter how bad or good it was, it'll always be with us. We can do our best to overcome it, or, as Owen said, to forgive, but none of us can ever forget.

"But . . . none of us should live in that past, forgetting t'focus on the here and now. We can only do our best to make the future a place where we can be happy."

Corey rounded the island and took Jonah in his arms. "I am so lucky," he murmured, as he nuzzled the thick hair at the side of Jonah's head. "I am so damned lucky." After those few words, his voice failed him and all he could do was to hold Jonah in a tight embrace.

"Uh, oh," Daniel murmured, nodding to the small group of people blocking the sidewalk ahead of them. "Dear Maxine is trying to stir up trouble," he murmured. "Wherever she is, trouble seems to follow . . . something like my brother's wife."

Maxine appeared to be in rare form, making choppy movements, alternating between madly waving her arms, pointing an accusatory finger at the person she was speaking to, or disgustedly putting her hands on her hips, no doubt, giving her listeners a withering glare, and a disdainful sniff. 'Geez, I hate those sniffs,' Daniel told himself. 'This has got to stop!'

It appeared that Gracie Miller and her husband, Peter, one of the couples Maxine was lecturing finally had had enough. Peter dismissed the stick of a woman with a casual hand motion, then he and his wife turned away, leaving Maxine poised, finger in the air, to make another point, only to find half of her audience, walking away.

"Hello, Bea . . . Daniel," Peter said, in greeting, as they approached. "Nasty night out, isn't it?"

"I can't say, Peter," Daniel answered. "Is it?"

"That woman hates you and your whole family, Bea," Gracie muttered, as if afraid Maxine might overhear. "She always has, but you all have been pretty much untouchable."

"What's changed, Gracie? My family and I are the same as ever."

Gracie shook her head in disgust, recalling the venom Maxine was spewing. "The difference is, you've added Lucas and Corey into the mix, introducing them to everyone as your son's partners."

"That's what they are, as is Sam. And, a finer group of young men I couldn't hope to meet."

"Well, Maxine doesn't think they're so fine, and she's doin' whatever she can to stir up trouble. She doesn't really care about the young men. She's after you and Daniel, and by hurting the boys, she thinks she can hurt both of you. Not many people are listening to her, but some are. Watch your back."

"Warn the boys too, will you?" Peter asked. Whatever else he might have said was interrupted by a loud . . ."

"Well!" from Maxine, accompanied by her ever-present sniff. "Spying on me, I see." Her voice, high pitched, and nasal, carried in the still evening air. "Typical of people like you. First, you drive your poor husband to take his own life, then, before the body's even cooled, you begin carryin' on with another man. Makes one wonder what was goin' on behind poor Jonathan's back, doesn't it?" she asked, folding her arms and turning to the nearby couple, as if seeking agreement.

"You drive your husband to suicide, then drive your children into a life of sin. And them! They go and bring back all sorts of bad influences. Our children aren't safe with . . . ones . . . on the loose. Need to be locked up, all of you!"

"Maxine!" Daniel called out, using his deep voice to its best advantage, speaking as he would to an unruly child. "I've told you time and again, to not leave your house if you've forgotten to take your meds. You know what a couple days off of 'em do to you." Daniel shook his head, ignoring Bea's warning clasp on his arm.

The couple standing next to Maxine took a couple steps away, distancing themselves as their eyes widened."

"So . . . that explains a few things," Peter Miller murmured as he turned to his wife, not quite sure what Bea's frown meant.

Daniel shook his head, as if resigned to Maxine's wayward ways. "I've said way more'n I should, my dear, but . . . stayin' on one's meds is something I stress to all my patients."

"That's quite enough, Daniel," Bea warned, in an under voice. "Too much, in fact." She tightened her grip on his arm. "Don't you agree?" she asked, before Gracie and her husband turned back to her and Daniel.

"Y'know," Peter Miller observed, as Maxine turned and walked away in a straight-backed huff. "From behind, her skinny hips remind me of a thirty dollar horse I once had. It's opinion of itself was as high as our dear grocer's."

Gracie laughed, in recollection. "That horse's name was Terror. It's hair sorta stood out like Maxine's." She paused, as her husband laughed. "Come to think of it, ol' Maxine does remind me of Terror, in a lot of ways."

"Were you makin' all that up, just to put ol' Maxine in her place?"

"Daniel's always trying to look out for me, Peter, but bein' nasty isn't the way to achieve anything good, is it, Lumberjack?" Both Bea's voice and eyes sparkled at the name, which drew their friend's attention and smiles, and diverted their attention away from the recent unpleasantness.

"Lumberjack?" Gracie chuckled as she examined the tall man in his ubiquitous plaid shirt, with sleeves rolled half-way up his forearms. "Now that Bea's mentioned it, I do see the resemblance."

Peter turned a puzzled look at his wife, then at Daniel.

"I'm macho," Daniel explained.

Bea smiled. "No, that's not it! I tease him because he wears these lumberjack-type shirts. He is working on macho, though, and I must say, he is improving." She turned to Daniel, saw his expression, and burst out laughing.

"Oh stop looking at me like that. I'm just teasing you. You're way more macho than . . . ahem . . ." She looked from side to side, as if seeking someone with whom to compare her husband, then looked at the darkening sky, and finally turned back to Daniel, who, along with the Miller's was smiling. "You're way more macho, than some men I've known," she concluded. "And, I love you just the way you are."

Peter Miller leaned close to his wife. "For a moment there, I thought Bea was going to use me as an example of an un-macho person." His wife only grinned and patted him on the arm.

"Should I throw you over my shoulder and carry you home, like a caveman, just to prove my . . . macho-ness?" Daniel asked, finishing with a deep throated, "Grrrrrr."

"No dear." Bea consolingly patted his arm. "The last time you threw a caveman over your shoulder you had a terrible time with your back, remember?" She blinked disingenuously, as both their friends and Daniel laughed.

"You're making this all up, aren't you?" Peter asked.

"No Peter. He was no good for anything, for days and days." She leaned closer to Peter and his wife. "Cavemen'll do that to you, I'm told."

Gracie, known for her distinctive laugh, filled the night with a response to Bea's humor. "You both are certifiably crazy. I love it!"

"No, that's Maxine, dear," Peter said, as he and his wife prepared to resume their evening stroll. "Do watch out, the both of you. She wants to hurt someone. That's her goal. She works behind the scenes, laying long-range plans. When she's quiet, is when she's doin' the most damage. I'd warn the young men too."

"Rest assured," Daniel said, taking Bea's hand. "My wife and I will not tolerate lies and innuendos without standing up for ourselves. We don't want to start a fight, but we will not back down from one, either. We all know that the vast majority of stuff our friend, Maxine, spouts, is pure fabrication. The remainder may have some basis in fact, but has been embroidered to a point where the original kernel of truth is no longer recognizable.

"She is about to step over the line, where we will no longer be able to make fun of her, or ignore her. I've spoken with my sister, who is an attorney, and have been told precisely what we should do when dear Maxine steps over that line. I dare say that Maxine has not ever considered anyone fighting back. When she tangles with me or the woman I love, she's going to find herself up against a formidable opponent, one who will not back down, no matter what sort of threats she hurls in our direction."

He lowered his voice and grinned. "I'm talking about my sister. Now, she is the macho one in the family. She'd probably mount dear Maxine's head and hang it on her wall as some sort of hunting trophy, or something."

"Alongside the black bear," Bea added in a droll tone, rolling her eyes.

"Uuuu," Riley cooed, as he and Bailey separated from their kiss, and Bailey closed the door to his apartment. "Someone special coming to dinner, Gen'rl?" He turned away from the elaborately set dinner table, looking at Bailey, with a sparkle in his eyes, as he handed his host the bouquet of butter-yellow lilies, with stems wrapped in tissue paper. "Must be someone pretty special."

"Oh . . . no one special," Bailey answered, as he filled a vase with water. He's just some guy I've been hanging around with." He set the vase on the table, amidst the forest of glassware, then kissed Riley on the cheek. "I do love it though that he comes bearing flowers, and lilies too . . . my favorite."

"Favorite flowers," Riley murmured, "for my favorite man." He wrapped Bailey in an embrace and nuzzled his neck. "I'm talkin' about you, Mister Wilkins." He nuzzled closer. "Hmm, you smell good . . . sorta like pot roast." He held Bailey at arm's length and laughed at Bailey's snort of amusement.

"That's my best cologne you're smelling . . . Essence de au jus." He turned toward the apartment's spacious kitchen, as Riley snorted his amusement. "The only problem is that the stuff attracts flies," Bailey added, waving a hand about him, as if fending off a cloud of flies.

"I love it!" Riley smiled, as he hitched himself up onto a barstool and watched Bailey remove a roasting pan from the oven.

"What?" Bailey asked, his attention drawn to the man who was quietly watching him, wearing a pleased smile.

"You! Your self-confidence! You've changed a lot, in the past couple months," Riley observed. "It's been wonderful to see." He watched, in admiration, as Bailey arranged their dinner on a platter, then opened a bottle of wine with a flourish, and a satisfying pop. "I didn't know you could cook."

"Neither did I," Bailey laughed, as he dimmed the room's lights, then set the platter on the table, and lit the two candles. Outside, the lights of the surrounding buildings burned like stars, arranged in neat rows against the deep purple sky. "In the past, the couple times I had someone to dinner, I borrowed Mother's cook." He smiled brightly. "I found that doing things myself is much more enjoyable. Now, the only question is, is it palatable?"

"Oh, yes," Riley swallowed, pleased as Bailey's look of worry was replaced with a relieved smile. "Are you sure your mother's cook isn't hiding out somewhere?" He glanced around the large open space of Bailey's thirtieth floor apartment. "The meal is delicious." He raised a glass of wine in a toast."

"May we have many, many more meals together, my wonderful friend." He raised his brows in appreciation of the wine. "Actually, I think you're quite a bit more'n a friend," he added, returning to his meal. "I mean, after last night! I don't do that sort of thing with just anyone, y'know." He set his fork down.

"In fact, I was talking to Mother about you."

"Not about last night!"

Riley laughed. "No, she may be liberal-minded, but I think she might have trouble imagining me on my knees between your legs, with my whatsit buried, pubes-deep in your hole, as I did battle with your tongue." He playfully squirmed on his chair. "Uuuu, don't you love it when I talk dirty?"

He sadly shook his head. "Nope, telling Mother that sort of thing would go over about as well as a pregnant pole vaulter."

"So, you spoke to your mother, about me," Bailey prompted, making a hurry up motion with one hand, as he nervously toyed with the stem of his wine glass with the other.

"Yes. I told you about that big European trip she and m'father have been planning to celebrate my younger brother's graduation from that swanky school, and my graduation from college?" Bailey nodded. "Well, I told her that I was gonna have to meet up with the family, because I'm going to Riverton to be with you when you inaugurate that project of yours. I also want to meet your friends." Riley's lips thinned.

"I don't like the whole family leaving at the same time, if for no other reason, than it leaves all of my father's shifty attorneys in charge of things. Father's told me that the boys have, 'gotten too big for their britches.' I don't know if he's done anything about replacing them yet, though. It's funny, how Father seems to tell me his thoughts, when I'm the person least involved with the company.

"'Those rascals think they own the company!' Father told me, the other night. 'I don't like it one bit. In fact, soon as we get back, I'm going to replace them all.'

"I suggested the firm my older brother's with, but m'father doesn't think they have enough experience handling a big company like Pruitt Builders.

"Father's right. Those guys have been around so long, they think they're running the show. They can't stand me, and I like 'em about as much, which is to say, not at all. I, 'lack discipline,' they complain, over and over." Riley snorted. "What I lack, is a love of building things. Now, some of the guys Father has running the business are a different story. They love building things, and they love the company.

"The attorneys don't like them, either, and are always trying to get Father to get rid of two or three of 'em, 'just to streamline operations.' In reality, what they're hoping for is a couple fewer thorns in their side.

"Anyway, I told Mother that your project's unveiling is important to you, therefore, it's important to me. After all, I won't be missing much of Europe, and it's not as if I haven't seen it before. I'll meet 'em a day or so after they arrive. They don't like the arrangement, but, I told them I won't change my mind. After all, Kirby and Catherine, my older brother and his wife, and Nathan, my younger brother, and Lisa, my sister and her husband Michael will all be with Mother and Father. The clan won't even miss me!"

"Your conversation with your mother was more difficult than you're leading me to believe . . . wasn't it?"

Riley shrugged, and smiled. "Some. But then, conversations with my mother have a tendency to be difficult. She has standards which everyone must meet. She has despaired of me ever being a, 'true Pruitt,' so, in some ways, I have things a little bit easier than my brothers or sister, when I have to deal with her. There have been a few shouting matches, when I or my strong willed siblings have run up against my equally strong willed mother."

Riley's conversation with his mother had actually been much more acrimonious than he was describing. His mother, the 'social snob' let him know, in no uncertain terms, that she didn't approve of Bailey. "He's nothing but, 'new money,'" she'd told her son. "And, to make matters worse, he's a Northerner," she concluded, as if describing a leper suffering from an untreatable case of sea sickness combined with terminal bad breath, with whom she'd be sharing a small room . . . with one bed . . . on a ship weathering a severe storm. Riley shuddered to think of how his mother would deal with such a description, much less the real thing.

"New money, or old . . . Northerner, or whatever, Bailey is important to me, Mother. I want to be with him at this exciting time for him. And, I want to meet his friends.

"Mother, Bailey is a fragile person, whether he knows it or not. He's important . . . very important to me. Both he and his happiness mean a great deal to me."

His mother's disgusted snort of disapproval had pushed Riley beyond endurance. "I've got to go now, mother," he said. And, before she could say anything more, he'd abruptly cut the connection, cursing himself for allowing her to push his buttons. It made him even angrier to imagine his mother's pleased expression at having, 'gotten a rise,' out of her lazy son. 'I want to hit something,' he'd seethed. 'Better yet, I'd love to tell that woman precisely what I think of the little games she plays. How can she possibly say that she doesn't like Bailey?' He threw a shoe across his apartment, in frustration. "New money, indeed!"

He clenched his fists at his sides and shouted at the top of his lungs. "I don't care if he didn't have a penny to his name . . . Mother. I love that man, and there is absolutely nothing you can say . . . or do . . . which will change that!"

He pushed the unpleasant conversation to the back of his mind. 'Mother'll get over it," hopeful Bailey didn't detect his anger at his mother. "My behavior is just one more way in which I am a disappointment to her.'

He smiled crookedly as he helped Bailey clear the table and load the dishwasher. "So . . . I'll be going with you to Riverton. Then, as soon as we get back, I'll have to hop on a plane and head out to Europe, to be with the family. I can do as I wish, but only so far. I've tested the limits of exactly how far, by telling them I'll meet them. I mean . . . really! What am I going to miss? I'll only be a day late!"

"Whom are you trying to convince?" Bailey asked, as he and Riley sat on the sofa, facing the lights of the city, and Riley continued talking about his 'unpleasant' mother. He snuggled up to his friend. "I appreciate it, Riley, but I don't want to cause a rift between you and your family."

Riley snorted. "There'll be no rift. Mother's just accustomed to getting her own way, in everything. If it were up to Father, he'd be staying and tending the business, but Mother has strong armed him into going."

He laid a hand on top of their linked fingers. "Don't worry about me and my mother. We've always had a tumultuous relationship." He took a deep breath, hoping to calm himself. "Let's just sit quietly for a while, okay? I'm tired of talking about the family." He closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the sofa, letting his mind move to the sound of the soft jazz which played in the background.

"I wonder what Mother would think of Bailey if she'd seen him, last night." He smiled, both at the memory, and because the heat of Bailey's body next to his.

'It's nice sitting here, in the quiet, looking out at the lights of the city," Riley thought. Bailey had outdone himself, preparing a wonderful meal, and was now dozing, his head resting on Riley's shoulder, snoring lightly. Riley smiled. 'He wanted so bad for everything to be just perfect. It's sad, really. He seems to believe that he's going to be criticized for everything he does. He kept looking at me, during dinner, as if I was going to find fault with his wonderful meal.' Riley shook his head. 'The poor boy needs to develop some self-confidence about his personal life. I've seen him interact with people on a professional level, and he's entirely at ease. But, when he's doing anything other than business, he's a mess.'

"I've gotten everything prepared for our trip to Riverton." Bailey's voice caused Riley to jump.

"Huh!" he asked, blinking his eyes. The erotic dream he'd been experiencing faded. All he could remember was Bailey, sprawled on a bed, humping the bed sheets. From where Riley stood, in his dream, he could see some of his own sperm leaking out of Bailey's sloppy hole.

"Huh?" he repeated. "Did you say something? I thought you were asleep!" He rubbed his eyes and yawned, and grinned. "I was having the most wonderful dream . . . about watching you hump the bed. Your legs were spread wide, and your lily-white ass cheeks would spread each time you raised your hips, letting me see my sperm leaking out of your hole. Then . . ." Riley said, in a stern voice, "someone interrupted me . . . by talking."

Bailey smiled at Riley's indignation. "I was just saying that I've made all the arrangements for us to go to Riverton. Both my folks and Lucas' will be going too. Not with us, of course. Sam's told me that Lucas has finished a nice bed and breakfast which should have room for all of us."

Bailey paused. "Um . . . now that I'm close to doing this thing, I'm wondering if it'll look as if I'm trying to run Owen's life. Damn, I hope not!"

He turned his head and grinned. "I was humping the bed sheets?" Riley nodded, once. "My asshole was sloppy?" Another nod. "With your juice?"

Riley laughed. "Unless you're letting someone else shoot inside you, yes, it was mine." Riley snuggled closer, casually resting a hand on Bailey's groin. "I'm thinking that the next part of the dream should have been me, climbing onto the bed, between your spread legs, and sliding my thing into you, for another round of fun. I think it's so cool to slide into someone whose hole is already full of my own sperm. And," he continued. "You do have an awesome butt. Round and firm . . . just like . . . I like 'em.

"You were going to say that my round and firm butt was just like yours, weren't you?" Bailey snickered.

"Well, it is isn't it? I'm too much of a gentleman to have brought that to your attention. However, since you brought it up." The corners of Riley's eyes crinkled as he smiled. "We do make a handsome pair, don't we?" Riley's eyes widened, as he turned to Bailey. "Hey, I've got an idea! Why don't we hightail it down to the lobby and ask Mr. Stuffy Witherspoon, which one of us is the prettiest? I'd have to keep my clothes on though, since, without them, it would be no contest."

"Hmmm," Bailey considered. "No, actually, I think you should let Mister Witherspoon see your weenie. I mean, geez . . . I wasn't going to mention it, but the size of your weenie would certainly draw attention away from the fact that your face is best viewed on a radio."

"What!?" Riley shrieked! "Are you saying I'm small?" He grabbed Bailey, and dragged him to the oriental rug, narrowly missing the polished zebra wood coffee table, and the two glasses of wine.

"It's okay," Bailey managed, between laughs. "I didn't mention anything about you being so clumsy, you sometimes trip over a cordless phone . . . or that your mind makes squishy noises when you try to use it!"

"I'll show you!" Riley vowed, pinning Bailey's shoulders to the rug.

Bailey tightly closed his eyes. "No, no! Please! I don't think I could stand to see it a second time!"

Riley rolled off Bailey, laughing. "I love it!"

"Hmm?"

"You! Your sense of humor . . . and, the fact that you're beginning to feel comfortable enough with me to joke, and wrestle on the floor, without fearing that you'll wrinkle your clothes or mess your hair." He propped himself up and gave Bailey a kiss.

"I'm thinking that you look about as sexy in rumpled clothes with messy hair, as you do lying naked on a bed with rumpled sheets. What d'ya say? Let's go into the bedroom and mess up the bed."

~ to be continued ~

Thank you for taking the time to read my work. I always welcome your email and enjoy hearing your thoughts. If you would like me to send you a pic of the character(s), please ask.

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