Fortune's Friends:
S C O R E

The Q was the oldest gay bar in Norfolk and despite the ravages of years, political correctness and the fluctuations of fashion, it was still a draw. Even in the summer months when the host of Tidewater's alternative life-stylers left a trail of glitter searching out new spots at the beach, it was considered a prime site to begin or end an evening.

Now, at 1:30 a.m. on Saturday morning, the Q's dance floor was packed and the rest of the bar was thick with anxiously hustling humanity. It was a half hour before the lights would come up, before it was time to cut bait and take a final chance or swim home alone. The dark interior was thick with smoke that made Page's eyes burn. He could barely discern the bodies on the raised booths at the far right of the room. Not that it made any difference. He didn't see anyone he knew. Worse, he didn't see anyone he wanted to know.

Terrie, the bartender, set another drink on a small round napkin in front of him and nodded towards a nearby table.

"Here's another one for you, Trip," he said. "From the hopeful over there."

Page darted a glance in the indicated direction. He managed to keep his expression neutral yet pleasant although this effect was becoming more difficult to achieve as the night wore on. He turned back to Terrie and the new offering, a tall combination of layered liquid, red, blue and yellow.

"What is this?" Page asked.

"Expensive — and potent, babycakes," Terrie returned. "Speaking of which, haven't you had enough? You've been at it all night."

Page abandoned the glass he was holding for the new liquid exotica. "Maybe this will be the magic potion. What do you think?"

"I think, since you're asking, that you ought to go home."

"Alone?"

"The vibes ain't with you tonight, sweetheart. I don't know what your sign is but it's definitely in ca-ca now. Do yourself a favor, take a walk while you can still stand up."

"Aw, Terrie ... I didn't know you cared."

"Go. Home. Go to bed, have some nice, inspirational wet dreams." Terrie flashed him a smile. "Things will be better in the morning. And if they aren't, there's always tomorrow night."

"What makes you think tomorrow is going to be any different?" Page turned again and studied the accumulated crowd. The music was loud enough, the beat harsh enough to drive all but the most intrepid flat against the wall or down to their table. On the dance floor, sheer volume forced a kind of intimacy, men leaning in close to each other to catch a word or two — usually along the lines of, Your place or mine? Actual conversation was not a viable option. Page surveyed the host of hopeful faces, the too-eager smiles.

"It's this whole scene," he said. "It never changes. Maybe there's a decadence tolerance level, a depravity limit." He gave a short laugh. "Listen to me, will you? Burned-out at twenty-three."

He turned around to find that Terrie had moved down the bar to serve another batch of customers. Page sighed and shook his head. Sunlight curls drifted like a cloud around his face and shoulders.

"Anyway," he murmured to no one but himself, "I've been home ... I've already had the dreams." He lifted his glass and saluted his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "Here's to self pity, sweetheart. It is so sincere."

Page took a swallow of the multi-colored drink. It was too sweet. He tried mixing the layers with the little plastic straw in the glass and took another sip. It didn't help.

A hand fastened on his shoulder. Page looked up to see a man's face too close to his own. For an instant he wondered if this was someone he knew and raced through the picture-files in his mind. But, no ... it was just that the clone's were out in force tonight.

"Want to dance?"

The blast of moist, hot breath caught him full-face. Page flinched back, a self-preserving reaction. There was hardly anything more lethal than the scent of booze and cigarettes under a mask of toxic-level breath freshener. "No. Thanks," he said quickly.

The hand continued to knead his bare shoulder, insistent. "Come on, honey."

"I said, no. Leave me alone!" Page shrugged away. He was tired of being handled. All night long anonymous hands belonging to equally anonymous faces had felt at liberty to touch his hair, his arms, his shoulders and more until he felt bruised.

The clone grabbed at him again. Page countered with a sharp elbow to the ribs — too quick and too hard. Too clumsy. The momentum carried him past his target and off the bar stool. This is how it ends, he thought. Face down on the floor at the Q. Oh god.... What came out of his mouth was a heartfelt, "Shit!"

And then another hand zeroed in, closing just above his elbow. Strong, large and calloused, it broke his fall and pulled him back to his seat, steadying him.

"Whyn't you find another partner, sport?"

Page looked up to see a man standing by his side, someone who'd placed himself squarely between him and his would-be dance partner. The stranger's face was creased in a broad, wide smile but his eyes....

Page knew those liquid brown eyes.

"The bitch is yours," toxic-breath snapped. "I hope you'll both be very miserable together." The clone gathered the remains of his dignity and made his way back into the crowd.

Page pulled out of his deliver's grip. "I can take care of myself. Thank you."

"Well, I could see that, ace." The man leaned against the bar, displaying no inclination to leave. "You got a name?"

Page scowled at him. "Yes," he snapped.

"Cinderella, right?" A grin appeared, filled with natural good humor, now slightly mocking. "I've still got a size eight Nike in the back of my car."

"You're a cop."

"So you observed before ... just before you ran out on me."

"Under the circumstances, I'd hardly call it running." Page tossed his hair back from his face. "More like limping fast. Anyway, I could see you were busy. There wasn't any need to hang around."

"Really?"

"You ever catch those guys?"

"Sure." The grin deepened. "I am a professional detective, an officer of the law."

"Do tell." Page took another sip from the recent drink. A trace of fire lurked beneath the sweetness bringing memory into focus.

Two months ago while out on a post-midnight run, Page had been very nearly run down by a hit and run driver. He'd managed to dive up and over the hood as the car bombed through the intersection. The resulting fall had left him winded and dazed and sprawled in a muddy bed of petunias, candy tuff and pansies. When he'd opened his eyes, Prince Charming had been bending over him, very concerned. Incredibly handsome. Absolutely perfect. For a few lovely moments, eyes had met and hearts had thundered. Dressed in jeans and a worn flannel shirt, Page had never suspected the man's profession — until the police radio had sparked to life inside the unmarked car behind them. Easy to figure those gorgeous brown eyes had been gleaming at the thought of another bust. It seemed, somehow, best to fade off the scene when Officer Charm got up to answer the call.

"Working on your next caper, crime-stopper?" Page asked. "How long have you been here tonight?"

"Long enough. Saw you almost the minute I walked in. Wondered how I might come over and introduce myself."

"You could've bought me a drink."

"Lot's of folks been buying you drinks tonight and they don't seem to be having much luck. Besides...." He ran his finger over the accumulated straws by Page's glass. "I think you might have had enough."

Blue eyes sparked in anger and were smothered by a frank, brown eyed stare. Page laughed reluctantly. "You're ... absolutely right," he said.

"I know I am. Do you come here often?"

"Oh, no." The blond winced. "You were almost doing all right."

"No, what I mean is, look at this place." The voice was deep and low with an unmistakable Southern twang. "Is it always like this? You come in here alone, there's not much else you can do except drink, right? And try to get picked up. But someone like you —"

"Someone like me what?"

"You don't need this."

"I suppose you know what I need?"

"Maybe." The big cop shrugged. "I don't think you need to stand around in a bar and let a bunch of drunks feel you up."

Page laughed, not a happy sound. "Don't give me that self-righteous bullshit, sweetheart. I'm here to score just like everybody else. We're all looking for Mr. Right. Except for you. You'd be looking for Mr. Wrong, someone to fill up your dance card down at the station."

"So, you think you've got my number," the cop said, evenly. "Say you're right ... what about you? You think you're going to find your Mr. Right in here?"

"Nothing's certain." Page winked. "But I'm having a hell of a time looking."

"Yeah. I can see that."

"God, why does anyone go to the bars, straight or gay? If they're not looking for Mr. or Ms. Right, they're looking for their own version of Mr. Right Now." Page took another sip and made a face. Then shoved the drink away. "So what's your name, sweetheart?"

"Jack Vannerman."

"From North Carolina. I can tell from your accent."

"Yep."

"Well, Jack, folks in these here parts call me Trip." He exaggerated the dialect. "As in one ride, one trip. Get it? I don't believe in relationships and I don't spend the night."

"What makes you think I want to spend the night with you?"

"Carolina, you don't know what you want." Page slid off the bar stool, tossed his hair back over his shoulders again and headed for the door.

It was time to leave. Past time. Page's scowl turned into a grimace. He hadn't had this much fun since he'd had all four wisdom teeth pulled at once. The bars weren't working for him anymore. Nothing was working. Page could feel dark eyes boring into his back as he pushed his way through the crush of the crowd. Well, let the cop glare. He shoved his way to the door and came to a sudden stop, reeling without support as the last of the hord dissolved before him. The rush of adrenaline brought nausea and dizziness. The room was too hot, too loud. Too close.

"You look like you need some air."

Page jerked around. The cop again. "I can take care of myself," he snapped, weaving.

"So I heard." Jack snagged the blond's arm, put it around his shoulders. He wrapped his arm around Page's waist and quick-marched him past the security guard and into the parking lot. Outside, the night air was cool on their skin, heavy with the scent of honeysuckle that grew against the back of the building. The pounding disco beat faded with distance, a bully who had given up the fight. It felt so good to breathe freely, Page forgot to be angry. Well, it was hard to put up a worthwhile fight while one was being rescued. Again.

Jack Vannerman stared at him, fascinated. Head down, the blond leaned on an old Chevy and took in great lung-fulls of fresh air. This was no boy. No quick grapple in the back of a loft or gym. He had noticed Trip sitting at the bar right away, recognized him on the spot and studied him for the better part of the evening trying to work up the nerve to say — do — anything. During that time, Trip had been approached by countless others. Sometimes the blond would accept an invitation and join someone on the dance floor. Then Vannerman had watched him move, imagining what it would be like to feel that body dance in his arms. Carried on the crest of fantasy, he'd almost done it. Almost initiated a conversation ... only to be discouraged watching Trip shoot down hopeful after hopeful. As time wore on, his suitors became more aggressive, as if they thought their touch would prove persuasive. It only brought hostility. Watching the little drama accelerate, Jack was captured by guilty insight. He'd always wondered what it would be like to have the kind of beauty that lured others in for the chase. Now he knew.

Trip had the kind of show-stopping beauty, like a pre-Raphaelite angel come to life. He had to be at least six foot although the blond mane made him seem taller. His skin was fair and smooth over a hard, lean body. A runner's body, Jack recalled. Vannerman studied wide shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist, slim hips, a perfect ass and ... frowned. He knew trouble when he saw it and Trip was nothing but. Still, he also knew the toughest shell had the sweetest meat. Jack's imagination caught that image. Held it.

When his head cleared, Page turned and held his face up to the breeze. It felt good. Curls rippled down his back like spun gold. Tendrils carried in the air kissed his skin. Blue eyes sparkled under hooded bedroom lashes and brows. He was as aware of the cop's regard as he would be of a physical object — and flinched inwardly. What was he doing? The guy was only trying to be nice and he was behaving like a jerk.

"I bet," Page said, "you think I'm a total asshole."

"Yeah," Jack said back. "I do."

"I guess you're right."

"Well, like I said, I'm a trained detective."

"I'm sorry to be so rude. I usually am but...." He gave a little shrug.

"At least I know you're not treating me any different from anyone else."

"At least."

Page laughed, glancing up at the man beside him. He felt both isolated and idiotic, embarrassed for a number of reasons. Jack Vannerman was tall, a good three inches taller than he was. A few years older, too. The cop was heavier, broader as if he might have worked out although he didn't come across like a muscle freak. His hands were calloused; they had felt like leather against his arms, so the muscle must have come from labor of some kind. The square jaw was slightly darkened with stubble around a generous mouth. The plain white shirt and tie, jeans, boots and leather sports coat were more comfortable than stylish. Practical.

Suddenly, he was aware that the distance between them was a shade too close. Page took a step backward and was brought up short by the car behind his legs. He shivered. The quiet in the parking lot was such a change from the bar. It was another world outside.

He fumbled an explanation, "My experience with men in your profession hasn't been what I'd call positive. They don't like me much either."

Jack nodded, thoughtful. "Maybe I ought to clear something up."

Page's eyes widened, inquiring, but answers didn't proceed as he expected. Jack reached for him again, this time sliding his arms around him and bringing their bodies together. Page's mouth opened in a startled little gasp and Jack took advantage of that, his hand sliding up to hold the blond head still. Then he kissed him.

It was a shock, although not a nasty one. Jack's lips were warm and full against his mouth. There was no hesitation, no rush to finish either. The cop didn't try to suck the breath out of him or tongue-rape him. This was a pleasant pressure ... curious, questioning, a gradually increasing tension. When Page parted his lips for him, Jack's tongue flicked against the inner curl of his upper lip, a sensitive area that raised the fine hair at the base of his spine. Jack darted briefly against the edge of his teeth. Too briefly.

Jack broke the kiss and stepped away. Not too far, Page noted. The blond drew in a long breath. Blinked twice.

"So," Page said, eventually. "You're gay."

"So," Jack returned. "You noticed."

"It's hard to fake a demonstration like that ... unless this is some new kind of entrapment technique."

"I was kind of hoping you might like to entrap me. I'll be honest, I think you've got an edge here." The cop sighed. Shook his head. "It's no use, is it? You're a real suspicious sort."

"Years of experience, sweetheart. It'll kick the romance right out of you. You weren't working here three years ago, were you?"

"No."

"So you're not familiar with the coalition purge?"

Jack shrugged, a Search-me gesture.

"Influential members of the local religious fascists persuaded our police departments to put an end to the gay blight in Tidewater," Page said. "They staked out everything from the parks to the men's room at Monkey Wards. We are talking major task force time."

"I see."

"You couldn't possibly, not unless you were there. At the height of the mania, a kid was arrested for riding the escalator at Shorehaven Mall. The cop thought he looked `swishy' and took him in."

"Jesus." Brown eyes narrowed, appalled. "I haven't heard anything about it."

"A lot of people were hurt before it was over. Jobs and homes were lost, families ruined, relationships destroyed." Anger flashed in blue eyes. "That poor kid at the mall brought things to a head. He tried to kill himself a few days after his arrest ... lots of pills and booze but he botched it. That made headlines. Everyone was quick to point out that he wasn't even gay. The local PR types scurried to cover it up ... like Virginia Beach is trying to hide their Labor Day race riots. They all want to pretend it didn't happen."

"The old turtle game, right?" Jack said. "Pull in your head and wait for it to go away."

"Yeah."

"People hate to lose. Even city councils."

"It's hard to get used to." Page shrugged his hair back from his face and perched on the Chevy, leaning back on his arms. "I just thought you should know the thought process. You're right. I am suspicious ... just not always rabid." He hesitated. "I've never seen you at The Q before."

"That's because I've never been to The Q before."

"You're just coming out, aren't you?"

A pained expression crossed Jack's face. "Is it that obvious?"

"Kind of. You're a little too real to have been on this scene for long."

"Terrific."

"Don't get mad." Concerned, Page laid his hand on Jack's arm. "I didn't mean anything —"

Jack stared at him — into him — with coal dark eyes. His message was very plain. Page blushed and immediately felt ridiculous. He hadn't done that in years.

After a while, Jack said, "Have you eaten yet?"

"Uh ... what?" Page stammered and the blush deepened.

"There's a diner down on Colley. You want to get something to eat?"

"Well, I was...."

"Charging off in a huff just a few minutes ago," Jack finished. "You aren't planning to drive home in this shape are you?"

"No."

"Good, because then I would have to bust you. Or something." He put his hands in his pockets, shrugged. "It's just a meal, Trip, not an engagement."

The cop grinned, then turned and began to walk away before Page could finish the answer he was struggling to compose. He stared at that broad, retreating back trying to figure out if he was still angry or suitably intrigued. It felt like a little mixture of both. Still ... he hadn't had a decent meal all day and he'd consumed far too much liquor on that empty stomach.

Page caught up with Jack a half block away, just as the cop was sliding his leg over a black, 750 Honda. The blond pounded to a stop. He rocked back on his heels, shaking his head.

"A bike," he said. "How macho. I should have known."

Jack took a spare helmet from the back. "I knew you'd love it."

The truth to that was, he did ... not that he was prepared to admit it. Page took the offered helmet and straddled the bike behind Vannerman.

Jack revved the engine. Loud. Darted a look back over his shoulder. "Just wanted you to have the full effect," he said. The grin had returned. "Sorry, I don't have any lights or sirens."

An eyebrow arched up over one blue eye. "Life," Page said, "is full of little disappointments."

"And miracles." Jack raised both eyebrows, ever hopeful.

"Don't hold your breath, darling." Page smiled sweetly. "It would be so messy to have you pass out on the road and crash."

The diner was small. Two steps brought them to a counter that ran the length of the room. There were no booths and the blue and orange decor glowed like neon under a wash of overhead-white. Jack had forgotten how stark this place could be at night. He hesitated on the threshold, then followed Page to a pair of seats at the far left.

The blond handed him one of the plastic-coated menus and dead-panned, "Come here often?"

Jack sighed. "Bad line, right?"

"One of the worst."

"Well, it got results."

"You wish." Bow-shaped lips curved into a smile.

Jack smothered another sigh. There were dimples in that face a man could fall into and drown. Suddenly self-conscious, he lapsed into silence and perused the menu. He had found Trip beautiful in the half-dark of the bar but in the bright light of the restaurant, the blond was stunning. It wasn't only his physical appearance, Trip radiated a tangible aura of sensuality. In his mind's eye, Jack could still see him dancing at the Q. He remembered the graceful abandon of every twist, turn and strut and felt an agonizing burn in the core of his guts.

The cook-counterman came up to take their order, interrupting Jack's fantasies. "Separate or together?" he asked.

"Separate." Trip's response was crisp and definite. They placed their order.

"I could've bought you dinner," Jack said after the cook had returned to the grill.

"I like to pay my own way."

"Sounds like another one of your rules — like the one about spending the night."

"It is."

"Well, hell, Trip," Jack said. "You could've bought me dinner."

The blond head turned, an expression of dismay locked onto his face. "I didn't — ah...." He searched for an explanation until he caught the gleam in Jack's eyes. Then blushed again for the second time that evening.

"People don't tease you much, do they?" Jack said.

"I'm supposed to be the tease, big boy."

"So I noticed. They were all over you back at The Q. Is it always like that?"

"It gets a little crazy around closing. Nobody likes to go home alone."

"I guess it can't be easy. Especially for someone like you."

Slim shoulders stiffened again. "What do you mean?"

"You must be the ugliest guy I know," Jack said. "And you can't dance for shit. But keep trying, ace, you'll get a date someday. With that attitude, that natural charm ... who could resist?"

Jack decided he liked the way Trip laughed.

"Are you always like this?" the blond asked.

Jack began a bluff. Decided against it. "Hell no," he confessed. "Everybody says I've got two kinds of jokes — grim and none."

Trip touched his hand. "It's still new to you, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Some of it. It's not what I expected."

"Nothing ever is. You'll do all right."

"Thanks. I think." Jack took a swallow of coffee. "Hey, where did you learn to dance like that?"

"You liked it?"

"Oh, yeah. I liked it."

"I learned from one of the best — Vincent April."

Jack frowned, taken aback. "You know Vincent April?"

"Do you?"

"He's a pimp."

Trip frowned. "You don't know him."

"I heard he ran a stable out of downtown Norfolk a few years back. Whores-R-Us, anything for your dollar ... until one of his boys was raped and murdered. He disappeared for a while and now he runs a leather bar. Lots of glitz. It's supposed to be very `in.' What's the name?"

"Stinger's."

"Right." Jack nodded, his cop's instincts on alert. "So, Vincent April taught you to dance?"

"Vince taught me a lot," Trip said carefully. "And no one was killed. Someone got messed up but Vince took care of him. Then he got out of the business. He's completely legit now."

"I hear he used to do a nice business in porn. Hear he still does."

"I don't know about that."

"Did he bring you out?"

"Vince? No, I brought myself out, honey." Trip propped his elbow on the counter, leaned his head into his hand. "I started fooling around when I was twelve ... thirteen years old. By the time I was fifteen, I was a certifiable sex fiend. What about you? When did you — you know?"

"I was still reading about it when I was fifteen," Jack said.

"Reading?" Trip gave him a comic leer. "Dirty books?"

"Military history, the Greeks, Romans, Alexander the Great — stuff like that," Jack confessed. "I figured the Greeks must've had the right idea. Sex for fun with your own kind until you were old enough to get married and start a family. I convinced myself everybody did it that way."

"Your own kind ... I bet you were convincing."

"Yeah. I was."

"Modest, too, I see."

"What about you and April? How did you meet?"

"I was introduced."

The cook brought Jack's steak sandwich and Trip's omelet. He placed it in front of them and walked away.

Trip opened a small carton of milk and poured it into a red plastic glass. "So," he began, jumping tracks. "You're a gay cop, a very scarce animal in this area. Do they know about you at work?"

"No." Jack slathered ketchup over browned meat and mushrooms. "Why the hell should they?"

"Do you like your job?"

"Yeah. I like it. I'm good at it. It's what I've always wanted to do." The question surprised him. He took a bite of his sandwich and regarded the blond, curious.

"Then you better be careful how you play your cards." Page cut a small corner of his omelet. "If you start hanging around places like The Q and taking home men like me, they're going to find out about you. You are living and working right in the heart of Herr Robertsonville, honey. The concept of gay civil rights hasn't quite reached this part of the coast. Like it or not, the breeders are still in charge. Some of them will make life miserable for you if they can."

"I won't go back to the way it was."

"That's not what I'm saying."

"I'll get by." Jack tore off another mouth-full of sandwich.

"What about your wife?" Trip consumed a small wedge of omelet.

"What?"

The blond held up his left hand, waggled fingers briefly. "Ring finger tan line. It's a dead giveaway."

Jack sipped more coffee. Swallowed. "We're divorced," he said.

"How long?"

"Three months."

"Bad?"

"Sylvia got the house, the car and most of the paycheck. She got Justy, too."

"Your son? How old is he?"

"He'll be five next May."

"Taurus or Gemini?"

Jack's eyes went hard again like they had in the bar. "What are you supposed to be — some kind of detective?"

Trip paused, fork half-way to his mouth. "You don't want to talk about your son to the man you want to fuck."

They stared at each other. Trip put his fork down.

"It can go like that if you want," he said quietly. "You don't have to talk to anyone, especially the men you pick up. But it gets old fast, know what I mean?" The blond took a moment, picked up his fork again. "Not that I want to hear the story of your life...."

"Life's a bitch —"

"So you better grab dessert first," Trip finished with a laugh. "You learn fast."

"Mother Vannerman didn't raise any dummies back on the farm."

"Farm? I wondered where you got those hands."

"What about you?" Jack said. "You haven't told me what you do."

Blue eyes glittered. "For tonight, anything you want."

"Anything?"

"Almost anything. I was thinking, since I messed up on dinner, why don't you let me get dessert?"

Jack regarded him, smiling. He basked in a web of pleasant sensuality.

"You do eat dessert?" Trip asked.

"Every chance I get. As often as it comes."

"Really?"

Jack popped the rest of the sandwich in his mouth and said, "Taurus."

"What?"

"Justy's a Taurus. May 12," he said. "So what's your sign?"

"This side up." Trip smiled — teeth, dimples, the works. "It's probably tattooed somewhere. We could check."

"You don't look like the tattoo type."

"Well, you're the detective. Just what type do I look like?"

"Trouble. Lots of it," Jack said. Laughed. "But probably worth it."

"Darling," Trip purred. "You'd better believe it."

Jack was laughing again by the time they reached the trailer park off Military Highway. He stopped the bike in front of a small brown and beige trailer and dismounted. Trip remained seated; he took off his helmet and shook his head.

"I'm not going in there." His act of defiance was spoiled by another laugh. "You're not going to make me in a trailer."

"I'm going to make you on the road if you don't come on."

"What will your neighbors think?" Trip raised an eyebrow. "Can you actually be thrown out of one of these places?"

With a roar of frustration, Jack tackled him, pulling him up off the bike and over his shoulder. Trip was laughing too hard to struggle effectively so he encircled Jack's waist with his arms and took a healthy bite out of denim-covered anatomy. Jack cried out a tone shriller than either would have guessed could come from that deep Carolinian voice. They tumbled backwards into the grass kicking over a trash can as they went. In one of the trailers, a small dog began to bark. The watchman's larger dog started howling an accompaniment.

Jack pinned the blond to the ground. "Behave!" he ordered.

"Make me."

"I'll make you —"

"Jack Vannerman, is that you?" A woman, her hair antennaed with plastic rollers, thrust her head out of a trailer window. "What's going on out there?"

Trip glimpsed the alien voyeur over Jack's shoulder. "Oh my god," he giggled.

"It's okay, Mrs. Eades." Jack clamped his hand over Trip's mouth. "I just — tripped."

"Cute," the blond whispered beneath fingers. "Very cute."

"Who is that with you?" the woman shrilled out. "Is that a woman? What are you doing out there?"

"I'm sorry I woke you ... sorry," Jack called. "Shit! Will you behave now?" he hissed. "Do you want to wake the whole park?"

Trip's eyes glittered mischievously. He nodded briskly, his body trembling with suppressed hysteria.

"Damnit!" Jack took his hand away and covered Trip's mouth with his own. Trip made a soft, startled sound and opened his lips. He touched Jack tentatively, learning the feel of the other's body. Eventually, the blond relaxed, uttering a small moan of satisfaction. Acceptance.

Jack continued to hold him after he pulled his head away. He lay still for a second, heart pounding. Things were moving faster than he was comfortable with or was used to but there was no way he could bring himself to stop it. He didn't want to stop it. Jack caught his breath, staring down into wide eyes made indigo with the night. He swallowed hard.

"That was better than before," he said. "Good. I thought it would be good."

"I was wrong, Carolina."

"About what?"

Trip smoothed shaggy brown hair with the palm of his hand. "You know what you want," he said.

Vannerman got to his feet and pulled Trip up with one hand. The blond waited on the step while he fumbled for the keys to the door. Once inside, Jack pulled the door shut and crushed Trip to him with one motion. They could still hear Mrs. Eades raving outside as other neighbors began to rant back. A wailing chorus of dogs continued to bark in the background.

They didn't care.

In the privacy of his home, Jack was free to do as he pleased. A tiny Lambda charm nestled in the hollow of Trip's throat. Jack placed his lips against the pulse and learned the sensation of cold metal against warm skin. He liked it. He could tell that Trip liked it, too.

Jack followed the chain up Trip's throat, leaving a trail of kisses to his ear, then sucked the lobe in between his lips. After, he pressed his mouth to Trip's again. Tasted him. Held him closer, fitting their bodies together. Trip watched him, eyes sparkling from beneath lowered lashes. There was warmth in that expression, affection and amusement. Jack felt those lips curve, smiling, against him.

Trip drew back a little. "You've done this before," he accused gently.

Jack shook his head. "Not with you."

The blond brushed the back of his fingers against Jack's cheek. Whispered, "It's been a long time for me, too."

Jack blinked. Suddenly, Trip had become years younger. The voice was soft, the face and body relaxed. This couldn't be the same strutting, mood-ridden, laser-tongued bombshell who had deserted him on the streets of Ghent then proceeded to walk out on him in the bar. Yet somehow, this vision seemed more real than any performance he'd encountered so far.

The kiss Trip offered started out tender and quickly progressed to shared passion. Then they were together again, limbs tight around each other, hips gliding together through layers of clothing.

Vannerman ceased to think about anything except the man in his arms. Lips and tongue tasted smooth, warm skin. The time spent waiting for Trip, wanting Trip had been as frustrating as it had been stimulating. He'd had to hold back so long. Now desire made him impatient. There was little skill or art in his search, only need. Jack kissed eyelids, face, throat, shoulders. He ran his hands up under the thin shirt, felt nipples harden at his touch, heard a soft voice gasp with pleasure. Jack pulled the tank-top free and tangled his hands in silk soft curls as he brought it over Trip's head. The blond's long fingered hands made quick work unknotting Jack's tie, unbuttoning his shirt. But by that time, Vannerman had unclasped Trip's belt buckle. There was the faint rasp of a zipper being pulled down. Jack held Trip with one arm, slipped his other arm between them.

Jack's fist closed on him. Calloused fingers caressed the rigid shaft, cradled balls. Trip pressed himself into Vannerman's hand. He rested his arms on wide shoulders and breathed out little words of encouragement, shifting his stance to allow greater access. Jack urged his hand deeper, enticing as he explored, making use of every liberty he'd been granted.

Trip tossed his head slowly, shuddered. Touched his lips to Jack's once more. "Not yet," he murmured. "Not without you."

Vannerman nodded. He led the way into the bedroom. The bed filled the room except for a battered chest of drawers. A small passage at the foot led to the bathroom. Light drifted in through a single window. At any other time, the space might have been claustrophobic. Now, in the glow of the street lamp, it was comfortable, intimate. Trip sat down on the edge of the bed and began to take off his boots. Jack faltered in a sudden rush of nerves.

"I'm sorry it's not bigger," he said.

Blue eyes made a lethal appraisal over a slimly muscled shoulder. "Don't worry, Carolina," Trip said. "I'll bet it's big enough."

It took a moment for that to register. When it did, Jack blushed to the roots of his hair. "Do you give everyone this much lip?" he asked.

"Depends on what you want, big boy — lips or hips." Trip slipped out of grass stained designer jeans, laughing at Jack's confusion. "Maybe both?"

"Keep it up, ace. You'll get yours."

Jack kicked off his boots — well worn Fryes, Trip noted, that had probably been resoled three times over. Quality comfort. The blond rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. "Promises ... promises," he jeered.

"I'll promise you." Jack slid out of jeans and shorts in one slick motion, leaving them in a heap on the floor. With shirt and tie flying, he lunged across the bed and grabbed Trip's arm.

Trip shrieked and escaped. This was how he wanted it to be, full of fun, satisfaction for himself and his partner and no unwieldy commitments. No broken promises. He twisted to one side to elude his lover. Jack followed after.

It wasn't much of a battle, but then they didn't want it to be. Jack was stronger although Page was more agile. He squirmed away under Jack's arm when his eye was caught by a rosy bruise on the cop's buttock.

"My god...." Trip gasped and touched it lightly. "Did I do that?"

"Come here!" Jack grappled the slim body and wrestled him down. He straddled the blond's hips.

"I'm sorry." Trip couldn't stop laughing.

"Sorry?" Jack demanded, grinning. "I'll make you sorry." He recaptured his arms, took off his tie and began to bind Trip's wrists together.

"I didn't mean it," Trip insisted, sobering quickly. "I — hey, don't do that. Stop it!"

"Let's see you get out of this." Jack secured the free end of the tie around the bed post. He peeled off his shirt and slid down Trip's body. The blond pulled against the restraint, fighting beneath him. Jack nuzzled a sweating throat and shoulder, growled, "I've got you now."

Trip screamed.

Jack jerked his head up. Trip had pulled against the bond until the silk cut into his wrists. His fists were clenched, bones showing white under skin. Blue eyes were closed tight against some unspeakable terror. For a moment, all Jack could do was stare at him. Then he rolled off and tore at the knots. They were impossible to budge from the force that had been used against them. He ran into the kitchen and came back with a bread knife. In another second, Trip was free.

Page felt himself lifted and held. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop shaking. He cowered in the warmth that surrounded him until he could open his eyes again. Even then, it took him a while to remember where he was. When he looked up, brown eyes stared down at him in a face furrowed with concern.

"Hey there," Jack whispered. "Remember me?"

Page nodded, still silent. Unable to speak.

"I didn't mean to scare you, kid," Jack told him. "It was just a game. Understand?"

He gave another quiet nod and Jack's arms tightened around him, pulling him closer. Jack smoothed the hair back from his face, kissed the top of his head. The blond looked young again, stripped of sophistication, made vulnerable by fear. The tiny gold Lambda around his throat seemed like a child's talisman against evil instead of a symbol of militant defiance.

Page swallowed hard. "I feel sick," he gasped.

Vannerman helped him to his feet, turned him towards the bathroom. "In there," he said, all business now.

There was nothing Jack could do except watch, then hold him again when dry heaves threatened to turn him inside out. He soaked towels in cold water, draped one against the back of Page's neck, held the other to his forehead when it was over. The blond's skin had gone so pale, Jack could see the blue veins in his eyelids and hands.

"Can you get up now?" he asked after some time had passed.

A weak smile crossed Page's face. "I think I just lost everything I ever ate in my entire life."

"Maybe so, ace."

"Do you have a spare toothbrush?"

"In the cabinet."

Jack helped him stand and left him leaning against the sink for some much deserved privacy. He would've closed the door but Page shook his head.

"Don't...." Blue eyes were stricken with alarm. "Don't leave me alone. Okay?"

"It's okay," Jack assured him. "I'm here. Take your time."

Dismally, Page went about the business of cleaning up. Jack waited, sitting on the back corner of the bed. When he came out, Page crossed the short space between the doorway and the edge of the mattress on shaky legs. He sat down, his back to Vannerman.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I made a mess of everything."

"Look ... it was only a game," Jack began. "That's not my thing. We just got carried away."

"So I threw up all over your bathroom. Quel class."

"It's okay."

"It's not okay! God!" Page's hands clenched on crumpled sheets. "Goddamnit, what is the matter with me?"

They were quiet for a while, except for the sound of Page's ragged breathing. Jack's eyes narrowed, watching him. Finally, he said, "Something happened, right?"

"You could say that," Page told him, weary. Tense.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't know. I can't remember most of it." Page started to shake again. The evening had taken quite a turn, all the way back to hell. The best thing now would be to make his excuses and leave ... if he could only stand up. He pressed his hand against his head.

Jack slid over to sit behind him. He put his hands on the back of Page's shoulders. Strong fingers bit into muscles steel-cored with fear. And anger ... the hidden kind, the worst kind. Jack worked his way along the knots, kneading up the back of his neck, under the fall of golden curls and back again. Page half-turned, staring up at him, wide-eyed and expectant, ready for another fight. He was like a badly used cat, coveted for its beauty and cleverness, spurned for its independence. Forcing information would only be a mistake no matter how well intentioned. Jack kept quiet.

Finally, Page turned back to regard the wall in front of him. He let his head drop forward.

"I used to work for Vincent April."

The blond's voice was a whisper. He wouldn't look at Jack.

"I thought you might have," Vannerman said after a long minute.

Page nodded once. Sighed. "I was seventeen. It was stupid — like a lot of other things I've done. I didn't think ... didn't know. Vince wasn't a bad guy, though."

Jack's jaw clenched. "He put you on the streets."

"No — he took me off the streets. Gave me a home. When I met Vince, I didn't have anybody. Now I take care of myself."

"Did you love him?"

"God, what a question. Of course I loved him. Every whore loves her pimp — even the boy whores, don't you know that?"

"I didn't mean —"

"'Course you didn't. It's all right." Page closed his eyes. Tears sparkled on his lashes, rolling down his face to fall off his chin. "I wasn't much of a hustler. I didn't like it. I tried to be cool but ... I couldn't do it."

"What happened?"

"I got set up." Page brushed at his face with the back of his hand. "Vince and I ... well, he kept me back, kept me out of it. That kind of pissed two of the other boys, Ricky and Joe. There was a party. They told me Vince wanted me to meet him there. It wasn't like anything I'd ever seen before. It was weird. Scary. It bothered them, too."

"Ricky and Joe?"

"Yeah. Anyway, they got out. They got away."

"You didn't?"

"No."

"And?"

"There were these men ... they gave me something — to make me feel good, they said. It was strong stuff. I wanted to pass out, just go away, but they wouldn't let me. I remember handcuffs on my wrists ... on the bed. I tried to —" His voice broke on a strangled sob. "No — I don't want to talk about this. I can't...." Page crossed his arms around himself.

"You don't have to talk." Jack drew him up onto the bed, put his arms around him.

"I don't remember. I don't!"

Page struggled with memories too personal to share, terror he could not put into words. He remembered too well what had happened to him and labored to bury it again. Memory brought panic and the need to run. He tried to pull away, but Jack kept holding him, rough hands soothing him against his will.

Page shuddered, captured by a chill that wasn't part of the warm July night. Part of him wanted to grab his clothes and run, to keep running until exhaustion took him. He wanted to be home, to go invisible, pull the sheets up over his head and let the dark take him away from memory, from fear, from the rage and grief he had to control. Always control or let it destroy him. The other part wanted to curl into the shelter of Jack's arms and accept the refuge offered by this man's body. Hesitant, Page was brought in closer, listening with unwilling fascination to the litany Jack whispered in his ear, again and again....

"You're safe here, baby cat," Jack said gently. "It's all right ... no one will hurt you ... I won't let them hurt you...."

Page groaned, clinging to Jack in return, burrowing his head against his shoulder. That kind of comfort was a lie. A trick. Still, it would be wonderful to believe that, even for just a moment.

Jack pressed his lips against the crest of curls and again to Page's forehead, eyelids, cheeks.... He tasted the salt of tears, the flushed heat of his skin. Page nestled against him, finally allowing himself to accept comfort. Jack held him the way a man might care for an injured child.

Page had no idea how long they lay together, how much time passed before he turned his face up to be kissed, before his lips met Jack's with passion instead of pain. Before Jack's caress changed from comfort to pleasure.

They strained to each other with a different purpose. There was none of the anxious hilarity that had contained them earlier. Hands, lips, limbs roamed with deliberate care, each trying to please the other. Page had been aware of Jack's desire from the first. He was familiar with and accepted that need as a matter of course. Beauty was both curse and blessing to him. His looks allowed freedom to pick and choose lovers at will. He was used to playing the part of another man's fantasy. It satisfied. And it was safe. Fantasy didn't allow personal involvement.

The night's developments was changing all that. Page wasn't used to being wanted simply for himself. It was frightening. Still, no one had ever handled him with such sweet possessiveness. More, Jack was showing him how to enjoy his own body again. He hadn't realized how alienated he had been from himself and for each new sensation Vannerman awakened, Page strived to return the favor. He couldn't remember when he had so wanted to please another ... when any other man had excited him so much.

Jack sat back on his heels and knelt between Page's legs. His fingertips traced a pattern across the blond's inner thighs and traveled up to the wet heat of his groin. Dark gold curled thick, trailing across his belly to the pit of his navel. The texture was almost silky, like the hair under his arms. Except for that, the rest of Page's body was smooth. The pale hair on his arms and legs was almost invisible. Vannerman felt like a fur covered beast in comparison.

He felt an irregularity on satin smoothness. A scar, crescent shaped. Jack's eyes narrowed, going flat and black for a moment as he gazed down. Someone had taken this man, then little more than a child at seventeen, and hurt him badly. Willfully. With every intention of causing humiliation and pain. It didn't take a genius to guess what they'd done. Regardless, his work gave him first hand knowledge of similar situations. Jack smoothed a supple flank, felt Page quiver at his touch. Except for his son, he had never felt so fiercely protective towards anyone. It surprised him.

Page sprawled across the mattress. Pupils widened, surrounded by an incredibly sharp, piercing blue like the tiny flame at the center of a gas jet. It made his eyes seem impossibly large. He held Jack's gaze with his own and stretched voluptuously, displaying his body in an uninhibited plea for the man's attention. Sweat pearled his skin. His body glowed golden in the yellow light.

Jack found he had been holding his breath and exhaled slowly, "Trip...."

The blond shook his head. "My name is Page."

"Page?"

"Just Page." He sat up and took Jack's face between his hands, kissed eyelids, lips. "I want you. You know what to do?"

Jack couldn't speak. He nodded instead. Page lay down again, opened his legs. Jack reached across and opened the top dresser drawer, took out the tube of lubricant. It was brand new.

Page smiled softly. "You've never brought anyone here before."

Jack faltered slightly. He wanted to say something clever like, "Yes, that's right. I hope I remember how it goes," but the truth came out instead. "No," he said. "You're the first."

"Since the divorce?"

"Well, I thought about it a lot but...." He shrugged. "Nothing felt right."

Page sat up, took his hand. "It's going to be okay," he said. "You're going to be fine."

He laid back down, raising his hips in an unmistakable invitation. Blue eyes watched, smoldering, while Jack prepared them both. Page groaned with anticipation as a finger pressed into him, rocked himself on it, lifting higher, digging his heels into the sheets. Jack inserted another finger, rotating them, opening him further.

"Touch me there...." Page arched his neck, tossed his head slowly. "... hold it...."

The blond's cock thickened, stretching up against his belly. A fine spray of pre-cum pooled, trailing into the cup of his navel. Jack leaned forward and lapped it up in a kiss, sliding back up to take the tip of Page's cockhead in his mouth. He tongued the slit, drinking in what was there. Page rocked up towards him, thrusting himself into Jack's mouth, riding Jack's hand, splaying himself open further. Jack easily slipped another digit into the hot, slick tunnel.

Page reached up to run his hand through shaggy brown locks, tugging sharply. "Do it," he gasped. "Now."

Jack withdrew his hand and, nodding, started to turn Page to his side. The blond resisted.

"I want it like this. On my back. I want to see you."

"How...?"

"Put the pillow under my back. There. Stay like that...."

Page hooked his ankle around Jack's neck. He slid his other leg around Vannerman's waist, pulling himself up onto muscled thighs. Jack nodded, understanding, and grasped Page's hips. He placed himself against the small opening, pushed. One of them trembled, but they were so close to each other, he couldn't tell which.

Jack's hands slid from hips to the mounds of his ass, spreading them further apart, and pushed again. Despite preparation, there was always some resistance. Page tensed, moving to hasten their union. Jack's hands tightened on him.

"Relax. Don't force it, baby cat." Vannerman found his voice. "It'll hurt if you rush. Just relax...."

Page made a sound of acquiescence, head to one side, his fist curled loosely by his mouth. Jack waited until he could feel taut muscles loosen, then continued his slow, inexorable possession.

Vannerman felt the prickle-tease sensation of near completion and fought for control, his skin slick with sweat. Then the blond's body surged to him, bearing down on him, consuming him. Instinctively, Jack thrust home, staggered by the strength of Page's surrender. He couldn't believe it was possible to go so deep into anyone.

Sprawled beneath the heat of Jack's body, pierced through, Page shifted to ease the hardness within him. He caught his breath with a gasp of delight that became a little laugh. Amazed and touched, Jack smoothed damp curls off Page's face. From this position he could watch the color change in blue eyes, touch him, kiss him.

Thinking of that, Jack leaned down and pulled Page up to straddle his hips. The blond lifted to him, his legs circling Jack's waist. They kissed deeply.

Jack spoke after, his voice unusually deep. "Did I hurt you?"

"Just for a second. It's good now."

"So are you. Page...."

"What?"

"Nothing. I like the sound of your name."

Page blushed. He was getting used to it.

"What is it?" Jack asked. "Tell me."

"I like the way you feel inside. You fill me."

"Like this?" Jack lifted him, withdrawing to the edge of their boundary, then drove back with one long, smooth thrust. Page almost screamed with pleasure. Jack could take him without pain, it didn't have to hurt.

"Yes. Yes, do that. I can...." Page held him, staring down into dark brown eyes. "Kiss me again."

Jack opened for him, cradling his head in the palm of his hand. Page thrust his tongue deep into his mouth. Arms, legs locked together. Deep in the heat of gold-bathed flesh, hidden muscles played, holding him tight. Jack wrenched his head away with a cry. Page's fingers bit into his shoulders.

"Do it," he hissed.

And Jack did.

Page knew it was late when he woke up. He wasn't sure how late but the sun was much too bright to be anywhere close to morning ... or even noon. He stretched throwing one arm over his eyes until he could adjust to the light. Didn't the man believe in blinds? Curtains? Didn't he care who peeked inside his rooms? Page held that thought and smothered a laugh. Any snoop would have got an eye full if they had bothered to check the action last night ... the action in the bedroom, in the shower, on the floor. The last thing he fully remembered was watching the sun come up from a nearly upside down position, his head off the edge of the mattress — while he came inside Vannerman's mouth. His body still throbbed with the echo of shared orgasm. He played his hands over his skin and encountered a familiar hardness. Laughter bubbled from his lips. It simply wasn't possible — not after all that. He rolled over to share the thought with Jack and found himself alone.

Movement from the next room told him he hadn't been completely abandoned. Page sat up and winced. He burned where Jack had taken him. But he felt empty, too, and that pleased him. It was good to want someone again. Page drew his legs up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them. Five years ago, they had broken his body and spirit. Finished what his father, Bill and the others had begun. He couldn't change it. Right or wrong, it would always be part of him. Page shook his head. He wouldn't think about that now. He didn't have to.

He slid out of bed and crossed to the doorway. Page could see the rest of the trailer from that position. And Jack.

"Good morning."

Jack Vannerman stood in front of the stove pushing something around in an iron frying pan. He stopped what he was doing at the sound of Page's greeting, turning to look behind him. His mouth opened. Nothing came out. He looked as if someone had just picked up the skillet and thwacked him with it.

Page cocked his head to one side and stared back, curiously. "Was it something I said?" he asked. "Like `good morning?'"

Jack made a strangled sound. It couldn't be called conversation.

"Jack...?"

"Good morning," the cop finally croaked.

"I guess that will have to do." Page crossed the floor to put his arms around Vannerman's neck. Kissed him. "You've been eating bacon," he accused.

"Good god, Page. Do you know what it's like to turn around and find you standing in the doorway like that first thing — naked and with a hard on?"

"No, but if you hum a few bars...."

Jack groaned. "I walked right into that."

"All by yourself, Carolina."

"You don't do knock-knock jokes, do you?"

Page laughed. "Maybe. You seem to bring out the worst in me."

"Yeah?"

"You bring out the best, too."

Page smiled and kissed him again. Jack dropped his spatula. The light kiss deepened quickly into something more serious.

"You left me alone this morning," Page said after, eyes darkening.

"I wanted to let you sleep. You were all done in, baby."

"I thought, for a minute, you might be mad. You know. I thought you might want me out of here."

"No." Jack held him closer. His unshaved face was like sandpaper against Page's skin.

"I'm cold." Page stepped back and opened the front of Jack's robe. He looked down and shook his head. "You're as bad as I am." He placed his hands on Jack's chest and snuggled against him as the flannel closed around them. "That's better ... like a tent." Page sighed. "I love your hairy chest. It's so warm and furry."

"You do?" Jack smiled, self conscious but pleased. Sylvia never had.

"Yeah ... your hairy chest, your hairy legs, your hairy arms.... I wish my body was like that. I guess that's why I keep my hair so long."

"I like your hair."

"You don't think I should cut it?"

"Good god, no!"

"Okay."

Page nuzzled the curve at Jack's throat and shoulder. Vannerman's hands strayed over Page's back and hips to the deep cleft between buttocks. The blond purred.

"God, I knew you would make that sound." Jack chuckled deep in the back of his throat. "I thought you said you didn't spend the night."

"That's one of my rules."

"Well, you know what they say about rules, baby cat."

"Don't. It's not lucky."

"Who said anything about luck?"

Page shrugged, uneasy.

"It's okay," Jack soothed. "I promise —"

"No promises!" Page snapped. "I don't want you to promise me anything."

"Jesus, Page." The furrow deepened between brown eyes. Jack took the blond's chin in his hand. "What's the matter now?"

Page was immediately repentant. "I'm sorry. It's nothing." He tried for a laugh. "Now you know the ugly truth. I'm a bastard before breakfast."

"Hungry?"

"Not for this." Page indicated the frying pan.

"We've got time." Jack grinned.

"There's never enough time," Page whispered. He reached over and turned the heat off the stove. Then took Jack's hand and led him back into the bedroom.

Afterwards, Jack thought the day had gone well except for that one odd note. He couldn't remember when he'd had a better time. They made love, then breakfast, then went to the laundromat. Page dressed in Vannerman's old clothes, cut-offs and a t-shirt. The pants were too big and rode the blond's hips a scant inch above obscenity. The shirt tail was cropped to fall just below nipples. All in all, Page managed to expose almost two feet of skin across his torso ... not to mention those legs. Jack utilized restraint and managed to finish his laundry without incident. When they returned to the trailer, Page insisted on cleaning up. Jack, in a an agony of suspense, would've had him on the spot, fresh sheets or not, but Page was adamant. They cleaned and listened to the radio, a jazz station. Page began to dance while he scrubbed the bathroom, picked up books and dusted the living room oblivious to the effect on his suffering companion. Eventually, he became aware of dark eyes glowering from the kitchen and decided, much to Jack's relief, to compromise on the couch.

Much later, they ordered pizza and watched old movies on television, The Thief of Baghdad, where Page confessed that his first major crush had been on Sabu. When Jack made noises about child molestation, Page explained, with great indignation, that at the time of his infatuation, he had only been eight years old. Sabu had been a much older man. So, Jack discovered, Page had known about himself as early as that.

They sprawled on a quilt in front of the TV, bathed in its flickering light. Jack had been quiet for too long. Page sat up and faced him, circling him with his legs. He held a spoonful of ice cream to Vannerman's lips.

"Eat," Page ordered.

"I can't. Not any more." He shook his head. "Too much pizza."

"I won't take no for an answer. Besides, it's maple walnut — one of nature's perfect foods."

"No, really. I can't."

"Okay." Page took a bite. Then grabbed the back of Jack's head and forced his mouth against his. Opened their lips. Jack yelped and swallowed. After, Page dissolved in laughter, falling over backwards, rolling out of the reach of fury.

"Yuck," the blond made a comic face. "You're drooling."

"Page...." Vannerman wiped his mouth on the quilt. "I am going to count to ten, then I'm going to kill you."

Page grinned and rolled to his stomach. "Hard enough to stab me again? Let me call Guinness. It's got to be a new world record."

"Nut." Jack lay down beside him and picked up the second spoon in the carton to help himself.

Page placed a wet ice cream kiss on his arm and went back to watching the screen. They lay together, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. Jack released a sigh. They had done away with clothes long ago, naked had become his natural state. He had never known this kind of freedom with Sylvia, not even before Justy had been born.

After a while, Jack said, "You knew you were gay when you were eight years old?"

"I knew I liked Sabu a lot more than Shirley Temple," Page told him. "I used to dream about running away to the jungle — just me and Sabu and the wildebeests. And at night we could cuddle up together and go to sleep. That was the extent of my fantasy. I was only eight, you know."

"You didn't want to get married? Have a family?"

"No."

"I did."

Hearing the wistfulness in Jack's voice, Page turned his head to look up from beneath a fall of blond curls.

"You miss your wife," he said.

"Yeah ... I do."

There was a sharp twinge of anger that struck Page right between the shoulders. Jealousy.

"You still love her?" He tried to sound casual.

"She doesn't understand," Jack said. "I never stopped feeling what I felt for her all along. We were friends once. I wanted to still be friends."

"But you were lovers, too."

"Not like this." Jack shook his head. "There was never anything between Sylvia and me like you and I've had this weekend. It's never been like this for me with any woman."

"It's good, isn't it?" Page couldn't keep the pleasure from his voice.

"God, yes. But why couldn't I do this before ... before I hurt anyone? How come you can know about yourself that young? Live with yourself? How come I've got to wait until now to get it together? What's wrong with me?"

Page slipped an arm around Jack's shoulders, hugged him fiercely. "There's nothing wrong with you," he said. "It's other people who have to twist it up into something bad. Like they've got the right."

"It's not that simple. It can't be that simple."

"Why not?"

"You should have seen her face when I told her. And Justy...." Jack shook his head, grieving. "He cried when I left. Sylvia won't let me see him. She says she's just got him calmed down and she doesn't want him hurt anymore. Hell, Page, I didn't want to hurt him. I didn't want to hurt anyone."

"He's just a little boy, Jack. He doesn't understand."

"He's not the only one." Vannerman clenched his fists, muscles bunched in his back and shoulders. "Sylvia says Justy thinks the divorce is his fault. The kid thinks he's been bad and I don't want him anymore."

"Jesus." Page dropped his head on Jack's shoulder. Sighed. "Well, talk to him, honey. Tell him you love him. He'll understand that."

Jack pushed himself away. Sat up. "How the hell do you know?"

Page started to touch Jack's arm, held back. "I don't know Justy," he said quietly. "But everybody wants to think their parents love them ... whether they do or not. If you love your son, I think you should tell him. He needs to know that."

"You think it's so easy, don't you?"

Page returned the glower. "You don't want to know what I think, Vannerman."

"You got that right."

Page got to his feet. He put the ice cream in the freezer and headed into the bedroom. He reappeared shortly, dressed and ready to go. He struck a pose before Jack, flaunting the same erotic arrogance he'd displayed at The Q. It was still a workable shield.

"Thanks for a fun weekend," Page said. "I hope it was good for you, too."

"You don't have to go if you don't want to," Jack said, brooding.

"I don't have to stay, either." Pride met pride head on. Clashed. "Looks like you need some time to yourself, big boy. I've been here too long anyway."

"Where are you going?"

"Home."

"You want me to take you?"

"I'll get a cab."

"You can't flag a cab in Norfolk. You have to call."

"I know. There's a phone at the gas station across the street."

"You can call here."

"No thanks."

"Is it still raining?"

"It's just a drizzle. Besides, I'd like to walk for a while. I haven't done any running this weekend."

"Well...." Jack frowned, confused. Surely, this wasn't how he expected them to part.

"Goodbye, sweetheart. Be bad." Page winked and turned for the door. Jack got one last look at that perfect ass. While he didn't exactly slam the door behind him, Page closed it very firmly. Once outside, he began to head towards the highway.

Jack sat on the floor in front of the television. He put his head on his knees, rolled his shoulders straining to ease the tension out of his back. The silence of the place crashed around him despite the video chatter. He sat still for a very long time. When the door opened again, he jumped.

Page stormed back inside the trailer demonstrating considerable more fury than which he'd left. The walk had fueled fires instead of cooling them down. He slammed the door this time.

"You're going to hear what I think whether you like it or not," Page blazed.

"What I think is I ought to learn to lock the door," Jack grumbled.

"Too late, Carolina." Page took a deep breath. Raindrops shimmered on his hair, his skin, his clothes. "This is going to be quick so pay attention. What I think is it's a bitch you're trying to one-up a four year old with all this macho bullshit. You love him, you tell him. If he trashes you out, you're old enough — big enough to take it. I'm not saying it's easy and it doesn't sound like Mrs. Sylvia is going to be much help. But it's there and he's yours and you can't get away from it. You're bigger than he is, anyway. You make him understand! Okay?"

"Page...."

"What?"

"I feel like hell."

Jack put his face on his knees again. He didn't make another sound. That was the worst of it, finding pain that defied words. Page sank down beside him, wrapped his arms and legs around him, held him as hard as he could. In a minute, Jack uncurled enough to hold him back, his hands digging into the blond with bruising strength. Page didn't notice.

When Jack was calmer, Page led him into the bedroom. He undressed quickly and slipped into bed. Jack rolled into his arms, pressed himself full length against him. Here there was warmth.

Page used every tenderness he knew to soothe and Jack responded to his attentions greedily. Nothing seemed to be enough. Page stretched his arm over Vannerman's chest, holding him down, and worked his way to Jack's groin, taking him in his mouth. Jack cried out and grasped his arm. Page winced feeling digits bite into him. He opened his hand, reached for Jack's, felt fingers entwine with his own. A lot of the shaking stopped.

Page slipped his free hand under Jack's buttocks. Lips and tongue teased, taking him up, keeping him just at the edge of climax. He slicked his finger and probed gently, finding no resistance. A second finger went in without strain. Page worked mouth and hand together losing himself in the rhythm of the act.

Jack cried out again, his hand pulled at Page's. They looked at each other silently.

No ... not so silent. Page could hear the harsh gasps of Jack's breathing. He lay his head on Vannerman's lower belly, nuzzled the crease between hip and abdomen, kissed the furry place below his navel.

"What is it, Caro?" Page asked. "What do you want?"

"Love me...."

The words came out slowly. Page smiled.

"That's what I'm doing."

Jack shook his head. "No. I mean ... I want ... love me."

Page raised himself up on one elbow. "Do you mean you want me inside you? Is that what you're asking?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever done it before?"

"No. Never."

"You don't have to," Page murmured, stroking him gently. "I don't need it."

"I need it." Jack's hand tightened around Page's again. "I need you to love me."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." There was the sound of impatience in his voice.

Page sat up, ran his fingers over Jack's chin. Leaned down to kiss him. "Let me get the stuff," he said.

Jack nodded, turning on his side, waiting. Now that he had voiced his needs, he felt drained. But Page returned to lay beside him, bringing warmth, mouthing assurances and instructions against his ear. It was different — even startling — feeling the cold jelly against his rectum, warming to him as Page slowly worked it inside.

"Any time you want me to stop, you tell me." Page mouthed the words against Jack's ear. He caught the lobe between his teeth and bit down gently, a loving emphasis. "Don't be afraid," he whispered. "Just tell me. Understand?"

Jack nodded, seeking to convey some reassurance of his own but nothing came out. His mouth was too dry. Vannerman had thought about this act for a long time. But, in the past, there had been other bedroom games to pursue and he'd always taken the lead. Then, after his marriage, Jack had put those desires away. His parents had been generally happy people; he loved them, was secure in the understanding that they loved him as well. His brothers and sister and all the myriad individuals that made up his family were, on the whole, a pleasant bunch. Good to be with. He'd wanted that life for himself and certainly expected nothing less. Jack had read what he'd found available about homosexuality and determined that his interest was a passing phase. Something he'd grow out of — kind of like the cowboy boots he'd been so fond of in high school.

But then again, he'd never actually gotten rid of those boots, just buried them in the back of the closet. And now, even after all these years, he still preferred boots to any other form of footwear.

He caught his breath as Page began his entry. It hurt and even though he expected it to, the sharp pain alarmed him. He reached back and caught hold of Page's hip, whether to bring them more quickly together or force them apart, he couldn't say.

"Take a deep breath...." Page's words were warm against the side of his face. "Push out. I know it hurts — it'll be over in a second."

A second? Jack didn't know if he could wait a whole second and was prepared to say so when suddenly, it was done. The pain retreated and blossomed into a throbbing whorl of pleasure that raced up and down the length of his spine. Page's front was flush against his back; he reached around to take Jack's cock in his hand and stroke it back to fullness. Jack caught hold of the pillow and let Page work him. This was more different than he'd imagined. He had become used to the feeling of balls paired against his own, just not from this angle. He felt himself curling up and tentatively shoving back. Page shifted, moving deep inside him. Jack groaned, sweat slicking his body. This was different than fingers, fuller and more intense — a steady pressure — pleasure throbbing from the inside out, spreading throughout his limbs.

"Better now?" Page whispered and licked at his ear.

"Yes."

The response was shaky but confident. Jack concentrated on feeling, absorbing the new sensations. Page was moving more now, rocking against him in time to the sure and constant rhythm of his hand. He licked at the back of Jack's neck, kissed him, closed his teeth on his shoulder.

"Do you like that?" Page asked.

Jack managed a nod. The rocking motion transformed into long, slow thrusts. Hesitant, then more sure, Jack pushed back to meet them. He was aware of the restraint Page used as the blond strived to allow him to become used to his body. He kept up a little one-sided dialogue, telling Jack how good he was, how handsome, how he made him feel until the words dissolved into equally articulate gasps. Throughout it all, Jack couldn't quite find the words he wanted but Page didn't press him for speech. Passion, instead, flowed between them, impossible to control.

Page drove into him harder, Jack's cock in his fist, taking him with him. Jack shuddered, caught on the edge between climax and release. Soon, Page's thrusts became shorter, more powerful until he was all but grinding himself into him. Vannerman knew that signal, the blond was ready to come. Already he understood him that well. The satisfaction he felt at that pleased him beyond belief. All the considerations, the tenderness Page had shown him was so much more than he had expected, more than he had experienced in his entire life.

Jack's body burned in every pore, a wave of flame blazing red, then white going to steam. His entire body went rigid, shoving back against Page, inner muscles clutching at him. Holding him deep. He felt Page tense and go stiff. Then a quick shift of movement as the blond wrapped arms and legs around him. Page buried his face against the back of Jack's neck, bursting into him in hard, jutting thrusts. Jack reared back, arching his neck as he shot high and hard, ropey trails of seed spattering against his chest hair. The force of it left him breathless and sobbing. For a time afterwards, he simply faded away.

Later, Jack became aware of movement, of being handled and cleaned, of bedding being arranged around him. Trance-like, he watched Page come out of the bathroom, felt the mattress jar as the blond settled back into bed with him. Page put his arms around him and kissed him. Whispered, "You back yet?"

Jack nodded.

"Are you all right?"

Jack swallowed, nodded again. "Yes," he said.

Page brushed his fingers against his cheek. "Don't be afraid to talk," he said softly. "It hurt, didn't it?"

"Some. At first."

"Now you know what it's really like when you first go in. Don't worry. You get used to it."

"Did you like it?" Jack asked, suddenly anxious. "Was I okay?"

"You were perfect." Page hugged him close. "I was glad I could make you come."

Vannerman felt into troubled silence.

"Talk," Page insisted. "What's the problem?"

"About tonight ... earlier ... I didn't mean to dump all that stuff about Sylvia and Justy on you. It just came out. I was out of line."

"You haven't had anyone to talk to."

Jack sighed. "You were right, I can't say anything at work. I mean, if I do —"

"You got to use code."

"Yeah."

Page grinned, a cynical and ancient expression that transformed the youth in his face. "And it sucks."

"Oh, yeah." Jack tried a grin back. "I'm not used to this. Any of it."

Blue eyes glittered beneath dark lashes. "You're especially not used to people like me."

"Also true," Jack admitted, cautious. "I've never been with anyone like you before and...."

"And I've been around?"

"No. Yes. It's just — you're fantastic. I've never even thought of half the stuff we've done this weekend let alone done. I...."

"Would you believe there are some things I've done with you that I've never done with anyone else? I haven't been around as much as you think." Page offered a shy smile. "Besides, it's not the action that counts anyway. It's the man. When it's good, it's the best. That's you, Caro. You're the best."

Satisfied, Jack relaxed against him, let Page smooth his hair. It wasn't easy to speak. He couldn't say why he had wanted Page like that. It shocked him that he had enjoyed it so thoroughly ... but, at the same time, he couldn't imagine wanting or doing that with anyone else. He ran his hand over the blond's back possessively, thrilled to the bony texture of his spine, the rich curve of his ass. He knew all about it now. He knew what he could do to pleasure Page more, bring them closer together.

"What was it like for you first time?" Jack asked at last.

Page gave a harsh laugh. "It wasn't like this."

"What happened?"

"The guy I was with thought I'd done it before. And I didn't know enough to tell him any different."

"He raped you?"

"No ... I was just a kid, an idiot pretending to know more than I did. That's always been an easy game for me to pull off." Page sighed, uncomfortable with the memory. "When he found out after, he cried. I loved him for that."

Jack frowned. "It still sounds like rape."

The blond shook his head. "People make mistakes...."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be silly. It wasn't your fault."

"Somebody should be sorry."

"Somebody should be asleep. Didn't you say you had to go to work tomorrow?"

"You change subjects fast, don't you?"

"When I feel like it. Go to sleep."

"I'm not sleepy," Jack insisted, yawning.

"Well, I am."

Page turned on his side. Jack rolled in against his back, sliding his arm around him. "If that's the way you want it, baby cat."

"What is that?" The blond peered back over his shoulder. "Why do you keep calling me that?"

"You don't want me to?"

"I like it. I just want to know why."

"Well, you're some kind of cat, saw that right from the first." Jack yawned again. "You're not a kitten ... not an old Tom, either, are you? Something in between...."

"Wake me when the craft lands." The voice was exasperated, tired, but pleased-sounding. "You're stranger than I thought, Vannerman. A genuine nutcase."

"Absolutely." Jack burrowed his face in a confusion of yellow curls. He pressed his lips against the nape of Page's neck and closed his eyes, drifting away on a cloud of peace, pleasure and living silk. Whispered, "I love you."

Page shuddered beside him. Jack thought it was with passion.

The next morning, when Vannerman awoke alone and goddamned lonely, he wondered what he'd said. What he'd done. There were no answers on the bed, only dried stains of seed and sweat. He had never felt so confused or alone. He had never felt so angry or betrayed.

Well, Jack thought, showering, scrubbing away at himself, his instincts had been dead-on as usual. Page had turned out to be nothing but trouble on two legs. Yet for the life of him, he couldn't understand what had gone wrong. Worse, he had no way to find out. That was the most infuriating part of it.

Jack went on to spend the better part of his work week fuming — while his co-workers and partner did their best to stay out of his way. He didn't have a phone number or an address. He didn't know where Page lived or worked — or even if he worked at anything legitimate. That was a sickening concept. It was quite possible, even probable that the blond was involved in illegal career opportunities. That would also explain his phobia about cops. Still, there was no way of quietly checking it out. Hell, he didn't even have the blond's full name. Just an alias and a five year old nightmare....

And one mutual, traceable acquaintance — Vincent April, Mr. Springtime, the master freak. Now there was a visible source of information, a living book of shadows and unhealthy secrets and Stinger's was his domain.

Jack shook his head, considering. If a man was the type to obsess on nothing but lust without love, style without conscience, pain and money, then he would have created Stinger's and called it paradise. The club was open to the public until 10:00 p.m. After that, it was membership only. A very limited membership. The enforced secrecy only enhanced the various rumors which, at the same time, added to April's aura of notoriety. His was the kind of image the coalition fanatics locked onto and broadcasted whenever they got on a roll about "deviant" lifestyles ... which took place about every other day in Tidewater.

So maybe, Jack thought, it was time to find out how the other half lived.

Stinger's stood out from its fellow buildings even in broad daylight. The flat black exterior with its bumble-yellow sign seemed out of place even among the derelict structures of Norfolk's downtown waterfront. Regardless, the bar wasn't doing much trade at the moment, rough or straight. On a weekday afternoon there were basically two kinds of lunches to be found in the downtown area, the business kind and the kind shared with old Aunt Mattie. But Stinger's wasn't the place to take a maiden aunt — unless the aunt was into the business of bondage, whips and discipline.

Jack Vannerman entered the foyer and found himself in a small black room. The interior doors were bordered with smoky mirrors, a decorative, one-way spy glass so whoever was on the other side could check out the action as it entered. Jack gave the glass his best Polaroid smile and made his way in through the doors.

An extraordinarily thin black man was sitting on top of a stool behind a lecture stand. He greeted Jack with a grin that split his face from ear to ear. Spider had practiced that technique for years and knew how ghoulish he looked. He knew police when he saw them, too, even in street clothes.

"What's your pleasure, officer?" He steepled his fingers before him, leaned into them. "What can Spider do for you today?"

"I'm here to see Vincent April." Jack smiled back, his eyes didn't. He had mastered his techniques as well.

"Mr. Springtime himself. Do you have an appointment?"

"No."

"Does he know you?"

"No."

"Well...."

"Just tell him Jack Vannerman wants to see him. This is an informal visit."

There came another blinding flash of gum and enamel. "Your wish is my command," Spider said and slithered down from his stool.

Jack sincerely doubted that watching him disappear into the bar. He settled himself in to wait — and wait, as it turned out. Still, after the time he'd spent getting this far, another twenty minutes didn't seem to matter much.

The thin man eventually reappeared announcing, "You're in luck. Springtime comes to Stinger's today."

"In August?" Jack said. "I'm impressed."

Jack entered the bar and took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He had the sensation of sinking into the La Brea tar pits and could feel for the dinosaurs. While not exactly extinct, he was definitely an endangered minority on these premises. But that was the feeling Stinger's worked to convey. The decor was black on black, a valley of chrome and black leather highlighted by indirect light sources. Those lights glistened off the surface of edged weapons, elaborate bondage apparatus, a full artillery of devices he couldn't even name — S&M chic gone cyber. He was reminded of a padded cell with sharp, shiny bits sticking out of the quilting. All that was missing were the maniacs but he knew they would come later. Troubled, Jack gazed around him. Violence, real or imagined was no game. Page was proof of that. He couldn't imagine finding the blond in a place like this — wouldn't want to find him here.

On the stage, two women worked on a dance routine, striking poses to a suggestive beat. On second thought, Jack thought, dance was probably too strong a word. Acting out was more like it. He walked towards the lone figure standing at the bar.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Vannerman." The voice was as smooth as bittersweet chocolate.

Jack nodded, acknowledging the greeting. He recognized him from the photos and news footage, of course, but the physical presence surpassed all that. Vincent April a tall man. He looked strong, too, a figure sculpted from polished obsidian. April's head was shaved although he wore an impeccably groomed mustache and beard, barbered thin and sharp enough, it looked like it would slice. There was a diamond stud in his left ear, a diamond ring on the index finger of the manicured left hand and a platinum and onyx signet ring on the manicured right ring finger. He wore black, raw silk trousers and a gray satin shirt open at the collar, the picture of informal but expensive elegance. The shirt alone would have cost Jack a month's salary. Ray Ban shades hid the eyes. Vannerman searched for a flaw. Any flaw.

Finally, he said, "Aren't the sunglasses a little much in here?"

"Perhaps." April removed his glasses. The eyes were liquid brown under heavy lids and thick curling lashes. The lips locked onto a pleasant but speculative smile, low voltage but completely sensual. April oozed confidence, an intense combination of male beauty and strength. He was totally aware of himself and his environment, the master of all he surveyed. This was the world he had built himself. Photos and videos couldn't begin to relay the sexual lure of this creature.

Jack blinked. Swallowed. This had been Page's lover? He'd been prepared to dismiss the relationship as the infatuation of a lost, seventeen year old boy. He hadn't been prepared to feel the heat himself. But it lodged in hard at the base of his cock, tightened the skin of his balls. For a dreadful second, he felt very much out of his depth. Maybe a move back to North Carolina wasn't so far out of line.

"What can I do for you, officer?" April began. A master of discipline, he didn't offer to shake hands. Didn't offer a drink or a seat. He would wait for Jack to make the first move.

"I'm looking for someone," Jack told him, mouth dry.

"Aren't we all?"

"His name is Page. Calls himself Trip."

"I don't know him."

"He's tall. Long blond hair, curly. Blue eyes," Jack persisted, finding his focus again. "A good body."

"Sounds like he could be beautiful."

"He is."

"I don't know him."

"He says he knows you."

There was a quick flash of bright white surrounded by a wide mouth. His smile carried all the impact of suddenly sighting a shark in dark water. "Lots of people know Mr. Springtime," Vincent said. "Lot's of people like to say they know him. Mr. Springtime doesn't know any pretty men called Page or Trip. Still, if you find him, if he's really pretty, maybe you'll bring him by and ... introduce him."

"Page told me he'd been introduced before." Jack bristled. He hated to be talked down to as much as he hated to be lied to. "He told me he worked for you once. About five years back."

"That's a long time ago." April took a thin, cream-papered cheroot from his breast pocket and put it between his lips. Lit it.

"He said you were his pimp," Jack said flatly.

The girls stepped up the pace on stage, rehashing their steps, a pair of trained dogs with all the fight whipped out of them. Jack caught a glimpse of their faces in the mirror over the bar. Their expressions were blank. Dead. One girl's eye was nearly swollen shut, no doubt the result of a little one-on-one obedience training. Jack remembered the feel of a scar on a smooth, male thigh. He would never make love to Page without touching that, without having Page know he knew about it. Even in the blond's most private moments, that mark would be a constant reminder, a brand of ownership. Jack frowned. Vincent April smoked and kept his attention fixed on the girls. The cop had been dismissed.

"Mr. April," Jack said carefully. "I am too old and too pissed for this silent-game horse manure. You should know that before our conversation goes on much longer."

Vincent turned to regard him again. "I have a philosophy which has always served me well in life," he said. "Protect what's yours. If it has a hole, fuck it. If it's worth anything, sell it. And make them bleed for the privilege."

"Words to live by — if you happen to be an asshole."

"You're a cop."

Jack nodded.

A cloud of sweet blue smoke billowed into the air. "It's been more than five years since I ran any boys. My friends at the department know that. My friends at the department were some of my best customers. They were sorry to see Mr. Springtime go out of business," Vincent said evenly. "You should know, my work is completely legitimate now."

"I'm not trying to hassle you, April. I'm just trying to find Page."

Vincent shook his head. "I ran a lot of boys back then. How am I supposed to remember one?"

"He's the one who went to that party. The one who was beaten and raped."

"He told you about that?"

"Yeah. He told me."

"But he didn't tell you where he lives?"

"No."

"My, my ... sounds like a personal problem to me. Why don't you take it up with your chaplain? Or your precinct commander?"

Jack took in a deep breath, fighting for control. "All I want is to talk to him."

"I remember Page," Vincent said. That perfect, soulless smile masked onto his face again. "You're right. He is beautiful ... sweet as cream. Smooth as honey. Melts in your mouth every time."

Jack kept himself quiet. He needed this man now. Still, he couldn't help wondering how April would look without teeth.

"You think I turned his sugar white buns out on the streets and hustled the change," Vincent said. "No way. I am a capitalist through and through. You don't throw the beauties out to the peasants. You hold them back, wait for the right score. The pretty ones make most men a little ... crazy. They like to mess it up a little, bring it down to their level." Another cloud of smoke spiraled to the ceiling and disappeared. "If Page didn't tell you where he lives, I must assume he had a reason."

"I didn't hurt him," Jack snarled. "You did that! Goddamnit, he won't trust anyone now. He can't. That's your doing."

"I took him in when no one else would have him. I took care of him when he got hurt. And the men who did it paid for it."

"They paid for this place, that's what they paid for. Don't try to snow me with your charity act, pimp. It worked on a seventeen year old boy. It doesn't work on me."

"I told you — Vincent April doesn't operate on charity. Neither do hospitals. At the time, the boy needed a hospital."

"If it hadn't been for you, he wouldn't have gotten hurt."

Vincent frowned. "That's a hard thing to say. There's a lot of mean folks out in the world. Anybody can get hurt."

Jack's hands curled into fists. "Stay away from Page."

"Frankly, I'd be more concerned about myself if I were you. Police work is such a hazardous profession." Vincent shook his head sadly. "Besides, I thought you wanted me to help you find him. He's obviously very special to you."

"You did it, didn't you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Jack's lips twisted in disgust. "You set him up at that party, not those two kids. You were the only one who knew the men who would be there. How much they were worth. How much Page was worth." He shook his head. "You son of a bitch. He still cares about you. He thinks you're his friend."

Silence grew between them like a disease. Eventually, Vincent dropped his cheroot to the floor. Ground it out beneath his heel.

"Paranoia is an ugly disease, Mr. Vannerman. Page is smart to stay away from suspicious men like you," Vincent said. "Fortunately, he has friends he can trust."

"Stay away from him," Jack warned.

"Stinger's is the proper place for threats, sir. Can you deliver?"

"You better hope you don't find that out." Jack's eyes blazed. "I don't know where to find Page right now but I sure as hell know where to find you."

"Is that a promise or another threat?"

"Both."

"Why, Mr. Vannerman," Vincent said with a genuine smile. "I'm terrified."

"Be terrified." Jack smiled back. "You know, Page told me you were legitimate. He wants to believe that. I don't have to. As a matter of fact, paranoia is my job. The city pays me to be suspicious in this town."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, something stinks around here and I'm going to find out what it is. It might take a while but I'll find it. And I'll find Page, too. Without your help."

"You sound as if you mean that."

"I do."

"Well, I'll keep that in mind, officer," Vincent chuckled, amused.

"You don't sound too worried," Jack observed.

Vincent shrugged. "Sorry to disappoint you again, but...."

"I'm sorry, too," Jack said. He took a step back, then swung in with a roundhouse right-hand punch that caught the pimp on the left jaw. Vannerman put his full weight behind it, all the rage he'd been holding back. Vincent April dropped like a stone — and stayed down, dazed. Jack stood over him. "You are out of shape, mister. You might be pumping big iron down at the gym but you've been sparring around with too many boys and women. They don't fight back all that well. But you count on that, don't you?" Jack reached down and gathered a fistful of Vincent's satin shirt, pulling him up, shoving him back against the bar rail. "When I tell you I'm coming down on you, I don't expect to hear you laughing. I am an officer of the law and you will show me the respect I deserve. I thought you folks in this half of the lifestyle understood that."

Vincent glared at him, eyes glittering black like the dark between stars. "I should have known." Blood stained his teeth. "There's nothing worse than a cocksucker in love."

"Believe it." Jack twisted satin and felt it tear. He leaned into the hard body. "If I hear of you coming anywhere near Page, I will make you one sorry son of a bitch. I will fuck up your life till there's no return. You will hurt forever. Now, I'm only going to ask you one more time, where is he?"

"I don't know," the pimp said.

"I don't believe you."

"It's the truth. The bitch pulled a fade after he left the hospital. He ran out on me. I don't know where he is."

"This is a real different tune from the one you were playing a minute ago."

"Yeah, well, you're familiar with the variation," Vincent spat out. "I wasn't ready to lose him." He pulled himself free from Jack's grip, smoothed the front of his shirt. "It was hot around here after that business five years back, I had to disappear a little myself. When I came back, Page was gone."

"Where?"

Vincent shook his head.

Jack was skeptical. "You didn't go looking for him?"

"Started to. I took care of him, didn't I? He belonged to me, he owed me."

"What changed your mind?"

"Stinger's."

Vincent crossed to the other side of the bar. He took down a bottle of brandy and poured two drinks, lifted one and rinsed the blood off his teeth. Swallowed. Jack let the other glass be.

"Page never operated too good on his own," Vincent said. "That's the way it is with property. It needs management or it goes straight to hell. There's a part of him knows Stinger's belongs to him. Part of him knows he belongs here. With me. He'll be back."

"No," Jack said. "He won't."

"You believe what you want. That boy's a whore, Mr. Vannerman. A high priced whore but still...." Vincent gave a little shrug. "He'll be back."

"That boy was in love with you, willing to do most anything for you. Love does that to people," Jack said sadly. He had reached a dead end in his search. "Page isn't your property. Not anymore."

"So, white knight, you going to save him now?"

"Yeah," Jack said, weary but determined. "I'll find him. I'll save him."

Vincent simply stared at him. He didn't appear to be convinced. Then he said, "You don't know who you're dealing with here, officer. I can appreciate your situation better than most. I had a piece of it myself once. But you're thinking with your balls, not with your head. I'll let you by this time but you don't want to be pushing your weight around here anymore."

"You're connected, aren't you?"

Vincent nodded.

"Tell me something I don't know," Jack said. "You're still pimping, you're still hawking porn and god knows what else. But you don't ever get busted. No one even sniffs around your den. I know you're connected, April. Shit always draws flies — till the pile gets so big, they call in the cleaning crew. They've got no other choice."

"There's always a choice, Officer," Vincent said.

"No." Jack shook his head. "Not always."

Jack turned, heading back towards the door. Harsh music still pounded over the speaker system but the girls had come to a stop, shuffling, uncertain at the edge of the stage.

"Good afternoon, ladies." Jack offered a short salute on his way out. "No charge for the show."

Vannerman walked out of Stinger's and into the summer afternoon. Heat and humidity washed over him, preferable to the meat-locker cold he'd left behind him. Jack knew more about whores and pimps than he wanted to, his work made that possible. He knew that in every basic human relationship, love was the big motivator. In spite of everything they knew to the contrary, whore's fucked for love. They didn't spread their legs and barter their souls for money, they didn't do it for power. The deed was done for love — or the hope of it.

But pimps didn't love anybody. Except themselves.

He wasn't getting anywhere in his search for Page. Maybe it was time to start a new investigation, look in some new areas. Get down and dirty with the real slime.

It would help to pass the nights.

Perry Buchannan had been the bouncer at Stinger's for the last year and a half. He liked his job and was good at it. The truth was, Perry hadn't felt this important since he lost his chance to play pro ball. You just can't cut it, the recruiters had told him. You're not fast enough.

Not good enough, that's what they meant. But, as it turned out, he'd been better than good enough for the job at Stinger's. The club had transformed his life. And if it hadn't brought him back to the fame he'd known in school, it had provided plenty of notoriety. Perry returned to his workouts to keep his body in shape, all the better to preserve the proper image for the club. The money was excellent, the benefits just one side of outrageous and the pickings more choice than he'd ever experienced, even when he was in the running for the pros. Perry always got first dibs on any new action that walked through the door, male or female. Now thin lips pursed in an appreciative whistle as he peered through the glass.

"Will you look at that package coming up the walk?"

Spider peered up from his web to check it out. Vincent April entered and looked, too.

"What a piece of cake." Perry leered, happily. "How'd you like a slice of that?"

"Get out." Vincent could have been saying, "good evening."

Perry whirled to come face-to-face with obsidian eyes. His own orbs popped wide in disbelief.

"Mr. April," he began, confused. "I was only —"

"Collect your pay," April said. "Don't come back."

Page entered Stinger's on the edge of violent confusion. Vincent April stepped up to take his arm and lead him past the commotion. Spider kept the bouncer from following after them.

"What's with him?" Perry demanded. "What'd I do?"

"You don't cheese with the man's private stock," Spider explained.

"How was I supposed to know?"

"Anything that fine you know belong to Mr. Springtime."

"But ... my job...."

Spider's nose was high and thin, his cheeks and eyes had an oriental cast. The skeletal grin split the black skin like a displaced moon. "Would you like me to put in a good word for you with the man?" he asked.

Perry hesitated. Then nodded, swallowing more than spit. "Sure," he said. "Would you?"

In the bar, Page accepted a glass of Henessey and glanced back over his shoulder. Spider's high, piercing laugh followed them even over the sound system. "What's going on, Vince?" he asked.

"Found the man dipping into the till," Vincent told him. "Had to let him go. Sorry for the scene, sugar."

"Does that kind of thing happen often?"

"Sometimes. It's not easy to run a place like this."

"I can imagine."

"And that's about all." Vincent gave a rueful laugh. "You've made yourself pretty scarce these past few years."

Page grinned, self-conscious. "You know this isn't my thing."

"I thought you liked big men. You won't find nothing but the biggest and the best here at Stinger's." There was a lightning flash of teeth. "Some big women, too."

"I know that. And I know you've put a lot of work in the place. If Walt Disney had been into S&M instead of singing mice, he would created Stinger's." Page took a sip of cognac. It slid down his throat like fire velvet. "I've got some friends who are into leather. They don't come here."

"Can't afford it?"

"I get the impression they think it's a little on the tourist side. Something to annoy the local bible thumpers."

"That bothers you?"

"No, but it wears on the folks who like to keep a low profile. Anyway, I'm into no-frills fucking, you know that." Page laughed. "This whole scene — you need so much equipment. I can't see carrying all that gear around. You've already shot your load by the time you're strapped in and suited up. What's the point? Besides...." Blue eyes went serious. "People get carried away."

April put his hand on Page's shoulder. The blond looked away.

"You know it's true," Page said quietly. He took another sip of cognac. "So ... why'd you call me, Vince?"

"Do I have to have a reason?"

"Usually."

"Well, what can I say? I appreciate your taking time to visit an old friend at his request."

"Vince, stop. You're making me feel like an asshole."

"That's no problem, sugar. We'll make it even. Come into the next room and I'll let you feel mine."

"Been there. Done that." Page turned away, suddenly cold. "You need a new routine, lover."

"Sorry, baby. Just getting into the night mood for this place. It makes me a little crude sometimes."

The blond smiled, uncomfortable. "That's okay."

Vincent smiled back. "So, what have you been up to?"

"Nothing much. How about you?"

"The same. Business is pleasure and pleasure is business." He regarded Page carefully, head to one side. "You don't mean to tell me you haven't found anyone yet? A good looking man like you?"

"I find them fairly regularly. Or rather, they find me."

"But nobody special?"

Page finished off the rest of his drink. Frowned. "Who are you supposed to be? My mother?"

"No, sugar, I'm your daddy, remember?" Vincent said. "You know I love you like my own. It hurts to see you alone."

"Well, there is someone." The blond ran his finger over the edge of the snifter. "Might be someone. I'm not sure."

"I see. My baby's leaving the nest."

"I left the nest a long time ago," Page said firmly. "Look, I wish I could see you more often. It's just — hard. There's too much old stuff. It can't be like it was. I just can't.... God, listen to me. I sound like someone out of a bad old movie. Bring on the violins."

Vincent signaled the bartender for another refill. There was more cognac. He took Page's chin in his fist, lifted the blond's face to the light.

"I keep waiting for you to come back," he said. "You belong here."

"Don't start ... please...."

"They hurt you that bad?"

"Yes."

"You should've stayed with me after." Vincent let him go. "You wouldn't have to run so scared all the time. I wouldn't let anyone touch you. I wouldn't let anyone hurt you. I promise."

"That's what you said the last time."

"Well, sometimes things happen you can't help. I never wanted you hurt."

Page sighed. "You said that, too."

"And I meant it." Vincent slipped his arm around Page's shoulders, drawing him close. He steered him towards a door at the back of the bar. "We got to talk, sugar. Someone came by Stinger's this week looking for you."

Page looked up, startled. "Who?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

They entered the office. Vincent closed the door behind them. It was a big room, as lavishly decorated as the exterior. Page started to step away but the man held him a moment longer. Smiled down at him.

"It's good to see you," Vincent said.

"Same here." Page returned the smile and shrugged away again, moving out into the room. "This is fantastic. You've redecorated since the last time I was here."

"You like it?"

"Yeah. I've always been keen on the midnight Beardsley look. Deco decadence. What's with the computer? Couldn't find one in eggplant plum?" Page ran his hand over the beige monitor.

"I'm working on it."

"Business must be better than I thought. You've got enough power here to mobilize the sixth fleet."

"The military's always provided some of my best customers." The lines around Vincent's mouth deepened. "Still working for that detective agency, aren't you?"

"Yes, can you believe it? It's a blast — most of the time. Besides, old man Fortune's the only employer I've ever had I can put up with for more than a week."

"I thought I put you up pretty well."

"You did."

Vincent watched him under heavy lids. "You wouldn't be checking out Mr. Springtime for your new old man, would you?"

"I don't have an `old man.'" Page stiffened, surprised, confused. "Your business must make you paranoid, too. No, Vince. I'd never do anything to hurt you, you know that. I've always been naturally nosey. It's a gift." He left the computer console and crossed to the stereo cabinet where he began to look through the tapes and cd's. "What have you got new?"

"Lot's since your last visit. There's a Jimmy Gryphon. You always liked him."

"Terrific." Page found the disc and slipped it into the machine. Rich chords of bluesy-jazz filled the room. He refilled his glass from the bar and rolled the crystal between his palms to warm it. Page took another sip and leaned back against the wall letting the music wash over him. "This is nice," he said.

"So is this."

A distinctive odor drifted through the air. Page stifled a laugh. "Aha. The evil weed."

Vincent handed it to him, grinned. "Exactly," he said. "The evil weed."

Page took a toke. Held it. Passed it back. "You're right."

"This is the good stuff, sugar. Specially imported for yours truly. You won't find this down on Church Street." Vincent inhaled. He took Page's glass, exhaled into the bowl and handed it back. "Try this. You won't believe it."

Smoke oozed over the rim. Page looked at it skeptically.

"Just breathe it in and swallow," Vincent said. "It'll make you burn."

Page tried it and, afterwards, set the glass down. "You're right," he agreed. "But that's enough."

"No, it's not."

Vincent put the grass aside, put his hands on Page's shoulders, pulling him close. Fingers snaked into yellow curls, grasping the back of his skull, bringing their heads together. The other hand went against Page's back.

Page tried to relax. Couldn't. He tried to pull his head away and found himself trapped. He had forgotten how strong Vincent was. He didn't like the reminder.

Vincent finished with him at his leisure. Then looked down into blue eyes made bright with fury.

"I didn't come here for this," Page snapped.

"You came because I called you."

"Fuck off!"

Vincent's hand fastened on Page's throat. Closed. Shoved. Page's head cracked against the paneling behind him. For a brief minute, stars blazed behind his eyelids.

"You don't talk to me like that," Vincent snarled. "You owe me. You owe me words, sugar. Start with who that tight-assed cop that came down on me yesterday."

Blue eyes widened. "Jack? He came here?"

"Jack Vannerman. Who is he?"

"None of your business."

"Wrong answer." A hand exploded across the blond's face. Vincent's fist tightened on Page's throat, holding him up against the wall. "That man called me a pimp!"

"Well, he was right, wasn't he?"

"What did you tell him about me?"

"Nothing!"

Vincent laughed, shook his head. "You always was a stubborn piece of work. High spirited. That's fine in the bedroom but not when you start messing in another man's business." Fingers loosened, then tightened around Page's throat while fingertips smoothed his cheek in an lingering caress. Vincent thrust his thigh between Page's legs and pressed against his groin. Rubbed against him.

For a second, Page panicked. All he could taste was the blood in his mouth. All he could feel was trapped and scared — that and the pressure of Vincent's fingers gouging into his neck. Heart pounding, he struggled to breathe. Then he brought his foot down on top of Vincent's instep as hard as he could. Slammed the edge of both hands into lower ribs. Vincent relaxed his hold and Page grabbed the Henessey bottle from the bar. Smashed the base. Jabbed. Vincent released him quickly, stepping out of range.

Page gripped the bottle's broken neck. Slashed out again as Vincent lunged towards him. His slim body dropped in a half-crouch as he followed the man's movements. The scent of cognac rushed the room, drowning the odor of grass. They eyed one another, light against dark.

"Be cool, baby." Vincent broke the silence. "I just want to talk."

"Don't call me that," Page blazed. "I don't belong to you. Don't you ever touch me like that again."

"All right. Relax ... things just got a little hot for a moment. I got carried away."

"Get out of my way." Page wasn't buying it this time. "I'm leaving."

"All I want to know is what you told the cop."

"I told him you taught me how to dance."

Vincent smiled slowly. "Taught you how to fight, too."

"Keep away from me!"

"I won't touch you. Not unless you want me to."

Page watched with wary silence.

"Put the bottle down. You don't need it." Vincent took out one of his cheroots. He turned his back on Page and walked to the couch at the far end of the room. Sat down. "Let's have some words about your new boyfriend. The cop."

"We've got nothing to talk about. Not anymore."

"Is that so? Your Mr. Vannerman is a very rude man. He could stand to learn some manners. Maybe I'll just go down to the precinct and have a word or two with his boss. Utilize my connections." Vincent's eyes narrowed. "They know the man's gay? They know he's shacked up with you?"

Fear took on a new definition. "He's not shacked up with me," Page said.

"No, but he'd like to be," Vincent returned. "You must have spent some prime time together. He wants you back — bad."

"What if he does?"

"It's my guess you feel something for him, too. Just a little bit." Vincent took a drag off his cheroot. "Maybe more than a little."

"So?"

"So why'd you leave him? That's the mystery, sugar. Why'd you leave the score and what'd you tell him about Mr. Springtime?"

"I told him you were a friend." Bitterness crisped words.

"And I am, sugar, I am ... or we wouldn't be talking like this." Vincent's smile did not reach his eyes. "Put the bottle down, Page. Sit." He patted the space on the couch beside him. "Over here."

"I don't want to."

"I don't want to call your friend's people either. But I will."

Page knew he would do it, too. Vincent April wouldn't care about Jack's job or family ... how he would support his child, if he would ever see his son again. He could walk out now, turn his back on Vincent — and Jack — forever.

And try to live with that.

Slim shoulders hunched together. Page swallowed a long, harsh sigh. He turned to the bar and carefully placed the broken bottle on the flat, dark surface. Then crossed to the couch. Vincent gazed up at him.

Page sat down.

Vincent leaned back, relaxed against the plush upholstery. "So," he began. "What did you two talk about?"

"It wasn't anything to do with you," Page said, determined. "We were just playing around. He tied my hands. I freaked out, got sick. When he asked me what was wrong, it all just came out. I told him ... told him I worked for you a long time ago. Told him I'd been caught in a kink party and got hurt. That Ricky and Joe set me up. I told him you took care of me."

"What else."

"Nothing. That was it."

"Why did you leave him?"

Page trembled at last. "I don't have to tell you that."

Vincent slid his arm around stiff shoulders. "Yes, you do, baby. You've got to tell daddy everything."

"No."

Dark fingers stroked the bruises on a pale throat. "Now, you know you'll feel better once you talk to daddy," he said. "You'll feel bad if you don't. I promise."

"Vince ... please.... I can't even talk to Jack about it." He paused, hoping for a truce of some kind. But Vincent's expression never changed. "I had a nightmare. We went to sleep and I saw colors — it red and white and red ... flashing. And this face. An old man, almost bald. He kept saying `I love you' and ... other things. And he hurt me. He kept hurting me."

"Your man say he loved you?"

"Jack? Yes."

"That's why you left?"

"No. I don't know. It was the dream. I woke up, I was so scared I couldn't talk. I just had to get out of there. Had to get out!" Page's hands clenched on his thighs. He took a deep breath. "It was the party, wasn't it? Something that happened there."

"Probably so."

"Tell me."

Vincent finished his smoke. "You don't want to know."

"Yes I do," Page pleaded. "If I remember all of it...."

"You can go back to your cop."

Page felt the tears burn the back of his eyes. "What's the matter with you, Vince? Why are you doing this?"

"You were always a good boy back then. Did what you were told." He smiled. "I never had to punish you."

"God...."

"You broke your wrists pulling the chain, remember that?" Vincent's fingers traveled down Page's arm, circled a wrist. "I made them pay for that, didn't I?"

"Vince — stop it."

"They broke you into little bloody pieces," he went on, inflexible. "I made them pay for it. Made them pay for all of it. And I took care of you. The only thing — the only thing I ever asked you to do was keep your mouth shut!"

The music from the stereo came to a stop. Silence exploded in the room. Vincent's eyes were blank, his face without expression. Page felt the last of the color drain from his face. He shrank in on himself, every limb gone to ice. He bowed his head, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. After a long moment, Vincent sighed and shook his head.

"You're not as good now you're older." Suddenly, the fingers went into a fist, twisting wrist and arm. He drove Page's hand up to the center of his back. "Be good," Vincent urged. "Be a good boy for daddy."

It hurt too much to scream. Page's body arched; he braced himself against the arm of the couch, twisting his head back. Vincent's fist clenched in his hair forcing him down. Page tore away, rearing back again. Fire speared his arm and, this time, the sound of it escaped his lips.

Vincent grinned, fist tightening against his scalp. "I always liked to see your pretty curls moving down on my dark parts."

"No!"

The door opened. Perry Buchannan's bulk filled the frame. The ex-bouncer stepped into the room. "Mr. April," he began. "Can we talk?"

Perry stumbled to a halt. He peered more closely at the activity across the room, reddened and started away.

"I'm sorry," the bouncer stammered, back-tracking. "I didn't know you were—"

"Don't go!" Page almost screamed.

Perry hesitated, his hand on the door. "Is everything ... I mean—"

"Help me—"

The hand twisted brutally. Page caught his breath on fresh agony, writhed in Vincent's grip.

"Step outside, Perry," Vincent said. "I'll be with you shortly."

Perry did as he was told. Page watched him leave with panic-widened eyes.

Vincent pinned him against the couch, ran the back of his hand across the bruise on Page's face. "I've got to attend to this business now," he said. "Then I'll be back. While I'm gone, I want you to think about your policeman. Maybe we can come up with a way to convince him to use better manners. Respect his betters."

Page remained silent.

Vincent released him, stood and walked away. Page fell forward, cradling his arm against his chest. The man paused at the door.

"Talking to me is the smartest thing you can do now," Vincent said softly. "Cops are hard to kill. They always got friends to make trouble and that's bad for business. Don't mean that it can't be done, though. And if I got to ace him, I might as well finish you, too." He smiled. "Don't think I won't make his life hell for him first. Your's, too. That's something you can think on till I get back."

The door closed on his departure. Page heard a key turn in the lock.

"Fuck you, daddy," he snarled at the blank door. "Fuck you twice!"

Page stood up. He stumbled to the desk and searched through the drawers. There had to be a key, a weapon — anything! If nothing else, he'd wait with a another bottle when April came back through the door again. No one was going to hurt him like that. Never again. No one was going to hurt Jack either.

Papers, folders, pictures scattered in his hunt. But there was no key to be found. No way out. Page could have cried. He didn't want to fight Vincent, he knew how that would go. Vincent would crush him. He would....

Page leaned on the desk, shaking hard now, his breath sobbing in and out of his body like grief. Reaction was setting in — and it wasn't helping. Page forced himself into some semblance of calm. Turned and slowly studied the room. There were two other doors besides the exit. A closet and a bathroom?

Yes. And the bathroom had a window although it was ludicrously small and set high in the wall. He wondered what would happen if he was caught half-way through. It was not a happy thought.

Page stepped up on top of the toilet and went to war with the window fastening. It refused to open. Heat and humidity had warped the lock beyond movement. Besides, it had been painted over at least a dozen times. He grabbed up the marble tank cover, destroying a small fortune in figurines and expensive aftershave, and prepared to slam it against the glass when a peculiar little detail caught his eye.

A fingerprint smudged the tile at the join of the walls near the ceiling. The mark was very familiar to him since he happened to be wearing a matching set around his throat. Compelled, Page reached out and placed his own hand over the print, lining his fingers up to ghost the sequence. He felt some give in the tile. Pushed.

The tile below popped open revealing a six by six inch hole — a tiny, black treasure cave. Page started to reach in, then remembered what he knew of Vincent April. Mr. Springtime liked surprises, nasty surprises. Page stepped down from the toilet and reached into the shower stall. He picked up a backscrubber from the wall with a long, thick wooden handle. Standing up on the toilet again, he probed inside the compartment. Snap! — a razor honed blade slammed down over the wood, slicing deep into the surface. Page blinked, round eyed. There was enough force in that trap to sever a man's hand from his wrist. He used the scrubber to lever the blade up and hold it. Then reached inside the opening.

Still no key ... only a small plastic box of the kind found in any Radio Shack. It was filled with pre-formatted computer disks. And that was all.

But maybe, Page thought, it would be enough. He slipped the box of disks inside his shirt and closed the compartment. He tossed the scrubber away and used the marble cover to smash open the window glass. He climbed as high as he could, then vaulted himself up, shoving head, arms and shoulders into the tiny opening. The frame tore flesh through clothing as he forced himself through. It hurt like hell but he kicked his way free and dropped into the graveled lot on all fours, panting, feeling through his shirt to be sure the disks were still with him. A quick look around the side of the building told him the path to his car was open. He ran for it.

Page didn't breathe properly again until he had cleared the block. Until Stinger's had disappeared in the rear view and solid night closed on the silence in the car.

Liz Monroe was the only person at home in the apartment house on Redgate. It didn't matter that it was Friday night. It didn't matter that is was only a quarter to midnight. This was her sanctuary. Although she had found the job she loved as well as her own place, she still hadn't discovered a comfortable social niche outside the familiar rituals of the University. There were times when it seemed everyone and everything conspired to keep her at the ten-year-old level, her parents, her brother, grocery clerks, mechanics, bus drivers, even the people she worked with. Everyone except Page. No one took him seriously either but he didn't seem to mind. Her gay friend and co-worker gloried in his eccentricities and his lack of political-correctness. Liz wished she could take life as easily.

Maybe if she had a pair of long legs like Page's and confidence to match, she'd have a better chance. Maybe if pigs had wings, she thought, they could cruise the stars. Liz turned another page of her book as the front door opened. The book was a terrific piece of gore and guess-work featuring a decapitated corpse and a fog shrouded, trenchcoat clad figure on the cover but Liz was more interested in who had just entered the building. The approaching footsteps were familiar but they didn't belong to anyone who lived in the house. The cat lady in the attic apartment was never home on weekends and couple "A" on the second floor never returned until daylight on Fridays and Saturdays. As far as she knew, no one had ever seen couple or single "B" from the second floor but Liz was sure someone lived there. Twice a week, a neat bag of garbage was deposited on the first floor landing. There were times when Liz wondered if he, she or they went out at all but the garbage had to accumulate somehow. The sole occupant of the studio apartment who shared the first floor with Liz stayed inside during the day. S/he liked to wear a dress and heels with his five o'clock shadow. S/he only went out at night. It was easier on the population that way. Usually.

Liz made a point to be aware of the tenants comings and goings. It wasn't just good practice for her detective career, the front door didn't lock. The derelict house beckoned its own and the homeless in the neighborhood would come in to sleep in bad weather and panhandle in the halls when it was clear. Occasionally, if one saw a light on late at night, they'd hammer on the door to ask for change. The first time Liz opened the door to a swaying wino "just off the bus from Richmond" at 2:00 a.m., she had thrust out a handful of coins and thought, "Wow — how Chandler."

But it wasn't an experience she cared to repeat.

Tonight, the footsteps stopped on the other side of her door. Wood shivered under a brisk knock.

Liz turned her book face down on the arm of the chair. "Who is it?" she called.

"Page."

The young woman blinked, startled. That was Page's voice all right. She would recognize the velvet rasp hovering one side of orgasm anywhere. Simple announcements, however, were not his style.

"You're sure it's not the blond sheik of Castro Street come to slum in Norfolk? The neighborhood sheet inspector?" Liz performed a complicated rite with the locks and bolts on the door. "Are you sure it's really you?"

"No, it's really the weekend party coordinator," Page answered. "How come you're home before midnight on Friday? Fairy godmother on strike? Somebody crush your pumpkin?"

The door swung open and, for a moment, Liz froze. Finally, she said, "My pumpkin's okay. But someone squashed yours flat."

"Tell me about it."

Page swept into the living room. Liz closed and re-locked the door. She turned to find him inspecting his face close-up in the mirror. A bruise purpled his cheek. There were more on his throat.

"Were you mugged?" she asked, concerned. "Were you in a fight?"

"Something like that. You should see the other guy."

"Yeah?"

"Not a mark on him."

"Page ... there's blood on your back."

He frowned, scowling at himself in the glass. "Have you got something to drink?"

Liz nodded and went into the kitchen. She came back with a glass, bourbon, ice. Set it down on the table. Page's skin was very white. It made the bruises stand out. He finished the first drink quickly and peered at the glass when she filled it again.

"Gee, Monroe — Star Trek. You didn't have to get the good glasses out just for me."

"I didn't," she said. "The good glasses are the Muppets."

Page nodded. Swallowed. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Don't you think you should get out of that jacket? I could take a look at those cuts."

"In a minute. Let me sit down first, okay?"

"Sure. Sit — before you fall."

"Look," he began. "It's just a cut. Just glass."

"Oh, is that all?" Liz raised eyebrows over large, brown eyes. "And here I thought you'd been squeezed through a garbage compactor."

Page didn't answer, he sat down, bracing his elbows on his knees. He leaned forward and pressed the cold glass against his forehead. Yellow curls swept forward to hide his face. Silence curdled between them awkwardly. Liz pushed at the box of computer disks he'd tossed on the table.

"What's this?" she asked.

"I don't know."

"Who'd you have the fight with?"

"Vincent April."

"The man who owns Stinger's? I thought you two were friends."

"Yeah. Me, too."

"So what happened. Why'd he beat you up?"

"Special effects." Page lifted his head. His eyes were bright with anger, other things. "April wants someone to see me like this. It's like a game. I'm supposed to be the prize."

"I don't get it."

"There's nothing to get," he snapped. "I'm an idiot, that's all." Page finished the second bourbon. He filled the glass again and made a face when he gulped it down.

"Don't drink so fast," Liz cautioned. "It'll make you sick."

"Too late, Monroe. Shit!"

Page hurled the glass across the room. It smashed against the wall, sounding like a shot when it hit. Liz jumped. Page glared at the wet spot left behind as if he wanted to put his fist through it. She swallowed down her drink and held out the glass.

"Here," Liz said. "Be my guest."

Page turned on her. "Don't you play games with me, too!"

"I'm not playing games. I just don't know what else to do. You're my friend. You come here and you're hurt. Someone's after you. I want to help. You want to smash glasses, it's okay with me."

"I don't want to smash your glasses."

"It's okay, really," Liz insisted. "You can take out the Muppets if you want. Wait here — I'll go get them."

The blond laughed briefly but it was a harsh sound. He crossed the room and leaned over to pick up the shards that littered the floor. Denim stretched over curves and Liz couldn't help thinking that, gay or not, she'd destroy a dozen Muppet glasses for one bare-skinned glance at Page's perfect rump, those glorious legs.

It's been way too long between dates, she thought and sighed.

"What are you doing now?" Liz asked, trying to break the spell. This wasn't the time for fantasy.

"Ought to get this up," Page said. "You could cut yourself. It'll ruin the floor."

"Page, I think they used to stable horses in here. You can't ruin this floor. You can see the basement through the cracks. At night, with the light on down there, it looks like something out of a Spielberg movie ... all that light shining up like rays."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Page sank down on his heels as if he would have a closer look. He lost his balance and sat down hard. Liz winced. That had to hurt.

He hiccupped and covered his mouth with his hand. Liz crossed over and squatted down beside him. She hoped he hadn't damaged anything.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

Page shook his head. "No," he said. "Everything's fucked up. It's all my fault."

"Come on. It can't be all your fault."

"Yes it is."

Tears began to roll down the bruised face. Liz stared back, swallowed hard. She'd never seen a man cry before except in the movies and that didn't count. Page's eyes reddened and he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He let his head fall forward and pressed his hand over his eyes, bit down hard on his lower lip. His shoulders jerked as if he were being struck. Liz bit back tears of her own and took his free hand in both of hers.

It was over almost as quickly as it began and left them both exhausted. Liz picked up a box of tissues, held them out.

"Tell me what happened," she said.

"Okay."

Page blew into one of the tissues and staggered to his feet. Liz lurched up beside him, stiff, and he gave her a hand until she balanced. When he turned for the table, she caught his arm and brushed at the seat of his pants.

"What are you doing?" Page asked.

"Hold still. You're full of glass and dust." Liz paused to dart a little glare in his direction. "No comments on the housekeeping or lack thereof."

"You're doing a fine job of it now."

She grinned at him. "Actually, I've been wanting to do that for a long time."

"Actually," he said. "I know."

"Do you mind much?"

"Let me have another bourbon and I'll sit on your lap. I promise not to break the glass either."

"You're such a whore, legs." Laughter died in Liz's throat. She watched the light die in his eyes as if all the life had run out of him at once. "Hey," she whispered. "It was a joke. You're supposed to laugh."

Page tossed his hair back from his face. Shrugged. "Let's have that drink," he said. "I've got to tell you some things."

Page told her things. When he stopped talking, the bottle was empty and they were both too numb to speak. Liz played with the ice in her glass, swirling the cubes against the sides, staring at them as if all the answers in the world were locked inside. She wished they were. Page folded his arms over his bare chest. She'd had her way with him and cleaned the cuts on his back. The wounds were bloody but shallow. Still, hearing how he'd hurt himself getting out of Vincent's office made her angry. She thought about what would have happened to him if he hadn't gotten away, about what would happen if Vincent April found them now. Then Liz thought about the gun in her room and knew what she'd do if April appeared at her door. She was amazed at how cool she could be about it.

"You've got to get those disks to your friend," Liz said at last.

"I know," Page agreed. "But I can't let him see me like this."

"Why not?"

"Because he'd go after Vince."

"I'd like to go after Vince."

Page sank his head into his fist. "It would be safer for you than it would be for him," he said. "You wouldn't lose your job. You don't have a kid to take care of."

Liz thought for a moment, then asked, "Does April rape women, too?"

"No. I don't know. I think he just beats them up."

"Wow. What a prince."

"Look — he wasn't always like this. I don't think he was.... Damn. I don't know what to think anymore." Page sighed, defeated. "You wouldn't believe what I was like when I met him. I don't believe it myself and it wasn't that long ago either." He took in a deep breath. "Do you know what it's like to be hungry? I mean, really starving?"

Liz gazed at him, baffled. "No. Not like you mean."

"I was seventeen years old and living with a man, Bill Coleman," Page said. "It doesn't matter if you know who he is now. There was an accident. He died. When his people came, they threw me out of the house. Watched me while I packed my stuff to be sure I didn't steal anything. The only reason I got to keep his picture was because I was in it. They sure didn't want to keep that around. I took it and ran before they could think of tearing it up."

"Good god." Liz's eyes widened. "Where were your folks?"

Page grimaced. "For as much as it means, Bill was all the family I had. My parents ... my father — he won't even let me use our last name. You can guess what that's like." He lowered his head, uncomfortable with direct, eye-to-eye contact. "I couldn't find a job ... I didn't have any place to go. Finally, it got so bad, I had to call home. I'd been on the street for weeks and it was awful. I talked to my mother. She said she'd heard about Bill and she was sorry. She said she hoped I wasn't coming back because things had been so much better since I left. I hung up. There was nothing else I could do."

Liz swallowed, her mouth dry. She tried to think of something she or her brother might do that would cause her parents to react like that. She couldn't.

"I ran into this kid from school at the park," Page continued. "Actually, it was kind of deliberate. I knew about him, what he did. I asked him to introduce me to Vince." He raised his head and looked at her again. "It wasn't like what I thought it would be. Vince was fantastic. He had this incredible ... presence. Like he could handle anything. He didn't say much, just gave me something to eat. Tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich ... a really tall, really cold glass of milk. He let me sleep in a room all to myself. Next day, I took a shower, washed my clothes. Man, it was great just to be clean again."

"Did you know what — I mean...."

"I knew." Page laughed. "Don't get so big-eyed. I was a disaster as a hustler. Bill was a monster about self respect and all that gay pride jazz even if he never did come out of the closet until he was dead. It was the job-thing again, he was a teacher. That's how we met. And he wasn't the one to make the first move, I was. Anyway, Bill drummed all that stuff into me. When Vince saw I couldn't do it, he brought me back home. Kept me out of it. And I loved him for it. God, did I love him."

Liz met his gaze, held it. "Until that party."

"Nothing was ever the same after that."

"How could it be?" Her fists clenched against the table top. "Look, if that had happened to me, I would've lost it. I mean stark-raving. The works."

"I was stark-raving," Page said. "For a long time. I couldn't let Vince touch me after that. I couldn't let anyone touch me."

"But it's different now, isn't it? This new guy must be okay, right?" Brown eyes brightened. "He's got a mailbox, right? We'll drive over and leave them for him. You write a note and tell him what's up. He's a cop, he'll know what to do."

"And I can call Vincent, let him know what's up. Make him leave him alone."

"And you, too."

Page sighed, worry crossed his face again. "There's just one problem."

"What?"

"What if there's nothing there? What if I've picked up some old ledger? Booze inventory, payroll, something like that?"

"Get real, legs. Nobody hides a legitimate inventory in a secret compartment in the bathroom ceiling protected by its own little guillotine. It's got to be dirty, whatever it is." Liz grinned. "You're going to have to bluff it out with him. You know that, don't you?"

Page grinned back. It was only a ghost of his former cheek but the attempt was encouraging. "Bluffing," he said. "I'm good at that."

"You can play your own game," she told him. "Payback."

Later, listening to Page's side of the telephone conversation with Vincent, Liz understood how unpleasant, how deadly this game could be. The vocal violence chilled her to the point where she didn't think she'd ever feel the same about that phone again. She was glad when Page hung up the receiver.

"Ready to pass the goods?" Liz asked. She tried to sound cheerful.

Page gazed at her, blank. Talk had cost him more than she wanted to know. He'd gone pale again, even his lips seemed white, but he was still beautiful, a ravaged angel. Liz touched his shoulder shyly.

"You did it," she whispered.

"Yeah," he said, grimly. "I did."

"You don't have to go out again. I can deliver the disks myself."

Page shook his head. "I'd have to tell you his name. I can't."

"I guess you like him a lot."

"He's just a guy."

"Bullshit. You're still bluffing."

Page closed his eyes. "Let it go, Monroe."

"Only if you let me drive you," she said. "You can't hit the road like this."

"You're going to be a real pain about this, aren't you?"

"Yeah. I am." Liz made a cross-sign over her heart. "Look, I promise I'll just drive you over and I won't look and I won't go back snooping later. Romeo's secrets are safe with me, Juliet."

"All right," Page agreed, too weary to argue any more.

"And you're coming back here with me when we're done," Liz told him. "Vincent knows where you live. He doesn't know me. You can stay here till we're sure it's safe for you to go home."

She rifled through a chest of drawers and pulled out a oversized t-shirt. The front was plastisized with a lurid illustration of the Shadow, coat flying, pistols smoking. Page stared at the scarlet letters scrawled over the front, "The Shadow knows...." and made an effort not to cringe.

"Quel chic." He shuddered instead.

Liz's chin jutted up, indignant. "That's my favorite shirt."

"I thought I recognized it." Page pulled the material over his head. The tail bloused almost to his knees. He scowled a warning. "Don't laugh."

"It doesn't do much for you, does it?" she said, trying not to strangle. "I guess you don't have the power to cloud men's minds."

"Honey...." Blue eyes glittered under a wealth of lashes. "I know how to make them sit up and beg for it."

"Yeah. Right." Liz fumbled for her keys in the small suitcase that was her purse, leading the way to the door. "Well, I don't have to cloud their minds first. Men fall at my feet regardless."

"Yes, I've been meaning to talk to you about that cologne you've been using."

Liz took advantage of Page's close proximity to touch his ass again. Not softly. The blond yelped.

"That hurt!"

"It was supposed to." Liz unlocked the Mustang.

"Well, I like that." The blond folded his long legs into the car. "I come to you in my hour of need and what do you do? Slap me around ... put stingie stuff on my back ... make me wear terrible clothes."

"Shut up, legs."

"I just hope none of my friends see me in this."

Liz started the car, then pulled out onto the street. "First I thought we'd drive past The Q," she said. "Then swing over to the Oarhouse, then Charades, the Ironworks...."

"I will kill you first," Page promised, "then myself."

"You and what other army, laser lips?" Liz navigated the road, tearing through a yellow light before it went red. She smiled at him. "I'm glad you came over tonight. You're my best friend. Thanks for letting me help."

"I don't feel like much of a friend." Page went serious again. "More like a jinx, a blight. Now you're mixed up in it, too."

"It's not your fault Vincent April is a monster. Try not to worry so much. It's going to be all right."

"Do you really think so?"

"I do." She hesitated, then said, "There is always a next step. Always another day."

"This too shall pass," he finished, still cynical.

"Into every life some shit must fall."

Page turned his head, stared at her. "Ah, the sheer poetry of it ... the absolute magic," he said. "You have such a way with words, Monroe."

Liz laughed. "Better believe it, buddy."

Three days later Jack Vannerman came awake out of an exhausted sleep, the first he'd had in days. It was the phone that was ringing, not the alarm. Being a trained detective, Jack could tell the difference between the two. He grasped the alarm clock to let himself know just how "middle" of the night it was and corrected himself. It was the middle of the morning, four a.m. to be precise.

The phone kept on ringing which was good because he wanted to let the caller know how he felt about early morning wake-ups. Jack kicked his way through floor debris into the living room and grabbed the receiver.

"Hello!" he snapped.

"Hello yourself. This is your obscene telephone call service checking in. Had any dirty phone calls recently?"

"Page...." Jack sank down on the edge of a chair. Nothing could disguise the vibrant tone of that voice, not even the mechanical distortion of the phone. "Page, are you all right?"

"No, I'm all wrong. You ought to have figured that out by now, honey," Page returned brightly. "The air conditioning's gone out. I am dying from the heat. Just lying here in the all together thinking about your hairy thighs between my legs." There was a moment's pause, then, "Are you getting off on this, Vannerman? You want me to hang up?"

"No — wait!"

"What are you wearing now?"

"Uh ... boxer shorts."

"Oh, really?" A giggle. "I love hairy thighs in boxer shorts."

Jack struggled for coherence. "Where are you?" he demanded.

"I'm right here, Carolina. Where are you?"

"Page, it's four a.m."

"Aw ... you're no fun."

"You talk pretty big on the phone. Come on over and I'll show you how much fun I can be. If you can take it."

"Mm ... that's the spirit, honey." Page laughed softly. "Did you get my package?"

"Yeah." Jack was completely awake now. "Yes, I got it. And your note. Once we checked the disks, we got warrants and went after April but he was gone."

"I had to call him, Jack."

"I kind of thought you would."

"It's not what you think," Page said. "I just wanted him to leave some friends alone."

"What friends?"

"Jack, what were on the disks? I never got a chance to see."

"It was a mailing list."

"What?"

"A specialized mailing list. You know — names, addresses, zip codes. Even phone numbers. Customers and product. They're still trying to piece it together down at the station." Jack settled more comfortably into his chair. "It's crazy to see. All those computerized fact sheets on all those names. Some pretty famous names, too."

"You don't sound too good."

"It was a list of special merchandise for special tastes. Mostly for kids. For people who wanted kids for sex. It looks like it's part of an international operation."

"Oh, Jack...."

"They're running the missing children's list through it now. I can't tell you too much but there's been some matches."

"Vince never stopped pimping, did he?"

"Page, how did you get this? It's not the kind of thing you just pick up."

"People are stupid sometimes, even Mr. Springtime. They think they know a person. And they don't."

"Are you all right, baby cat?"

"I love it when you call me that."

That soft voice almost brought a lump to Jack's throat. It brought worry, too. "Page — does April know you took these disks? Does he know you gave them to me?"

"He knows."

"Shit. Damn. Stay away from him. Don't trust him, he's not your friend. Page...."

"What?"

"It wasn't those two boys who set you up at that party. April did it."

Silence crackled on the line. Jack took a deep breath before he continued. "I just wanted to find you, talk to you," he said. "I went to Stinger's to see April. We were talking and, I don't know, I figured it out. Vincent April set the whole thing up. He planned that party. He got a lot of money from the men who hurt you. I expect it gave him the capital to start his new operations. I called him on it about the club. April wouldn't deny it. That son of a bitch — god, I wanted to kill him."

Page said, "Vince liked you, too."

"How do you know?"

"I went to see him after your visit. He told me about it."

Jack's mouth went as dry as chalk. "Did he hurt you?"

"The score's even now. Everything's okay."

"But are you all right, damnit?"

Jack heard the sound of a sigh and then, "Yes, I'm all right. Thanks for asking."

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Page, talk to me," Jack pleaded. "This is poison. You can't keep bottling it up."

"What do you want me to say?" His voice was suddenly harsh with fury, with pain. The words spilled out in a rush, "I thought he was my friend. I loved him. I did things for him. I did things that ... I did things for him."

Jack ached with the misery that surged over the line.

"He used me," Page said. "That's all. He was going to use you, too."

"How?"

"Vince said he was going to call your work, tell them abut us. I think he was planning to put another cop in his pocket. I didn't know what was on those disks when I took them but they felt important. I thought you could use them for leverage. I guess it worked better than that."

"It worked," Jack said. "But I've got to know, why are you calling about this now? I mean, are you all right? Really all right?"

. . . .

"Page...?"

After a long wait, a small voice replied, "I had a bad dream. I'm sorry I woke you up."

"I'm not sorry," Jack told him.

"I bet." Page gave a small laugh. Jack smiled. It was better than nothing. Still....

"Page, I miss you."

Vannerman heard a quick intake of breath and then, finally, softly, "I miss you, too."

"Why the hell aren't you here?"

"Jack...."

"Did I do something? Was it —"

"No, it's me. You didn't do anything. You're all right, Carolina. What about Justy?"

"What about Justy?"

"Have you talked with him yet?"

"Yeah, on the phone last night. I'm going to see him next weekend."

"Terrific. That's great."

"I wish you were coming, too."

"Just tell him you love him, all right? He'll understand."

"I love you, too, Page."

"Sure you do." The laughter was lighter, less burdened. "I bet you say that to all the guys."

"No," Jack told him. "Just the blonds."

"Bastard."

Jack grinned. "Learn to dance yet, ugly?"

"I'm still a hopeless klutz. Haven't got a date yet either, that's why I'm working the phone lines. Word of my bad habits must be spreading."

"Which one?"

"I bite, remember?"

"Are you kidding?" Jack groaned. "I've still got the bruise. What are you laughing about?"

"Nothing much. I was just thinking that `daddy' might have missed the ride of a lifetime."

"Daddy?"

"Never mind — private joke," Page said. "You just better watch your ass, especially if I hear you've been fooling around with anymore blonds. I'm your blond, Vannerman. Got that?"

"Yeah." Jack nodded, happy. "I've got it."

"Listen," he went on, a tad breathless. "If I call next week to find out how it went with Justy, you won't have the wires tapped, will you? You won't resort to anymore of your insidious police work to track me down?"

"I'll never visit another pimp without you."

"What kind of promise is that?"

"I didn't think you liked promises."

"I like you, Caro. I like you a lot."

"That's supposed to last me for a week?"

"It'll have to." Page waited a little, then said, "Are you okay with this?"

"You're not giving me a lot of choice about it, are you?" Jack answered, vulnerable in his honesty. "I'm glad you called. I can't tell you how good it is just to hear your voice ... to know you're all right. But I want to see you, too. I want you."

Jack heard Page swallow.

"I know ... I want to be with you, too, but it's just not safe now."

"When will it be safe?"

"I don't know."

They both fell into silence again, listening to the faint sounds of each other's breath, the static on the line, the early morning street sounds that crept in through their respective windows. For a moment, Jack felt as though he could almost touch him. When he closed his eyes, he could feel the milk-smooth warmth of Page's skin, the spun gold texture of his hair, bright enough to burn. He could smell the scent of his skin. The phone made the enforced-distance that much more frustrating.

Finally, Page said, "Take care of yourself. You're important to me."

Jack smiled, "I'm important to me, too. Don't worry, I'll be careful."

"I'll call you," Page promised and hung up.

Jack listened to the buzz of an empty line for a short space of infinity, then replaced the receiver. Now that Page was gone, he could think of a dozen things he might have said to keep him on longer. But pressing him would have only made it worse.

He wondered if he would be able to keep his promise not to try to track Page again. While Vincent April was free, neither of them was "safe." There was risk in being together, risk in staying apart. Vincent would rat him out to his precinct commander, Jack had accepted that long ago. He would deal with it. But Page gambled more with the pimp at large. Vince would beat him if he caught him, kill him if he could. Page understood that — probably better than Jack could ever know. The pimp had lied about knowing Page's whereabouts. Obviously, he had a better handle on the blond's activities than he wanted Jack to know. April had been forced to suspend his usual operations. Would he turn his attentions to his "property," to Page? He wasn't the type to forgive and forget. Jack frowned. This matter had to be resolved. And quickly.

He stood up and crossed to the trailer door, opened it. The heat and humidity had dissipated with the night. A faint breeze stirred, carrying drifts of the fragrant, purple lace of the crepe myrtles to cover the trailer park. It made the place look almost pretty. Certainly unique. He found himself thinking about Page, about their lovemaking, the tender pillow talk after. He had never known such satisfaction, body and soul. It made him remember how good life could be.

How good it would be again. Jack Vannerman stood at the doorway, deep in thought, lost in hope. He watched the sky slowly get lighter. One day they were going to be together again, he and Page.

And when that day happened, it was going to be forever.