Love Wins Page 9

  Seth took the paper and lifted it. “What’s this?”

  “A place down the street from us opened up for either a sale or rent-to-own. It should be right in your budget,” Derick said.

  “Close to the cats, but safe for Ryan. Your own place where you can build a life together,” Chris added.

  “You two….” Seth unfolded the paper to read the details about the house. “It’s just like yours, Derick.”

  “It has extra space in the garage for both your cars, but otherwise, it’s the same style and floorplan,” Derick said.

  “This is crazy.”

  “Sure it is, but it’s the answer to everything. Talk it over with Ryan,” Derick said.

  Someone called Seth’s name, and he got to his feet. He studied his friends and smiled. “Thank you.” He raced over to the nurse and returned to Ryan’s room.

  Entering the room, Seth went right to Ryan’s side, kissing him hard before anyone could say something.

  “Wow. That’s a welcome. Haven’t been gone that long,” Ryan said.

  “How did everything go?”

  “Good, I think. Waiting on answers. What have you been up to? Did you go home and cuddle the cats?”

  “I did. Took a shower, a long nap, and woke up to Fili purring on my chest. Cuddled with both of them for a while. Also had them chasing one of their feather toys. Cleaned up and grabbed some things for us,” Seth said and lifted the bag. He tugged out Ryan’s phone and put it on the tray-table. He placed the bag on another chair.

  “Sounds like a better morning than I had,” Ryan said. He wiggled on the bed for a bit.

  “What happened?”

  “They drew circles on my back and added drops of different allergens in each one. Some were scratched into my skin. Then we waited to see how I would react to them. That was one of the better tests. Just a little itchy.” Ryan wiggled again.

  “Sorry to hear that, hon.”

  “Yeah, sorry to feel it. Hey, I thought I saw Chris and Derick out there. Why didn’t they come in?”

  “They wanted to wait while I talk to you about something.”

  “What is it?”

  Seth sat on the edge of the bed and took both Ryan’s hands. “Thanks to Derick and Chris for coming up with the idea, they created a solution to our problems.” He laid out all the details.

  “Is this what you want? I know how much you love having the cats with you,” Ryan said.

  “I want you more.” Seth lifted Ryan’s hand and kissed his palm. “I knew after things got stronger with us, something would have to change. You did so much and I didn’t. Now it’s my turn. I can do this. With you.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “That’s it?”

  Ryan laughed and nodded. “If you’re positive, let’s do this. All of it.” He pointed to the paper. “Show me again.”

  Laughing with Ryan in between more kisses, Seth cuddled up next to Ryan to show him their new home.

  NICOLE DENNIS is a shy, quiet office assistant in Central Florida by day. By night, she slips into the fictional realm, listening to the demanding characters in her head wanting their stories told. She’s a devoted human guardian to a semidemonic tortie calico—Fat Cat—who has full-on “tortie-tude” to get her ways.

  A romantic at heart, Nicole remains single, happy to spend her time with books, characters, the latest cross-stitch project, hours of staring at the computer screen, and a cat that could care less as long as someone maintains the stock of kibble. You can find her lurking on social media.

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  Especially in Orlando

  By Troy Storm

  When bighearted mover Dalton is hired to haul away a hot young guy’s belongings after a breakup, he can’t help returning to see how the good-looking older man is dealing with the transition. George is happy to take Dalton up on his offer of solace. But then George’s ex, Peter—aka Mr. Prissy Pout—has second thoughts, and while George isn’t interested in taking him back, he and Dalton are willing to share their experience—and more.

  “I’M GOING back.” Dalton climbed into the cab of the small moving van and sat resolutely behind the wheel.

  “Big surprise,” Marv muttered with a sigh, sliding into the seat next to him. “Okay, good for you,” he continued in response to the older man’s annoyed look. “The way you slammed stuff around when we were unloading and kept glaring at Mr. Prissy Pout, I figured something was eating you and, knowing you, once bugged, you gotta debug. You think he’s still gonna be there… sitting on the curb… waiting for your soft shoulder?”

  “Well, thanks all to hell for the character assessment,” Dalton snapped, starting the engine. “I don’t know or care where the fuck he’s sitting. I just think I ought to go back and take a look around… in case.” He hunched over the wheel and aimed for the interstate.

  After a few minutes of driving with silence between the two working buddies, Marv relented.

  “I’m sorry, Dol. You gotta do what you’ve gotta do. I ought to recognize that by now. But, man, you gotta learn to tamp down the Good Samaritan impulses. Christmastime or no Christmastime. ‘It’s the most emotional time of the year,’” he sang. “You’re gonna get yourself hurt bad one of these days.”

  Dalton’s tightly clenched square jaw relaxed. His big shoulders slumped as he eased his iron clutch on the steering wheel and chuckled. “Mr. Prissy Pout. That’s a good one. I’d sure as hell never thought of that. I call him a fucking twinkie asshole and be done with it.” He slapped his buddy on the thigh. “Y’know, Mexicali Marv, for an undocumented alien, you’re more up on the local gay lingo than I am. How’d you get to be so American when I’m still trying to figure out where I fit into this swampy Florida landscape?”

  “It’s Orlando, man. God’s theme park country. We got anything you want to inspire us wall jumpers. Superheroes. Super mouses. Super wizards. We even got the superest villains and villainesses for all us super dudes and dudesses to defeat. Gives a man something to strive for.” Sideways, he cut his buddy a broad smirk. “Also, I’m straight and a family man and I’ve got my green card, and you’re queer and first generation and still trying to figure out where you fall on the Kinsey scale. That’s a one up.”

  Dalton guffawed as he pulled into the small two-man moving business parking lot. “Your one up, good buddy, is you’re built like a tank and you’re willing to work for minimum wage—which, thank God, is finally beginning to look like a living one. Also, you’ve got a heart as big as the Everglades, and that’s badass big.”

  Smiling broadly, Marv swung out of the cab. “And your number two up is you may be some mixed-breed Polish Armenian or whatever mess, but from all accounts you’re a hunk, and from personal experience you’re too good for your own good. All year round. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Thanks for the lift. You could have dropped me at the LYNX bus stop and taken off. I know how you are when you get on a crusade. Especially for some hot-looking, forlorn older dude who looks like he needs some cheering up bad.”

  “I’m just going to stop by and tell him everything’s fine,” Dalton insisted, “and that he will be too. That asshole prissy poop was really pulling a number on him.”

  Marv hurried across the small parking lot, calling back loudly to his frie
nd. “I love it when you try to talk cool. The guy’s probably halfway through a bottle of 80-proof cheering up already. I warn you to watch it—there’s crocs in them bighearted Everglades too, y’know. I don’t want my hot, caring boss to get cooled off and get his trying-to-be-helpful ass bit… again!” He sidled his muscular frame into his family-size SUV.

  Dalton smirked, returning the yell. “If I do, I know who to get to lick it for me. We’ve got three moves tomorrow, coworker, so try to keep your hands off that gorgeous wife of yours and save a little energy for the job.”

  “You’ll never learn, boss. It’s not my hands you need to worry about. I woulda thought a might-be-gay hottie would know that. No wonder you’re still cohabitator-free. I’ll tell Cindy you said hello.” He waved good-bye.

  DALTON TOOK a minute or two to glance over and consider whether he should switch to his beloved red fifteen-year-old Corvette or stick with the moving van. With a sigh, he shifted the lumbering box on wheels into first and moved out of the parking lot.

  A few minutes later, he pulled into the street of the upscale northern Orlando suburb where all the foolishness had begun. During the brief drive, Dalton had thought hard. What the hell was he doing? What business was it of his? A couple of gay guys had a spat and split. So the older, good-looking guy had been having a really tough time making the transition. So the younger twink had been a bitch, snapping and whining and demanding his loot, which he and Marv, as the hired hands, had obediently loaded into the van, more or less ignoring the histrionics before driving away. In the rearview mirror, Dalton had watched the ditched dude sink onto the curb in front of their now loveless dream home, his head dejectedly in his hands, shoulders shaking.

  Ohmigod, the would-be hero to the rescue noted as he slowed the van and peered down the shaded street. The guy was still sitting there, muscular arms drooping on bronzed bare knees. What had it been? A couple of hours. His ass must not be happy, grinding into that hard concrete for so long. Dalton eased to a stop and cut the motor. The guy looked up, and for a brief moment a look of hope crossed his glum, handsome face… before reality set in.

  Dalton climbed out of the van. Straightening his wide shoulders, he sucked in his gut inside the loose work coveralls and thought briefly he really should have appeared in the red Vette. That would have perked the guy up, at least, no matter what kind of message he might be bringing… or not bringing.

  “Did piss-ant Peter forget something and send you back?” The guy’s handsome head nodded disconsolately in answer to his own question. “He would. I’m all but camping out, what with everything you guys cleared out of our place.” He winced at our. “Where’s your cohort in crime?”

  “It’s just me. I came back to see if you were okay. You looked pretty down when we drove away. Man, your ass must be aching. It’s a nice street, but that concrete ain’t a cushy recliner.”

  The good-looking guy cocked his head and narrowed his look. “You came back just to check on me? Uh… my ass is fine, thanks. I went inside and had a couple of drinks and just came back out a little while ago. Not much to do inside… now.” He looked Dalton up and down. “I must have looked like shit to have dragged you back.”

  Dalton joined him on the curb. “As a matter of fact, you looked pretty damn good. I thought you were handling the situation pretty good too. He was not going out of his way to make this easy for you. No offense to what I assume had at one time been a pleasant situation.”

  “We probably weren’t right for each other to begin with.” The guy sighed deeply. “But, man, he was cute and cuddly in the beginning. Didn’t you think? Guess my ability to adapt is beginning to calcify. They say that’s the first stages.”

  “Of what?”

  “Turning into a tight-assed, lonely old queen.”

  Dalton thought about riffing on the “tight-assed” assessment but said instead, “Well, you’re not alone now. You want to go for a beer and rail about the sad state of the world? And the cluelessness of some of the young who will sooner than later learn the error of their ways?”

  The beginnings of a smile appeared. “You want to come inside and share my liquid sadness-obliterator? The alcohol is a lot closer in there than the nearest bar to this overpriced, though beloved and well-integrated, enclave of happy homes.”

  Early winter dusk was falling, and the neighborhood holiday lights were slowly beginning to twinkle. Dalton had to admit, the scene was magical. He went for it.

  “Full disclosure. If I come inside and get drunk with you, I will more than likely make a play for you. You’re hot and I’m horny, and with a couple of drinks in me I’m really good at making a guy feel good. If that sounds like a rotten plan, I’ll understand. It’s pretty soon after. But I would like to give you my number. In case you ever need a man who makes good moves.”

  Mr. Hot and Good-looking cocked a handsome eyebrow. “Does your buddy know you’re here?”

  “My coworker and understanding friend is straight and in the arms of his loving family as we speak, may the gods of the interstate have blessed his safe journey home.”

  “Concerned and blindingly gorgeous. The gods of the interstate aren’t the only ones doing the blessing right now.”

  “‘Blindingly’? ‘Gorgeous’? Wow. And I’m not even wearing my fitted overalls.”

  “If all goes well, you won’t be wearing anything at all very soon.”

  Dalton felt his cheeks go warm. Okay, he thought, the guy’s being really nice now, but don’t get carried away. He didn’t even notice you when he was going through the big clean-out earlier.

  The guy read his mind. “Speaking of gods, I thought they’d really laid a load on me when you guys showed up. Two good-looking moving men hunks, one of whom made me fully aware I had made a total fool of myself for allowing a self-serving kid into my pants. You, particularly, just shoved into my face the problem I seem to have with guys my own age. I was not a happy camper.”

  “Well, I’m pretty good at shoving my face into places where it does the most good. So maybe I can help turn you back toward considering us more experienced, though possibly worn”—Dalton let the lesser angel of his nature temper his enthusiasm—“campers get you back on the right trail.”

  “I am so ready to be gotten back on the right trail.” The guy sighed. “What can I do to show my gratitude?”

  “Need you ask?”

  “Not for a second.”

  The grinning men headed inside.

  The phenomenal connection almost instantly faded. Their sudden bolt up from the curb quickly slowed to a walk to the front door.

  “I’m… uh… Dalton.”

  “I’m—thanks for coming back—George.”

  Standing on the threshold of the once happy home, they morphed into two men—total strangers to each other—who should know better, heading into a snake pit of possibilities with their eyes wide open… more or less.

  Looking around at the cleaned-out living room, Dalton remembered how Mr. Prissy Pout had all but denuded the tree in the corner, whining about the decorations he had bought or ones they had been given that meant more to him than to the house’s owner, and on and on. Breaking up at Christmastime was really jamming a wreath up your former beloved’s ass.

  George took one look at Dalton surveying the room and began to tear up.

  Unbuttoning his coverall, Dalton shucked back the top and stripped off his T-shirt. “I really could use a shower. Assuming that later there’s going to be a reason for me to take off the rest of this outfit.”

  George’s mouth dropped. Which did Dalton a world of good if he’d had any misgivings about barging into a situation into which he had totally not been invited.

  “You are really… well-constructed,” the not-too-badly constructed himself George noted admiringly. “Whoo, man, there’s no way I can…. Are you built like that… all the way down?”

  Dalton took that as a further invite to share the wealth.

  He stripped completely, spread his sha
pely legs, shoved his wide shoulders back, sucked in his gut, and, fingers lightly resting on his trim hips, presented himself… at full attention… saluting the tree, which even seemed to straighten a little at the early surprise present that had been presented to the broken household.

  “Holy… and I thought I had been a bad boy,” a much happier George muttered, biting a really nice full lower lip before lunging at his early present.

  Dalton caught him in full jeté, wrapped his arms tight around George’s taut torso, and locked lips; his tongue punched down on a dynamite plunger. Bam!

  The two desperate men did it right there in the middle of the living room, all over the rug and couch. The damn tree was ten feet tall by the time they took a break, gasping for breath.

  A totally happy Dalton had to admit, there was nothing like rebound sex to drain the tear ducts and clear the nasal passages… or any other ducts or passages that might have gotten clogged during a bad breakup. At least that’s what George cooed into his sweaty ears while chewing on his earlobes after the first hour of blistering, raunchy, full-out explosive, volcanic get-togetherness.

  George had still been hurting, he explained to Dalton, when the mover returned, and though eager felt very much on the defensive, wanting badly for something or someone to come along and salve the wound of his lover’s defection, even though there was a damn good chance the cure might be worse than the snake-in-the-Christmas-wreath bite. He just basically needed a warm body to cuddle and not yell at him. With maybe some gentle smooching.

  Bless the hours in the gym, and hours loading and unloading furniture and other heavy debt-burdened detritus of various lives, it was Dalton’s pecs that suddenly, inside the room, had turned their lives around.

  “Well, actually, it was your eyes. The way you looked at me when you first came up to me on the curb,” George clarified. “Then when I saw your chest…. Holy shit, I thought, with pecs and abs like that, what the fuck kind of dick and balls must he be swinging? Then I went kind of blank, and the next thing I knew your tongue was down my throat and then your dick was down my throat and my dick was… oh, man, where all hasn’t my dick been these last couple of hours?”