AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“And a washing machine that’s just the right height to bend you over it.”
“Daniel!”
“What?”
“What if your grandparents hear? Or the kids?”
“I’m on a phone extension in the guest room. They won’t hear a thing. The real risk is someone hearingyou.”
I grinned. “My folks are away visiting some college friends for the rest of this weekend.”
“So, you’re alone, and I’m alone. What should we talk about?”
“Tell me more about the washing machine…”
He laughed.
We spent the rest of the call spinning out fantasies about where we’d fuck and how we’d fuck, and by the time the call ended up I was beyond horny and ready for him to come home. Unlike with Adam, though, it hadn’t gone beyond talk and into the realm of phone sex. Not because I wasn’t willing, but because, sure, Daniel might be alone in a guest room, but there were still kids that could barge in at any moment.
The doorbell was an unexpected interruption to my solitary relief from the agony of blue balls. I decided to ignore it, but when it rang four times, and then someone began to knock, I leapt up from my bed, straightened my clothes and headed down to deal with it. By the time I’d reached the front door, my dick was under control even if my temper was not.
I flung the door open, not sure who to expect, but hoping it wasn’t Leslie or someone from Kingsley deciding to make an appearance since it was the Thanksgiving weekend. It wasn’t. But I didn’t know what to make of the tall, almost gaunt, man I found on the front porch.
He wore a dark suit beneath a long wool trench coat, a flamboyant scarf and a head of white hair. I blinked at him, waiting for him to tell me he was a Jehovah’s Witness or something, and he blinked right back.
In the end, he broke the silence first. “George?”
I tilted my head. “No, I’m Peter.”
The man’s voice shook. “Of course. Yes, of course you are. My God, for a moment…” He put out his hand. “Harold Seville. You wrote me a letter last month.”
It took me a few more seconds to recognize the man. He’d aged after the last photo of him I’d seen on the jacket of one of his books. “Right. Wow, yes, I did. I didn’t expect you to drop by, though.” I was flustered. “Don’t you live in Nashville?”
“Indeed.” He waved at his face as if he were too hot, despite the cold air that crisped the grass around us and wafted in puffs from his mouth. “I’m sorry. It was incredibly rude of me to arrive with no notice at all.”
I wanted to agree with him, but instead I backed up into the house and said, “You should come in. It’s cold outside.”
Harold nodded. “I’d like that.” He looked around as he stepped over the threshold. “Are your parents home? Your mother, perhaps?”
“No, they’re away visiting family.”
Maybe it was foolish to let a stranger into the house like this, but I did recognize him as the photographer Harold Seville, and he was elderly. I didn’t see any reason why he’d want to hurt me, and if he tried…I could take him.
I collected some author copies of my mom’s books from the sofa, moving them to the coffee table, and then shoved aside the blanket and the empty bag of chips I’d left out from the night before.
“Perhaps I should leave,” Harold said. “I don’t know that your mother would like you inviting me in when she’s not home.” Still, he took a seat on the sofa where I indicated, crossing his legs as he went on, “She might misunderstand my intentions.”
I sat down in the chair across from him. “It’s fine. Please, stay. I’m sorry if I’ve been rude. I wasn’t expecting you, and I’m going about this all wrong. Can I get you something to drink? Water, tea, coffee?”
“No, thank you.” His eyes were watery. “I’m not here for that, I’m here about your letter.”
“Right.” I wiped my palms over my jeans and wondered if I’d put on deodorant that morning. I wanted to sniff my pits but restrained myself. “I wrote it back in October. I’d given up hope of hearing from you.”
“It took me some time to digest,” Harold said. “George always told me his family was homophobic, you see. That they wouldn’t understand about us. So, I had assumed that after what’d happened to him—” he broke off and seemed to collect himself. “I’m sorry. Even after all these years, I struggle to face the enormity of what he must have gone through that night.”
“I try not to think about it either,” I offered. “It’s too much.”
“Yes.” He regarded me for a long time. “You resemble him. When you opened the door, for just a moment, a split second, it was as if I’d gone back in time. But I see now, looking at you, that your nose is a bit different.”
