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about how loud I am. I'd planned to tell him everything, but
now that the moment's here, the feelings come storming out
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of me, boiling over like hot poison. "That's when it
happened." The words are out before I can stop them. Just
out there, hanging, shooting him right back in the heart.
"They died on December eighteenth. How's that for a
goddamned holiday memory?"
He lifts a hand and slowly strokes my hair. "That must
have been so hard," he whispers, nodding, as hot tears spill
down my cheeks uncontrollably.
"My mom was pregnant," I admit in a hoarse voice. "I was
gonna have a little brother."
"Oh, Hunter," he murmurs. "I'm so sorry. So sorry that
you lost your family."
"Thing I remember most are all those presents under the
tree. After the funeral."
I stare into the distance because I need him to know what
I'm not able to verbalize. That once they were gone and
buried and my life had ended, the toys were still wrapped up,
waiting for a Christmas that would never come. The things
they bought for a little boy they loved, the things they knew
I'd hoped for since summer. Memories I'd never share with
them.
"No wonder the holidays are so difficult," he acknowledges,
still stroking and petting me. Soothing me. In one burst of
movement, I bury my face against his strong shoulder.
"I hate this time of year, Maxwell. You have no idea. I
can't ever seem to shake this shit."
The funeral home with its giant artificial trees and tacky
manger scene. The scent of flowers mingled with fresh pine; a
sickly sweet smell that has haunted me all my life.
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"We can make it new together," he promises softly, kissing
me on the cheek. "That's what we can do, Hunter. Make it our
very own. Like you said earlier, about starting traditions."
I nod, blinded by the tears, as he just kind of rocks me in
his arms. "I never told any of you," I say. "I couldn't."
"You could always tell me. You just weren't ready."
For what seems an eternity, he comforts me beneath the
twinkling lights of that tree, etching a new Christmas memory
into my heart. One where a strong man holds me until I
sleep, beating back all the demons that would have my very
soul.
One where I'm loved like perfection until the ghosts fade
away, that's the Christmas memory Max Daniels makes for
me beneath that tree.
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Taking You Home
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Chapter Fourteen
Staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, I understand
why Max wanted me to open this particular present tonight.
Ralph Lauren satin pajamas. Royal blue. Damn, baby, you
know how to dress your fag up right. I feel kind of faggy in
them too, so I adjust the pants, pulling them lower down my
hips. Anything not to seem like such a bad imitation of
Thurston Howell the Third. I mean, Maxwell can pull this look
off without batting an eyelash. But me? I'm an Iowa kid who
grew up sleeping in long johns on cold nights and buck naked
in the summertime.
Another glance in the full-length mirror, and I unbutton
the top, opening it across my chest. A soft tuft of dark hair
appears, and funny enough, I get a little more comfortable
with the get-up. I do actually look kind of sexy. Maybe even
fuckable, though I'd never have bought something this flashy
for myself. Max looked pleased as hell when I opened the
package up too. Apparently, when he imagined the pajamas
on me, he had to disguise his hard-on right in the middle of
Neiman's.
So he wants me as a boy toy for Christmas? No problem, I
can deliver.
My hair's wet from the shower and I rake my fingers
through it, trying to comb it into a neater mess. Maxwell's
waiting for me in the bedroom. The room they gave us is
something of a suite, with bathroom and fireplace included.
When we came to bed, we discovered that Leah had turned
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on the gas logs for us. Damn, I couldn't help wondering if she
didn't want me to do her brother right in her very own home.
With one final, appraising glance in the mirror, I open the
bathroom door. I find Maxwell sprawled in front of the fire,
with nothing but a bath towel hiding his natural gifts. His hair
is soaking wet, spiky and delicious, but his body is what I
can't tear my gaze away from. He's lying on his stomach, kind
of just warming himself, the towel contoured to his muscled
physique, outlining every last glorious detail.
I step toward him, giving my pajama pants a tug because
my groin tightens at the sight of him. He gives me a coy
glance over his shoulder, closing the men's magazine he's
been reading. Details or something like that. "Wow, Hunter.
You look really...lovely."
I cough, feeling my face burn as I walk toward him. "Why
not brand me queer right off the bat, baby love."
"You are queer, sweet cakes."
He rolls onto his side, propping his head on his elbow. I
drop to my knees beside him. "I feel a little ridiculous," I
admit, fingering the hem of the silken top between my rough
fingertips. "Like a girl or something."
"You look like one gorgeous man to me." He slips a hand
beneath the shirt and gives my stomach a gentle rub, just a
loving touch to reassure me.
"So, I'm macho enough to pull this look off, huh?" I ask
honestly.
"Hunter, macho has never been your problem."
"No, that would be you. My problem, I mean. Wanting you
for all these years."
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"You complaining?" he asks, his expression growing a little
uncertain.
I close my eyes, shaking my head. "No, baby. No
complaints out of me. Never." Truth is, I'm feeling such a [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]