Don't Read in the Closet: Volume Four (121 page)

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 738

Definitely wanted to bed.

Sly, or Savva, kept his eyes trained on Franklin. Their look had

intensified a tad, become more like scrutiny.

Franklin cleared his throat. “So, uh, what is it you do exactly?”

Damn, he needed to work on this humor thing. On this human thing in

general.

“Oh…” Sly made a flourish with the bottle. As if the gesture

reminded him it was there, he took another sip—which, Franklin

assumed, was better than a gulp. “Engineer hookups, remind couples

to practice safe sex, prevent fights, squelch outbursts of jealousy and

cattiness, foster moderation. Oh, and help my wards steer clear of

homophobes.” He used his knuckles to push the tiara higher on his

head. “It’s a big-ass, thankless job, believe me. Those bitches are

often their own worst enemies. But they still mean everything to me.”

“Bitches? What bitches?”

Sly’s brow furrowed. “Are you Amish or something?”

Franklin felt his face mirroring Sly’s expression, corrugation by

corrugation. “Am I—?”

“Never mind.” Sly shrugged. “I guess some people lead more

sheltered lives than others.” He took another drink and forgot to

explain why he called the men under his care “bitches.”

I’ll figure it out, Franklin thought. “You don’t dress like that all

the time, do you?”

“Hell no.” Sly tossed his still-unlit cigarette into the bag. “It

behooves me to blend in. But for the Pride Parade, I figured I could

show at least a hint of my true self.” He idly scratched his chest.

Franklin’s gaze was riveted to the spot.

Again, Sly’s forehead crimped. “Why are you staring at me?” A

chuckle followed. “As if I need to ask.”

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“No! It’s just that I—” Franklin swallowed, suddenly wishing
he

had something to drink. He stopped himself from saying what was

uppermost in his mind. Instead he asked, “Who’s Ricky?”

Uh-oh. Not a happy question. Sly’s face clouded and he turned

down his eyes. “A man I made the mistake of getting too close to.

Way
too close.”

His hurt was impossible not to notice—and, for Franklin, not to

feel. “Why was it a mistake?” he asked gingerly.

“Among other reasons, because I’ve been losing my power due to

that man. If I’d just ignored him today, I would’ve been able to fix

this myself.” He lifted his left foot off the ground to display his

wounded knee. “I was warned about the dangers of emotional

involvement with humans, but—” Sly’s throat seemed to snap shut,

keeping the words from escaping.

Damn it! Me and my big, inexperienced, unschooled mouth.

Alarmed and contrite, Franklin bolted up from his stoop, crossed the

lane, and knelt on his haunches in front of Sly. “But what?” he asked

in the kindest tone he could muster.

Sly seemed befuddled by Franklin’s interest. But he seemed

touched, too. “It’s hard,” he said, “being around all these men and

staying aloof. It’s hard being set apart and expected only to perform a

job. I got lonely. I was tempted at every turn. So I finally—”

“Gave in,” Franklin said.

“Yes.”

“To Ricky.”

Sly nodded. Dear gods, he looked so doleful. Franklin wanted to

hold him, to stroke his fuzzy, downturned head and hunched

shoulders.

“You had”—Franklin paused to consider his word choice—“a

relationship with Ricky.” This was alien territory for him, as alien as

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colorful language and volatile behavior, and he wasn’t sure he’d even

get its terminology right.

“Mm-hm.” Sly held the green bottle by its neck, letting it dangle

between his parted legs. Reflectively, he tapped it against his bare

calf.

“And the relationship changed you.”

“Mm-hm.”

“For the worse, I assume.” Franklin knew he shouldn’t make

assumptions. He was too naïve in the ways of the world. Of
this

world, anyway. Still, it was fairly obvious Sly hadn’t benefited from

his liaison with Ricky.

Sly seemed to ponder the question. “I guess it seems that way. But

I can’t bring myself to believe that passion is bad; that loving

someone, or thinking you do, is bad.” He smiled wanly. “Unless of

course you carry it into the realm of obsession. I’ve seen
that
happen.

It can get ugly.” He took another, even smaller drink and finally set

the bottle down on the pavement, as if he’d had his fill.

A rich, pungent, herbal aroma drifted up Franklin’s nostrils and

made his eyes water a little. Such so-called refreshments, he’d heard,

could make people lose their senses very quickly. He didn’t want to

see Sly lose his senses.

Franklin’s gaze slid to the tutu, then crept up to the bare chest still

lightly glazed with perspiration.

Well, no harm if he lost a very small portion of his senses. For a

brief while.

“What does that stuff taste like?” Franklin asked, unable to

contain his curiosity.

Sly pointed a finger down at the bottle. “This?”

Franklin nodded. The stag on the label almost seemed aware of his

inquiry. Although its black eyes stared fixedly at his thighs rather than

his face, the stag seemed to be taunting him, even daring him.

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“Kind of like a distilled forest-floor. With a licorice garnish.” Sly

nudged the bottle’s lip with his fingernail. “Go ahead; take a nip.”

“No, thank you.”

For some reason Franklin couldn’t fathom, his polite refusal made

Sly smile. And for a reason he
could
fathom, had he cared to give the

matter any thought, that smile added to his growing discomfort.

“Ah, go on.” Sly stretched out the last word.

Hesitantly, Franklin lifted the bottle by its body. He was tempted

to put his thumb over the stag’s face to blot it out, but, at the last

minute, decided not to. Doing so would’ve been rude, or maybe

would’ve invited bad luck. One should never cover a creature’s face

against its will.

As Franklin put the opening to his lips, he thought of Sly’s lips

cinching that circle of glass. This was like a secondhand kiss. He tilted

the bottle more steeply. A stream of spicy, low-burning fire, more

than he’d intended to take in, hit the pit of his stomach and set off a

shudder throughout his torso and limbs.

“Whoa,” he breathed out, putting the bottle down. Another

reflexive spasm made his shoulders jerk.

Sly watched him with a delighted smile. He seemed entertained.

For that, Franklin was grateful. “What, uh … what went wrong with

Ricky?” he asked just as the first hazy wave of alcohol washed

through his brain. The sensation was rather pleasant.

Too bad it didn’t improve his foresight. His question fell over Sly

like musty canvas, and that engaging smile immediately faded.

Franklin felt like an insensitive sod.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “It’s really none of my business.”

“No, that’s okay,” Sly said. “It
does
help to talk. I need to sort this

out.” He lapsed into thought. “I’m not sure what went wrong. A few

months ago Ricky started getting … distant. He’d been hinting I was

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too ‘eccentric’ for him, which could very well have been the case, but

I think”—Sly hiccupped—“there was more to it than that.”

“Like what?”

“He’s basically a slut.”

“Oh.” Franklin knew what
that
word meant.

“Mostly for well-groomed and financially secure gym-bunnies.

Those were the types he always eyed up.”

Although Franklin had no clue what a gym-bunny was, he didn’t

let on. He’d decided a while ago not to keep flaunting his ignorance

by asking for clarification. “Do you think you’ll miss him?”

A long sigh was the only response at first. Sly scratched at his

forehead, then snatched off the tiara and tossed it into his bag. “I’m

starting to think I’ll miss the
idea
of him more than the man himself.

Know what I mean?” He laughed. “No, of course you don’t. You’re

too young.”

“Will you please quit saying that?” Franklin’s annoyance startled

him. His sharp tone startled him. Was this mad world already

upsetting his equilibrium? Or that fermented forest?

No, no, not the world or the liqueur. Savva Pen-Erp . . . and the

adoration Franklin had felt for him since childhood . . . and the

knowledge another man had known him so intimately. That’s what

had done it. Discomposed, he stared at the green bottle just inches

from his knees and considered helping himself to another sample.

“I’ll definitely miss the sex,” Sly added. His tone quickly curdled.

“Even though I probably got lukewarm leftovers.”

Franklin flushed to the roots of his hair. “I’d never give you that,”

he murmured, unable to censor himself. “You deserve so much

better.”

He didn’t have to hazard a glance at Sly to know Sly’s reaction.

The Fairy Godfather must have been flabbergasted. Franklin was a

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stranger to him—at least, at this moment in time he was—and

strangers generally didn’t pop off with such fervid declarations.

Painfully self-conscious now, Franklin indulged in another draft

from the green bottle.

Laughter ballooned from the larger street less than a half-block

away. It gave Franklin a reason to turn from the man who sat before

him, the man whose skin and muscles and bones, whose grass-green

eyes and drink-slick lips made Franklin both embrace and shun the

opportunity he’d been given. He licked his own lips, which tasted

faintly of dust and salt and Jäger tang, and wished fervently he could

kiss Sly.

“Franklin? Frankie?”

A warm hand alit on his upper arm, securing his attention.

Franklin had no choice but to look back at Sly. He did so, silent and

expectant.

“Who are you?”

He couldn’t put off the revelation much longer. Might as well

forge ahead.

Without a word, Franklin began gently to peel off the bandage

he’d placed just hours earlier on Sly’s knee. Spangled with tiny beads

of dried blood, that raw patch seemed to stare at him like a defiant

devil-eye. Franklin gave it a light touch, just a whisper, with the pad

of his forefinger. The wound instantly disappeared. Sly’s night-cooled

skin, dusky and flawless, was all that stretched across his knee.

Franklin dared to meet Sly’s astonished gaze. “I’m your

replacement,” he said sheepishly, his very soul clenching as if he were

a foul, ruthless traitor.

“What?” The question was more air than sound.

“I didn’t ask to be. I swear. I was ordered to. The Elders thought

that since I knew you so well—” When Franklin saw the

incomprehension on Sly’s face, he realized he hadn’t yet identified

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himself. “I’m Frenni. You don’t recognize me because I’ve grown up.

I’m Frenni Col-Enk, the boy who used to follow you around, the one

you were always kind to even when I made a nuisance of myself.

Don’t you remember me?”

Quick, tell him the rest! Tell him before this news batters him even

more!
But Franklin didn’t have the presence of mind to tell Sly more.

He was too tense with apprehension.

Sly didn’t erupt into rage. Franklin had expected
some
show of

resentment, considering he’d just announced he’d be taking over Sly’s

position and considering Sly had absorbed so many human traits. But

not even a drizzle of indignation seeped through.

Instead, his mouth crept toward a bemused smile. “Frenni,” he

said with wonderment, touching Franklin’s face, maybe seeking

familiarity in the age-altered features. His gaze took in Franklin’s dark

hair, still unruly, and his blue eyes, and the lines of his nose and jaw.

That musing smile broadened. “You have whiskers now.”