Midwinter Night's Dream (7 page)

Last year Carson had gone into a rage when he’d kicked Errol out, shoving him down the staircase of the town house. He’d landed in the middle of Carson’s vintage snow globe collection, shattered glass, fake snow, and broken Christmas scenes everywhere. A fractured holiday to be sure. Errol’s back had taken a month to heal, and it still ached at times.

That was what came of speaking up. Errol had figured out Carson had stolen
Gently, Gently
and was planning to take credit for it as his own creation. In the course of the investigation, Carson had turned around and claimed Errol was the thief, had said it was his and he’d given it to Carson. Even though Errol hadn’t been implicated in the theft of the play, his ex claimed lack of legal action didn’t remove the stigma, and Carson had managed to convince the right people of Errol’s guilt.

Gently, Gently
was about growing up gay in the new millennium—angsty, dark, and written by a nineteen-year-old. Carson’s usual thing was musical comedy.

Why did the theater community believe Carson? Why did the theater community respect Carson? He was an off-off-Broadway director, a fish who had left the big New York City pond full of theater sharks for the small but placid waters of Denver. The piranha who ruled the Rocky Mountain minnows. A bully. All Errol had left now was his self-respect, and that would have to be enough.

Gazing into the depths of his coffee mug, he considered options. Joe was right. Errol would have to leave Denver. If only he had a gig like Escalade.

The Escalade briefs were heavenly. Soft as a cloud, silky elastic and comfortable cotton. He’d never owned something this…decadent, but in a good way. They’d make a nice souvenir of this little jaunt.

He turned away from the view and paced to the bed, then the kitchen, then back to the window.

“Bored?” Joe asked.

“It’s pretty tedious. How long do you think this’ll last?”

“No way to tell. You ready for dinner?”

Wasn’t five o’clock too early for dinner? But then how many substantial meals had he gotten over the past few months? A good meal was nothing to sneeze at. After this, food might be scarce. “I could eat.”

“Me too.” Joe marked his book and set it on the side table.

They’d eat. And then what would they do? At some point the sleeping arrangements were going to come up. Errol planned on claiming a sleeping bag from the pile on the bed and sacking out in front of the fire. Joe could have the bed.

WHILE THE STOVE heated, Joe looked through the canned goods on the shelves. Nothing had expired, and something hot and hearty sounded good. Something that would get some much-needed calories into Errol. “Stew okay?”

“Anything is fine.” Errol leaned against the sink, one ankle crossed over the other, watching. Close enough to touch.

“Stew it is.” Joe whistled a tune under his breath and grabbed a couple of cans, emptied them into a pot, and set it on the stove. It might be canned, but it still smelled rich and meaty. The scent of beef and roasted vegetables, the smell of pine burning in the stove and the fireplace, and the herbal fragrance of shampoo coming from Errol reminded Joe of happier times. When was the last time he’d felt relaxed enough to whistle?

“Sure I can’t help with anything?”

“Stir this for a minute, would you?”

“Yep.” Errol stepped forward and took the spoon.

“Keep your hips back from the stove. Don’t want to burn your bits.” Joe squatted by the cooler. “Want a beer?”

“Um, okay. You’ve got a little bit of everything in that cooler, huh?”

Joe grinned. “All the essentials.”

“Sure you weren’t expecting company?”

Not for the last two years
. “Solo trip.” He pulled out two beers, twisted off the caps, and set them on the table.

“I think this is hot enough.”

“Have a seat.” Joe ladled the stew into two bowls and set them on the table.

Errol waited until Joe sat, and then took a chair. Joe glanced up and caught Errol watching him.

“What?” Joe asked.

“You’re nothing like I would’ve expected.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just…more down to earth. I mean, we’re sitting here eating stew that you fixed yourself on a wood-burning stove, in a cabin, in the woods. I doubt many celebrities do stuff like this.”

Probably true, but at heart, Joe wasn’t a celebrity. He was a born fireman, just like his father and brothers. Two years of the limelight was enough to show him that. He blew on a spoonful of stew, ate it, and washed it down with beer. “How did you get involved in acting?”

Errol looked down with a shy smile. “Mercury.”

Joe grinned. “Sounds more like chemistry than theater.”

“Ms. Mercury Starshine.”

“Reminds me of a band.”

Errol chuckled. “Her parents were hippies in the sixties and gave her the crazy name. I wanted to be a writer, and I had her for Advanced Placement English in high school. She was also the advisor for the drama club. In her class, we read Shakespeare. I couldn’t get enough of him: plays, sonnets, unfinished pieces that might’ve been his.”

Shakespeare…

“Read to me, Joe,”
Bryce had whispered, naked and lying back on the bed after they’d made love.
“Read Shakespeare to me.”

Joe swallowed hard, but the expected pain didn’t grab his heart.

Errol continued. “When the school chose
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
for the fall play, Mercury encouraged me to try out. I did and got the role of Puck.”

The choice role, in Bryce’s opinion
. Joe nodded.

“It was…magical.” Errol’s eyes became unfocused, as if he watched a memory. “After that, I wanted to be an actor.” His gaze met Joe’s. “I’ve wanted it ever since.”

“How long do you plan to give it?”

Looking away, Errol fisted his hands by his bowl. “I don’t know. It’s hard, but it’s what I want.”

“What about wanting to be a writer?”

Errol snorted. “As far as dreams go, that’s not much better. Starving actor, starving writer.”

Judging by Errol’s too-lean frame, that wasn’t far off the mark. Joe peeled a strip off the label of his beer bottle. “I suppose.”

“What’s it like in Hollywood?” Errol leaned forward.

“Like living in a fishbowl.”

“I mean the acting.” Errol had that hopeful look, the one that Joe associated with people who wanted to experience it firsthand, not just hear about it.

“It’s a lot of waiting around. A lot of repetition. Sometimes people are easy to work with, sometimes they’re not. Most of the time I wished I was doing something else.”

The longer he’d stayed, the more he’d wanted out. Too many good people got sucked into drugs and alcohol and general debauchery. As sweet as Errol was, the star machine would snap him up, chew him to bits, and spit him out. The guy didn’t seem anywhere near jaded enough for Hollywood.

Joe stood and retrieved the pan off the stove. “More stew?”

“I’m good.”

“Help me finish it off.”

Errol nodded, and Joe ladled the majority into Errol’s bowl. To Joe’s pleasure, Errol inhaled the rest of his meal. “Was it fun to be on set?”

How long would it be before Errol asked for a Hollywood intro?

Chapter Seven

By seven p.m. the blizzard had not yet headed east, and darkness had crept in. Christmas was two days away, and Errol was beginning to understand the meaning of the term “cabin fever.” It must’ve been coined by a guy trapped in a one-room abode just like this, right before he went stark raving mad.

They’d spent all afternoon reading in front of the fire, Joe on the couch and Errol in a chair, sneaking glances over the top of his paperback mystery novel. The flames cast jumping shadows on the walls and made it difficult to see the print. There was nothing else to do; Joe had turned off the generator to conserve gasoline, which meant no electricity. Bed sounded like the best option.

As soon as Joe was ready to call it a night, Errol would grab a sleeping bag and rack out in front of the fireplace. So far Joe showed no sign of fatigue. He’d been reading for a couple of hours after dinner, and the irregular light didn’t seem to bother him.

“You want more coffee?” Joe asked.

“No, thanks.” At Joe’s urging, Errol had consumed enough fluids to float away.

“Hungry? We can do s’mores, or I’ve got cookies and fruit.”

“More sweets, huh?”

“Special occasion. And I’m on vacation.”

“I’m okay for now.”

Joe got to his feet and carried the mugs to the kitchen. He came back munching on the last of a cookie and brushed off his hands. “How about a game of cards?”

Errol stuck a scrap of paper in the book to mark his place, stood, and stretched. “What, like Go Fish?”

“No, like poker.”

Joe went to the bookcase, pulled a box off the bottom shelf, and carried it to the couch. Inside were a vintage carousel of poker chips and several packs of cards. Joe pulled out a deck and did a one-hand shuffle.

“Wow,” Errol said. “Play a lot of cards on fishing trips?”

Joe’s lip curled. “There’s more to a fishing trip than fishing.”

“Do tell.” Errol raised an eyebrow.

“Male bonding, don’t you know.” Joe cut the cards. “How do you feel about five-card stud?”

“Um, like I’ve never played it?”

Grinning, Joe set the cards on the table and doled out red, white, and blue chips. “I’ll teach you.”

“Why am I relieved we’re only playing for chips?”

“Perceptive, my friend.”

Joe really was too good at cards. He could bluff like a pro, and Errol’s pile of chips steadily dwindled as he got the hang of the game. He folded his hand and said, “I’m done. You’ve cleaned me out.”

Joe laughed. “The house can spot you more chips, Mr. Lockhart.”

“I’ll pass.” Errol yawned and glanced at the clock. “Wow. How’d it get to be ten already?”

“Time flies when you’re getting whooped at cards.” Errol collected the chips and sorted them into their columns in the carousel while Joe gathered the cards.

“I think I’m going to turn in,” Errol said.

Joe nodded. “You take the bed.”

“I’m just going to rack out here in front of the fire. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re getting over hypothermia. You’ll be warmer in the bed.”

Errol shoved his hands in his pockets. Hadn’t he known Joe was going to go all alpha and insist? “No, it’s your place.”

Joe tilted his chin down and gave him that mouthwatering I’m-in-charge look. “Errol—”

“Okay, how about this? You’ve got more than one sleeping bag. We could each have one and share the bed. It’s plenty big enough, and God knows we’ve slept closer together than that.” This last made his face heat up, and he turned away. Talk about a lost opportunity.

Behind him, Joe said nothing. There was rattling; he walked past and squatted to put away the poker set.

Joe rose and came to stand in front of him. “Are you always this argumentative?”

“Hey, just because you’re famous doesn’t mean you get to call all the shots.”

Joe laughed and shook his head. “Fair enough. Do you want the left side or the right?”

* * * *

Joe rolled over, willing himself to be still. It was a queen-size bed, but as aware as he was of Errol, it might as well have been a twin. Joe was intensely aware of the scent of him, the sound of him, the bulk of his body less than two feet away on the mattress.

The man had crawled into his sleeping bag like a hibernating bear, nothing showing, and the slow deep exhales suggested that he was asleep. Joe wanted to curl around him, enjoy that closeness, even if it was through the thick layers of clothing and sleeping bags. Skin to skin with a dying man had been all about rescue and restoring heat. Now it would be… God, now it would be heaven. Just thinking about it had his body expressing its opinion inside the confines of briefs and denim.

Joe’s sporadic encounters in California had been hurried and largely anonymous. Drive to a different town, quietly find a guy, do the deed. If the guy recognized him as Blake Huffington, Joe had laughed and said, “Yeah, people tell me that all the time.” He’d had to go farther and farther afield to keep it to one-night stands.

And God almighty, Joe wanted Errol, not just physically but making conversation and laughing. No one since Bryce had made him feel something other than lust.

Rolling to his back, Joe closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

The blaze had turned into a four-alarm fire. Heat radiated from the flames, making Joe sweat inside his turn-outs as he paced.

“He’s still in there,” Joe yelled.

“Stay back,” Captain Harker shouted. “Look, they’re coming out.”

Two firefighters dragging an unconscious colleague between them hurried over to Joe. They laid the victim on the scant grass.

“Been in there too long,” one of them said, muffled behind his mask. “Past the forty-five.”

Joe pulled off the unconscious man’s helmet, and sooty blond hair stuck out. The downed man began to cough, and pure joy washed over Joe. “Thank God.”

He pulled off the mask, and it wasn’t Bryce. Errol’s blue eyes popped open and stared at Joe.

“It can’t be you,” Joe whispered.

“It is him.” The second firefighter pulled off his mask, revealing Bryce. “He’s for you, baby. You found him sleeping and awakened him. I’m sleeping ‘with these mortals on the ground.’”

Bryce turned and walked away, disappearing in the smoke and steam.

“No,” Joe cried. “Don’t go.”

Joe shot up in bed.
Holy fuck
. He could practically smell the ash and burned wood. Bryce… It’d seemed so real.

Just a dream. He shoved his hands through his hair and took a couple of deep breaths. In the near-dark he could barely make out Errol’s features as he slept curled against Joe’s side.

Are you trying to tell me something, Bryce?

If so, Joe wasn’t sure he wanted to listen.

Chapter Eight

Errol awoke on Christmas Eve morning to silence. No wind moaning outside, no ice crystals hissing against the windows, just silence. Watery yellow light leaked in through the panes, more light than he’d seen in two days. The mantel clock reported seven-ten—early. The bedsprings stretched and squeaked as he sat up. Next to him, Joe was all but invisible inside his sleeping bag, not even a lick of curly hair showing.