The Boy Who Came in From the Cold (9 page)

Todd crept up to the bed, its surface vast and wide, and climbed up onto it, crawled across to Gabe on hands and knees. When he finally, finally, got to Gabe, he reached out and touched the man’s butt. It was so hard and so sleek. Like suede, but as smooth as glass. Then, startling Todd, Gabe’s hand came back and around, took hold of Todd’s own hand and pulled him up against his back.

They snapped together like two pieces of Lego.
Click.
After that, Todd remembered no more.

 

Chapter 5

 

T
ODD woke to a silent apartment. He sat up, looked around. It was true. He had spent the night in a strange man’s apartment. In the bright light of morning, which crept through the balcony doors, the place looked different. More functional than lived in?

Todd looked down and saw his jeans on the floor, listened for any movement, and then scrambled into them. He pulled on his sweater, made his way down the hall, and saw Gabe’s bedroom door was open.

If he peeked in, he would see the big man sprawled across a kingsize mattress. His shirt would be pulled up, and his ass and part of his balls would be right there on display.

Todd turned away. Then thought—
who are you fooling?
—and looked.

 

The bed was empty, and made. Todd felt a little ripple of disappointment.

 

(
“You a faggot or something?”
)

Gabe was gone? He went to the bathroom, and peeked in the other rooms as well, all with their doors open and all empty. Was he really gone? That didn’t make any sense. How did Gabe know he could trust his apartment and everything in it to Todd? Why, he could steal the man blind. Hock Gabe’s shit and turn around and get all his own junk back.

Of course, “junk” was the word.
A twin bed, the same one he’d had all his life. Shelves made of boards and cinder blocks. A dresser he’d found on the curb after a garage sale, missing the front of one drawer plus another drawer entirely. A couple of rugs, one torn, the other with a few cigarette burns. Two ugly, mismatching lamps (also from garage sales—one actually in the trash), his childhood desk (in good condition), a couch (where you didn’t want to sit on one end—ouch!), a badly scarred coffee table, a small TV (where everyone appeared green), and two matching chairs (wow!). Then his clothes, of course. All his clothes. And his laptop—piece of shit that it was. His laptop that had everything on it. His dreams. Pictures that represented his dreams. His recipes: those found online or transcribed from magazines, and of course, those he’d come up with on his own.

Finally, a few
Star Wars
toys he just couldn’t bring himself to leave behind. His stepfather would have just thrown them away. That was his legacy.
Star Wars
toys. Pathetic.

But pathetic or not, it was
his
legacy, and he wanted his stuff back. Especially one more thing hidden in a rolled-up sock in the back of the second drawer on the right-hand side of his dresser. He had to have that. His real and final backup plan, as piteous as it was.

The other rooms in Gabe’s apartment were just as amazing as the living room. The office held a big, gorgeous, darkly stained wooden desk, a large comfortable chair, and a stunning computer setup. Why, just the monitor was larger than Todd’s television. Everything looked expensive, even the throw rug and curtains. There were several bookcases, all filled with books. Gabe sure was a reader. Todd had been known to get lost in a Stephen King book or something by Michael Crichton—and of course, his vast collection of
Star Wars
books—but this was something else again. There were also a few photographs. A woman. One look and Todd knew she had to be Gabe’s mother; the resemblance was striking. No way could she deny him. Another of her and… shit! Gabe in a tank top with a trophy. Young. Not much older than Todd’s own age, maybe a year or two younger. But that same dazzling, almost goofy (cute) smile, same (country sky) blue eyes, sparkling. Cute. Very cute. Every girl in his school must have wanted him.

But he wanted other boys.

 

Todd reached out, almost picked up the picture, stopped himself. What if Gabe noticed? How weird would that look?

Todd turned away and went to the next room.
The workout room astonished him, especially the Bowflex. He’d called the 800 number on one of those commercials late at night once and been shocked at the price. This was another room where a lot of money had been spent.
And of course, there was that bedroom. The bed was an immense four-poster affair, all dark wood, and when he couldn’t stand the temptation anymore, he checked it out and wasn’t surprised in the least to realize the mattress was some kind of memory foam, or whatever it

was called. The kind you could supposedly bounce on and not spill a glass of wine. The rest of the bedroom furniture continued to bear out the fact that Gabe did nothing cheaply. The whole apartment spoke of money. Why the hell did the man live here instead of a loft or a luxury apartment building?

There was no doubt about it. If Todd wanted, he could call some friend—what friend? Maybe the hustlers from the park—and clear the place down to nothing but some hooks and some wire. That and a speck of food too small for a mouse, as Dr. Seuss might say. He could do it in a few hours, and what would Gabe be able to say? Do? Tell the cops he’d let a hustler spend the night and left him to his own devices the next day? Would an insurance company even pay up on that? (And was there any doubt that Gabe had insurance on everything?)

But of course Todd wouldn’t steal from Gabe. Todd could no more steal so much as a fork from the man who had let him in from the cold as he could haul the huge treadmill out on his shoulders.

Why do I have to be such a nice guy?
Todd went back to the living room and then headed to the kitchen. Surely it would be okay to get a soda or juice or something. To his surprise, after finding a pitcher of orange juice and going to a cabinet to look for a glass, he found a note addressed to him.

Morning Todd. Wanted to let you sleep in—you needed it. There is bacon in the sink thawing, and eggs in the fridge. Feel free to make yourself breakfast—and make it a big one, OK? You won’t break me if you do. If you drink coffee, just turn on the coffee maker and press the brew button. It’s all set up. I pulled out the crock pot and if you don’t mind, please dump the frozen chicken in it, spice it to your tastes—I certainly trust a man who knows how to cook— and set it on low. You’ll find the chicken in the freezer. It should be perfect by the time I get home which will be anywhere between 4 and 6. I hope you’ll be joining me for dinner. Please take it easy today. You have nowhere to go and I have no reason to run you off. Weather forecast said it snowed 8 inches last night and we could get another six today. Stay. Rest. Nap. Watch TV. Get your shit together. There is always tomorrow. Hoping I’ll see you tonight, Gabe

Tears began to gather in Todd’s eyes. Apparently they had replenished themselves in the night. Gabe—a man who didn’t know him from any other stranger on the street—not only trusted Todd in his home, but was giving him another day.

How could this be happening after all the horrible shit that had gone on in just the previous twenty-four hours?

 

Maybe Gabe was right. Maybe the only way was up.
“WHAT
?
A hustler?” Tracy Creighton had almost shouted the words,
and Gabe looked over her shoulder and out the door to see if anyone was looking. “Mother skeeter, please tell me he wasn’t a hustler.”

“He’s not a hustler,” Gabe answered, fighting the annoyance that was threatening him. She was looking at him as if he’d announced he had suddenly decided to go straight and asked her to marry him. Why was Tracy acting like this? She was his co-worker, friend, and confidante of several years, second only to Peter Wagner.

“Gabriel, have you lost your mind?”

“No, I haven’t lost my mind. Damn, Tracy. You think you could lower your voice a few decibels? At least close the door.”
“You must have,” she said, placing her hands on her shapely hips. “Letting a stranger spend the night in your apartment.”

“Oh, please. It’s not like either one of us has never had a onenight stand or two,” Gabe replied.
“At least those were people we knew. Name one time I ever took someone home that I met that night….” She paused, blushed, and looked away. “Never mind, don’t answer that.”

Gabe tried to hide a grin. He remembered a business trip the two of them had gone on a couple of years back and the devilishly handsome man Tracy had met in a bar.

She turned back and must have seen the amusement on Gabe’s face. “Okay, so I’m no Mother Theresa. But at least that was a hotel room. What was the guy going to steal? My makeup? A dress?”

Tracy—who was wearing red (of course) and whose dark-lined eyes were wide in drama-shock—held her hands out to her sides, fingers drawn into claws, and let out a muted scream. “I can’t believe this. You left a whore-boy in your apartment?
Your
apartment? You get in your car and you head the heck home right now! Get there before he cleans you out.”

“Tracy,” Gabe said as he got out of his chair and went to close his office door. “It’s okay. He’s not going to steal anything.”

Tracy fell back in a chair, leaned her head back so her long luxurious hair fell down in a wave, and gave another silent mock scream. “I will never understand you, Gabriel. Never. Unless you really are an angel. You know, maybe all this time I’ve been working with an angel unaware?”

Gabe laughed. “Only you could get prostitutes and the Bible in one conversation.”

She hunched her shoulder and rolled her eyes. “Nonsense. The Bible is full of prostitutes. The whore of Babylon, Jezebel, Mary Magdalene.”

“Except Mary Magdalene wasn’t a prostitute,” Gabe said. “Of course she was,” Tracy returned.

“Nope. Look it up. Same chapter. Two different women. Common mistake.”

Tracy shook her head yet again. “And only an angel would know that. Gabriel! The point is you need to get out of here and get home while you still have a home to get to.”

Gabe sighed. “Tracy, my only worry is that he won’t be there when I
get
home.”

 

Tracy smiled. “Oh. So that’s it. You got laid. You got laid at least, right? And please tell me you wore at least
two
condoms.”

“There was no getting laid. He slept on the couch. And like Mary Magdalene, you’re getting it wrong. I said I
thought
he was a hustler, but he wasn’t. He’s just a poor, down-on-his-luck kid from Smallville.”

Tracy groaned. “Gabriel. You are too trusting. It’s your worst fault.”

“I am not too trusting. I would rather be too trusting than be as cynical as you, my dear one.” This conversation needed to stop before he said something he couldn’t take back. “When have I ever been screwed over? Tell me. Tell me one time.”

Tracy’s eyes narrowed. He could see the wheels turning, trying to decide which man to throw in his face. Daniel? Brett?

Why had he been so wrong about those two? Especially Brett? What had he been thinking? He was usually so good about his assessments of people, and he had been sure he’d had something special with the kid.