The Grand Ballast (45 page)

They sprawled forward into
an awkward embrace. For a moment, everything seemed right. Bode
clutched Driscoll hard, his face wet with tears, and Driscoll
slowly tightened his arms around Bode. “I’m sorry,” Bode
whispered.

It was as if Bode were both
experiencing the moment and watching it from afar. The image of
Driscoll in his arms flickered, and for just a second, it was
Kilroy caught in the embrace, and the setting was not an empty
highway, but Kilroy’s apartment. The music slowed, crackling for a
second. Another flicker, and it was Bode and Driscoll at the edge
of the road once more. Bode held Driscoll until the tension left
Driscoll’s shoulders. Then he let go and leaned to the right,
letting himself topple off the cliff and into emptiness.

He heard a cheer from the crowd as he landed
on a sleek black floor. In a circle of blue and silver light stood
Valen. Still strong-looking, but softened by the years. His
shoulders stooped, and his wrinkles were deep. Bode felt a warmth
blooming inside him. He stepped toward Valen and took his hand,
held his waist. The music was slow. It drooped like the branches of
a willow and was joined by a harmony of voices that made Bode think
of starry nights, of ordinary magic. Bode and Valen began to waltz.
Valen smiled at Bode. Leaned forward and kissed him as bits of gold
foil fluttered around them.

One-two-three, one-two-three.

As they turned, Valen’s face looked, for
just a moment, younger. Determination overlaying fear. A boy pulled
from the water.

They abandoned the circle of blue light and
waltzed into the shadows. Bode suddenly realized he’d forgotten to
put away his deaths, and he had to be careful to lead Valen around
the coffins, so that Valen wouldn’t see. Bode couldn’t help
glancing into each coffin as he passed it, though: Driscoll, thin
and worn, his brow furrowed. LJ—glassy, one hand in a fist. Kilroy,
his eyes closed and a soft, private smile on his lips. The boy from
the farm, bruised and staring at nothing, a thick clot of blood in
his hair. And one coffin off in the corner that Bode didn’t dare
look into.

They waltzed back into the
light. Something fell between them and
plinked
at their feet. A crescent of
glass, no bigger than a fingernail. Bode looked up. It was no
longer gold paper falling, but bits of glass from the bridge high
above them and out of sight. He glanced back at Valen, who still
smiled even as larger and larger pieces fell and cut them both to
ribbons. Scraps of them piled on the floor and began to knit
together until they became a vast, soft curtain pulled across a
stage. Their blood seeped into it, dyeing it red.

As they waved gently above the floorboards,
Bode heard Kilroy’s voice, crackling through a microphone.

“
Ladies and gentlemen. It
takes—is this thing on? It takes longer to understand the things
you’ve destroyed than the things you love. Only now in this
listless hour do I comprehend how much I looted from a world I
thought had abandoned its claim on beauty, on life. But you see
what I have made? You see? I have given you
something
to
remember
, and I ask your forgiveness,
for I have been a brute and grand…a brute and
grand
, people…”

The crowd went wild, shadows rising from
their seats to applaud, while Bode and Valen remained woven, a
barrier between vision and magic, ending a show—and what a show
indeed.

Bode woke suddenly to stillness. For a
moment, he thought he was alone. Then he heard the steady rise and
fall of Valen’s breath beside him.

The music was gone and nothing was wild.

But love was the two of them and the room
and forever.

The End

Acknowledgments

In today’s fast-paced publishing
world, it’s especially rewarding to be able to take some extra time
with a project. When THE GRAND BALLAST was conceived two years ago,
it was as an erotic short story that was basically going to be my
excuse to repeatedly use the phrase “sex carnival.” It became
something much more than that, and I have so many people to thank
for the book’s evolution over the past two years.

Thanks as always to my friends and family,
who inspire me in so many ways. Thank you to my incredible Team
Beta: Jen, Jenn, Sam, Amy Jo, Katyna, Ana, Shannon, and Amanda. I
am still in awe of you. Your input was invaluable. And to MC
Blackman, for taking such a badass cover photo based on my vague
request.

Thank you to the season 11
contestants on
So You Think You Can
Dance
, for blowing my mind and giving my
main character something to be passionate about. Thanks to Leonard
Cohen, whose
Live in London
album slowly pushed this story away from “sex
carnival” and toward the intersection of art, love, and obsession.
And to the New Zealand bus system, for hosting me while I scribbled
the first draft in an actual, days-of-yore notebook.

And finally, thank you to my readers. To all
readers.

Also by J.A.
Rock

By His Rules

Wacky Wednesday (Wacky Wednesday #1)

The Brat-tastic Jayk Parker (Wacky Wednesday
#2)

Calling the Show

Take the Long Way Home

Minotaur (coming soon)

As Jill Smith

The Silvers

By Lisa Henry and J.A.
Rock

The Good Boy (The Boy #1)

The Naughty Boy (The Boy #1.5)

The Boy Who Belonged (The Boy #2)

Mark Cooper Versus America (Prescott College
#1)

Brandon Mills Versus the V-Card (Prescott
College #2)

When All the World Sleeps

Another Man’s Treasure

Fall on Your Knees
(
Rated XXXmas Anthology
)

The Two Gentlemen of Altona
(Playing the Fool #1)

The Merchant of Death
(Playing the Fool #2)

Tempest (Playing the Fool
#3)

About the Author

J.A. Rock is the author of queer romance and
suspense novels, including BY HIS RULES, TAKE THE LONG WAY HOME,
and, with Lisa Henry, THE GOOD BOY and WHEN ALL THE WORLD SLEEPS.
She holds an MFA in creative writing from the University of Alabama
and a BA in theater from Case Western Reserve University. J.A. also
writes queer fiction and essays under the name Jill Smith. Raised
in Ohio and West Virginia, she now lives in Chicago with her dog,
Professor Anne Studebaker.

Social Media
Links

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