Chapter 1

"Oh my God," Michael said with a soft groan. "Whose idea was it to leave this early?" He cracked open one eye, but his silent wish had gone unfulfilled. Deep, predawn shadows still shrouded the bedroom in blocks of purple and gray. He closed his eyes and snuggled up to Ben. "I don't think I can move from this bed."

Ben kissed him on the brow and replied, "I believe the six a.m. train was your idea. I seem to recall you talking about not wasting the day and getting in some quality beach time."

"Why didn't you talk me out of it? I like to sleep when it's nighttime. Sleep is good." Michael nuzzled his face into the crook of Ben's neck. Against Ben's warm skin, he whispered, "And if we can't sleep, we can do other things."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

Michael could practically hear the smile in Ben's voice. "You know." He lowered his voice to a furtive whisper. "Stuff. As soon as Hunter's gone, we can lock all the doors and just spend the whole two weeks in our own bed."

Hunter's muffled voice came through the walls. "If you guys aren't gonna go, there's no freaking way I'm staying with Debbie!"

With a quiet expletive, Michael abandoned his attempt at seduction. "I swear we need a bigger house." Not that Hunter would care, but it would be nice to not worry about an audience for every whisper, creak, and moan.

Ben chuckled as he rolled out of bed. "If you get up and help me finish packing, we'll have all the privacy we could ever want in a few hours." He flipped on a small lamp and headed to the dresser.

Michael settled a little more deeply into his pillow and watched Ben pack. He really should help, but this was his first day off in weeks. Over the summer, the comic store had experienced an unexpected surge in popularity. That was great for their bank account, not so great for the body and soul. He had forgotten how decadent it felt to stay in bed and shirk his responsibilities--no worries about customers, inventory, publishing deadlines, or anything else. "I think I need a vacation before I go on vacation," he declared.

Ben paused in the act of folding a tee shirt. "I hear you. I can't wait to get there. There's nothing like communing with the sea to center your mind and spirit. We could use a little of that, don't you think?"

Michael crossed his arms behind his head and sighed deeply. "There's only one thing I want to commune with and it's already here." He reached out with his foot to try to nudge Ben with his toe, but just missed the mark. He dropped his leg to the bed.

"I'm flattered."

"I was talking about that bakery on Fifth Street. They serve Pittsburgh's best bagels." Michael giggled when Ben's tee shirt flew across the room and sailed above his head to hit the headboard with a soft thwap. "Missed me."

Ben kept folding the next shirt he'd picked up. He wore a small smile on his face, but it held a hint of sadness. "I have."

"Have what?"

"Missed you."

"What's to miss? I've been right here, ready, willing, and able, in case you didn't notice."

Ben walked over, sat on the bed, and leaned down to kiss Michael--a warm, soft embrace, followed by a soft pat to Michael's cheek. "What with you being busy running the store, working on your comic, and performing long distance hovering over Jenny, we're hardly spending any time together."

"I don't hover. Why does everyone keep saying that?" Michael grumbled. He deliberately avoided doing a mental tally of the times he had called to check on her. It wasn't that much and with Mel, Lindsay, and the kids way up in Canada, the phone had become a lifeline to Jenny Rebecca. "You talk to her almost as much as I do."

Ben's voice was heavy with remorse. "I still can't get used to seeing her so rarely, but she lives far away. We don't have that excuse for why we're not spending more time together."

"I'm trying. Now that my assistant, Matt, knows the ropes, things should get better."

"Oh, I know! I'm not saying it's all your fault. I blame myself, too. I don't know how I thought I could double my teaching load, do any real writing, and still have time enough for the rest of our lives." He cupped Michel's face and held it while he looked into Michael's eyes. "That's why I've really been looking forward to this--just you, me, the beach, and a jug of wine."

Michael slid his hands up Ben's neck and threaded his fingers into Ben's hair. "Well, when you put it like that--"

The bedroom door burst open and Hunter stuck his head in. "Have you seen my favorite jeans? No way I can go without those."

Michael turned to the doorway and scowled. "They're just jeans...and what did we tell you about knocking and not barging in?"

With righteous indignation and a complete disregard for Michael's scolding, Hunter said, "Just jeans?" He grimaced and disappeared from the doorway, his "I know you guys are old, but come on!" floating behind him.

While Ben snorted in amusement, Michael flopped back onto the bed. "Come to think of it, I can't wait to get out of here."

I should have brought a hat or an umbrella, Michael thought. At this rate, I'm gonna look like a lobster. The swimming and the afternoon heat had made him lazy and he had probably been sunning himself for a little longer than was wise. He should get Ben to slather his back with another coat of sunscreen. At the thought of Ben's cool hands sliding across his back, he became more and more convinced that the sunscreen couldn't wait.

He sat up and shaded his eyes with both hands against the piercing sunlight. He could see Ben walking out of the sea. The setting sun created a golden halo around Ben's long, muscular form. His hair was dark and wet and plastered against his skull, masking all hints of blond. And when he was close enough, Michael could see the white gleam of Ben's teeth when he smiled.

Ben stepped out of the water and jogged over to Michael, breaking the spell. "That was incredible! The water's warm, considering the time of year."

Michael admired the drops of water glistening on Ben's chest until a few of them rolled off and hit his chest. "Hey, watch it! You're dripping all over me!"

Ben shook his head and showered the area around him with seawater. "As hot as it is, you'll be dry in a few minutes."

Where the drops landed on Michael created such a sharp contrast to the baking August sun that he shivered. "I'm going to get you back for that," he grumbled even though the cold felt nice, once the shock wore off.

Ben dropped to his knees at Michael's side, shook his head again, and then grinned. "Forgive me? I'm all yours, for whatever retribution you think is necessary."

The clouds shifted and Michael caught his breath. Funny how the play of shadows and Ben's devilish smile transformed his face into something mysterious. The shadows moved again and ruined the effect. By then, Ben was moving closer. Michael had a brief thought about sunscreen, but it slipped away before he knew it.

Everything after that was lost in a haze of shadowy impressions. He remembered the powdery sand coating his feet and the backs of his legs, the heat of the noon sun baking him everywhere Ben's body didn't cover his, the rushing sound of the water, broken only by the caw of seagulls. Ben's skin felt hot and cold and slippery. He smelled like the sea and tasted like salt and sand. Michael swam in the multitude of sensations, letting them consume him.

Later on, when the crackling electricity running across his nerves had quieted to a dull, but pleasant vibration, he started thinking about mundane things. His fingers were skating across the ripples of Ben's well-muscled abs when his own stomach rumbled, loud and long. "I'm gonna starve. I may have to start eating the first thing I find." He playfully nipped at the skin of Ben's taut stomach. Maybe food could wait for another twenty minutes or so. He pressed into the touch of Ben's hand on his head--soft, but sure strokes on his scalp and through his hair that made him purr with pleasure.

"How about chicken?" Ben offered. "I found some apricots at the market yesterday. Hope you didn't eat them all because I found a great recipe for an apricot marinade."

"Apricots and chicken? I don't know." But Michael's hesitance was halfhearted. He imagined Ben feeding him the succulent fruit, his fingers dripping with the tangy nectar...

"I think you'll like it. It's sweet."

He nibbled on Ben's stomach again. "Mmm hmm. I think I'm in the mood for something salty."

"Oh...okay," Ben replied, but his voice was becoming increasingly breathy and a flush was painting his chest pink.

Another round of lovemaking left them both so sated and drowsy, that even imminent starvation couldn't make them move more further than the distance to the cooler for bottled water. They lay together, talking about nothing, until the dull boom of ocean crashing on the beach and the warmth of the afternoon sun lulled them both to sleep.

When Michael opened his eyes, his heart was pounding and beads of sweat rolled down his temples. His clammy hands hung over the edges of the beach towel, and warm granules of sand sifted between his clenched fingers. His body felt too heavy, like he'd had a workout in his sleep. How long was I out? The sun was dipping behind the rise of land, and the air was becoming cooler. Ben was sitting up and staring down the beach.

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Michael tried to pinpoint the sound, but he still felt groggy and fuzzy around the edges. He stumbled through the possibilities. Semi-private beach, or so the travel agent had sworn. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. "I don't hear anything," he started to say, but Ben had already leapt to his feet and started sprinting down the beach. "Hey! Where are you going?"

Ben's flight didn't waver. He called out behind him, "She needs help!"

Michael couldn't see who had Ben running, but he responded to his husband's urgency. He jumped up and took off in the same direction, pounding through swells and dips of hot, sharp sand that scoured his feet. The air burned in his lungs, reminding him that he'd been a little slack about going to the gym lately. Still, he pushed himself to run faster. He thought he was closing in until sharp pain shot through his left ankle.

"Damn it!" He hopped for a few steps until the pain dulled to a low-pitched pulsation, and he could hobble the rest of the way.

He spotted Ben kneeling by the water, holding a young woman in his arms. He limped the rest of the way and stood by, feeling helpless while he watched Ben try to rouse her. Then his temporary paralysis lifted and he crouched down. He only knew CPR from what he'd seen on TV, but his hands itched to do something. "Is she okay? Is she breathing? What can I do?"

"She seems to be all right. She was only under for a few seconds. I think she's just cold and in shock. Could you go back and get the beach towel? That'll probably do until we get her inside and get her warm."

Michael nodded and ran back to where they had left all their stuff. What little ankle pain he'd been having was numbed by the burst of adrenaline still shooting through his veins. By the time he returned to them, the woman was more awake and starting to shiver. Ben was sitting next to her, propping her up with an arm around her shoulders, and talking to her while she remained silent except for her teeth chattering. Michael draped the huge towel around her and started to pat at her back and her arms.

Ben looked up. "Michael, this is Charlotte."

She had not raised her head, but Michael still nodded at her in an unseen greeting. "Hi, Charlotte. You gave us a scare. Are you staying around here?"

When she didn't reply, he looked towards Ben, who shrugged and jerked his head over his shoulder. "There are footsteps going back that way. We could try that, first."

Ben carried Charlotte, while Michael trudged behind them to the little beach house. As Ben had suspected, the footprints led right to the porch steps. The house was weathered like many of the structures in the area. Its clapboard siding's brown paint was worn down to the soft color of wet beach sand, flaking here and there where the years and the weather had won their battle. Several tenacious vines were creeping up the bottom edges of the house. The air of quiet neglect made it quaint, but a little sorry looking.

Michael pushed open the unlocked door and entered first. "Hello?" he called into the dim main room. There was no answer, so he held the door open to let Ben and Charlotte in. He asked her, "Is this your place?" She blinked at him, as if in confusion, leaving Michael to wonder if she had a head injury. Or maybe she'd been taking something. More than a few times, he'd seen that glassy-eyed look after someone--usually Brian--had a few too many drinks or took a hit of a less than legal 'party favor.'

Ben repeated the question, his voice gentle and coaxing. Charlotte's confusion seemed to recede, enough that she replied with a small nod, a wet cough, and a hoarse "yes."

Michael left them to search the house. After trying a couple of doors, he found the bedroom and the bathroom.

Ben deposited her on the bed and turned to Michael. "Maybe we should put her in the shower or the tub? Get her warmed up?"

Michael had been hoping that they'd find someone to help or, better yet, take over, but the house echoed with emptiness. They couldn't just leave her like this. The blueness was gone from around her lips, but she was pale and too quiet, except for the occasional cough. Michael resigned himself to the fact that she needed help and he and Ben were it, for now.

It took a coordinated effort to get her in the tub, but once there, she sat up on her own, arms wrapped around her bent legs, brow pressed against her knees, the edges of her white nightgown swirling in the warm water. The bath did its trick and she stopped shivering and got a little color back in her face.

"I've got it from here," Ben said. "Maybe you can make her something hot to drink?"

Leaving Ben to steer Charlotte back to the bedroom, Michael headed for the kitchen. He quickly discovered that the walls of the beach house were just as thin as their old Pittsburgh apartment. As he rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, he could hear Ben cajole Charlotte into removing her sopping wet clothes. He guessed that Charlotte was able to undress as directed, because next he heard Ben urging her to wrap herself in something warm.

He found a tray in one of the kitchen cabinets and loaded it with a mug of mint tea, a bowl of chicken soup--from a can since he was in a hurry and wasn't quite up to making it from scratch--and a couple of slices of warm, buttered toast. Balancing the tray with care, he carried it to the bedroom.

Charlotte was curled up, burrowed under the blanket like a small child trying to make herself invisible. Michael could only see the top of her head where it rested on the pillow. Her hair was wrapped in a towel, but several of the strawberry blonde strands escaped their turban and trailed across the bed like damp ribbons of pink gold. Ben was sitting at her side, allowing her to clutch his hand in a grip so tight that the tips of his fingers had turned red.

Several dolls festooned in lace and ribbons surrounded them both. Taking in the unblinking stares of multiple pairs of glass eyes, Michael didn't know who looked more animated--the dolls or their owner.

She coughed, reminding Michael why he was there. "Do you think you can eat something, Charlotte?" he asked. "I've got tea and soup."

She looked up at him with bleary eyes and said, "I'll try."

Ben mouthed a "thank you" at Michael. To Charlotte, he said, "Why don't you sit up?"

Once she had propped herself up against a stack of pillows, she started on the soup. She seemed less anxious when her eyes fell upon Ben, but there was still an air of wariness about her; it was in the distance of her gaze and the rigidity of her posture. Though her hands shook and some of the soup spilled from the spoon to the tray, she managed to drink most of it and half of the tea. She refused the toast and struggled to push the tray away.

Michael darted forward from where he'd been standing, regretting his haste when it sent a twinge of pain through his injured ankle. Ignoring the discomfort, he took the tray from her and stood there, waiting. For what, he didn't know.

Ben was the first to break the silence. "What happened out there?"

She sat cross-legged, with her hands laced in her lap and her head bent. To Michael, she looked for all the world like a kid waiting for her punishment. But appearances aside, her voice wasn't a child's. It was husky and tight and maybe a little weary. "It was so hot. I just wanted to go for a swim."

"You weren't really dressed for swimming," Ben pointed out.

She looked up and her confusion was back. "Yeah. I know. I was only going to wade in. Guess I slipped or something." Her head bobbed and her lids fluttered in an effort to stay open. "I'm sorry, but I'm really tired," she whispered. She lay back down and dragged the blanket over her shoulders.

Michael and Ben's eyes met, but neither of them said anything to the other. Ben gently touched Charlotte's shoulder. "Hey, would it be okay if we come back to check on you? Just to make sure you're okay?"

She opened her eyes and looked at Ben--a long, silent stare that made the hairs rise on the back of Michael's neck. He couldn't even say why. The look just seemed so intense, as if she were trying to see into Ben and was succeeding.

The moment passed and Charlotte said, "Sure. And thanks...for everything."

Michael decided that he'd been imagining that unsettling moment. He left the room, tray in hand, intent on cleaning up so he and Ben could leave as soon as politely possible.

Dinner was over and the cleanup was done. While Ben was in the shower, Michael was sitting on the couch, with his leg propped up, icing his ankle and looking through the small CD collection they'd lugged from home.

Their plans to go into town were shot. It was just supposed to be dinner and a comedy at the Vineyard Playhouse--some community production that sounded like a fun way to pass the evening. Unfortunately, after a few hours playing nursemaid and because of Michael's injury, neither of them were up to it.

Michael found a collection of ballads and popped it into the portable CD player. As the delicate melody filled the room and the singer crooned about lost love, he let his mind wander to their summer neighbor. What had really happened today? A simple accident?

Since their return, Ben had been oddly quiet. Not that Michael was expecting him to yap away about it, but it did make him wonder what was going through Ben's head.

He looked over his shoulder when he heard footsteps approach the back of the couch. The lines of tension and the faraway look were gone from Ben's expression. He still looked too serious, but that didn't make him any less tempting, wrapped as he was in a small towel and nothing else.

"Hope you left some hot water for me," Michael said with a teasing tone. He was relieved when his comment made Ben smile.

Ben sat on the couch and gently moved Michael's leg onto his lap, where he absently started massaging the ankle. "You should have joined me and avoided the worry."

"Maybe if you'd been in the tub. The shower stall's way too small for two people." So far, it was Michael's only complaint about the vacation and the thing he missed most about their house. That inconvenience was balanced by a happy accident when Michael had accidentally packed the small towels. The one Ben wore was inching up his legs and....

Ben leaned forward until he was nearly nose-to-nose with Michael. "It's not so bad if you stay really close."

"Yeah. I should have thought of that," Michael said under his breath, right before he kissed Ben. They bumped noses and laughed and tried again and then it all clicked. The flare of heat between them drove away their fatigue and momentary clumsiness.

They hadn't been kissing long when the singer on the CD hit a high note that pierced Michael's ears in a nails-on-chalkboard way at the same time that Ben failed to hold back a jaw-cracking yawn.

Ben tried to apologize, but Michael waved him off and allowed himself his own yawn. "We're both wiped. Maybe we should just call it a night and start fresh and early in the morning."

"Good thinking," Ben said. "I'll definitely take you up on that early morning thing."

"I'm counting on it."

"I might even rub your ankle some more for you."

"It's really not that bad. Should be fine by tomorrow." But his ankle seemed to disagree and started to throb again. To tell the truth, Michael thought an ankle rub sounded heavenly--better than sex, even. He watched Ben stand and stretch and walk around, checking windows and doors, still dressed in his small towel.

Okay. Maybe not better than sex, but close. He thought about ignoring his fatigue and having his way with his husband, but when he stood and nearly fell back down, common sense came to the rescue.

Okay. Early morning was the way to go. Michael limped to the front door, but instead of locking up, he slipped out to the front porch for a breath of fresh air. Away from the ubiquitous city lights, the stars sparkled in the velvety, blue-black sky and the moon hung low and shone bright and soft.

A full moon. Should have guessed it, Michael said to himself before he flipped on the porch light and locked up for the night.

Chapter 2

The days blew by like a gust of wind. Michael and Ben practically lived on the beach. They spent hours frolicking in the water, lazing away on the beach, and dining on food they packed in a picnic basket. They hardly set foot inside the house in daylight.

After spending entire days together, the evenings were still the best. Michael relished that quiet time when they would cuddle together on the couch or outside on a beach blanket. They would talk about the day and about the past and everything they never had time to talk about at home. They made love often--like horny teenagers set loose from their parents' watchful eyes. No schedules, so they could take all the time they wanted, whenever they wanted. No sleeping babies or nosy teenagers to censor their wilder inhibitions.

Sometimes, if they were camped out close to the water's edge, they'd see a glimmer of the lights from Charlotte's house. Ben had taken to chatting with her if he saw her outside during his daily beach runs. He reported that she was filling her time with early morning walks and writing letters to her family and friends. She was even making tentative plans to return home. Michael didn't see much of her. Whatever she did, as long as she kept mostly to herself, Michael felt no need to complain.

Except for Charlotte, they didn't see a soul and didn't miss the company. However, there came a day when they decided it was time to explore more of the island outside of their beach house.

The walk through the Felix Wildlife Sanctuary reminded Michael of family trips to the Poconos, when he'd practically lived outdoors for weeks at a time. Back then, everything had been bigger, brighter, and more alive. With nothing but his friends, the relatively unspoiled outdoors, and his imagination to keep him company, the world had been vast and full of possibility. At the end of each day, he'd always felt like there hadn't been enough time to cram it all in.

As he grew older, money had become tighter and his Uncle Vic had come to live with them. They skipped more and more vacations until they stopped going altogether. Until now, he hadn't realized how much he missed it.

He spotted a bird perched on a low tree branch. It had a white face and breast and brown feathers on its back and wings, as if it had thrown a shawl over its shoulders. Ben consulted his pamphlet with all due gravity. "It's an Osprey."

"Oh," said Michael. "It looks like a hawk."

"It is. The guidebook says that an Osprey is one type of hawk." The bird, disturbed by the noise, perhaps, took flight, gliding away with its flat wings spread, carried by an unseen breeze.

Michael nodded, listening without really listening. He didn't care about the scientific classifications and mating habits that filled the pages of Ben's pamphlet. He just liked to hear Ben talk and see him relaxed and happy. He hooked their arms together. "Where to next, oh fearless explorer?"

Ben flipped a page in the pamphlet. "If we go a quarter mile down this path, there's a pond. In the winter, there are ducks, but since it's summer, it'll probably be quiet."

"Okay. Let's go."

All the walking made them hungry, but before they ate lunch, Michael dragged them into the Audubon shop located on the sanctuary. He scoured the shelves until he found a selection of plush toy birds. When he squeezed one, it made a tinny imitation of a birdcall. "What do you think?"

"Is it for you or for Jenny Rebecca?"

Michael thumped Ben on the arm with the toy bird and laughed when it made its call. "It's for J.R."

"She'll love it, but I don't know about Mel and Lindsay. They still haven't forgiven us for that birthday gift."

Despite Ben's warnings, Michael paid for his purchase and bounced out of the store, happily squeezing the bag every so often to hear the bird call. After the third passerby had given them a strange look, Ben shook his head. "If you have any feeling for me, you'll hide that the next time she comes to visit. It would drive me nuts."

"Party pooper."

"And Mel and Lindsay are going to kill you," Ben teased. "You're already on thin ice with the squeaky toys you bought last time. Is there any reason Jenny needed five of them?"

"She loves to play with them."

"Exactly."

"Well, if her moms complain, I can always tell them it was your idea."

"There's no way I'll take the fall for that!"

Michael grinned and batted his eyes. "Not even for true love?"

Ben smirked. "You dug your own hole."

But Michael didn't regret his purchase. During their brief conversations, he loved to hear J.R. make her squeaky toys sing. Until she was talking a lot more, he thought of it as their secret language.

He and Ben splurged for lunch at the Boathouse Bar. The baked clams were perfect and they washed them down with tall glasses of iced mint tea. Afterwards, they sauntered down Main Street, too full to pick up the pace until Michael perked up at the sight of a vintage jewelry store. There, he found a choker for Lindsay, a necklace for Melanie, and a set of silver bangles for his mother. He agonized over a present for Ben's mother, rejecting several of Ben's suggestions as 'not exactly right.'

While they shopped, they chatted.

"Matt's great helping me out at the store, but he gets so high strung about 'Rage.' Remember how he called me six times a day, while we worked on the last issue? He drove me nuts!"

Ben laughed. "I was afraid we would need a restraining order."

"Exactly. It was so much easier working with Justin. I hope the New York art scene appreciates him. That reminds me--we should probably look him up, after we visit your mother."

"I'm sure Mom won't mind if we give her the slip for a few hours."

Michael held up a pair of dangly earrings. "What about these?"

"Sure. They're great."

Michael placed them back on the stand. "You said that about everything. She's your mother. Can't you help me pick something she'd really like?"

"Just choose something nice. It's not like she's expecting the Hope Diamond."

"That doesn't mean I can give her any old thing. This is only the second time I'm seeing her in person. I want to make a good impression."

Ben wrapped an arm around Michael's shoulder and squeezed. "You already did. After the first time she spoke to you on the phone, she thought you were sweet and charming and said I was lucky to find you. I agreed with her, of course. Trust me. Anything you give her will thrill her."

Michael felt his face get hot. "Really? She said all that? What else didn't you tell me?"

"You can't tell her I said anything. It's a secret. You're supposed to maintain a healthy fear of your mother-in-law to keep you in line." He released Michael and strolled further down the counter to look at the rings on display, ignoring all attempts Michael made to ferret out more information.

In the back, the store had a curio cabinet containing a small selection of porcelain dolls. When they lingered there, a saleswoman approached them.

"There's an artist who sends these to me, every once in a while. Each one is unique. See something you like? They make great collectibles. Or a gift for some special girl."

Michael politely looked over the dolls before replying, "I think my daughter's a little young for these. She's more into stuffed animals and wind-up toys. She'd break one of these in a heartbeat."

The saleswoman's determination wasn't so easy to defeat. "You can always get one as a keepsake and give it to her when she's older. A lot of girls will collect these for their whole lives. And even if she never gets another one, I'm sure she'd treasure a special doll from her father. The porcelain is hand painted and the clothes are hand sewn. The necklaces and hair ornaments are made by a craftsman who lives on the island."

"They're beautiful," Michael said with a nod, while wanting to ask if they had a loom in the back room, where they wove the cloth. "But I think we'll wait until the next time we visit."

However, Ben was reaching for one of the dolls and cradling it in his hands. "How much is this one?" he asked.

The saleswoman brightened and reached out to stroke a lock of the doll's blonde hair. "She's a favorite of mine. I love her green eyes and the lace details on her dress. And look at this necklace. These are genuine Australian crystals."

Ben nodded. "I know someone who I think would like this. She has a few others, but none like this one that I can remember."

While Michael looked on from the side, feeling a bit bemused about the conversation, Ben and the saleswoman negotiated a price and completed the sale. Outside the store, they walked hand-in-hand. Ben clutched the doll, safe in its padded box, in his other hand.

"So," Michael finally said, when Ben didn't 'fess up. "Is that for your girlfriend?"

Ben smiled and said with mild exasperation, "Yes and she's not my girlfriend."

"You sure about that?" Michael ticked off the qualifications. "You spent time alone with her and now you're buying her pricey gifts. Come to think of it, you've even seen her practically naked."

"That was just a--oh, why am I debating about this?" Ben exclaimed over Michael's laughter. "She mentioned she had a birthday coming up. Since she looked like she could use some cheering up, I'm going to give this to her before we leave."

The last few days had mellowed Michael out and he was inclined to be generous. He laughed at Ben's grouchy expression. "I'm joking! It's really nice of you. Just don't invite her to spend the night, okay? I can only take so much. And no lingerie or jewelry."

Ben cast an oblique glance at him. "No need to be jealous. I'm all yours."

"I'm not jealous."

"Sure."

"I'm not!"

"Of course not," Ben said while biting back a smile. He slung an arm around Michael's waist.

Michael caught Ben smirking with satisfaction. He rolled his eyes and grumbled, "Some men."

That night, they finally made it to the play. Some of the players were rough around the edges, but they made up for it with their heartfelt performances. Michael and Ben laughed and clapped along with the rest of the audience. During intermission, they sipped wine and chatted with the friendly couple seated next to them.

The performance closed to a round of thunderous applause and a standing ovation for the leads. Afterwards, the audience poured through the theater doors to meet a minor summer storm. Low, heavy clouds filled the night sky and unleashed their contents on the town. Ben and Michael dodged raindrops en route to the nearest café, hopping over puddles and ducking under awnings to keep dry. Over steaming cups of hot chocolate, they watched the summer rain blow over.

"Darn. I was hoping to sleep on the beach."

"I thought you'd get tired of that," Ben said.

"When you're there? Never. I wish we could spend the summer here."

"We could come back."

"Next year?"

"Why not?"

Why not, indeed? Michael smiled at the thought of having Ben, to himself, for a week. They would have to get a more private house, with no neighbors. A whole beach to themselves sounded like heaven.

"What are you thinking?" Ben asked. "You've got a huge smile on your face."

"Do I?" Michael asked, without trying to hide it.

"Sure do."

He picked up Ben's hand from the table and caressed the palm with his thumb. "I was thinking that rain or no rain, we need to call a cab and get home."

Ben grin was wide and sparkling. "I like your way of thinking."

"It'll be fun."

Michael shook his head. "Dust? Saddle sores? Freaking horseflies? That's not my idea of fun."

Ben handed Michael a plate loaded with fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp Canadian bacon, and golden brown toast. "Orange juice? It's fresh squeezed."

Michael's mouth was watering at the delicious scent of his breakfast. "You're not playing fair."

Ben poured the juice and handed the glass to Michael. "Fair? Whatever do you mean?"

"Look it up. Bribing your husband with breakfast food is not one of the definitions." But his dubious moral outrage about Ben's tactics didn't prevent him from taking a long, satisfying swallow of the best O.J. he'd had in a while and digging into the eggs.

Ben frowned and looked over at the counter. "Where's that homemade strawberry jam we bought the other day?"

Michael groaned. "Fine, Julia Child. You win. One day of horseback riding...No! Make that one morning. Then, if I don't like it, we never speak of it again."

Ben stood and walked to the fridge, reached in and removed a jar. He held it out to Michael with a spoon and a smile.

Michael spooned the jam onto his toast, took a bite, and nearly died from bliss. After a few bites of strawberry heaven, he said, "If this didn't taste so good, you'd never get away with what you're doing."

"You could always say no." Ben looked over his shoulder, searching the counter. "I think there's still some Captain Crunch left."

"Right. Could you pass the pepper and keep the gloating to a minimum?" Michael accepted the shaker and added, "Of course, this means that I pick the next thing we do."

"No problem. Name it."

Michael grinned. He had only two word to say: "Bumper cars."

Michael shifted in the tub, sending tiny ripples through the steamy water. He winced at the pain in his backside. Damn. He moved again, clutching the rim of the deep, claw foot tub, trying to make himself comfortable, and wondering, for the hundredth time, how he could have spasms in muscles he didn't even know the human body had.

Once he found a position that he could stand for a few minutes, he closed his eyes and rested his head against the tub.

Horseback riding might not have been so bad. It might even have been fun. There had been very few horseflies and not as much dust as Michael had expected. But the pain, oh my God. If only someone had warned him about the effects of bouncing on a saddle for a couple of hours. Now, the thought of sitting on anything mobile sent shudders of icy horror down his spine. Bumper cars would have to wait until later this week. Much later.

Or maybe next vacation.

After a few more minutes in the tub, he planned to do nothing more strenuous than collapse in bed for a long nap. He felt bad about letting Ben go to the Farmer's Market by himself, but there was only so much one man could take. For his suffering, Michael had accepted his husband's offer of a fabulous, home-cooked dinner. It was the least he could do, he thought. I deserve a massage, too. Or two massages. And a foot rub. He pictured Ben kneeling on the bed, at his feet, and sucking on his toes, one by one, humming with pleasure. Ben smiling and running a hand up his leg...

"Wha--!" Michael sat up with a start, splashing water over the side of the tub. He didn't know where the time had gone, but it was long enough to allow the water to cool. After a quick scrub and rinse, he was ready to towel himself dry and get dressed. As he left the bathroom, he thought he heard voices.

He found Ben in the kitchen, busy at the counter, chopping vegetables and singing to himself.

Michael choked back a giggle when he got a good look at the apron that wrapped Ben's trim waist and covered his shirt. "Honey, I don't think pink poodles are really your style."

Ben turned and his face lit up. "Hey there, Sleeping Beauty. I was going to wake you, but you looked like you really needed the rest. As soon as I'm done, I need to hop in the shower." He glanced down at his apron. "I found this hideous thing in one of the cupboards. Since I doubted you'd appreciate dinner laced with 'eau de cheval,' it was either this or delay dinner for a while. I chose the lesser of two evils."

"You could have woken me. I wouldn't have minded. Anything to keep the horse sweat off my dinner plate." Michael glanced at the clock. "It's late. Did you just get back?"

"Not that long ago," Ben replied in a chipper voice. "I found some great, fresh vegetables. Here. Try this." He held out a vegetable slice until Michael took a cautious bite. "Isn't that the sweetest bell pepper you ever tasted?"

Michael chewed and swallowed and nodded his agreement. "For two hours? Must have been some shopping trip."

"It was fantastic." Ben started slicing up a handful of mushrooms, filling the room with the thwacking of his knife blade against the wooden cutting board. "They had an incredible selection. It was hard to tear myself away."

"Humph." Michael was silently glad he had headed straight home. Ben, in raptures over fresh vegetables, could lose himself for hours. The look on his face had been priceless the first time he had come across the vast quantities of canned food in Michael and Emmett's cupboards. Luckily, it had only been a minor hiccup in their relationship.

"I hope you've got an appetite. The salad's almost done and I just put the tuna steaks on the grill."

The delicate scent of the tuna was awfully tempting. Between that and the wine, Michael thought he might be persuaded to ignore his soreness and fool around after dinner. "Everything smells wonderful." Ben's smile warmed the pit of Michael's stomach. He stepped closer to his husband and circled his waist in a tight hug. "You know, it's a good thing I let you cook today. If it were up to me, we'd be having mac and cheese."

Ben hugged Michael back and said with wry humor, "Yeah, I'm glad you were so easy to convince."

"Oh, you know me. I'm always easy."

"Lucky me."

Michael chuckled and hugged Ben tighter. Mixed in with the faint scents of sweat and horseflesh was an unexpected aroma. He sniffed Ben's shirt. "New cologne?"

Ben was busy kissing Michael's neck, but he briefly paused to reply, "Nope. Same old stuff. And I think the riding wore it out."

"Shopping in the garden section?"

"No. Why?"

"After we were done riding, I didn't smell like flowers. You do."

"I do?" Ben sniffed at his own tee shirt collar. "You're right. That must be Charlotte's perfume."

Michael tilted his head back to look up at Ben. "And exactly how did you get Charlotte's perfume all over you?"

Ben slid his hands down from around Michael's shoulders and took his hands, instead. His cheery expression dimmed. "That was part of why it took me so long to get back. This morning, she didn't answer her doorbell, so this afternoon, I popped over there to make sure everything was okay. She was having a bad day."

Michael sighed. "What happened this time?"

"Nothing that she would tell me. I can't put my finger on it, but something didn't seem right. I tried to get her to talk, but she's good at answering without saying much, if you know what I mean. She did tell me she was having trouble sleeping. To look at her, you'd think she'd been awake for days."

"Hmm. That's too bad."

"Once we leave next week, she'll be alone and that worries me. I tried to approach her about calling someone she knows, but she wasn't too receptive to the idea. It just feels like I should be doing something."

Michael bit his lip. He pulled a hand away, reached into the salad, and pulled out a carrot slice while he pondered the problem. "Maybe I could try. Hearing it from a different person might convince her."

"It's worth a shot. When we see her, we can bring it up. In fact...we could tell her sooner than you think."

The carrot stuck in Michael's throat. He gulped it down and asked, with a sense of dread, "Why?" At the hesitant look on Ben's face, Michael had a momentary vision of Charlotte and a packed bag accompanying them back to Pittsburgh. Fuck. "Just tell me."

Ben took a deep breath and drew out his words in a 'this-may-be-bad-news' sort of way. "No need to panic. I was only thinking that it might be nice if we had her over for dinner."

Michael's gut reaction was to say no, to say that she'd eventually be fine without their interference, but he couldn't get out of his head the bareness and oppressive quiet of her beach house. What must it be like to be there, all alone, after she'd gone through such a scare? Way back, when he'd been seven or eight, he'd had one of his worst asthma attacks, ever--the only one to land him in the hospital. The memory of that vice-like tightness in his chest and the desperate craving for air had never left him. For a solid week after they'd sent him home, his mother had camped out on his bedroom floor, watching over him while he slept. He had complained, of course, but had also been secretly relieved to feel her reassuring presence when he closed his eyes.

He sucked in a deep breath and took the plunge. "I guess it's okay. Like you said, it's just one evening." And with any luck, she'd bounce back in a day or so. "It's probably something simple. You know, a fight with someone, a breakup, flunking a class, or whatever. Feels like the world is ending for a while, but it doesn't and things get better."

"I sure hope you're right." Ben hugged Michael, then kissed him soundly. "Thanks for understanding. Just for that, I think that someone deserves a special treat." He skirted around Michael and foraged through the refrigerator until he came up for air with a bowl of strawberries and a victorious gleam in his eyes. "I hope you both like ice cream with fresh strawberry sauce."

"I won't turn it down, but if you keep feeding me like this, you'll have to float me home."

Ben chucked Michael on the chin. "It would be my pleasure."

Michael picked up another chopping knife and continued with the salad that Ben had abandoned. "You want me to finish up while you go ask her?"

Ben scanned the kitchen and then looked down at himself. "Well...I still have to take a shower and, uh..."

Michael smiled ruefully. "And you don't want me to mess up dinner. I get it."

"Oh no! I didn't mean that at all."

"Uh huh."

"Well, you did burn the soup a few times."

"Twice. I only did it twice."

"We had to throw out the pot because we couldn't scrape off all the black, burned stuff."

"It was a cheap pot." Ben raised an eyebrow at that. Michael laughed and conceded defeat. "I guess I'll be doing the invitation honors."

"Great. It'll take me half an hour to finish up and grab that shower."

"What about later? Did you want to do something in town?"

Ben frowned. "Well, I have to get up early for that book signing. It starts at nine."

"Book signing?"

"Remember I told you about it? I know it's not your thing, but Huffman wrote one of the definitive works on Literature and Gender Identity in the 21st Century. I never thought I'd get to meet her. "

"Oh, right. I remember."

"Besides, I don't know if we should make any plans. With Charlotte coming over--"

"Ben, come on," Michael said hastily. "It's early. I'm sure she doesn't need or want us to keep her baby-sit her all night."

"No, no. That's not what I'm suggesting. But I don't want to boot her out if she needs a friend. I just want to do the right thing."

"I get that." Michael's good mood dwindled a bit. This was supposed to be a week free of responsibility, but it seemed one of them couldn't leave it behind.

"Are you sure you're okay with her coming over? If it's going to be a problem--"

"I don't have a problem. I know you feel bad for her." He stopped and weighed his next words with care. "I feel for her, too, but you said it yourself. We're leaving next week."

Ben leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. He was staring, unblinking, blue eyes wide open so they didn't miss a thing, lips pursed.

"Don't start," Michael said.

"Start what? I didn't say a word."

Underneath Ben's outward placidity, Michael could feel the current of tension flickering. He tiptoed around it. "Like I said, it's nice that you want to help her in some way, but..." He thought about how anything he said might be taken the wrong way and decided it wasn't worth the potential trouble. "Forget it. I don't want to argue."

"Why does it have to lead to an argument? I was only talking about sharing dinner. You're making it sound like a bigger deal than it is."

"No, I'm not."

"I disagree."

"I just don't want you to get too...involved."

"What's too involved? One meal and a little conversation?"

Michael wondered at his own discomfort. "Uh...I guess not. That's why I said forget it." If only Ben had left well enough alone, she probably would be fine. He resented the yoke of guilt trying to weigh him down.

Ben came closer and started kneading Michael's shoulders. "I promise this won't be an ordeal. We'll have dinner, make sure she's okay, and then send her on her way. She'll be here for two hours, tops. After she's gone, it'll be just you and me."

"Two hours? I guess can live with that." Ben's massage loosened a particularly stubborn knot in Michael's shoulder. He drew a quick, pained breath and then exhaled and felt himself relax. Magic. Ben's hands were pure magic. "And tonight? No sleeping early?"

Ben pressed his lips to Michael's cheek. "Not on your life." His next kiss fell on Michael's ear. "Would you rather I go ask her?"

Not sweet nothings, but the kissing was nice. It took Michael a few seconds to remember to answer the question. "No. I'll do it. I could stand to stretch a little more."

Ben started rubbing Michael's shoulders, again. Regret laced his voice. "About the horse ranch--"

"Don't sweat it." Michael reluctantly pulled away and patted Ben's hands. "Just save these for later because it's not just my shoulders that need a massage."

Ben grinned and reached for Michael. "Before you get Charlotte--"

Michael evaded his hands. "Oh no you don't. Dinner first. We can have dessert after she leaves!" He fled before Ben could change his mind.

Chapter 3

The steps creaked under Michael's weight, as if Charlotte's house was warning him away. He reached the door and knocked, but no one answered. He had a brief, internal debate before trying the door. It was unlocked, so he stepped inside, into a muffled stillness that made him feel claustrophobic. In a moment of déjà vu, no one answered his call.

There were few personal items scattered around--a couple of paperbacks on the coffee table, a tea cup and saucer on the counter--but a thin layer of dust covered most of the furniture and the air was somewhat stale. He found the same story in the other rooms--a few odds and ends, but no sign of their owner. Even the dolls that had decorated the bed were gone. Could she have packed up and left so quickly?

When his fruitless search was done, Michael gave up. No one was here. On his way to the door, he passed a small pine wood desk that sat under a large picture window. A slip of paper teetered on a corner of the desktop, fluttering slightly in the draft from the window.

Curiosity pulled Michael closer. He picked up the paper, surprised at its delicate texture. It was starting to yellow at the edges and the ink had run as if it had gotten wet at some point. The words were blurred, almost to the point of illegibility, but if he tilted it just right, he could make some of them out.

He moved closer to the window and started to read.

The rest of the note was too water stained to read, except for a letter here or there. Towards the bottom, Michael could make out the signature.

A squeak of door hinges and a gust of air at his back made Michael's heart jump. He spun around to discover Charlotte standing in the doorway, framed by the blue sky behind her and buffeted by a breeze. Through the strands of hair whipping across her face, she stared with fierce concentration at the paper in his hand. Without a word, she slammed the door behind her and stalked over to him. Her hand shook, but she held it out until he gave the letter up. She placed it back on the desk, in precisely the same position where it had been. Her eyes remained fixed on it while she leaned on the edge of the desk.

"Charlotte--"

"I think you need to leave. Now." Her voice was its usual husky tenor, but a thread of anger gave it new strength.

He bit his lip and felt his face heat with his embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I honestly didn't mean to snoop. I came to invite you to dinner, but it looked like you were gone and I--I thought you might have left a note or..." He fell silent, silenced by the obvious disbelief on her face.

"I don't care. Just go." Charlotte released the door and pressed a hand to her abdomen. "I want you out of my house!"

She leaned over a little and moaned in a way that sent Michael's heart racing with alarm.

"Are you okay?" All sorts of dire thoughts were running through his head: appendicitis, internal bleeding, and every medical emergency he could think of. Suddenly, she paled and dashed past him, down the short hallway.

Michael stopped panicking and followed her. She was in the bathroom, on her knees, doubled over the toilet bowl and overcome with the dry heaves. "Can I do something to help?" he asked. "What can I do?"

After a minute of retching, she straightened up, wiped the sweat from her upper lip with the back of her hand, and lanced him with a dark look. It made him nervous enough that this time, he was the one to step back.

Something about her and the whole scenario held a whiff of familiarity, but her warning glare didn't give him time to piece it together. He hurried from the room, heading straight to the kitchen. He returned with a glass of water and found her sitting on the closed commode, hunched over.

He set the water on the counter and said, "I'm really sorry I scared you. Do you need a doctor or an ambulance? I can call them, if you want."

"No ambulance. I'm fine," she answered in a hard, small voice. Her shoulders sagged and her eyes filled with tears that she blinked away. "Please, just leave," she said, with less anger and more weariness. "You've done enough."

He did as she asked, all the while wishing he'd never darkened her doorway.

"But what set her off?"

"How should I know?" Michael stabbed his fork into his food and watched a piece of his tuna disintegrate into tiny, pink flakes. "There weren't any deep, dark secrets in the letter, so I don't get why she freaked out about it. I tried to explain and apologize, but she didn't want to hear it. At that point, the dinner invitation didn't go over real well."

"Do you think she's okay?"

"I guess so." Michael shrugged. "Either way, she didn't want my help."

"Did she say anything else? Maybe something happened or--"

Forget the food. His appetite was for shit. He put his fork down and took a long swallow of his wine.

"Michael?"

"What?" he snapped. "Can we please stop talking about her for five minutes? I feel like I'm being interrogated."

"I don't want to pester you, but what if she's really sick and needs help?"

Michael took another gulp of his wine and muttered under his breath, "Oh, she needs help, all right." Loud enough for his voice to carry, he said, "I don't know what I was thinking. I should have never gone there in the first place. It's not like she wanted anything to do with me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Uh...the fact that she likes you and acts like I'm invisible."

Ben's expression was a mixture of bafflement and doubt.

"Don't tell me you don't see it. She wants to talk to you. She smiles at you. She wants to hug you or cry on your shoulder or whatever it is you two do together. Me? I might as well be a potted plant...a plastic, potted plant."

"Don't you think you think that's a bit of an exaggeration?"

"No, I really don't." Before, it had been fine because his contact with her was limited. Tonight, however, he'd had more than enough of her and was short on patience.

"She's never said a word against you to me. I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding."

"It might have been a misunderstanding, before. After today, I think things are pretty clear. Whatever. It doesn't really matter because the day after tomorrow, we're out of here."

Ben still looked unhappy, but he didn't press the issue any further. They finished dinner without much conversation.

While Michael was drying the last dish, Ben looked at his watch. "I might just run next door and make sure she's all right. We can leave a little later, if you want to do something."

Michael frowned. "It might be better if we gave her a little breathing room." Or a lot of breathing room, he wanted to say. Personally, he planned on staying away from her until they left.

"I won't stay. I'll just--"

"Check to make sure she's all right. Got it. I know the drill. Be sure to send her my regards while you two are getting cozy." His words came out bitchier than he intended, but he didn't retract them.

Ben tightened his lips and continued to dry and stack the dishes. Each plate and utensil clinked loudly, though nothing broke. Michael watched him for a minute before saying, "Are you angry with me?"

"No," Ben said curtly.

"I shouldn't have snapped at you. Sorry."

Ben didn't respond.

"You know what? Go. Stay as long as you want. The way I feel, I'm not up to going out. My whole body hurts and I think I'd rather go to bed early."

Ben gave Michael a brief look. "Fine." He dried his hands, tossed the towel on the counter, and walked out.

Michael was torn between sticking to his guns and chasing after Ben so they could fix this stupid little tiff. He heard the door open and close and then he heard nothing except the water dripping into the sink. He tightened the faucet with a savage twist. This, at least, was easy to fix. Through the window above the sink, he could see Ben lope down the beach.

Great. He had wanted privacy and Charlotte out of his hair, but this was hardly what he'd had in mind. Fucking great.

Once the kitchen was as clean as it was going to be, he searched for something to keep himself occupied. Music? A book? Sleep, like he said he was going to? None of those options held much appeal. He ended up grabbing the half-empty wine bottle left from dinner, pouring himself a healthy glass, and parking himself on the couch. Not an ordeal? he thought. What a joke.

Nausea was one of Michael's least favorite wake up calls. The short list included jackhammers, the neighbor's barking dog, and almost every alarm clock he'd ever owned. When his stomach settled, he peeled himself off the couch and wove a winding and unsteady path towards the bathroom. Along the way, he passed the empty wine bottle where it had landed after he had knocked it off the coffee table. He left it where it was, ignoring the mocking reminder of his overindulgence.

He eyed the bathroom shower with yearning, but the risk of slipping and cracking open his skull was too high. As a substitute, dunking his head in cold water wasn't ideal, but it did help him feel a little more human. For the moment, brushing his teeth was beyond him, so he swished with mouthwash and spit out the old shoe taste. He left the bathroom, feeling--well, not like new, but refurbished.

The calm order of the bedroom halted him in his tracks. In fact, the whole house was calm. Too calm. Because I'm alone, he realized. He headed to the closest window, but saw no signs of Ben, neither on the beach, nor the back deck. His eyes swept the room, setting off a new wave of queasiness. He swallowed it back, refusing to give in to the fear that curled in his chest. He examined each corner of the bedroom more calmly. He absorbed the details, touched Ben's things one by one, until things became clearer.

The clothes Ben had worn last night were neatly folded and stacked on the dresser along with the other used clothes. For once, Michael was grateful for the excessive neatness. When he looked closer, he noticed that Ben had exchanged last night's sandals for some other footwear. And Ben's watch was gone from the dresser.

So, he had come home last night, but must have gone out again. Michael heaved a sigh of relief that he didn't know he'd been holding. He promised himself a couple of aspirin and a lot of coffee before he tried to figure out Ben's whereabouts.

In the kitchen, he found his answer, conveniently pinned to the fridge with a butterfly-shaped magnet.

Right. The book signing. Michael felt stupid about forgetting, but happy that the explanation for Ben's absence was such a simple one.

So, he was alone again. At loose ends, he drifted out to the living room. What a mess. Most of the couch's throw pillows were strewn across the floor. The rest had been mashed flat by his sleeping body. A few were splattered with red wine stains. The wine bottle remained where he'd left it.

He tried to picture it through Ben's eyes--him snoring away on the couch, looking like he'd gone on a bender and trashed the place. No wonder Ben had just left him there. The last time they'd slept apart had been...when? He searched and searched his memory, but he couldn't recollect. Maybe it would come to him, later.

It took only a few minutes to put the living room back in order. The aspirin and coffee kicked in and he felt good enough to do something besides sleep. He settled on work as the best way to take his mind off Charlotte, the fight with Ben, and everything else.

It was a hazy day that promised a few showers, but the air was still and warm. Michael chose the comfiest loung on the back deck and settled in. With pen and pad in hand, he started outlining ideas for the next issue of 'Rage.' It took a long time to find his focus, but eventually he did. He was deep into his notes when he heard the front door open and Ben call out.

"Michael?"

"Out here!" he answered, flinching at the way the sound echoed in his aching head.

Ben opened the French door and settled his eyes on Michael. "Hey there."

"Hey. How did it go? Did you meet your author?"

Ben stepped out onto the deck and took the chair nearest Michael. "I did and she was fantastic. We talked about her upcoming book. She wasn't able to tell me too many details, but what little she said was fascinating. We talked about teaching and writing and she even gave me the number of a new agent who's become the wunderkind in the gay literature circles."

"That's great. I'm glad you went."

"If all goes well, I might even get my book published before the ink fades away on my manuscript."

"That publisher was a fool for backing out."

"They had money troubles. It's not unheard of in the smaller publishing companies."

"I have a good feeling about that last book."

"So do I, Michael. So do I." Ben leaned forward, elbows and knees, hands loosely intertwined, a half-smile gracing his lips.

In that pose, with his eyes half-shuttered and the light striking his hair and turning it into gold, Ben looked vulnerable. Without thinking, Michael leaned forward and kissed him. On any other day, he would have prolonged the embrace, but last night's tensions were still there, making him unsure of himself. He pulled away.

Ben said nothing about the kiss. His smile had disappeared. He didn't look angry. Only thoughtful and a little sad.

"Can you take a break for a few minutes?"

"Yeah. I was writing some story notes, but it was slow going. Last night, I had a little too much wine."

"I noticed."

"You didn't wake me when you got home."

"You looked like you might need to sleep in." Ben reached out and cupped Michael's face, brushing his thumb over Michael's cheek. "You still look like hell."

"Stop with the flattery. You'll give me a swelled head."

Ben laughed quietly. "Doubt it. Your head's just the right size. Always has been. Level, too."

"Even when I'm going off half-cocked?"

"Even then."

"Now that's what I call flattery."

"I'm glad you approve. So...walk with me?"

"Where to?"

"Just down the beach. I think we could both use a slight change of scenery."

Michael cast a look through the French doors into the living room. Even with the cleanup, the remnants of their argument seemed to shimmer in the air. "Yeah, a change of scenery sounds good."

"Give me a minute," Ben said. He hopped up and disappeared into the house, only to return, a couple of minutes later, with a blanket folded over his arm. "Ready?"

"As ever."

Neither of them spoke during their walk down the beach, but they did stay close. After they'd gone a few yards, Ben put his arm across Michael's shoulder and Michael wrapped his arm around Ben's waist. It forced them to walk slower and to adjust their strides to each other, which they did as naturally as breathing.

The beach narrowed and curved around the foot of a towering cliff. Michael followed Ben's lead around that corner.

"This is it," Ben announced. "Usually, I run the other way, but one day I came up this way and found this spot."

It looked like weather and water had carved out a seat in the cliffside, just big enough for two. It was worn smooth--maybe by time, maybe by other couples who had found it an inviting niche.

Ben spread the blanket on the rocky seat. They sat, side by side, and faced the ocean, falling back into the silence of their walk.

Michael gradually relaxed until he was leaning against Ben's shoulder. Ben's arm circled his back and pulled him closer.

"Do you want to go first or should I?"

Decisions. The last couple of days had been full of them--what to do, what to say, when to stand, when to back down. Michael wasn't sure that all his choices had been the right ones, so he gave this one a lot of thought before he said, "You go first."

Ben drew away and leaned forward with his arms propped on his legs. He stared at the ocean, the blue-gray water reflecting in his eyes.

Michael keenly felt the absence of Ben's warm arm around him. He wrapped his arms around his bent legs and propped his cheek against his knees, facing Ben. It was better this way. They had things to say and the small distance between them acted like a buffer.

"I kept trying to figure out why Charlotte was coming between us. No matter what I did, I felt like you thought I was wrong. It took me a while to admit that it wasn't her...It's us."

Michael digested that assessment with a heavy heart. "Up until this week, I thought we were doing all right."

"So what changed? It can't be her. What would you have to worry about?"

Michael chuckled dryly. "Maybe you overestimate me." He dragged his hands through his hair, careless of the pain it caused when his fingers snagged on a tangled curl. He'd cleaned up the house, but he'd forgotten to comb his own hair. There was probably a lesson in that, but damned if he knew what it was. "Or I overestimated myself. Years ago, I promised myself I wouldn't be the crazy jealous husband. I didn't want to sit around whining about how somebody did me wrong. I did it before with David and even with Brian. Not again." His snort of laughter sounded bitter in his own ears. "Definitely didn't think I'd ever be doing it over a woman."

"You can't compare this to your ex-boyfriend's adultery, Michael. It's not fair. This is a completely different situation. Even if she weren't a woman, you'd have to know I'd never do that to you."

"I do know, but sometimes..." Michael spotted a tiny spider crawling over the rock. He blocked its path with his finger and waited while it tried to go scurry left, then right, to try to get away. After multiple failed attempts, it stood still and waited. "Sometimes--I don't know. It might not make any sense to you, but sometimes it feels like you're shutting me out. I don't expect to be attached at the hip. I've done that, too, and things were better when I learned not to do be like that."

"But how am I shutting you out? I've seen her a few times and that's it. Granted, I didn't notice how she felt about you and I admit I should have seen it, but it wasn't intentional." Ben's voice was even, but underlying it was a hint of strain.

"I guess you don't realize how much you talk about her, how often you seem to have her on your mind. Like rescuing her became your mission, this week. Why? If we leave tomorrow, what do you get out of it?"

Ben jumped up, surprising Michael. He paced a few steps in the sand before he turned back and stood in front of Michael. His voice was even, with hint of strain. "Who do you see when you look at her?"

Michael drew back, confused by the question. "I don't get what you're asking me."

"Who do you see? Because I see a person who's hurting and needs someone. I see a kid who's alone."

"She's not exactly a kid, Ben. And you said she has family. It's her decision not to contact them."

"She's only a year older than Hunter. He had family, too, but he was better off without them. And we had the same argument over him. If I had listened to you then, if I hadn't followed my instincts and had washed my hands of him, he could be dead or in prison!"

"So...what's your point? You want to adopt Charlotte? Take her home with us so you can take care of her?"

"No." Ben's voice was soft, but frosty. He turned away from Michael.

Undeterred, Michael spoke to Ben's back. "Yes, I was cautious, but I don't think I was wrong. Just because I love Hunter, doesn't mean I don't see how it could have all turned out really badly. We were lucky."

Ben faced Michael, his eyes flashing with anger. He jammed his hands into his pants pockets. "Or couldn't it be that my instincts were right? And that they might be right this time?"

"And if they're not?"

"I need you, but not to protect me from myself!"

"I can think of at least one time, when that's exactly what you needed."

They faced off, like two opponents in a bare-knuckled fight. Michael could almost feel the pain and the blood run down his face. He looked down at his hands and expected to see real bruises. The spider had finally given up. He must have made his getaway as soon as he'd had the chance. Smart. Michael lifted his hands from the rock and brushed the dust off. "You want me to trust your instincts, but the last time we did something like this, you almost..." He stopped, not wanting to say it out loud and make it real. He leaned back against the rock. When had he gotten so tired, again?

Ben's eyes were open so wide, Michael could see the whites around the blue edges of his irises. "What? I almost what?"

"I think we've said enough."

"It's all right. I want you to say what you're thinking."

The words clogged in Michael's throat. He spit them out and tasted their acrid traces on his tongue and the roof of his mouth. "The last time you were like this, you almost cheated on me with that guy...Anthony." After he said the name, he swallowed and swallowed, but the bitter aftertaste wouldn't go away. He thought he might be sick.

Ben's expression went from stony to crestfallen in the blink of an eye. "How long have you been nursing this?"

"I haven't been nursing anything."

"Why bring it up, unless it's been bothering you since it happened?"

"How could it bother me? There is no 'it.' Nothing happened. Right?"

"I told you nothing happened."

"No, you didn't tell me. You wrote a story and I read it. That was fiction."

"You knew what it meant."

"I knew what you wanted me to think. I read the made up version with made up characters. What I needed was to hear Ben and Anthony's story. It was all on your terms."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"I don't know."

"All this time...I thought we had moved beyond the past. If you still had questions, you could have asked. At any time, you could have asked."

"Maybe I didn't want to know." God, he couldn't stand the devastation in Ben's eyes. He wished he hadn't said it, but at the same time he was glad that he had, that it was out there where it might stop eating at him.

"Michael--"

"No. Really, we need to stop. I know we're not done, but I need a break. I'm sorry." He slid off the ledge and started walking back to the beach house. Only once did he look back. Ben was watching him. Michael waited, hoping that Ben would follow, not sure what he would do if Ben did.

He didn't. He kept watching and finally Michael turned and kept walking away. With each step feeling like he was leaving part of himself behind.

Chapter 4

Michael was dying of thirst. Whether it was from the wine, the salt in the air, or the talking, he didn't know. He sat at the kitchen table and guzzled water from a large bottle and tried not to replay their last conversation in his mind.

Impossible. The more he tried, the more he could see Ben's wounded eyes and the more he felt angry that everything was so fucked up. He jumped out of his chair and started going through the kitchen cabinets. Tomorrow was their last day and he didn't want to leave any of their stuff behind. His small pile of kitchen items grew and grew on the counter, until he added one thing too many and half of it went crashing to the floor in a clatter of metal and plastic.

"Shit!" He stooped down to pick them up, swearing at each and every piece.

"Michael, what are you doing?"

He barely kept himself from falling over with surprise. He didn't look back at Ben, choosing to continue to pick up all the utensils. "What does it look like I'm doing? We're leaving tomorrow. We should start packing."

"But those aren't ours. We only brought food and a wine bottle opener. The other stuff came with the house."

"Oh." Michael stared at the stuff scattered over the floor. He should have remembered that. Why didn't he remember?

"I can take care of it. Why don't you take a nap? You look tired. We can pack in the morning."

"I can't sleep. If I close my eyes, I'll just think of..." He let the comment hang and refused to meet Ben's eyes. He reached for a soup ladle, but something sharp jabbed him. He yelped and yanked his hand back. "Damn it!" Blood welled from the one-inch puncture in his palm. He hissed when it started to throb.

"Are you--?"

"I'm fine, Ben. Stop hovering."

He stood at the sink and let the cold water wash away the blood and numb the pain. Behind him, Ben gathered the rest of the kitchen utensils and put them away before he left the room. Michael was surprised when Ben reappeared with a tube of antiseptic, a roll of gauze, and bandage tape. Michael accepted the offerings in silence. He spread the ointment himself and held his hand out while Ben wrapped it with the gauze and cut a piece of tape to hold it together.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," he said.

Michael focused on his gradually disappearing palm. "What wasn't?"

Ben smoothed the tape over the end of the gauze. When it was secure, he gently held Michael's injured hand in his. "None of it. This trip was supposed to bring us closer together."

Michael noted the scratchy, desperate quality of Ben's voice, but in a detached way that made him feel like he was floating above it all. He pulled his hand out of Ben's. "We only have one day left. It's almost over."

"We still have a few more days in New York."

"Actually..."

Ben's face fell. "You don't want to go."

"I'll apologize to your mom and tell her it was my fault."

"You don't have to do that. I can explain it to her. She'll be disappointed, though. Maybe we can go some other weekend."

"Maybe."

"Michael, about what you said out there--"

Michael cut Ben off. "Thanks for the bandage, but I'm really tired. I'm going to take a nap." He started to leave, but Ben held him by the arm.

"Wait."

"Ben, not now."

"I just wanted to know if you want something for dinner. We can order in."

"I'm not really hungry."

"Not now, but you might change your mind later on."

"I doubt it."

Ben released him and said, "I'm sorry."

Michael wasn't really sure what the apology was for, but to ask that would be to start a conversation he wasn't ready for. He nodded and left the kitchen.

Despite Michael's fatigue, sleep evaded him. It was one of the cooler days and the clouds filtered some of the sunlight, but it was still too bright to sleep. He lay in bed, wide-eyed and restless, and listened to the sounds of Ben moving around the house. He could tell Ben was trying to be quiet. His steps sounded different--slower, more careful. He should appreciate the consideration, but everything was turned around. He was irritated, not grateful, about Ben tiptoeing around the house like being nice would make up for anything.

Eventually, the soft creaks of the wooden floor got to him and Michael had to get away. He got out of bed and took the blanket with him. In the living room, Ben looked up, his mouth open in surprise. He started to speak, but then seemed to think better of it and said nothing. He looked worried.

"I'm going to sleep outside," was all Michael said before he went out to the deck.

Outside, it was a little too warm for the thin cotton blanket, but he covered himself anyway to ward off the brighter light. He could still hear Ben's movements, but they were far enough away that he could stop thinking about what Ben might be doing, what he might be thinking.

He didn't remember consciousness leaving him, so it scared him when something touched his shoulder. He tensed and then forced himself to relax and stay very still. The lounge chair creaked and tilted under Ben's added weight, but Michael held his breath and kept quiet.

"Michael?"

He took slow, deep breaths in imitation of deep sleep, but it was hard to ignore the heat radiating down his side from Ben's proximity and the heaviness of Ben's hand on his arm.

"Baby?"

Michael rolled over and faked a small yawn. "What time is it?"

"Early afternoon. You were sleeping so long, I wanted to make sure you were okay." He smiled and touched the tip of Michael's nose. "You're getting a little pink around the edges. You might want to come inside or put on some sunscreen."

Michael chewed on his lip. Going inside or staying out here was such a minor decision. He ought to be able to choose without thinking about all it meant, without wallowing in the subtext, as Ben might say.

What Ben actually said was, "I still owe you that rubdown."

"You do?"

"Yes, after we went riding."

"That was days ago."

"It was only the day before yesterday."

Michael thought Ben must be wrong, but he rewound the last two days of his memory and it was just like Ben said. "It feels a lot longer."

"I hope it's not too late."

Ben's hand tightened on his arm. He probably didn't even realize he was doing it. Michael looked at their joined limbs. Ben was always a little darker than him, but over the past week, his skin had deepened to a golden tan. In contrast, Michael's arm looked pale, like he'd been hiding from the light. Or was it the tan that hid things under the surface? He traced one of the veins on the back of Ben's hand. It gave way to the pressure of his touch and sprang back up as soon as his finger had moved on.

He could feel the warmth of the blood coursing under the surface, the straightness of the bones that held it all together, and the restrained strength of Ben's loose grip. He had always bruised easy, but even on their worst days, he'd never worried that Ben would hurt him.

"Michael?"

He was giving himself a headache trying to find deeper meaning in every little thing. He stopped stroking Ben's hand and concentrated on the immediate question: the massage. "No, it's not too late."

Ben looked happier than Michael would have thought his answer would make him. He could explain that he'd only been talking about the massage and nothing else, but first he'd have to figure out if that was true.

"Out here or inside?"

Out here, he'd be out in the open, for the world to see. As an answer, he stood and walked inside, with Ben following him.

Ben took the blanket from him, spread it on the bed, and invited him to lie down. Michael rested his head on his folded arms and listened to Ben moving around. The soft noises didn't grate on his nerves like they had before.

The mattress sank to one side when Ben sat and then Michael felt Ben's hands on his back--oil-slicked warmth that rubbed and kneaded all the stiffness he didn't know was there. Ben would probe an untouched spot and it would hurt for a minute and Michael would tighten and gasp. But Ben's persistence won out and each of those twinges and aches disappeared. Michael's legs and backside received the same treatment until every muscle was liquid with relaxation. Ben paid special attention to his hand, rubbing the fingers, but cautious of the bandaged wound. Before long, Michael was tingling from head to foot with good feeling.

He was half asleep when Ben stopped and pulled the blanket over him. The mattress lifted and Ben's footsteps receded. Michael came out of his stupor and said, "Wait."

Ben was back at his side in a flash. "What's the matter? You need a little more?"

"Yeah."

Ben sat again. "Where?"

Michael patted the space beside him. "Here." He slid to the side to make room for Ben behind him. "Don't go."

"Are you sure?"

Michael smiled with fond memory. That was the same question Ben had asked him before they'd made love the first time. And he'd had the same expression on his face: seriousness, determination, desire.

"What are you thinking?"

"Just remembering something."

"Something good, I take it."

"Very good. So, are you staying?"

Ben kicked off his sandals and climbed in behind Michael.

Michael could hear the soft patter of rain drizzling against the house. It would do that for a few minutes and then the sun might stop cowering behind the clouds. Ben's arm circled him from behind and he swore he could feel Ben holding his breath. He patted Ben's arm and wiggled back until they were closer. He felt Ben's chest move again and felt Ben's breath blow warm and moist across his ear. It felt like days since they had been this close. It felt new again...new and different. Or maybe, Michael thought, I'm the one who's different. It was scary to consider that the change might be permanent. He was so lost in his own thoughts that Ben's quiet words startled him.

"When I was with Paul, we'd have the worst fights you ever saw. We always made up and it was always intense. I thought that was the way things were supposed to be, that we had passion and it meant we were special, that we were meant to last. Now I know differently. What I thought was special was really just self-involvement. I wish we could have figure that out. He might be alive. I might not be positive. We loved each other, but neither of us knew how to listen."

Michael felt stung at what felt like a subtle accusation. "I listen to you."

Ben's arm tightened around him. "Not you. I was talking about me. I think I swung too far in the other direction, tried too hard to control everything I could because so much was out of my control. It worked, but it wasn't enough. Then, I met you and it all changed again. I don't want to lose that. I don't want to lose you."

Ben's arm shifted and then something soft brushed Michael's face--a touch of Ben's fingers so light that Michael thought he imagined it.

"I know you're not ready to talk, but I hope that time will change that. After we get home, we can recharge ourselves, so to speak, where there isn't this pressure for everything to be perfect."

Michael wanted to hold onto that hope, but he felt a little battered, today. "And if that doesn't work?"

Ben didn't say anything for such a long time that Michael looked over his shoulder. Ben's eyes were squeezed shut and he was so still, that he looked like he was praying. Maybe he was.

Ben opened his eyes and gazed into Michael's. "It has to work." He kissed Michael on the cheek, hard and fast. "We have to make it work."

Ben picked up a couple of the bags and carried them out to the front porch. Michael followed with the rest, set them down, and looked around the property. The rolling sand dunes and patches of tall grass looked the same, but he still felt like a different person from the one who had arrived here last week. Later, he could decide whether it was a good change or a bad one. Mostly, he was just glad to go. He heard Ben walk up behind him.

"Got everything?"

"Think so," Ben said. "I checked all the drawers and the closets. I even checked under the bed. You did the kitchen and living room, right?"

"Yeah. I didn't find anything we left behind."

"Got all your meds?"

"I packed them up after I took my last dose," Ben replied, indicating the backpack hanging off his shoulder. "The cab should be here in thirty minutes." He dropped the bag at his feet and leaned against the porch railing.

"So, that's it, then?"

Ben squinted up at the sky. "Looks like it."

Words seemed so inadequate, so Michael didn't try. He moved to Ben's side and leaned against the railing. Looking down at Ben's backpack, he noticed several strands of red yarn poking through the half-opened zipper. A pink slip of fabric was entwined in the yarn. He reached down and tugged, but only the ribbon came free. "What's this? Did you taking up knitting while I wasn't looking?"

Ben looked at the item in Michael's hand. "Oh, yeah, I didn't show you. There was a little stand by the Farmer's Market where they were selling all sorts of trinkets."

It was on the tip of Michael's tongue to ask if this was meant to be a gift for Charlotte, but prudence kept the snide remark in check.

Ben bent over and worked the yarn out of the zipper's teeth. "I can't say I'm an expert on little girls, but I assume that some things haven't changed." He pulled out a small rag doll, decked out in pink and green plaid and polka dots. Her yarn hair was done up in ponytails, but only one had a festive pink ribbon--the mate of the one in Michael's hand. "What do you think? I doubt that Jenny Rebecca can break this one."

Michael could picture the look on Jenny's face when she saw the little doll. She'd probably rip the ribbons off and strip the doll naked, but she would love it all the same. "Great choice."

"Good. Since I wasn't able to go with you last time, I didn't want her to think I'd forgotten her."

As if that would ever happen. Sometimes it was it hard to accept that life couldn't be trouble-free all the time, but times like this reminded Michael why Ben--even an imperfect Ben--was one of the best choices he'd made in his life. "Jenny knows you'd never forget her. She kept asking for you. I had to promise not to leave you behind, next time. I had a little trouble translating some of the baby talk, but I think the gist of it was that I should stick you in my luggage for safekeeping."

Ben burst out laughing. "Really?"

"Yeah. She misses you when you're gone."

"That's nice to know."

Michael looked up sharply at the wistfulness in Ben's voice. "I know someone else who's going to miss you."

Ben looked down, his expression gone sad.

"What about the other doll? The one you bought for Charlotte? Did she like it?"

"I didn't give it to her." Ben twisted his lips into a rueful smile. "After everything, I felt weird even mentioning it."

Because of me, Michael thought. He couldn't care less if Charlotte got her present, but he could live without the reminder sitting in their house. He would personally hand deliver it if he didn't think she'd sic the police on him, as soon as look at him. He looked up at Ben's despondent expression. Be honest, Michael. You don't want Ben stewing about it for any longer than he has to. Between self-preservation and guilt, he found the strength to ask, "Do you still want to give it to her?"

Ben looked startled and a little hopeful. "Yes. Do you mind?"

"I'm not crazy about the idea, but if you need to do it, then don't hold back on my account." Ben's eyes narrowed with suspicion, prompting Michael to add, "This isn't a trap or a trick question. I mean it. Go and I'll hold down the fort."

Ben turned to descend the stairs. He had one foot in mid-air and a hand on the rail when Michael called out, "Wait!"

Ben looked back. "Changed your mind?"

"No, but I have a question."

"Yes?"

"If I had said that I didn't want you to go over there, what would you have done?"

"I wouldn't have gone," Ben said simply.

Michael nodded, disappointed in the answer, which didn't make any sort of sense.

"But, Michael...?"

"Yeah?"

"It wouldn't have been a sacrifice. You're more important to me than she or anyone else could be."

Michael caught his breath and gulped around the lump in his throat. "Okay," he said in a gravelly voice.

Ben didn't smile, but his sadness had lessened. "Okay. I'll be back. Don't leave without me."

"Not a chance," Michael replied, but Ben was already running down the steps and across the beach towards Charlotte's house.

Michael sat on the porch swing and closed his eyes. In a few hours, we'll be home. The thought gave him immense pleasure and he wiled away the time, thinking of how he'd catch up with his friends and family. Maybe, once he and Ben were out of here, this new problem in their marriage wouldn't seem so huge.

Before long, heheard the crunch of gravel and the rumble of the taxicab's engine. With the driver helping him, it took only a few minutes to load most of the bags, after which Michael felt pounds lighter.

"Most people aren't ready to roll like you were," the driver told them. "You'll have plenty of time to get there."

"Oh, good. I'm just waiting for someone. He's next door."

"Sure. Take your time. I'll be in the car."

The only bag left was the backpack with the rag doll propped on top. Michael tried to fix the doll's hair ribbon, but his bandaged hand was clumsy and, in spite of multiple attempts, he couldn't match the elaborate bows on the other ponytail. He conceded defeat, stuffed her into the plastic bag from where she had come, and stowed her and the ribbon away in the backpack. He tossed that in the taxi's back seat and returned to the house.

Ten minutes or so had gone by while Michael checked the house doors and waited on the porch. Ben was still nowhere to be seen.

The driver sat in the cab, leaning back against the headrest, eyes closed while his fingers drummed on the vinyl-covered steering wheel in time with the jazz tune pouring out of the radio.

Michael approached the driver side window and tapped on the glass. The man sat up with a start, before fumbling with something on his side of the door. Seconds later, the window rolled down smoothly.

"Ready to go, sir?"

"Not quite. My friend's still not back. Are we still good for time?"

"We oughta get going. It's after 10:30. That ferry'll be set to go pretty soon."

"Okay. I'll be right back." Michael's legs burned with the effort of sprinting around their house and down the beach. A split second after his feet hit the top step of her front porch, he was panting to catch his breath and punching the doorbell with a determined finger. A moment later, Charlotte cracked open the door.

"Yes?"

As Michael expected, she was anything but welcoming. Any colder and she'd be breathing out icicles. "Hi. Sorry to bug you, but I was looking for Ben. Our cab's here." He peered over her shoulder, but the sun's glare made it impossible to see behind her. Charlotte stood back from the door, her face hidden in its shadow and further obscured by the wire screen.

"Ben left a while ago."

"A while? Like, how long?" And how could they have missed each other?

She shrugged. "Ten, fifteen minutes."

"That's funny. He didn't come back to our house."

She pinched her lips and frowned. "He's not here. Maybe you should look down at the beach."

"The beach? Why would he go there?"

She stepped forward and Michael was taken aback by her red-rimmed eyes and blotchy face. She looked like she'd been crying. "Are you all right?"

"You can stop pretending that you care, okay? You won. He's leaving and he doesn't want to hear from me."

"I'm sure he didn't--"

"Oh, wait. Are you going to say that he wouldn't say that. You're right. He put it in a much nicer way. 'Gosh, Charlotte, you're a wonderful person. You deserve someone who can be there for you. I wish you the best.'"

"I'm sorry that you're upset, but--"

"Oh, no, I'm not upset. In fact, I'm leaving, too, so it all works out. I'll tell you the same thing I told Ben. Neither of you has to worry about me. You can forget I exist." Her voice cracked on the last word, but she cleared her throat and continued. "I guess Ben didn't like it that I wouldn't pretend I was grateful to get a goodbye from him. He left in a big huff."

Michael was pissed that Ben had spent so much time worrying about this woman. He was sure that Charlotte was slanting things and if he had the time, he would have called her on it. "If you'll help me find him, we'll both be out of your hair."

"I don't know where he is and I don't care," she snapped, right before she slammed the door in Michael's face.

He considered knocking again, but he knew it wouldn't get him anywhere. Okay, Michael said to himself, even if he was upset, he wouldn't go too far, so there are only a few places he could be. The beach stretched huge and empty behind him. The sooner he got going and found Ben, the sooner they could get the hell out of here.

Chapter 5

A deep shiver racked Michael's body. He clutched the styrofoam cup in his hand a little tighter and took a sip of the scalding hot coffee. Last time he'd been this cold was in Toronto, a few winters ago, doing the charity bike ride with Ben and his friends. Strange, but while he'd been aware of the glacial temperatures, they hadn't bothered him much. Now, he was drowning in a heavy blanket in mid-August, but he was still shaking and his hands were like ice. If Ben was here, he thought, he'd be sitting next to me, with his arms around me, and I'd feel warm. If Ben was here, they would be halfway home, not lost and not stuck in a police station, wondering what was going on.

He'd lost track of how long he'd been sitting here. After the hundreds of questions he'd answered, he was more than a little tired. What had they been doing there? What was the nature of their relationship? Had they been having problems? Who was this Charlotte? How had Michael cut his hand? The police had poked and prodded him and he'd gone along with all of it, with the fragile hope that it might help, that this would be over.

After the interrogations, after they dissected his life into itty bitty pieces, they parked him in an empty interview room where he had nothing to do but stare at the gray walls and chew over one horrifying possibility after another. His active imagination had always been a refuge. Now it tortured him.

"Mr. Novotny?"

Michael jerked in surprise, spilling coffee on the table and splashing the bandage on his hand. His heart was thundering and his palms were sweaty. He set down his half empty coffee cup and wiped his shaky hands on the blanket's edge. "Yes, I'm Michael Novotny."

A policeman, the latest of a string of them, stood in the doorway. He came in and offered a hand. "Detective Frank Molloy. I'll be coordinating things from here on out."

Michael's palm was clammy compared to the detective's warm, dry one. He pulled his hand away and tucked it under the blanket. "Did something happen? Did you find him?"

"The search and rescue team found something at the beach. They think it might be significant, but we need you to take a look."

"Of course."

"Good. I'll need you to come with me. We'll be heading back to the beach where you were staying. I'll explain on the way."

Michael hadn't taken three steps to the doorway before he stopped and stared at Molloy, his stomach tight with a growing suspicion. It took him a few seconds to find his air and ask, "Did you find him? Is that why you need me to go there? To identify his...?" He couldn't even say it. All he could do was search Molloy's eyes for the smallest clue.

They were blue. Not Ben's clear, blue-gray eyes that Michael could read like they were his own. Molloy's were a deep navy that gave nothing away.

"I'm sorry. Do you need a minute?"

Michael shook his head. "No. No, I don't. I just need you to be straight with me."

Molloy's eyes scanned Michael's face, then nodded as if he'd come to some decision. "We haven't found your friend--"

"Husband. We've been married for over three years."

Molloy only paused for a beat before he went on. "While the search team was canvassing the area where you were staying, they found some personal belongings. Based on your description, they might belong to your husband. If they do, it may help to point us in the right direction. At this point, we're not even sure if he left willingly or under coercion."

"He would never walk out like this. If he was gonna leave, he'd tell me to my face, not sneak around like some coward."

"I understand, but we still need your help to help us find out what happened to him. That means questions and exploring possibilities that may make you uncomfortable."

"Ask what you have to ask. Do what you have to do. Just find him."

Michael expected the beach to be crawling with people, so it was with some surprise that he counted the people on the search team. "Five people? This is it?"

Detective Molloy gave him a fleeting look. "The more people we involve, the higher the chance that evidence will be destroyed or lost. Trust me, the team is one of the best in the state." He shaded his eyes and peered down the beach. "There's the captain." He started down the beach and let Michael trudge after him. They reached the small cluster of men who were talking and looking at something at something that one of them held. "Gentleman, I'm Detective Molloy, the lead on the Bruckner case. This is Mr. Novotny, a friend of the missing man."

Michael made a small noise of protest. Molloy glanced his way, tightened his lips a little, and corrected himself. "Sorry. This is Mr. Bruckner's husband."

Most of the looks thrown Michael's way were curious or blank. One of the officers flashed a small sneer, but Michael didn't care as long as they found Ben. "Has there been any progress?" He thought he sounded calmer than he felt inside, but he wasn't sure how long he could pretend. This island was a postage stamp. Why hadn't they found Ben yet? Why were they standing around, doing nothing?

One man stepped forward. He was a little older than the rest, with sun-bleached brown hair and a weathered face shadowed by hints of a reddish beard. "Mr. Novotny, I'm Patrick McKiernan. Your arrival is timely. We found something and we'd like to know if you recognize it." He held up a clear plastic bag.

Michael looked more closely at the evidence bag. In it was a wadded up piece of wet, blue plaid fabric.

Michael touched the bag and, through the plastic, traced the faint brick red stain splashed across the fabric. "This looks like it's from Ben's shirt." The air felt gritty, as if the beach had risen up and clawed down his throat. "Is that blood?" he said in a voice he didn't recognize as his own.

"We think so. Our forensics people still need to test it."

"You should be careful with it...I mean, wear gloves and everything."

Captain McKiernan gave him a calculating look, but didn't press for details. "Don't worry. That's routine procedure."

"I could be wrong. It might not be his. Lots of people wear shirts like this." Not a lot of people would wear it in late summer, though. And how many of them would have picked the same baby blue with little pink stripes. "Maybe he hit his head and got confused. He might be wandering around, lost." Michael's theory seemed more and more valid, so he clung to it as his mind tried to ignore the many other reasons for Ben to be bleeding.

"We searched your neighbor's house and didn't find any evidence of a struggle or foul play. We haven't been able to locate her, to ask her questions. My men have combed the beach and looked anywhere a man might hide. We have divers out there..."

"No!" Michael interjected at this new possibility. "It wouldn't be the water. Ben's an excellent swimmer and if he had gotten in trouble in the water, he...he...plus, if he were out there that long..."

"We're exploring many theories, Mr. Novotny. I don't jump to conclusions until I've done a thorough investigation."

Michael forced himself to breathe--slowly, in and out, until the choking sensation went away and his eyes stopped burning. He looked away from the bag and that helped even more. "Thanks. I appreciate that."

"It would help if we had a sample of hair or tissue that we could compare to this stain."

"I have his hairbrush in...." Damn. The bags, Michael thought as he looked around, though there was no reason he should expect to find their luggage anywhere nearby. "Where's my stuff?"

"Your belongings are back at the station," Molloy replied. "We can get them when we go back."

"Before we go, is it okay if I look around?"

McKiernan looked at his men and engaged in some silent communication, after which he told Michael, "Yes. We have everything we need from here."

Michael took a few steps away from the group and then backpedaled when a question popped up in his mind. "Where did you find that shirt?"

McKiernan hesitated before replying. "On the beach, between your house and your neighbor's. It looks like the shirt washed up on shore."

Outside, he thought he was still composed. Inside, he was dying, standing there with these people looking at him.

He walked away, faster and faster, until he couldn't see their faces or their curiosity. Or their fucking pity. His breathing was ragged and heavy and his heart was still trying to beat out of his chest. I'm not far enough, he realized.

Ignoring the shouts behind him, he waded into the water until it lapped around his knees. It was only a few yards, but it was like entering a different world. He could ignore the land behind him, the police...and that shirt. That fucking flannel shirt.

The bloodstains were still there, growing darker and larger in his memory, no matter how hard he tried to shove the memory away...until something caught his attention.

He took one step, then another and another, but he was no closer to the distant figure standing like a lonely sentry in the water. Even from this distance, Michael recognized that tall build and those broad shoulders.

"Ben! Over here!"

Before Michael could get a better look, a ray of sunlight broke from behind the clouds. It glinted off the calm water, blinding him.

The wet sand squeezed between his toes and his legs moved through the water like heavy blocks of cement. The clouds shifted and the glare disappeared, but it was too late. By the time Michael blinked away the spots before his eyes, Ben was gone.

He gasped when cold, wet hands grabbed his shoulders.

Molloy's voice was taut with anger. "What the hell are you doing?"

Michael tried to shrug himself free, without losing sight of where he'd spotted Ben. The detective, however, had other ideas and tried to steer them both back to land. Michael dug his feet into the slippery sand and pulled back. "Let go! I saw him!"

"Saw who?"

"Ben!"

"I was right behind you! There's no one there."

"He was! I saw him!" He kicked, but he'd lost his sandals along the way and his bare foot slipped over the detective's shin without doing any damage. "Let go of me!"

He struggled to break free of Molloy's hold, until one of them tripped and sent them both toppling in a tangle of arms and legs. The heaviness that Michael had been feeling in his chest became real as water flooded his mouth and nose. In his panic, he kept trying to breathe. He could feel the world fading to gray and himself getting weaker. He flailed around, but found nothing to pull himself up. Just when he he thought his lungs would burst, something snagged him under the arms and dragged him to the open air.

His unidentified rescuer let him go, and Michael collapsed onto the beach, hacking up mouthfuls of the water he had inhaled. He stayed where he fell, panting and dazed for a few minutes, before he took notice of the policeman who was asking him if he was okay and dropping a blanket around him.

A few feet away, one of the search team divers was talking to Molloy. The detective looked up and caught Michael's eye. He said a few more words to the diver, before he walked to Michael and loomed over him. "I asked around. At least three other people were watching you and none of them saw anyone out there. They're still looking, but--"

"You can tell them to stop," Michael whispered. "I made a mistake."

"Are you sure about that?"

Michael nodded, too miserable to explain himself.

"Mr. Novotny?"

Michael squinted up at Molloy and saw more clearly what he'd done. The man was soaking from head to foot and had bits of seaweed in his hair. A red imprint marked his cheek and his lower lip was cut and swelling. Michael looked away. He didn't even know how to begin to apologize.

"I know you've been going through hell. I don't want to have to cuff you, but I will for your own safety, if I have to."

"It won't happen again." He expected the detective to walk away, so he was surprised when he just stood there and even more surprised when Molloy offered him a hand up.

When he was on his feet, Michael looked towards the water again. He saw nothing. It was as placid and smooth as glass, as far as the eye could see. Then the scene blurred. His eyes were stinging--either from his dunk in the ocean or because everything hurt so much. "I know what I saw..."

"Mr. Novotny--"

"I know. You don't have to say it." Michael could feel the weight of the man's silent stare. He closed his eyes and embraced it. Nothing else felt real at the moment. "I think I need to get out of here." He choked up, but didn't flinch when he felt Molloy's hand on his shoulder. God, Ben used to do that--used to stand behind him and put a hand on his shoulder or an arm around him and pull him close. Used his large, careful hands to knead away the tension in the knotted muscles of Michael's back.

He tried to convince himself, for just a minute, that this was Ben touching him, that this whole day was only a bad dream and that it would all be over when he woke up. But he opened his eyes and nothing had changed, except that he knew the nightmare was all too real.

The knock on the door almost made him jump out of his skin. He dropped his binoculars and went to answer. He wasn't surprised to find the bed and breakfast owner standing on the other side of his door.

"Morning, Mr. Novotny. I was just coming to ask if you were all right and if you needed anything."

She smiled nervously and looked around him. He looked, too, and wondered what she was expecting. She came by at least once a day and asked the same questions, with the same morbid curiosity in her eyes.

"No, I'm fine."

"I noticed you skipped breakfast, again. You know it's already included in the price of the room, don't you? And my sister is a wonderful cook."

"I'm sure she is. I just haven't had much of an appetite." He didn't explain why and he could tell by her look of understanding that she'd heard. Blurbs in the newspapers, sound bites on the local radio station, gossip at the grocery store--it was hard to miss the story.

She peered around him, again. "Would you like me to change the sheets? You always keep it so neat in here, I'd swear you didn't sleep in the bed." She said this last with a little laugh and he wondered if she'd still laugh if he told her she had guessed right. Probably not. Probably, she'd want to talk or get him to talk. They all did it. Tried to pretend like they cared when all they wanted was gossip.

"I'm fine," he repeated. He stepped back and slowly pushed the door closed. She looked like she might say something else, but he knew how to pretend, too. He acted like he didn't notice and shut the door. On his way back to the window, he circled around the pile of travel bags that sat, unopened, in the middle of the room. He kept meaning to unpack. He also kept meaning to change his clothes, to eat, to sleep, but somehow, it never happened.

He wasn't even sure how he'd gotten here, but didn't worry too much about it. It was quiet and had a clear view of the beach. That was all that mattered. Over the past few days, the number of uniformed men and women he could spot from his perch had dwindled to almost nothing, but he kept an eye on them, anyway.

He checked the phone, but found no new messages. He shifted the wing chair a couple of inches closer to the window, sat, picked up his binoculars, and resumed his watch.

"But you must have some information. It's been three goddamn days!"

"Mr. Novotny, we have all our available staff working on this."

"It's not enough! How does one man disappear off a fucking island? What are you people actually doing to find him?"

Heads had turned to stare, but Michael barely noticed. The blood was pounding through his temples. He could feel the shakes starting at his knees and moving upwards. He pounded his clenched fist against the sergeant's desk. The first time gave him no satisfaction, so he did it again and again, while the numbness crawled from his hand, through his whole body.

"What's going on out here?"

Michael jerked his head up when he heard the familiar voice. The numbness disappeared in a new flare of his anger. He got out only half a word, strangled by his own fury, before Molloy gave him a freezing glare and barked out, "Can it or I'll bar you from coming within five hundred yards of this precinct!"

Michael was taken aback by the threat. He looked around and found all eyes on him. No sympathy there--only pity and a few hints of fear from the few civilians. He suddenly thought how this must all look--the crazy man who was flipping out at the police station. His apology caught in his throat and his blossoming headache made it hard to speak. He squeaked out, "Gonna be sick," right before someone shoved him into a chair and thrust a wastebasket in his face. His stomach twisted and untwisted without mercy, but he couldn't even find the relief of puking. The sickness sat in his stomach, weighing him down until he could hardly move.

Molloy ordered his men back to work and took Michael by the elbow. "Come with me." His grip was firm and insistent, forcing Michael to keep up or fall flat on his face.

The interview room wasn't the same one as before, but its near clone. It gave Michael the strange sense that time had stood still. If only he could turn it backwards. "I--"

"Sit and don't say a word until I'm finished."

"But--" Michael tried to say.

"Not a WORD, Mr. Novotny."

Michael pinched his lips shut and waited for the cop to speak his peace. He watched under half-lowered lids while the man paced on the opposite side of the interview table.

"This department has been very patient with you. We've stretched the rules to allow you near the crime scenes. We've kept you apprised of all progress in the case. Your repeated accusations are not only baseless, but have become a hindrance to the investigation."

Michael gritted his teeth until he felt like they were going to crack.

"Well? Do you have anything to say?"

"Are you married, Detective?"

"Yes, I am."

"She--it is a she, isn't it? Wouldn't want to assume."

"Yes. She."

"As far as you know, she's okay, right? Safe, I mean."

"Yes," Molloy replied, his expression growing more and more quizzical.

"Can you imagine what it would be like if you came home from work, kissed her hello, went to hang your coat in the closet, and came back in the room to find her gone? How you would feel if people started telling you how that she might have taken off? That she chickened out on the whole marriage thing? That she didn't care about you?"

"I wouldn't believe them, of course."

"What if you read in the paper how your marriage was troubled and that evidence suggested that she walked out to get away from you? Or, better yet, that you decided to get rid of her and hide the body?"

"The officer who made that statement didn't know he was talking to a press member, but he was still out of line. He's being disciplined and--"

"I don't care about him. I care about finding Ben. Nothing else matters to me."

Molloy finally sat down. "We're doing everything we can. We've turned over every stone."

"But you haven't found him."

Molloy leaned his elbow against the table and rubbed at his forehead. "We may not--"

"Please don't--"

"No, Mr. Novotny, you need to hear this. The clock's ticking and without any leads, our chances of finding him are fading."

"I can't hear this."

"You may not have a choice."

That night, it was foggy and Michael couldn't see a thing out of his window. Exhaustion won and he fell asleep on the chair, but repeatedly woke up at the smallest noise. After the fourth time, when he couldn't take the heart pounding, the queasiness, and the cold sweat soaking his shirt, he grabbed his phone off the night stand and jabbed the keys. The phone rang and rang while he felt more and more ready to snap. Finally, it stopped and he could have sobbed with relief. "What the hell took you so long?"

Brian sounded groggy and confused. "Mikey? What the fuck time is it?"

Almost three a.m., if he believed the clock. "Sorry, but I just needed..." his voice broke and he cursed himself for not holding it together. "Damn it." The queasiness was better, but his nose was running and his vision was blurry.

"What happened? You sound weird."

"I--" Words failed him. Where did he start? "I need somebody I can trust. I just...I can't do this anymore."

"Hold on."

He held the phone tight to his ear and listened to the voices--Brian's and another male voice--talking in quick, clipped words. The other voice stopped and then Brian returned. "Okay, I'm ready. Talk to me."

Chapter 6

He missed sun light. After his conversation with Brian, he had fallen asleep, for real, and had woken up to blue, cloudless skies and a message beeping on his phone. An hour later, he'd taken a cab to the ferry station.

Now, he balanced himself on the swaying dock, tilted his face up to the sky, and soaked up the rays. It was the first time he'd felt close to warm since Ben had vanished.

He first noticed Brian's arrival when the sun's heat was replaced by a cool shadow. He opened his eyes. "You came."

Brian smirked. "Always do."

Michael forced a smile at the old joke. "And without an invitation. What if I hadn't gotten your message to pick you up?"

"I would have found you. I have my ways."

"Maybe you should share them with the police. They can't seem to find anything these days." He reached for one of Brian's bags. "Here, let me carry that."

Brian turned to the side to keep the bag away. "No, I got it. You look a little rough around the edges."

Michael ran a hand over the shadowy beard on his chin. This morning, he'd tried. He really had, but he couldn't seem to care about his appearance. "I need a shave."

"You look like need a lot more than that. Let's go find somewhere to eat."

The diner was surprisingly empty, considering the time of day. They sat in a far corner, cradled on three sides by the red vinyl and lacquered oak of the booth. Brian ate his sandwich, while Michael fiddled with a cup of coffee.

"You didn't have to make the trip out here."

"What? You expected me to stay in the Pitts and deal with your mother? She's been climbing the walls and driving us all crazy."

Michael's head jerked up. "I told you not to tell her yet!"

"I didn't say a word. If I had told her, she would have commandeered the first plane out here. She just misses her baby boy. It's enough to make a person lose their lunch. Besides, I figured I'd be a better source of moral support...and sanity."

"You didn't have to," Michael repeated. "I'm okay." He didn't add that his definition of 'okay' had changed a lot since last week and would qualify for what he used to call 'barely hanging on.' It was all a matter of perspective.

"Don't bullshit me, Mikey."

"No, really. After we talked, I felt a lot better."

"You don't look it. You look like crap. Maybe you need to come home."

"Not until they find him."

"How long are you going to stay out here?"

"It's only been a few days."

"Don't you think that--"

"He'll need his medication and someone will have to call his doctor--"

"--if he were going to be found--"

"--and ask him what to do about them. Plus, Ben will want--"

"--that they would have--"

"--a familiar face--"

"--found him by now."

Michael dropped the coffee mug to the table, hissing when a few drops of the hot liquid splashed onto his hand. A red haze crept over his vision. He felt a brief touch on his hand.

"Mikey--"

He snatched his hand away. "Fuck you," he spit out between gritted teeth.

"Mikey--"

"No! You come here and you say you want to help and this is what you do? I don't need it! What I need is to people to leave me alone and stop telling me to just roll over and accept it!" Michael fumbled for his wallet in his jeans pocket. He yanked out a few bills and slapped them on the table. Before he could leave the booth, Brian had jumped up and blocked him in.

"This is stupid. Don't go. I didn't come here to fight with you."

"Well, why did you come? I told you not to."

"Because you called me."

Michael stopped trying to push Brian out of his way. "I'm not leaving without him."

"Okay."

"They're gonna find him."

"Of course."

"Don't patronize me."

"I'm not."

"And don't humor me, either."

"Wouldn't think of it."

Partially, mollified, Michael stopped trying to escape.

Brian waited until Michael was seated, before sitting, himself. He took a sip of his coffee and casually asked, "When are you going to tell your mother and Ben's family?"

"I'm not."

"But--"

"No," Michael said with finality. "The police and the FBI and whoever the hell else they've got on this are going to find Ben and then I'll tell everyone. Until I know more, there's no point in worrying them."

Brian looked skeptical, but he didn't bring up any counter arguments, except one: "Debbie's going to kill you for keeping this a secret."

"After I know Ben is okay, she can kill me all she wants. Until then, I can't deal with her. So, don't--"

"Tell her. I know. I heard you the first twenty times you said it."

"I'm serious! You're the only one I trust not to go blabbing it to everyone in Pittsburgh." Michael slid out of the booth. "Finish your sandwich. I need to walk around for a few minutes. I'll be back to get you."

He paused at Brian's side. I shouldn't go. If I leave, maybe Brian will disappear, too. Maybe the whole world. He shushed the voice and leaned down to kiss Brian on the cheek. "Thanks," he whispered in Brian's ear, before he drew away, studiously ignoring the piercing look from Brian's hazel eyes. "No matter what, thanks for coming."

Brian caught the door before it could slam with the force of Michael's push. "Hey! Are you trying to demolish this place? I'd hate to get booted out of here, one day after my arrival."

"Damn it!"

"Just calm down."

"No, I will NOT calm down. They've still got nothing! Absolutely nothing."

"At least they're still looking."

Michael collapsed into his chair and stared across the housetops. There was no point in breaking out the binoculars. He knew the beach would be empty or near empty. "Not for long. I can feel it. They're giving up. Who cares if some Joe Blow from the Pitts disappears off the face of the earth? No ransom note. No nothing. They all think he just left on his own, anyway."

"After we get some lunch, we can go out again. There are few places we didn't cover. Someone must have seen this woman."

"I don't know if she just hasn't been here long enough or what, but she might as well have been invisible."

"She had to eat, once in a while. Either she had to go out and buy it or someone had to deliver it to her. We could ask around at some of the grocery stores."

"That's a good idea," Michael said, but he wasn't sure he could get up, even if he tried. His legs were like lead blocks and his head was only a little bit lighter.

"Why don't you catch some shut eye while I order us lunch?"

"No. I'm awake," But his lids were sinking and he rested his head against the chair. He didn't argue when Brian urged him to move to the bed. "Don't let me sleep too long," he slurred, as his head sank into the pillow.

He was asleep before he heard Brian's response.

Darkness could be a trap--a gaping vacuum that sucked everything in. Light, mass, hope--they all disappeared in its grasp, victims of nothingness.

But sometimes darkness lived and breathed. It oozed heat and sweat and pain, masking everything else.

Michael opened his eyes and tried to work out what kind of darkness surrounded him. The scent of the ocean filled the room. It must seep into every part of the island. He inhaled deeply and caught a subtle whiff of something unpleasant, like decay. Like death.

A rat, he thought. This place must have rats and one of them died in the walls. That happened at his first apartment--the only one he'd been able to afford when he was fresh from dropping out of school and scraping by on wages from the local supermarket.

Then the odor faded. Must have been dreaming, again. He reached for the lamp, clicked on the light, and let out a startled "oh" at the man sitting in the chair, half-asleep. Michael waited for the last of his dream to disappear, but minutes later, it was still there. "Ben?" he said softly.

Ben looked up and smiled. "I was wondering when you were going to wake up."

Michael rubbed at his eyes and looked again, but the apparition was still there. "You're not real."

Ben shifted in the chair and groaned in discomfort. "I feel pretty real."

"You can't be." Michael bent his head and pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes until he saw spots. He heard the apparition stand and walk across the room, right before one side of the bed sank down. Michael dropped his hands to his lap and sniffed at Ben. At close range, the smell of old sweat made him wrinkle his nose. "You need a shower." Ghosts didn't have body odor, did they?

Ben laughed. "That proves I'm real, doesn't it?"

Michael looked him up and down. It was all the same: the sky blue eyes, the waves of dark blond hair, the angle of his jaw, the smile lines bracketing his mouth. He reached out and touched Ben's face. Soft, pale beard bristles roughened his face. "But where were you?" As it had so many times this week, his simmering anger, boiled over. He shoved at Ben's shoulder, knocking him back a few inches, feeling reassured by the warm, solid feel of flesh and bone. "Do you know how worried I've been? I thought you were--!" He stopped and gulped hard, swallowing the knives that lanced his throat. "I thought you were dead! They all said you'd left, that you got tired of being married, that you got tired of me. I was stupid. I told them all you would never do that! I trusted you and now I feel like a fucking fool!"

Ben shook his head. "Why did you listen to them? I didn't lie to you."

"Then where the hell have you been?"

"If I started telling you, it would take all night and the next day."

"So the hell what? You think I've been sleeping?"

"Why don't I take a shower first? Then we can do whatever you want."

It took a massive effort to leash his temper and act cool, but Michael managed it. He schooled his face to remain expressionless and shrugged nonchalantly. He even injected some of that icy self-control into his voice. "Fine."

"Join me?"

"I took a shower already."

"I bet you didn't have anybody to scrub your back."

"My back is fine, thank you."

Ben stood and started to strip out of his clothes. He dropped his tee shirt and shorts in a pile on the flo