57. Sympathy For The Devil

In the morning I woke to find Ziggy tucked into my arm and my chest like a sleeping baby, his cheek against my breastbone. Sun streamed through the curtains that we’d been too busy to draw. He opened one eye and looked at me, smirked as his hand strayed between my legs.

I moaned and he giggled at that. I was as hard as usual for the morning until he teased me and then I was as hard as ever. Not fully awake yet, I wanted to pull him close to me and drive into him again but as I reached for him he slipped out of the bed, still smirking, then circled around to the other side of me. He climbed toward me like a cat, then dipped his head toward my crotch. As he began teasing with his tongue, I thought about what had happened last night, and what was happening now. We needed to talk. But I couldn’t stop him now; we could talk when his mouth wasn’t full.

I was just letting myself relax again when there was a knock on the door.

He seemed prepared to ignore it, but I pushed him off me and forced my bleary eyes to look for some clothes. Who could it be and what should I be wearing when I opened the door? I pulled on my crumpled jeans as the knocking became more insistent. The more I worried who it might be, the easier it got to zip my fly. “Who is it!”

The answer was muffled, male. I looked back at Ziggy, who was lounging on the bed, waiting for me, and motioned to him to cover himself up. He pulled the white sheet across his middle and lay back. I threw open the door.

Bart. He looked freshly showered and dressed. “You up for some sight-seeing?”

“I might be.” I brushed some greasy strands out of my face. “In a little while.”

He shrugged and reminded me we had only until five. I asked him where our road manager was. “In the suite,” he said, twitching his head toward the end of the hall. “You can get your per diem if you want.” Then he leaned in a little. “Are you okay?”

“Hangover,” I said. “I’ll be okay.” We both shrugged then and I shut the door. I thought I pulled it off pretty well.

“Sight-seeing?” Ziggy asked, mimicking the perk in Bart’s voice. “Does that sound droll?” He came to the corner of the bed, dragging the white sheet with him, and reached for me. “Come back to bed.”

I didn’t move. My voice caught in my throat, a pale echo of something I’d said the night before, now almost silent. “I can’t.”

“What’s the matter?” He sat back, his lip curled.

A thousand thoughts crowded my head. We couldn’t be lovers, the rumor would spread; no, Ziggy’d never keep it a secret, he’d want to trumpet his newfound bisexuality to the world; he had no morals whatsoever, I couldn’t let this happen… I took a step back from him, my stomach in knots. What had I done? He didn’t force me to go through with any of it. I took another step back when I saw he was smiling.

“Daron,” he said, his voice low, “are you… afraid?”

I found some words. “This can’t happen again.”

“Why not?” He stood up now, and when he stretched and yawned I could trace his ribs under his skin. He sauntered near me, then turned toward the bathroom. “Come on. Who’s going to know?”

“You mean…” The tightness in my throat threatened to suffocate me. “You won’t tell anyone.”

“Relax.” He flicked on the light and examined himself in the mirror. “It’s no big deal.” He didn’t look any the worse for wear, other than a little scabbing on the back of his knuckles. Then he turned his black irises toward me. “After all, it’s not as if I love you.” And he shut the door, leaving me standing there in the too bright sun, alone.


  • Rikibeth says:

    Oh. Mother. FUCKER.

    The absolute worst possible thing that Ziggy could say, and he said it.

    That was the sound of my heart breaking into a thousand tiny pieces, probably along with Daron’s.

    (I wrote Lucius Malfoy saying that to a first-year Severus Snape, once. Just as bad.)

    Daron, the ice cream is my treat, okay?

  • Rikibeth says:

    For all that I love Tosci’s and Herrell’s, the best Rocky Road for my money is Brigham’s. Sundae at a shop, or nurse it at home with a quart from the supermarket?

    • daron says:

      Oh wow Brigham’s. Bart’s the one with the sweet tooth and he took me there, in Providence, the first time. I don’t think I would have found it otherwise–it was a little off the beaten path.

      If I’m remembering right, it was walking distance from the Salvation Army depot. I suppose everything was “walking distance” in the days of no car, actually, and I spent a fair amount of time hunting through Salvation Army’s bins for clothes, LPs, and bits of furniture. And Brigham’s was about what I could afford when I wasn’t eating canned tuna or Hot Pockets.

      I seem to recall they make pretty good milkshakes, too. Except they called them frappes. And the waitress called it a “cabinet.” Food words in Rhode Island are wacko.

  • Jude says:

    ow. Ow. OW. Fuck.

    Although I can understand why he said it. The whole “hiding everything” thing can hurt, especially when it kills the morning-after glow. (It hurt bad enough the one time I got it, and I didn’t even get anywhere near the morning-after glow to start with.)

    (… wow, just remembering it still makes me angry, 15 years later.)

    • daron says:

      Every time I think back on it, I come up with a different reason why he might have said it. It’s just simpler for me to believe that at least at that moment, it was true.

  • Sara Winters says:

    Wow. He reminded me so much of Roger at the end there I had to blink and reread it. Cold.

  • Amber says:

    This is my second time reading through this and it wasn’t any less painful the second time around to hear Ziggy say that.
    Hugs, Daron.

    • daron says:

      Thanks. Some moments will haunt forever.

    • marktreble says:

      I finished all eight kindle books then found the website and finished everything through Post 673. That’s when I started this second reading from the beginning.

      This time around Ziggy’s declaration didn’t hurt at all. Because I realized he was lying.

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