Rogue

Phoenix Press

 

 

 

GAY/LESBIAN ROMANCE

 

AN EXCERPT

 

 

Chapter One

 

The sky above Heathrow was tombstone gray. A storm looked inevitable, common for a London summer. Race backed away from the vast airport window. Christian ground his teeth then snarled, “I have to go, babe,” speaking to the back of Race’s neck.

 

Race’s pale hands clung to the glass that overlooked the ashen asphalt. He’d just gotten a pedicure. He smelled a hint of chemicals and something sweet--his cologne had absorbed into his skin like sunbeams into an orange. Dirty carts held various bags--Coach, Chaps, Louis Vuitton, Tumi, American Tourister. Slovenly, dark-skinned men scurried by carrying plastic trash. Their body odor lingered. “I’ll meet you in New York."

 

"Two days. It’s starting to rain. I hope you don’t get delayed, love.” Race turned then blew him a kiss, making Christian smirk.

 

I hate when he does that, Christian thought. He battled the smile forming, loving Race’s flirtatious acts. Gorgeous, tall, twenty-seven-year-old, Race was so charming at times. His Saxon nose was striking, as was his face and body. His unnecessary workout regimens and monotonous practice of consistent hand washing had been a bit much over the past year. It occurred to him this moment seemed like the many break ups Christian had had in the past.

 

“I’ll see you off then,” Race said.

 

“It’s going to be a great trip. See you in the States in two days.”

 

“Yes, babe, it’ll be our one off--our best. Come with me now? Please.” Christian held his breath.

 

“I have to work. I’ll be there soon, love.”

 

Is our relationship going to end here? Christian recognized the bumpy conversation, which had always led to uncomfortable break-ups. He smiled at the excitement growing in the terminals like ferns in balmy jungles, or like the solidity of men’s bodies when touched seductively. He’d always felt the electric jolt shake his body when he’d prepare to travel somewhere he’d never been.

 

Bridge and tunnel families scrambled to locate the correct terminals. Race had always said they didn’t belong in the city. They’d travel to some metropolis to work via a tunnel or bridge then mess up the bloody stream of urbane life. After they’d fucked up the smooth flow of no-name mega city, they’d bumble back to safe suburbia. He’d encountered many of their types throughout the world’s largest municipalities.

 

His lover checked his text messages, bopping in place. Race was a sucker for his gadget porn. He fetishized about sending texts or images on his Blackberry or the latest slim mobile. His footwork reminded Christian of the first time they’d danced at Heaven--a popularLondon club for twinks. Or it could be the boyzillian he’d just gotten. Race had heard how trendy it had become, but he seemed to regret the painful sting of the wax.

 

“You better hurry.” Race scratched the thigh of his tight black jeans.

 

Were they over as a couple?

 

Christian tried to let the possibility sink into his skin. He wouldn’t let that happen. He’d invested too much time in their relationship--besides, he loved him.

 

Even with constant warnings from Christian about his shaky past, Race had insisted they’d visit America together. They’d both traveled extensively, but this would be their first trip together as a real couple. At least Christian imagined them as a pair. He’d dreamed of it, a relationship with someone who could reciprocate his eighteen-century romanticism.

 

“You’re a character out of a Jane Austen novel,” Race had said. “The world isn’t a Shakespearean play, and today you cannot expect a Pride and Prejudice moment--not from me. I’m not your Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.” At least he’d read the story.

 

Race was right. Christian dreamed of moments from Gone with the Wind, passion from Wuthering Heights, obsessive love from The Phantom of the Opera. At times, he pretended he was Jane Eyre. At any moment his prince would swoop into the room; their eyes would meet, words would not be necessary. Time would hold its breath; true love would rear up on his stallion. Christian sighed as he watched the British Airways terminal fill with Indians, Japanese, Filipinos, and dozens of children.

 

“You better board,” Race said, clicking his cell shut. “Getting late.”

 

Christian ignored Race. He inspected an elderly couple, well into their seventies, saying goodbye. The gentleman held his wife’s hand gently, like dried chrysanthemum petals wilted with time. They laughed with each other’s words. With his expression, he seized her, stalling, before they parted. The gentleman held his breath, the flower stayed intact.

 

Christian imagined the gentleman’s words.

 

“I don’t want you to leave me.”

 

“I must go, but I’ll see you soon, my dear,” the wife said.

 

“I love…,” the gentlemen finished. Then the kiss, sweet like honeysuckle but strong enough to be sexy.

 

“You should board, bugger,” Race said.

 

In a brief moment, the old man kissed his wife’s hair, holding her close. Tears slipped down his burgundy cheeks. He needed to shave. Her eyes were shut, her fingernails digging into his sleeves. They embraced one last time, wrinkling the old man’s plaid gray wool jacket. Then his wife disappeared into the crowd.