The Mating of Michael (5 page)

He changed in the locker room and rolled into the pool area. He exchanged smiles and nods with a few regulars he knew by first name—Louise, a grandmother who had been partially paralyzed in a car accident, and Dustin, a paraplegic vet. James wheeled over to the lift. The lifeguard, Emile, came to give him a hand.

“How are you today, James?” Emile asked with a smile.

“Desperately seeking exercise,” James answered dryly.

“I hear ya.”

James pulled up alongside the lift and locked his brakes. Emile knew James didn’t need or want help getting onto the lift, but he stood close by in case there was a problem. James lowered the arm on his wheelchair and swung himself onto the lift seat. Emile pulled his wheelchair out of the way while James buckled the lift’s seat belt. The belt was ridiculous for the enormously risky trip of two feet, but it was one of those lawyer-appeasing rules that was easier to obey than argue over. Emile operated the lift, and James swung out over the water. The seat slowly lowered. The water was too warm to be shocking, and the sense of buoyancy as his body settled always made James smile. He unhooked the belt and pushed off into the water.

“Thanks, Emile.”

“No problem. I’ll be here when you’re ready to get out.”

James treaded water to an empty lane and began to swim. For a time, he forgot about all the things that were worrying him. He forgot about the negative advance reviews for his upcoming release,
Tears From The Dragon’s Eye
. He forgot about his dwindling sales figures and royalty checks. He forgot about the Millennial Award and even the book signing. He cut through the water with his strong arms, and for the time being, all was right with the world. The water was the one place where he could forget that he was not whole.

At some point, he realized that someone was swimming in the neighboring lane and then, that the person was a young, hot guy. James focused on his strokes—alternating the butterfly and the crawl, then rolling over for some backstroke to work his chest. He shot surreptitious glances at the guy in the next lane—the guy had dark hair and a nice looking face the few times James caught a glimpse of it.

Feeling self-conscious, James decided to get out as soon as he’d finished his laps instead of lingering around in the free area like he usually did. A few times, women had started to chat him up in the pool, and there was always that awkward moment when he got out and they realized the bottom half of the jack-in-the-box was broken. He didn’t need to see that look today, even if the chances of the hot guy in the next lane giving a shit were remote. He’d park off to the side for a while and air dry until he felt like getting dressed.

He swam to the lift. Emile saw him and came over. It was a matter of moments before James was seated off to the side of the pool in his chair. He always put a thick towel over the chair seat and back when he came to the pool, and he carried another beach towel on his lap for drying off and covering his unsightly legs.

He had just settled when he noticed the guy in the lane next to his pull himself out of the pool on strong, wiry arms. Damn, he was small, but he had a killer body—narrow shoulders and hips, a lean but toned chest, tight little bubble butt, the most gorgeous pale olive skin James had ever seen, and dusky mauve nipples.

James watched blatantly from the sidelines as the guy dried off, confident in his status as an ignored wallflower. But then, to his utter chagrin, the guy looked right at him and started walking over.

James, panicking, contemplated how fast he could safely maneuver into the locker room, but it was too late. The guy walked directly to him—form-fitting, wet swim trunks, bare legs, smooth chest, and all. His towel was draped casually around his neck. James dropped his eyes, hoping to send a clear “unapproachable” signal, but it didn’t work. Those tight hips stopped in front of James’s chair, and he had no choice but to look up.

Oh shit.
In a chemical rush, all the hair on his body tried valiantly to stand up despite being damp. He felt goose bumps break out everywhere as he recognized the beautiful face looking down at him.

“Hi,” Michael said. He smiled nervously, but his eyes held that same, inviting warmth James remembered. A man could drown in those eyes and never been heard from again. Could long for it, even.

“Hi.” James’s reply was a conditioned response. He anxiously worked his hands at the towel over his lap, tugging and arranging to make sure his legs were fully covered. He couldn’t bear for Michael to see them, not so much as an inch. Even the outline of the towel over his wasted legs was humiliating as hell.

When he looked up again, Michael had a soft, sad smile and his eyes were so damn sympathetic James wanted to scream. He was about to invite Michael to go fuck himself, but then he saw something else in those eyes too—a flare of heat. It made the words dry up on James’s tongue. In fact, his entire mouth went arid even as lower parts of him became distinctly flooded. He folded his shaking hands strategically in his lap and looked away at the pool.

“Mind if I sit down?” Michael asked.

James, not trusting his voice, shrugged.

Michael pulled over one of the white poolside chairs and placed it near James. He sat down and went all casual, leaning his head back and stretching out his
perfectly formed
legs. For a long moment, Michael didn’t say anything. And James, trying to deflate his inappropriate erection, ignored Michael and watched a trio of old ladies doing water aerobics instead. But when his pulse slowed enough for his brain to kick back online, his curiosity, and a nagging suspicion that was downright annoying, made James speak.

“How did you know where to find me?”

Michael laughed nervously. “Just lucky, I guess.”

James practically growled. “Amanda. She said she forgot a pen and went back inside. I’m going to kill her.”

Michael was quiet for a minute, then he said, “I’m sorry. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind. I just wanted a chance to maybe say something more meaningful than ‘gah’ or ‘hrumph’ or ‘nghng’.”

James couldn’t stop a smile. Despite his extreme self-consciousness at being caught in a bathing suit
by this guy
, of all people, and his annoyance at Amanda—the pool? Really? Why not invite the guy into my shower?—the remark was funny.

“Nghgn? How do you spell that?”

“No idea. You’re the writer.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever used that word before.”

“Yeah, but your characters have the advantage of editing. I have to make an impression in real time.”

Another silence enveloped them. James felt slightly less awkward, but only slightly. He was painfully aware of the beautiful boy in the chair next to him and had no idea what to do with that except feel even more unbeautiful and uncomfortable by comparison.

He felt something tickling his stomach and looked down. A drop of water was making its way down his torso from his hair. He caught it as it reached his stomach and wiped it off. At least his upper body was in shape from swimming and was not something he had to cover up in shame.

Michael made a small noise, and James glanced at him. He was looking at James’s bare stomach, and when he raised his eyes, the spark in them was hotter than ever and his lips were slightly parted.

Fuck. No one had
ever
looked at James like that—warm and sweet, needy and surrendered. He might be a virgin, but he knew damn well what that look meant. The heat of it hit him in the gut like a wrecking ball. His erection, which had faded once already, came back with sirens blaring. James dropped his hands into his lap and stared at the pool. In his peripheral vision, he could see Michael shifting about and messing with his towel.
Oh, God.
Was he having the same problem? The mere idea of Michael becoming erect caused James to grow dangerously hard.

He was going to embarrass himself publicly in about ten seconds.

“I should go,” James started to say, just as Michael said, “Would you like to go out to breakfast?”

They stared at each other for a second. James looked away, his heart pounding.

“Look,” he said tightly, still staring at the pool, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t know you and we have nothing in common.”

“I think we have a lot in common,” Michael said softly.

“Really? Please enlighten me.”

“We both love science fiction. I love all of it—movies, games, books, blogs…. We both think you’re a brilliant writer—”

James snorted.

“We’re both relatively young and devastatingly handsome.”

James pursed his lips as his bullshit meter jumped to the right. He couldn’t help feeling warmed by the compliment, though.

“We both live in Seattle. And you probably have to deal a lot with doctors and hospitals and I’m a registered nurse, so we have the whole healthcare thing in common.”

The warmth vanished in an instant as the world fell away from under James’s feet, plummeting him into a very dark place. He felt a flush of hurt, hurt and anger. He remembered now that Michael had mentioned at the book signing that he was a nurse, but it hadn’t really sunk in. Now it felt like a slap in the face. So much for being chatted up at the pool by a cute guy as if he were
normal
. He was such a buffoon.

“Is that supposed to make me fall at your feet?” James said in a blistering voice. “That you’re a ‘registered nurse’? Are you trolling for work? Well, I don’t need a fucking nurse! Not professionally or privately. And, by the way, you might want to research how much midlist authors make before going to all this trouble.” James felt hot acid in his mouth and a prickling heat behind his eyes. He released his brakes, desperate to get away.

“That’s not… I didn’t mean…!”

James had one last glimpse of Michael’s stricken face before he was gone, heading for the locker room.

James dressed as quickly as he could manage between his limited mobility and his shaking hands. He was sure Michael would follow him into the locker room, but Michael didn’t. James safely made it out of the pool only to have to sit and wait outside for the van. It wasn’t due ’til nine. This was one of the things he loathed about being in a wheelchair. He couldn’t just take off like a normal person. He had to wait for people to take him places. And right then, that made him vulnerable to someone badgering him like he expected Michael to do at any moment. James wouldn’t be able to get away.

But Michael never did come after him. By the time James was in the van and safely on his way home, he actually regretted that. But then he reminded himself—it would never work.

He didn’t like to think about Chris. Chris was the only boyfriend James had ever had. James’s writing friend, Lance, had introduced them. Chris was a hair stylist and, James realized much too late, a celebrity groupie. He loved the
idea
of James—or rather, of dating a “famous author.” It was the reality of him that Chris had trouble with. Chris avoided looking at his legs or at the chair. He would kiss James, but only as he was leaving. As soon as James would start to respond to the warm tongue work and reach out for more, Chris would pull away with some cheerful excuse or another. James was not stupid. It didn’t take him long to figure out that the idea of sex with a man with James’s deformity was more than Chris could handle—however he tried to hide it. It disgusted him.

James should have called a stop to it much sooner than he did. But when you got a ticket on the only ship leaving the port, you didn’t bitch that it was in steerage. The truth was, James enjoyed the company. Chris came over to James’s house a few times a week, and he was funny and flirty and told outrageous stories about his clients. James kept alive the hope that Chris would get over his aversion with time. He wanted… yes, he really wanted to go to bed with Chris.

But that never happened. Eventually, Chris broke up with him. He’d been pushing, more and more, for James to write something “commercial,” a big YA like
The Hunger Games
or Harry Potter.
James had refused. He had no interest in writing YA or in chasing the latest hit with a “me too.” The last time he’d seen Chris, they’d had a huge fight. Chris told James he was “never going to be anyone important.” Those words were as damning as they came in Chris’s
eyes.

The stupid thing was, even though James knew—he damn well
knew
—that Chris was shallow and not incredibly bright and they were a terrible match, it had still really hurt.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

He wouldn’t fall for that again.

Varanasi, India, 1991

T
HE
LAST
day of James’s normal life, he and his mother spent hours roaming around the market in Varanas and looking at all the strange and wonderful things. There were funny-looking animals, delicious things to eat, and even some toys, but James knew better than to ask for any of them. He knew what his mother would say—that they didn’t have the money, and anyway, it was better to look at nice things than to own them. James didn’t think that made any sense at all, especially not when that thing was a lovely bit of pastry, but he knew it didn’t do any good to throw a fit. Besides, his mother was being wonderful, making jokes, tickling him, and kissing his cheek.

They shared a bowl of rice and curry on the steps at Kedar Gate. James was fascinated watching the people bathing in the Ganges River. From very young to very old, naked or fully dressed, they waded into the brown water.

James, being five years old, wanted to go in the water too. And his mother, being an unrepentant adventurer, let him. James adored his mother. She was always up for something fun. She helped him remove his clothes, even his underwear because the other little boys in the water had nothing on. She took off her own sandals and tucked up the long hem of her skirt so she could wade in with him while James splashed around.

He played with two little Indian boys for a while. At first, they examined him and touched his pale skin with curiosity, and then, deciding it wasn’t that interesting, the three of them tossed a little plastic top around. But the two boys swam like fishes and James could not, so after a while, they got bored with him and swam off. The area near the steps got crowded with adults, including some scary-looking old people. He decided it wasn’t fun anymore and got out. His mother rubbed his arms and legs with her hands and then finished drying him off with his T-shirt. They went back to the hostel where they had a small room to themselves with two cots. James thought about trying to find some of the neighborhood children he’d played with before, but he felt very tired. That night, his mother made him canned tomato soup in the hostel’s kitchen. It was James’s favorite.