Page 35 of Finding Michael

“Well, I got the best blow job on this vacation from you, Mr. Regular Guy.” Tristan dropped the towel on the floor. “I need a nap. My knees are shaking.” He strolled out of the bathroom, leaving Michael alone.

Michael sighed. If he and Tristan were going to be something more than a quickie, he’d have to train Tristan to pick up after himself. He hated the smell of damp towels after a shower. He fixed the shower curtain, then hung the towels. Running a brush through his hair would be good. He grabbed the brush and headed into the bedroom.

Tristan had stretched out naked on the bed. He held his phone and the light shimmered on his face.

“Already connected to civilization?” Michael asked. “My Shangri-La wasn’t enough?”

“The light blinked and I couldn’t ignore it. Sorry.” Tristan frowned and tapped the screen. “Are you kidding? Fuck me.”

“I did that last night and you loved it.” Michael eased up beside him and wound his arms around Tristan. “Why? Want round two? I’ve got an hour before I have to be at work.”

“No.” Tristan patted Michael’s thigh. “Trust me. I want to fuck you. I want you in me again, too. But I meant this.” He handed over the phone. “My stalker hasn’t taken a holiday like I thought.”

Michael frowned, then read the message.

You’re not writing. You forgot about Lewiston. No notes. No updates. What’s the deal?

“What is Lewiston?” Michael asked. “Another story? Is it one you started and abandoned? Or what?”

“I never start and abandon anything, especially not work.” Tristan tossed the phone onto the bed. “All of my notes are in longhand until I begin the actual writing process. It’s my thing. I never leak anything unless it’s already fully formed and written.”

“I guess you can’t hack a piece of paper.” Michael left the bed and picked up his brush. He stared at his reflection and arranged his hair. He glanced back at Tristan. He wished he looked good right out of the shower like Tristan.

“I normally have a notebook with me everywhere. I left it at the farmhouse last night because I hoped we’d end up the way we did.” Tristan stood. He shook out his shirt, then stuck his arms through the sleeves. “I don’t know how the stalker knows where I’m at with the story because I’m not writing about Lewiston. I have an outline for the Sullavan one, but nothing in the computer. I haven’t had time.” He tugged his boxer shorts back on, then stood behind Michael. “Where do we go from here?”

“I don’t know.” Michael faced Tristan. He smoothed the wrinkles in Tristan’s shirt. “Depends on you. I have a house and a life in Sullavan. You’re the mobile one.”

“Not really,” Tristan murmured. “Well, kind of. I should’ve put down roots a long time ago so I can be more disciplined about my writing. I’ve got the apartment, but it’s just a glorified locker to put my crap in.” He flattened his palms on Michael’s chest. “I’m better when I’m happy—although I do tend to channel the emotions of my characters. I want to be here with you.”

“So, look out for sappy days?” Michael asked. He wished he had something on instead of just a smile.

“When I write gut-wrenching, I tend to absorb it and get melancholy. It’s part of me really getting into the character’s head.” Tristan shrugged.

“It happens.”

“Will you come over tonight?”

Michael blinked. He needed time to process Tristan’s questions. “You change the subject on a dime.” He shrugged out of Tristan’s embrace, darted over to the dresser and pulled out a pair of boxers. “Yeah, I’ll come over. What about your stalker? What are you going to do with him or her?”

“Well…” Tristan stepped into his jeans. “This individual has been writing me for two years. The cops don’t know who it is and since he or she isn’t threatening me, they can’t do much. It’s just correspondence. I usually ignore the letters—which is why I changed the subject.” He stood in the middle of the bedroom. “I’ve never written for anyone but me. This person keeps giving me suggestions, but I don’t use them.”

“I see.” Michael tugged a pair of khakis from the closet. “I’d be scared if I were you.”

“That’s probably what the writer wants—and for me to write a book about Lewiston. I’m not caving.” Tristan took the pants from Michael. “Writing about Sullavan and being here with you is more interesting.”

“Until you get bored.” Michael took the pants back. He knew guys like Tristan. When the need to move hit, he’d be left in the dust.

“You can’t believe that,” Tristan said. “You think I’ll get bored?”

“Uh-huh.” New York would call. The lure of the night life, a party or an ex-boyfriend would call Tristan and buh-bye Sullavan.

“What if I’m busy learning about a certain librarian and don’t want to go?” Tristan asked.

“You’ll change your mind.” He put the khakis on, then selected a maroon button-down shirt. “I’ve been there, done that and have nothing to show for it but the T-shirt.” Being with Al came to mind.

“I’m not my uncle.”

“True. You’ve got more hair.”

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