Page 31 of Snowbirds
“What’s that for?” Chris asked, staring at the appendage.
“Why shouldn’t I offer you my arm?” Ivan demanded.
“Ivan, I am not an infirm senior citizen.”
“Yeah, I know that,” Morrison replied slowly as if Chris was a bit slow, “and we aren’t married either. But we could be married if we wanted to, so there.”
So there? Really?
“I’m not hanging on to your arm. I’m forty-four, not eighty-four.”
Taking one last look at himself in the mirror, Chris started toward the door and, more importantly, the stairs down to the lobby. He had a plan, and standing here debating random shit with Ivan would not keep him on track.
Footsteps sounded behind him. Chris opened their room door and motioned for Ivan to go first. But he knew Ivan would get the last word in, he always did.
As Ivan passed him, he leaned in close enough that Chris could feel the exhale of his words against his cheek.
“Not eighty-four, but aged like a fine whisky—just how I like you.”
With that parry, he swanned by Chris on his way to the landing. Resisting the almost overwhelming urge to drag Ivan back into the suite and throw him onto the bed, Chris followed his boyfriend down the staircase.
Ivan
Olympic Manor.What a fucking gig.
Upon arrival, Ivan had avoided looking around too much. He was still reeling from the invitation to the hoity-toity extravaganza and he didn’t want to look like a hick—even if he was one. The party was for a good cause, funding safe housesfor sex trafficking survivors, but Ivan wasn’t used to rubbing shoulders with the brass.
Could a person reel for weeks?
He could and he had. Was still.Whatever.He glanced around again.
Olympic Manor had been built in the 1930s, supposedly by one of the set designers who’d worked on Errol Flynn’sRobin Hood. Once it was finished, Flynn had stayed there, too. Morrison was fairly sure the term “over the top” had been coined by the architect. It was all glitz and velvet. Rumor had it there was a Picasso around somewhere.
Slowly, Ivan descended the staircase with Chris right behind him—not holding his elbow.
“Hurry up. What the fuck are you doing?” Chris hissed.
“Making an entrance? Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?”
“Jebezzus, Morty, and the Hellish host,” Chris muttered so only Ivan could hear him.
“Excuse me?” Ivan paused on the last stair to look over his shoulder at the love of his life.
“Oh.” Chris looked a little sheepish. “Something my mom says. I’ve always thought it was hilarious, seemed appropriate here. Doesn’t it look like Charles Dickens might show up?”
“What does that have to do with me taking the stairs slowly? I need to know more about this. How did I not know about this saying until tonight?” Ivan demanded.
“Because,” Chris said firmly, “I don’t need Mom to give you any more encouragement.”
Ivan took the last step down into the red velvet hell that was the enormous lobby. “I’ll just call and ask her about it.”
He went to pull his cell phone out, but Chris stopped him before he entered the dining room.
“Do not call my mother tonight.”
Just then a posh-looking guy around Chris’s age emerged from the bar adjacent to the lobby. Skinny and with a pinched face, he looked like the kind of person who toadied for rich bastards. Fucking Paulter.
“Why is he here?” Ivan said under his breath, setting aside thedon’t call Susiecommand for a moment. “Hasn’t he been banished?”
