Page 13 of Torn
“Ricky. Ricky Comparetto.”
“Ah, an Italian.”
“Sicilian, to be precise. On my mom’s side. You’re stalling.”
He took in a deep breath, smiled a little nervously and a lot charmingly, and came out with it. “Walt. Walt Whitman.”
“No!”
“Yes. ‘Happiness not in another place, but this place, not for another hour, but this hour.’” His brown eyes were soulful.
“Whitman?” I asked.
“Of course. You get awfully familiar when you’re someone’s namesake.” He extended a hand.
I looked at it quizzically for a moment and then caught on. I shook it. “Pleased to meet you, Walt.”
“Ricky. Charmed.”
He said my name with such warmth that I was, paradoxically, chilled. “I love that quote, though.” My mind lingered over the words, especially the part about happiness being this hour. “Are we going to find happiness… right here? Right now?”
“I hope so. But perhaps not exactlyrighthere. I don’t cotton to going to jail tonight for public indecency. And believe me, boy, the things I have in mind for you are not only indecent but bordering on perverse.”
“Only bordering?” I asked, disappointed. “You don’t have a place?” I considered bringing him to the room I shared with Boutros, but there was the serious risk he could already be there, alone or with the Egyptian or God-knew-who-else. Or, even worse, he could barge in at a very inopportune moment, and I would be forced to wave at him with my toes atop Walt’s broad shoulders.
Walt shook his head. “I’m staying at someone’s house, just outside of town. I’m part of this travel network where we share our places when we travel. It’s cheap. But not always private.” He sighed. “For one, it’s about an hour’s drive. And two, it’s truly against my host’s rules to bring home a guest, even one as charming as yourself.”
“I get it. He doesn’t want come stains on the chintz.”
“Something like that. So you’re saying you don’t have a place either?” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “There are the bushes opposite the beach. But we wouldn’t be alone, and as much as I might occasionally enjoy putting on a show, that’s not what I want for us tonight—not for our first time.” He put a finger to his chin. “There’s always my car, but it’s cramped, and I don’t know how acrobatic I’m feeling. Again, there’s the whole public thing—even in a car with steamed-up windows—so that’s out.”
I was quiet for a while. I reasoned with myself that Boutros was my best friend. He’d understand if I brought someone home, wouldn’t he? He’d be happy to hang out in the lounge or wherever for at least a little while. It was the kind of thing best friends did for each other—especially where men were concerned.
I moaned inwardly, disappointed that I hadn’t already had a good discussion with him about this very thing. We could have at least worked out a signal—a sock tied to the doorknob, maybe.
My desire, not surprisingly, won out over any caution. Boutros would have to understand, and if he didn’t, fuck him. I had me a man!
A man that I suspected, against all logic, might be more than a one-trick pony. So I said, “I have a room in the B&B a couple streets over.”
Walt leaned in, eager, listening. “And we can walk there?”
I nodded. “But listen, I have a roommate. He may or may not already be there, asleep. In which case we will be sorely out of luck.” I kissed Walt quickly. “And we may have to simply make use of that car or those bushes. Because, honey, there’s no way I’m going to part ways with you tonight without feeling you inside me.”Wow. That was bold enough, right?
I went on. “My buddy and I share our bed. There’s just the one.”
Walt eyed me. He asked, quite reasonably, “Are you sure he’s only a buddy?”
“Positive. I’m blissfully single.” I looked into his eyes. “For now.”
We’d made a decision. I cemented it further by standing and reaching out with my hand to help Walt up. When we were both standing and ready to head off, I added, “If he’s there and asleep, we will find a way.”
Walt nodded. “Where there’s a will….”
“Or in this case, where there’s a Walt….”
“You’re hopeless.”
We set off into the darkness.
