Date: Sat, 3 Jun 2017 16:11:45 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Lake Desolation 13

Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/rural/lake-desolation/)
for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights
reserved. Includes sex between adult men. Go away if any of that is against
your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like,
but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty
**TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.

*****

The two shake hands. Thank GOD for the stiff, biting wind. Eyes always tear
up because of that... not that what Logan said is making me cry or
anything. My heart is so big right now that I'm afraid everyone will notice
my chest swell up. I can't look at Logan. If I do, I'll simply lose
it. 'Yes,' I tell Maria silently, 'yes, I swear to God that I'll let him
love me.' I feel the warmth of her smile.

*****

Lake Desolation 13: It Had to be You

By Bear Pup

Sunday (7)

*****

The ride to Tinny's is anticlimactic. I notice that the heat is on high and
gesture to Logan to keep the gloves on. He looks perplexed, then
nods. Fingerprints. I chat with Hal who is more than eager to pretend
nothing has happened. When we get to the Miller home and drop Hal off, he
tries to apologise and I cut him off.

"You were doing your job, Hal, and I overreacted. I'm sorry." I turn and
put a hand on Joshua's shoulder, "And that goes for you, too. You care
about me and I repay you with anger. It was stupid of me, Joshua, and I
apologise." Joshua relaxes like a tense spring with the pressure slowly
released.

"Thanks, Stettler."

Hal promises to keep an eye out for anything happening at the cabin and I
pretend to believe him. Since it would require him getting out of his nice,
warm cruiser and hiking a mile in the snow, I know it's more symbolic than
anything.

We grab our bags at Tinny's and Joshua rumbles off back to the
house. Maggie spots me and calls back, "Drop some wings, Jack!"

I go up to the bar and introduce Larry. Maggie will have details around
town in no time, which is a very safe thing to have happen; she'll
instantly back-date the tale of meeting him to his (fictional) arrival
date. The idea of NOT being the first to know everything that happens on
and around the Lake is anathema to her very being. She is familiar with the
car service picking me us and smiles when I say Christopher will be
here. She turns and tells Jack to have tenders ready to drop; it's
something that Christopher can eat one-handed as he drives.

The wings come out with the menus, delicious as always. Tinny's is one of
the places that has not adjusted their seasoning levels to the 'melt you
face' standards of the day. Hot is still nice and edibly-spicy, just enough
to make the house-made bleu cheese dressing and sticks of celery the
perfect foil. I get the fish and chips while Logan opts for a BLT with
fries. All of it is delicious. The food deteriorates in the height of
season since they have to bring in extra help, but in the winter, the meals
are perfect every time.

Christopher arrives just as we finish and loads our gear, grabbing the
steaming box of tenders from Maggie and dropping ten-dollar bill to cover
that and the tip, only, as always, to be told I've already paid. Within
minutes we are in the back of the limo heading toward Middle Grove and
Christopher begins his scripted patter of what was where for Logan's
sake. Logan settles into the side seat and pops open a juice drink they
stock as a mixer as I lay back.

And just like that, the enormity of what I've done, what I am in the
process of doing, hits me like hammer. I've already harboured a fugitive,
lied to the police and helped him escape justice. I'm now getting ready to
blithely commit any number of felonies to create a fake identity for
him. The panic is rising in my throat until I look over at Logan. He's
watching me, nervous and scared as if he can sense the direction of my
thoughts. I flush and look down, ashamed.

The cycle repeats itself several times on the half-hour journey to
I-87. Finally, I motion for Logan to join me on the back seat and I bundle
his shoulders into my side, arm across his broad if painfully-thin
shoulders. I see Christopher look in the rear-view and smile serenely.  His
phone rings and I tense, nervous as a rabbit; apparently, he's just getting
news from his dispatcher.

He half-turns and says that there is something wrong on the George
Washington, some sort of protest or something, and that the Tappan Zee is a
shambles. Instead of going around Albany to the west on I-87, he jumped
across to 90 which takes us along the east side of the Hudson
valley. Christopher suggests we check out a new feature. The limo now has
Wi-Fi and there is a tablet for surfing in the box where snacks are kept.

Logan takes it out and fiddles for a while then suddenly stiffens. His
breathing becomes a panicky, shallow thing and I look down with alarm. He
has a story pulled up, 'Anti-Immigrant Protest Disrupts Traffic'. A video
(Logan has the sound off) pans across a crowd that has spilled from George
Washington Park on the ramps on the Manhattan side of the bridge. Amid
banners screaming 'MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN' and 'BUILD THE WALL' are giant
faces of President-Elect Trump. The banners that make my blood run cold,
though, all have a grainy image from a security camera of a kid with a
gun. The words read, 'Stop Drug Violence at the Border'. The face in the
image is Logan's.

I share a look with Logan who sits silent, utterly undone by the image. I
pull the tablet from his unresisting hands and start to peel back the
layers of stories. The news is not as dire as it seems. The police are
stymied in Saratoga Springs. They recovered the gun and two angles of
security footage, neither particularly clear. Due to a 'disappointing lack
of physical evidence', the police are hoping that someone knows the
perpetrator, tentatively identified as an illegal migrant worker, and will
come forward.

They have three possibilities. Two are based on security footage, one in
the northwest corner of Saratoga Springs and the other far to the south in
Malta. In both cases, an industrial plant's perimeter security caught an
image of a lone figure that seems the right general size and shape and
appears at a reasonable time to be the unknown subject (the former,
Stewart's Manufacturing, actually was Logan). The third theory is that he
has never left the city at all and is simply be sheltered by family.

The godsend is the eye-witness descriptions and sketches. People see what
they expect to see. The kid in those flyers is clearly Mexican, rough and
narrow-eyed, often with a goatee. Logan couldn't grow a beard with gallon
of Rogaine and a three-year head start! The best of the security camera
stills *might* look like my... Logan; each of the sketches looks less and
less like the kid huddled and terrified at my side.

I lean down and whisper, "Logan, it's fine. It's better than fine. Those
bigots are making you safer. By trumpeting an illegal Mexican immigrant,
they make it less and less likely that anyone will look at you twice. You
hear me, son? I love you Logan. I'm not lying to you, and I will keep you
safe."

Logan nods miserably. It's not so much that he doubts me as he has so
little hope and confidence that anything can snuff it like a candle. And
having a bunch of hate-filled bigots screaming for blood under a banner
with your face on it? Who (other than the politicians who incite such
displays) could fail to be horrified and scared?

His tension increases markedly as we get into the outskirts of The City and
open spaces become more and more infrequent, replaced instead with
manicured parks and golf links. By Chappaqua he is jittering; by Yonkers he
is shaking.  I try to take his mind off it with sightseeing titbits like
Yankee Stadium and the NYC skyline, but it doesn't help much. When we cross
the RFK onto Manhattan itself, I have to hold him tightly and mutter
soothing things to him. Christopher notices.

"I'm sorry, Mr Mallory. I hate it too. The City is just too big, too
confusing, too... much. I'll try and get us to the hotel as smoothly as
possible." And he is true to his word. He keeps up an occasional patter,
like pointing out when we pass under Gracie Mansion or the United Nations
or Battery Park. We're in luck and there's only one cab in front of the
Marriott.

Christopher, as always, offers to carry the bags. "Don't be silly! It's
just a couple of overnight bags. I'm not sure how long we'll stay..."

"Do you want me to stay in town as a driver?" There is a note of eagerness
in his voice, but also one of caution. Being our on-call driver is
lucrative, but eliminates any chance of carousing, which he clearly is
excited to do.

"No, no." I hand him an envelope. "Open that after we're inside. And
Christopher, enjoy The City, son. You're a good kid." The envelope has an
extravagant tip, enough to pay for at least one night of carousal and two
if he's frugal. Maria always doted on Christopher and since she passed, I
haven't had much interest in using a limo.

Logan takes a very deep breath and relaxes slightly once we're inside and
out of the bitter wind rushing through the city's canyons. I brush away an
offer of a bellhop, perhaps more-brusquely than I normally would. Logan's
tension has infected me no matter how hard I fight it. I check us in,
grumbling a bit that I've slipped to Gold Elite from Platinum; I could
never slip lower because of the number of nights I'd stayed at Marriotts
around the world.

I am surprised when they don't have the room I reserved. This is not
unprecedented but unusual. "Unexpected repairs" have been required on a
large block of rooms of the type I prefer. I know that is front-desk code
for either a crime scene or bedbugs, so I just smile. The girl is charming
and blushes, then hands me two key-cards, apologising that they don't have
even one double-queen available. I'm irked, but not that upset. We enter
the luxurious copper-tiled foyer for the elevators and go up to 37. Our
room is at the end of the hall, more irksome since I prefer near the
elevators and that's in my file, along with extra feather pillows and extra
towels from when Maria and I travel so much. When I open the door, though,
all disappointment vanishes.

It is an executive suite and beautifully furnished, sleek and modern but
with rich, comfortable wood everywhere. To the left is a large,
north-facing window perfectly framing the new Freedom Tower and looking
down over 90 West, straight into the fountains of the 9/11 Memorial. The
bedroom has a window facing east with views of the Financial District, the
beautiful Equities building in the middle distance and the Chase Plaza
tower behind it. I sling my case on the luggage rack and turn to find Logan
transfixed, staring at the impossibly-high tower, I have to admit, it is a
humbling and impressive view.

I pull the pack from his shoulder and set it aside, then pull Logan to the
couch that more-or-less faces the window. He starts to tremble again as I
gather him into me, rocking slightly. He mumbles, "I'm so scared." I simply
sit there, soothing him for perhaps thirty minutes. By the time he calms we
are well into dusk, the light off the angled panes of the tower striking
across the shadowed city. I pull Logan up and we refresh our appearance in
the nicely-appointed bathroom, then I pull him down the hall.

Right across for the elevator lobby is the concierge suite. I key us into
the room. It's a simple, elegant room with nibbles and drinks. If it
weren't New York, there would be wine and champagne on offer. Instead, we
have vouchers for Bill's Burger Bar downstairs. Technically, there is a
view of the Statue of Liberty and a sliver of Ellis Island from the room,
but the winter haze and fading light make them all but invisible. I get a
selection of hot snacks and bring them with a bottle of juice to Logan,
having just water myself. The concierge lounge is a great place to overhear
the business mood of any city.

What I hear relaxes me completely. The protests aren't even mentioned
except as a traffic snarl. Not a word about crime or drugs. The protest was
isolated and considered fringe at best. Behind us, talk is of BREXIT and
what that means for transnationals who've spent the last decade
consolidating EU operations in London. In the other direction, the talk is
Broadway shows and whether anyone could score Hamilton tickets for under a
jillion dollars.

I gather Logan in my wake and we return to the room. I talk and explain why
everything is good news. Logan still seems jittery. We strip down to dress
for the evening and I pull him to me again, this time for a deep kiss. We
end up on the bed, wriggling playfully until I feel the last of the tension
start to seep away.  We get dressed and I make a stop at the concierge, a
woman who looks very much like a fashion model except she still knows how
to smile.

"Can you give me an idea of where we might eat as short notice? I don't
have reservations. Anytime this evening?"

"Any special event or preference, Mr McKay? Do you want to stay in the
Financial District?"

"No, none."

"Well, if you're willing to wait until 7:00, I know we can get you into
several places in the Theatre District."

"That would be perfect. We are in your hands, my dear." She blushes
prettily and makes some quick, hushed calls. She soon comes over and hands
me a card, wishing us a good and pleasant evening. The card reads,
'Trattoria Trecolori', and a time, 7:00pm. Below, "Have a great dinner,
Samanth!" I look in vain for the 'a' at the end and sigh. Anything to be
unique. I've eaten in this city for most of my adult life; it's the
inevitable centre of all things literary. But I never make my own dinner
reservations. The dining changes by the hour, and folks like our concierge
make their living by knowing who is eating what and where.

The light has faded to a dim glow in the west as the Doorman hails us a
cab. I loathe subways, even ones as well-tended as some European hubs. We
get in and I tip the Doorman who leans forward and says, "47th & 8th."

The cabbie pulls away and asks without turning, "Any preference?" I think
for a moment.

"Actually, no, but let's do, um, 44th & 7th instead?"

"You're the doctor."

All the stress I'd worked out of Logan is back within minutes. The driver
isn't (thanks be to God) one of the crazy ones, but Manhattan in the
evening, even a Sunday, is a penance. I pull my l-l-lover (I still trip
over the thought of that word) into me again and point out some of the
more-obvious sights. I've already run my card through the machine included
an average tip when we pull over abruptly 30 minutes later. As it turns
out, we aren't exactly on the corner. In fact, we are behind a cab
unloading folks at Carmine's, a place where lunch meetings frequently
happen ever since they opened in the 90s. I pull Logan out with me and the
glow of Times Square draws us forwards.

It is impossible to overstate the impact Times Square has at night. The
explosion of light and colour are unmatched outside the Pacific Rim where
an assault on the senses has been elevated to an art form. EVERYTHING
moves, glows, flashes, jumps, jitters. I smile as I watch the wonderment on
Logan's face. He is tense, certainly, but also transported.

We've been standing there perhaps twenty seconds when Logan jumps and
cries, "HEY!" to the fleeing back of a kid in a hoodie. He turns to me,
"Stettler! He stole my wallet!" I look at him for a moment and burst out
laughing. My own wallet, from decades of habit, is in a pouch inside my
pants, suspended from a leather loop that my belt runs through.

He stares at me like I've lost my mind and I lean in and say, "Son, what is
IN that wallet?" Logan looks confused, then the penny drops. The only thing
in that wallet is a load of folded up magazine clippings I'd put in there
to give it bulk! He is suddenly laughing with me. "Logan, come on. Let's
walk before he comes back and asks for a refund!"

I get a genuine smile from Logan at that and we stroll up Times Square,
gazing in shop windows and at the utterly bizarre variety of buskers and
'performance artists' that infest the area. I actually pause to watch a
pair of kids drumming in a commanding African rhythm that is almost
hypnotic. I drop a couple of dollars into the bucket and we move on. It is
astounding how quickly The City swallows even those powerful drumbeats.

We get to the restaurant at 6:15 and they are absolutely packed. We can't
even really get inside the door. Within five minutes, it's as if the tide
has gone out and only those in mid-meal remain. The shows have started
(Sunday is an early performance for those that even have one). I approach
the hostess and present the card even though we're early. She smiles and
says it's no trouble at all and seats us immediately.

A young waiter is there instantly asking if we'd like water and whether we
know if we want wine. I say yes to the water and tell him that we'll pick a
wine after we order. We get their signature appetiser, Antipasto Trecolori,
a mix of meats and cheeses, and decide to split a pasta and each get an
entrée. There is a gnocchi special and Logan says he's never tried
gnocchi, so that it an instant choice. I go for a Scarpariello, chicken and
sausage in a wine and herb sauce. Logan chooses Piccata Alla Trecolori,
another signature dish, veal in a lemon-butter-wine sauce with peppers and
capers.

The wine steward arrives seconds after the waiter takes the order. Thorough
some telepathy, he knows every dish we're getting and I'm a bit shocked he
doesn't steer us to top-shelf offerings. Instead, he suggests a simple
Sangiovese for the appetiser and pasta, and Gavi di Gavi for both of our
entrees. The steward takes a look at Logan, "Do you have-a ID sir? We
have-a to ask."

Logan blushes and looks down. I answer instead. "His first time in Times
Square and his first pickpocketing! We didn't make it thirty seconds! He is
22 last week, though. If you can't serve him, that's fine. We understand."

The steward smiles slyly and says, "My wife, she willa disown me if I say
no to Signore McKay." I'm shocked, as it is rare for anyone to recognise
me, especially since my dustcover pic is a decade old. Ahh. Samanth at
work! Interesting.

The appetiser and wine arrive; both play perfectly against each other. The
pasta is a huge hit with Logan, the delicate pillows of potato pasta are in
a light pesto sauce, again the ideal foil for the wine. The entrees are
divine, and the dry, white Gavi di Gavi is crisp and brilliant against the
white-wine based sauces.  We demur on dessert and find we've spent nearly
90 minutes over the very impressive meal. I tip generously for the superb
service.

The wine and the meal have done amazing things for Logan. We catch a cab
back and I find him looking at everything, seemingly not worried at all. We
get back to the hotel and I ask for an envelope and a piece of
stationery. I write 'Samanth' on the outside and write on the paper, 'It
was more than I ever expected, and I appreciate your hard work. Please
accept this as a token of our thanks for a truly wonderful meal, and a
great evening.' I slip a bill inside along with the card she gave me. On a
second piece of paper, I write, 'Samanth, Thank you for a wonderful meal!'
and sign my famously-extravagant Stettler McKay signature. Who knows; one
day it might be worth something, and it never hurts to advertise.

We go up to the room and Logan stands, smiling at me. He goes to the TV and
finds a music menu, selecting something called 'Crooners'. It's mid song
and Bing Crosby warbles, "It had to be you, it had to be you, I wandered
around and finally found the somebody who could make me be blue, could make
me be true or even be glad, just to be sad, thinking of you..." He moves in
and wraps me in his arms and slowly kisses me. "Take me to bed, Jake,
please?"

There in the lights of the City that Never Sleeps, we begin to kiss. Bing
Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole and Dean Martin take turns serenading
us. I lay my beautiful young love on the bed and undress him slowly,
shucking my own clothes in the process. I kiss him then, long and deep,
taking my time and relishing the taste of my young lover and out shared
meal. I feel his hardness against my own, the heat of his young body next
to mine. There is a fire here, but a new type; a low burn that does not
consume.

I kiss across his cheeks and even his eyes, and nuzzle deeply into his
neck, making him arch his back and moan deeply. His hands rove my back and
one latches onto my neck, keeping my head in place right there in the
hollow of his clavicle.

I kiss slowly down his body, stopping to lick and lip-nibble his nipples,
relishing the way it makes him squirm. He begins to pant and suddenly flips
me on my back and latches onto my mouth, kissing me fervently. He pulls
back as Nat King Cole croons, "Do I want to be with you as the years come
and go? Only forever, if you care to know."

"Only forever, Jake. I love you like that." He kisses me again and it
becomes something else again. We now make love without even thinking of
sex. Nothing matters but the emotion that locks us together. I finally feel
him begin to flag, the worry and tension and wine and pasta taking their
toll. I pull him into my arms and snuggle him into the covers, kissing his
back and shoulder and neck, gently stroking his sides and arms. The
disgustingly-sweet voice of Dean Martin sings "Goodnight, Sweetheart" as he
dozes off. I always hated that voice, but it is suddenly something to
cherish.

<eof>

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