This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments.

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Fifty-one

(Saturday, October 22nd)

Through the sleepy haze, I can hear Dad’s voice demanding that I wake up. And I also hear Raph telling him to let me sleep and that they can leave me a note or have Maman tell me what happened.

“No, I have to tell him.” Dad’s insistence finally wakes me.

“Do you have to have this discussion at the foot of my bed?” Their expression is that of two rabbits caught in headlights. “What time is it?”

“It’s just past ten in the evening, Lad.” Seph is looking at his wristwatch. “And we have an emergency and a family meeting to discuss it.”

Thinking that this has something to do with the police raid, I crawl off the bed, still fully dressed. “I’ll need some coffee.” Not bothering with shoes, I lead the way down to the kitchen.

Luckily, Geneviève is making a fresh pot. I move to the counter to roll a joint as she looks at me sheepishly. “Forgive and forget?”

My tone is probably not as accommodating as she may have wished. “I actually do sometimes forgive,” I grumble dryly totally void of feeling. “but I never forget.”

“That’s not terribly Christian, Daniel.” Françoise pipes up from the doorway to the kitchen, acting as if there has never been a problem.

Without turning in her direction, I light the joint. “Let me set two things straight.” I glare at her to make myself explicitly understood. “One: I am not and never have been a Christian. And two: You are never to speak to me again, ever.”

“Come on, Daniel Darling, it was just--”

“--Which part of what I just said do you fail to understand?” Dad, Marty and Raph arrive at the kitchen door just in time to hear what I’m saying.

“Well, I’m not the only one to blame that your lover turned straight.” Françoise sneers with a bit of triumph in her tone. Dad looks questioningly at Geneviève, who shrugs with a concerned expression, and Raph is glowing the colour of rosewood.

“You’re not getting the point.” I laugh at her. “The reason I never want to talk to you ever again is that you falsely accused me of something I’d never do, which turned my family against me, albeit only for a moment.” I now point my index finger directly at her, speaking through gritted teeth. “And a word to the wise: never, ever assume that I’d even consider forgiving you.”

“So?” Her tone is still glib.

“So, never talk to me again.” I laugh at her once more. “You really are as stupid as I’ve always been told.” Now, glances are flying as I take the coffee mug that Geneviève hands me and force my way through the throng at the door to retire to the sitting room.

Only moments later, Dad calls from the dining room. “Why don’t we sit in here? We can all fit round the table.”

Wearily, I get up and move through the double doors, bringing my coffee and the ashtray with me. Marty sits down next to me, placing a hand on my thigh and squeezing.

“To fill Françoise in on what has happened,” Dad clears his throat. “our cousin Sean came over to the place in Brighton, trying to make me believe that he was going to spring his old cellmate, George Blake, from the Scrubs."

“I know, he rang me.” she states as if it were an everyday occurrence. “Ah, he was bragging about it over the phone as big as you please, and wanting to bring your man to Paris and stay at my place.” When Dad gives her a demanding look, she continues. “Well, of course, I told him to go feck himself.”

“Anyway,” Dad takes a sip of my coffee. “I just got word that he succeeded.”

“You’ve got to be joking.” I snort. “Thought that Wormwood Scrubs is airtight.”

“As did everybody else.” Dad chuckles and shakes his head. “Apparently the wee fecker smuggled in a walkie-talkie during visiting hours to let them arrange things without any physical contact.

“When most of the inmates and guards were at the bloody prison cinema, yer man Blake broke a window and got out onto the roof of a porch.” Here, Dad laughs hard enough to make him inadvertently fart. "And here's the best. Blake then climbed over the feckin prison wall on a crocheted ladder with knitting needles as rungs.”

“When was this?” Marty wants to know.

Seph is still laughing. “Just before seven this evening London time, eight o’clock here. A bit over two hours ago."

Marty grunts and looks at his watch. "Do they think that he's on his way here?"

“They don’t know.” Seph shakes his head again. “But if he is, he’ll be going to Françoise’s and not here.”

This is making me feel slightly on edge. “Why are you so sure, he won’t come here?”

“The telephones are still registered under de Jambleu’s name.” Seph takes another sip of my coffee. “And even if they do have contacts in officialdom, we’re all registered as Mongrain-Bourke. Their searches would all come back negative.”

Now, Marty reaches over and takes a sip of my coffee. “So, what do they think the best strategy is?”

“They haven’t a clue, a mhuirnín.” We all notice Françoise flinch when Dad refers to Marty with this Gaelic term of endearment. “My attorney thinks the best strategy is to get Françoise and Raph out of the country because of the charges pending against them. And I can imagine that they’ll want to have a word with us up in London.”

When Dad notices Raph’s worried look, he qualifies the statement. “With Françoise and me, Son. Fortunately, you don’t know Cousin Sean well enough to give them any information, they don’t already have.”

Françoise is visibly nervous. “Who is this ‘they’, you keep referring to?”

“The organisation that dare not speak its name.” Dad laughs at her still puzzled expression.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” Her nerves are causing her to shake her head almost violently.

“To make it simple enough for even you to understand,” I smile caustically, getting even for her remark about my lover’s going straight. “he’s talking about the Secret Intelligence Service.”

“There is no such thing in Britain.” She is still shaking her head.

“Maybe you knew it as MI6?” Raph is now glaring at her, coming to the same conclusion at which I’m arriving: she probably did not work for British intelligence during World War II. And the reason they refused to renew her British passport was that they considered her a Nazi collaborator.

She looks trapped, cornered. My glance at Raph tells me that he’s not going to pursue the issue. I nod. And Seph comes to the rescue of his little sister. "Be that as it may, we still have to get to our safe house before dawn.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Françoise’s defiance is certainly not meeting with approval, but there is no opposition, either. Time is too short.

“Very well, then.” Dad states evenly, turning to Raph. “How long will it take you to pack?”

When he tells Dad that he’s already packed, my heart sinks, my stomach cramps. I have to remind myself that this solution does, in fact, serve our best interest.

Dad glances at me, and I’m sure that he sees my moist eyes, but he doesn’t ask why. Raph can fill him in while they’re en route to wherever it may be.

“Will you be back for the interment on Monday?” Geneviève wants to know. “Or do Dan and I have to do it alone?”

“No, we won’t be, Vievie.” Dad looks sadly at her. His eyes are about as dry as mine. “But Martin and Richard Ashton will be here.”

“Do I know Richard Ashton?” She raises her eyebrows.

“You met him once at the Rotunda Theatre. He’s our consul in Kansas City.” Raph explains to his mother. His shift of identity is complete. He’s no longer queer but definitely British. As opposed to me.

I'm definitely queer but just as ambivalent about being British as I ever was about being American. If it weren’t for conscription here, I’d just as soon be French. Nationality is not an identifying factor for me; it’s just a cumbersome attribute defined by random circumstances, resulting in taxes and military service.

“And I’ll be here.” Marty says demurely. “If that counts.”

I squeeze his hand, telling him that it does count. Geneviève ignores his need for recognition.

“Does anyone have an objection to my staying the night?” I can’t believe how persistent Françoise is.

Before I can tell her that I have very strong objections, Seph intrudes with his family diplomacy. “I don’t think it would be a good idea, given that this is Dan’s home.”

“He doesn’t own the place.” She gives me daggered glances.

“I’m afraid you’re wrong.” Seph contradicts her very nicely. “I’ll phone for a taxi.”

“Don’t bother.” She goes to get her coat from the hall with Marty following. “I’ll have the concierge do it.”

Seph watches her leave; Marty is waiting with her at the lift. Seph turns to Raph and me. “What’s this about your breaking up?” Geneviève comes round the table.

“Raph isn’t queer.” is my statement of fact. “That’s all there is to it.” Both Geneviève and Seph let out a sigh at hearing this. “Don’t be upset. It happens in the best of families.” Of a sudden, the atmosphere jumps from maudlin to just short of cheery.

“Are you going to be okay, Lad?” Seph’s concern certainly appears to be genuine, but this is certainly not the time for me to dump any emotional baggage at his feet.

“Now, that’s a silly question.” I try for jovial, but my misty eyes give me away. “He’s still my brother.” I also wanted to say, ‘and best friend’. But I’m not all too sure that this is not in fluctuation as well. Raph gives me a kiss on the cheek and leaves the room; Seph follows.

Geneviève sort of lingers in the hallway just outside the door, as if she’s uncomfortable about being alone with me.

Having seen Françoise out, Marty comes through the living room. “Do you want me to spend the night with you, Little Brother?” Marty's awareness is unique and his comfort is more than welcome. I nod my head.

“By the way,” Geneviève steps back in and stops dead in her tracks, as if she’d seen a ghost. “Dan, I put your dinner in the refrigerator.” She shakes her head. “I never noticed before how strikingly similar you two look.”

“All white guys look the same, huh?” I tease.

She smiles but remains serious, “I have never looked upon you as a white guy, mon enfant.” then turns and leaves.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” Marty offers to listen to my blubbering about something that neither of us can do anything about. I think that I can spare him.

I force a laugh. “Thanks for the offer, but I think that I’d rather cuddle with you without boring you senseless, first.”

His voice is uncompromising. “We need to talk about it, Dan.” Then, he becomes a lot lighter and more conversational. “I know what I’m saying. I think I can help you, too. You haven’t heard me wheeze lately, either, have you?"

“All right,” I relent with a smirk. “but it can’t go on all night. I have a date in the morning at 9:30.”

“Not wastin' any time, are ya?" He takes me into a headlock, and I only resist for show. Submitting to Marty like this, makes me appreciate that he actually is the older brother that I've missed for all these years. "D'ya give?" He growls with mock aggression.

“Would yus stop arsin’ about.” Seph’s good humoured voice sounds from the corridor, where he’s standing with Raph and Geneviève. He comes in and kisses Marty: “I’ve left you a list on the breakfast table upstairs of things to do.” Then he takes me into a strong hug. “Wish we’d had time enough to get this shite sorted. But for now, it’ll have to suffice for me to say that I'm gutted with shame for having doubted you."

“That makes two of us.” Raph joins in, making it sort of an awkward group hug, which I break. It’s pretend; it’s making me uncomfortable. My heart is hardening toward them, maybe a sign of emotional scarring.

“Use the time to say good-bye to Maman, Raph.” I wipe my eyes quickly. “She’ll be much farther away for much longer.” And at that, I make a dash through the living room for the gently winding stairs and for the seclusion of my rooms.

Less than two cigarettes later, there’s a knock at my door. Marty has two bottles of Alsatian beer. “Are you ready to talk?”

“Guess so.” I sit up to take one of the bottles and the bottle opener. “Has Geneviève gone to bed?”

Marty nods in confirmation. “Yeah, she’s pretty upset about you.”

“The three of ‘em, Seph, Geneviève and Raph, somehow feel bad. Wow! And by feeling bad, they’re trying to put the burden of what they did onto me.

“So fucking what, if they feel bad? But what about me, Marty? Did any of them say that they’re sorry? If they did, I didn’t hear it.

“People I’ve known and trusted all my life have stabbed me in the back, just because the cops busted an illegal whorehouse on an anonymous tipoff, and Françoise said that it was me, just because she hates queers. Did you see her pinched face when Dad called you a mhuirnín?”

“Yeah, I caught that.” Marty takes a long swig. "Why do you think she has issues with queers?"

“You’ll have to ask her about that, Big Brother.” I chuckle sarcastically. “Maybe, we make her feel superfluous. Or maybe, it’s because we don’t frequent her establishment.”

When his laughter dies down, he grows serious. “I just want you to know, that I am sorry for what happened.”

“Marty, you haven’t disappointed me.” I slide off the couch to sit on the floor in front of him. “We’ve known each other for all of what? Three weeks?” I rest my chin on his knee.

“Seph, Geneviève and Raph have known me for almost eighteen years and I have never given any of them even a hint of a reason to believe that I would turn any of them in, and certainly not Raph.” I start sobbing again. “That’s what hurts the most. I would never cause him any harm.”

“Yeah.” He strokes my head. “That is heavy.” Marty pulls out a joint. “Are you going to be able to forgive them?”

“I appreciate your Lebanese Baptist upbringing, which tells you to forgive, no matter what.” I laugh half-heartedly. He chuckles just as weakly. I wipe my eyes. "But in the non-biblical way I look at it, forgiveness is like trust. They’ll have to earn it.”

“H’m,” He takes a toke and passes me the J. “your way of looking at it, makes more sense.” I pass it back to him. “And did you see it coming, that Raph isn’t queer?”

“I have been telling everyone, since this whole thing started that I don’t think that he ever was queer.” I take a deep breath. “I’ve told him; I told you lot at the truth round." I laugh loudly. "Yeah, you could say that I saw it coming."

“Then why did you go along with it?” Marty makes a valid point, and it embarrasses me to admit the truth.

I take a long toke, followed by a deep breath of fresh air and a long swig of beer. "Because I couldn't bear being alone and the only queer on the East Side of Kansas City.

“The loneliness after Mack killed himself was unbearable. And I have no doubt that it would have eventually driven me to suicide. So, I clung to Raphie, who was also hurting from Mack’s death and needed a companion."

“Didn’t you feel you could have talked to Joseph?” Marty is trying to soften the blow for himself.

“We didn’t know him like you do, like Ron does, like Geneviève does.” I lean back against the couch, looking up at Marty. “He was a nice guy, who always stood up for me, who took Raph and me out for an ice cream or came to collect us at the theatre. If I had a problem at school, he was there, but that was it.”

My tears have dried up, and anger is boiling again in my gut. “That he’s a talented musician, that he loves men more than women, that he’s the longest-serving British spy in history, that he belongs to the aristocracy are all things that I found out less than three weeks ago, not five years ago.” I tap his wedding band that Seph gave him on their fifth anniversary.

Marty takes my hand. “God, I’m so sorry, Dan.”

I laugh. “Martin George Mortimer Maurice Mongrain-Bourke! How many times do I have to tell you that there is no god?” I kiss his hand. “And there is absolutely no reason for you to feel sorry for something over which you have no control.”

He grins sheepishly. “Point taken.” He drains his beer bottle. “So, tell me about your date,” He looks at his watch. “later today.”

“Why? Do you want to come along?” I tease.

Taking me seriously, Marty frowns. “Naw, I’ll stick around here. Maybe I can get Geneviève to like me.”

“Since she’s your predecessor’s widow, it might take some doing, Big Brother.” I get up off the floor and kiss the top of his head. “Is that important to you?”

“Not really,” He chuckles. “She’s leaving tomorrow after dinner, anyway.” He gets up and takes my hand to lead me into the bathroom. “Who’s your date with?”

“The concierge’s nephew.” I unbutton his shirt, slide it off and sniff it. He grabs it away from me and tosses it into the corner onto the top of the hamper.

“Is that the bearded guy,” He slips my shirt off over my head without unbuttoning it and tosses it on top of his. “you were talking to, when Joseph and I were leaving for the police station?”

“Yeah that’s Jaén.” Since my dick is already as hard as a satyr’s, it starts throbbing wildly at the thought of Jaén’s soft beard touching my groin.

He pulls me into the tub and closes the glass doors. The sight and smell of the coal-tar soap, that Raph brought with him from England makes my heart ache, but Marty's hands, applying it to my body, brings my mind into the present and soothes the pain.

When it’s my turn to lather him up, I’m desperately trying not to teeter on the verge of orgasm. His long foreskin has been an object of fantasy ever since I first felt it. I push it back and lather underneath. His moans tell all. I waste no time with the hand shower to rinse the suds and cover his sensitive tip, so he doesn’t blow too soon.

And now, I bend him over to cleanse his behind. The soft, blond fuzz, covering his rock-solid cheeks glistens in the diffuse light entering our surroundings through the steamed glass doors.

My soapy hands rub up and down his legs and around the muscled globes. Perfectly centred between those hard globes is a ring of dark blond hair surrounding his sombre-rose-coloured entrance. My soaped fingers probe gently. It spasms. I rinse.

I avoid washing his armpits all too much. His scent is delightful. And although he tries to wrestle the hand shower out of my hand, I win and close the taps.

The towel is the one Raph and I used. Now, the smells of Marty replace those of Raph on the Turkish cotton as I hang it on the rail and lead my big brother back into the bedroom by his hand.

When he tries to take me into a bear hug from the side, I use basic O Goshi to throw him over my hip onto the bed. The position is perfect; I drop my butt onto his face and dive for his crotch, sucking his balls into my mouth. We wrestle for dominance.

Of course, there’s no question for me; I need for Marty to make me his tonight, to let him do to me as he wishes. At the moment, he’s the only man in our family whom I still trust.

Sitting on my chest, he thumps his cock on my forehead, while I lick his tight sack. Of a sudden, he reverses to a squatting position, presenting his centre piece to my tongue, which coats his sombre-rose opening copiously with my oral liquid, since I’m salivating as would a wolf, encircling a selected lamb. His groans reflect my ministrations.

The German hand cream on Marty’s middle finger lets him soon insert two then three followed by his cock. He works my hole with the ease of sitting on a porch swing. There's no hurry and no pounding. I contract and loosen my sphincter in rhythm with his insertions and retractions, increasing the tightness for him when he pushes in to meet my prostate.

His speeding up in short strokes tells me that his moment of climax is approaching as he takes me from a side angle. Since he has my left foot resting on his shoulder and my right leg on the bed, he has freed my cock of any obstacle, so I can manipulate it to his rhythm, while plunging his own into my hole, teasing my prostate.

It only takes a couple of strokes for me to shoot five streams of sensuous odour in rapid succession, making my sphincter clamp around his piston. When he inhales the addition to the smell of our sweat, his right fist takes my left ankle into an iron grip, his skeletal muscles quake and his lungs heave at our combined carnal heat as he pumps three last times and stops on an inward stroke.

Spent, he collapses onto my seed-smeared chest. His tongue laps up a few drops from my chin and finds its way into my mouth. Sucking on his tongue, I fall into calm sleep, knowing that betrayal will no longer be a part of my life. Marty isn't capable of it, and I would be very surprised if Jaén-Masmuda hasn’t banned it from his psyche forever.

***

When the travel alarm rings at eight, Marty and I are still glued to one another. He opens his eyes and kisses me. "Thanks, for letting me."

I chuckle and kiss him back. “For letting you what?”

“Fuck you and then cuddle you. Joseph never lets me.”

“Okay, I know it’s early,” I suck his tongue. “but please stop talking in riddles. What does he never let you do? The one, the other or both?”

Marty’s face is glowing, generating enough heat from embarrassment that I can feel it. "He never lets me fuck him, and he never goes to sleep with me entwined with him."

"When the four of us had the orgy on Warwick, he did." I contradict him, feeling his dick poke me in the balls.

“You, Raph and I slept, but you can bet that he didn't as much as close his eyes." Marty takes a deep breath. “He has trouble with closeness after he shoots.” And when Marty tries to come unstuck from me, he giggles. "And I can see why."