“I wanna go to bed,” Max said, wriggling against Trevor. “Please, c’mon, I have been good, you promised.”

“What did I promise?” Trevor asked, squeezing.

Max made a pleased noise. “You promised you’d make it good. You promised you’d fuck me, you promised me a treat, you promised that we could stay in bed all weekend,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact rather than whiny. He rolled his pelvis, the fly of his jeans rubbing over Trevor’s. “You promised me all that if I promised to do exactly as you said, and I did. I didn’t play with my prick, I managed not to come during the two wet dreams I started to have, I sent you pictures and texts and did everything like you said.”

“You did,” Trevor said, then tipped his head and kissed Max, slow and teasing. “You’re still so impatient.”

“I just don’t wanna waste time,” Max muttered. “Bad enough I have to take the train down here.”

“I know,” Trevor said, softly, then kissed him again.

“That’s all right, then.” Trevor rubbed his hand over the soft fabric again. “Mm. Tell me something, Maxwell. What is this?”

“My cock,” Max said, his eyes closed and his head tipped back.

“That’s right. And it belongs to me, doesn’t it?” Trevor’s voice was hard, again; the question more serious than any previous asking.

Max’s breath caught. “Yes, it does.”

Trevor reached around and pinched Max’s ass. “And this?”

“My ass, sir.”

“And it is…?”

“It’s all yours; has been since the first time you fucked me,” Max said, then decided to push his luck. “And would you please, sir? Now?”

“Would I please what?”

“Please fuck me, Trev,” Max said, rolling his hips and trying to get more contact between the two of them.

I opened my mouth to congratulate Levi on his successful McTwist as he came down, only to be left gaping as his board hit the lip and he slammed into the coping, then disappeared over the edge. I threw my board aside and dropped in, sliding down into the transition on my ass. He wasn’t moving, shit, he wasn’t moving and I couldn’t fucking think. “Hey,” I said, turning over and scrambling across the wood toward him. “Levi, hey, you okay?”

“It’s fuckin’ broken,” he said, though he didn’t move.

“What?” I asked, because I am nothing if not useful.

“My fuckin’ arm. Shit. Maybe some ribs. Think my head’s okay, though,” Levi said, shifting a little bit. “Better call an ambo.”

“I’ll call the paramedics,” I said, and fumbled for my phone. “You probably shouldn’t, like, move.”

An hour and a half later, Levi and I were sitting in the waiting room of the ER at Sisters Of Mercy And Grace, waiting to be called to get his arm and chest X-rayed.

“No, mum, I’m fine. Well, yeah, my arm’s probably broken. The left one. Yeah, it felt like that. The ambos said I probably don’t have a concussion, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t hit my head. Yeah. Yeah. Might have cracked some ribs, too.” Levi glances at me, his eyebrows raised. “My friend Will. Yeah. Yeah, that one.”

I frowned at him, wondering how his mother was referring to me. He wiggled his elbow at me, so I stopped worrying about it.

“Yeah, I know, Dad’s gonna flip his sh-wig. Yes, mum. I didn’t say it, did I? Yeah. Yes, I love you too. See you.” Levi ended the call and handed my phone back to me. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem,” I said, taking my phone from him. At least I was over the whole freaking-out-when-we-touch-for-a-second phase of my infatuation with him. Longer touches, like getting smashed up against each other on the bus or something, those were a different story.

His parents showed up a little while later, which led to some mild yelling (his mother scolding him; his father grousing about damn fools and their kiddie toys, wasn’t he too old to be hurting himself like this?) and his mother actually hugging me and sniffling a bit.

“Call me when you get home, dude,” I told him, as I got ready to leave. “Lemme know if your arm’s, like, permanently broken or something so I can tell you which of your decks I want.”

“Wanker,” he said, grinning at me. “Piss off. I’ll learn to skate one-handed if I have to.”

I snickered, but I kept any one-handed remarks to myself. “Yeah, yeah. Talk to you later,” I said, and took off.

It was almost eleven when my cell rang. “Hey, Levi.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft and kind of odd-sounding. “Quack said I broke m’arm an… Quacked three wibs. Ha. Cracked. Cracked three quacks.”

I laughed. “Dude, you’re totally stoned. Go to bed and call me in the morning,” I said.

“‘Min bed! Beddy-bed-bed. You know what I like about it here? No sharks. Not ever gonna be shark bikkie.”

“Levi,” I said, shaking my head. “Go to sleep. I’m gonna hang up, and you can call me back in the morning, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, his voice serious. “Good night, Will.”

“G’night, Levi.”

The next morning, I woke up to a half-dozen nearly unintelligible texts from Levi, a half-dozen from Than and Chris wanting to know if I knew where Levi had scored his good shit, one from Eddie that was about some drunk chick or something, and a voicemail that sounded like Levi trying to sing something to me. I saved it and called him back.

“Hey, Will! Thanks for sticking by me yesterday, hoonie,” he said, sounding much more alert.

“No problem,” I told him, feeling stupidly pleased at the nickname. It was one of the few words from the texts he’d sent that had made any sense whatsoever. “So last night, I think you said you had a broken arm and three cracked ribs?”

“Did I? Yeah. Apparently I also called a few other people,” he said, sounding sheepish. “Seriously barro.”

I laughed. “You called me at, like, four thirty and sang something to my voicemail,” I said. “And then there were the texts.”

“I’m really sorry,” he said. “They gave me something that made me feel really, really choice at hospital.”

“It’s cool,” I said.

“Yeah?” he said. “Hey, my parents are going up to some conference for the weekend, so… You wanna come over and make sure I don’t, like, fall and hit my head while I’m out of my mind on whatever pills they gave me?”

“Yeah, I can do that. I’ll bring some games and junk food and we can stay up all night,” I said. It’s almost like one of my fantasies: just the two of us and the Thompsons’ stupidly comfortable, ungodly massive couch in front of the world’s best entertainment system. Alone. All weekend. It’s not one of my fantasies, though, and I reminded myself of that little fact at various points for the rest of the day. I kept reminding myself all day Friday, too.

It didn’t stop me from buying rubbers and lube along with the chips.

It was the politeness that changed Tobias’ entire life. Well, it was actually a split-second decision to try being a hero, but he wouldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been for the politeness. The pirate stories he’d grown up on were full of wild-eyed and desperate men who swore like the sailors they subdued; who were mean and villainous and often sported really ridiculous mustaches.

The man working his way down the line of passengers was calmer, quieter, and—not that Tobias was thinking about it too closely—clean-shaven. He held a soft cloth bag in his right hand and a nasty little Ledent in his left, and as he moved he kept up a constant patter.

“That’s right, missus, I’ll have those earrings; no, no, not your wedding rings, you keep those. Sir, your watch- Wait, what’s that say? Twenty-five years in the Corps? No, you keep it. Your wallet, now, empty that if you please; thank you. Yes, miss, that’s quite a sweet portrait, have you a safe place for it? Yes? Did he give you- No? Then I’ll have the locket and chain both. Thank you. Cash? Gold? No? All right then.”

The man watched as Baronne Chénier jerked a heavy twist of pearls from her neck and flung it at his feet. “You want my jewels, you horrible man? You and my miserable bastard of a first husband can crawl for them.” Her rings followed the necklace, bouncing across the rug to bump against the polished toes of his shoes.

“Thank you, missus,” he said, as sweetly as he’d said everything else. The man dropped to one knee, flipped the jewelry into his bag with the snubby nose of the Ledent, then rose smoothly.

That was the moment that Tobias decided the man couldn’t possibly be any sort of threat. He was outnumbered by the people in the salon; there was no way he could hope to escape if they banded together! They only needed someone to make the first move, and he would be the one. The man had moved on to Miss Ford, who was the daughter of some timber baron or something. Once he was done with her, Tobias would take the man down and…

“Those earrings, miss, are they rubies?”

Miss Amberleigh Ford lifted her chin and looked down her nose at him, an impressive feat considering that she was a full thirty centimeters shorter than her interrogator. “Of course they are,” she said, voice as chilly as the ice field they were drifting over. “All of my jewelry is real.”

“Splendid,” he said, and held up the sack. “Please put everything in here, miss.”

“And if I refuse?” She crossed her arms.

“Miss,” he said, and gave her a cajoling smile. “I’m sure you’ve plenty more pretty things in your room. What are these, to you? Besides…” And here, the smile fell away as he leaned toward her, his voice getting louder for the first time since he’d announced his presence. “You poor thing, those colors do nothing for your complexion. I’m sure one of the other women on board would have mentioned it… Or perhaps they wouldn’t.”

Tobias was fascinated by the change that such a simple statement wrought on the young woman. She flushed right down to the collar of her tea dress, her mouth opening and closing as her hands fell to her sides. Miss Ford removed her earrings, her necklace, and the rings from her fingers with sharp movements, dropping them into the bag.

“Thank you, miss, and wear emeralds next time, won’t you?” A grin flashed at her and then it was Tobias’ turn.

“All right, young man, your wallet and your watch, if you please.”

“I brought neither with me,” Tobias lied, staring at the gun. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be content with this.” He made a grab for the man’s left hand, managing to force it up toward the ceiling. The Ledent and its attendant possibility of death demanded the whole of his attention, which was why the blow to his chest was a surprise. Tobias grunted and looked down, away from the struggle, and in that split second of inattention the man struck him again.

“Do not move.” The cold metal of the Nova’s barrel pressed against his cheek, just under Tobias’ right eye. “On your knees, lad, and put your hands behind your back. That’s it.”

He was hard-pressed to decide which was worse: the burning humiliation of failure, or the fact that he had been winded and subdued with only two strikes. The man cuffed him, then helped him to his feet, which was strange enough to make him forget his embarrassment. “What the-”

“You’ll see. Now,” the man said, tugging him out of the line of people, “since you claim to be free of valuables, I think I’ll make do with you. Stand here quietly, please, while I finish up. Oh, and next time you want to pretend you’ve left your watch elsewhere?”

The man seemed to be waiting for a reply, so Tobias said, “Yes?”

“Make sure your chain’s not visible.” He gave the young man a quick little smirk, then went back to the line of passengers. Ten minutes later, he shoved the bag into Tobias’ hands and looped the drawstring around his cuffs, then bowed to the assembly. “Thank you kindly,” he said, before he hauled his loot through the salon door and disappeared.

The music really couldn’t go any louder, mostly because the crappy little speakers in the doors would start cutting out. Jesse Swanson flicked the knob anyhow, just a bit, pushing the sound system to its limit and reveling in the angry clashing-thrashing sound of the music. What the hell was Kevin’s problem, anyhow? Edie and Lucas had invited both of them to go to the movies, and Kevin had said no. And then he’d gotten pissed off because Jesse had gone without him.

Jesse shouted along to the song, as loud as he could, keeping an eye on his speed as he steered his car down the unplowed length of Collins Road. It was mostly wet and sloppy, but slush turned to ice on the edges, and he didn’t want to go into the ditch. The music trailed off into something that sounded like metal garbage cans being thrown down concrete stairs, and his hand flashed out to skip to the next screamy track. A quarter of a mile ahead, an old oak tree stood at the side of the road, its dark branches wide against the sky. Jesse decided to just drive, now; to yell along with his music and get his annoyance out of his system before he went home.

If it had been warmer, or if the sky had been less threatening, he would have stopped to bask in the isolation of the area while his music poured over him. Something dark lay on the side of the road, just the other side of the tree. As he got closer, Jesse realized that it wasn’t the garbage bag he’d assumed it was. No, it was a dead bird, lying on the shoulder. The sight of it pulled him out of his little bubble of indignation; feeling strangely sorry for it, he turned the music off as he pulled over.

He picked his way through the slush to the bird. It was a raven, lying on its back with its
eyes closed and its feet curled tightly on nothing. Maybe someone had hit it–a half-dozen pigeons usually met the same fate every summer. Jesse returned to his car and dug around in the space under the hatchback, finally finding his gloves under an old towel burned through in places by spilled bleach.

He gingerly put his hands on either side of the slightly outspread wings and scooped it up, frowning as its head lolled. It seemed both strangely heavy and strangely light at once, and he wondered briefly if it was the fact that it was dead that made it heavy. Then he shook his head and dismissed the thought, gently placing the bird on the towel. It was impulse, really–probably something left over from when the raven’s ancestors used to eat his own–but Jesse folded the towel over the dark form before dropping his gloves and closing the hatch.

Ten minutes later, squinting through late-spring sleet and wondering what he was going to do with the bird once he got home, Jesse heard an odd sound. Kind of a shuffling noise, and then a kind of patting, like someone feeling around in the back. As he came to a stop at a red light, he glanced into his rearview mirror, just to see what he could see–

He was… cold. Warm and cold, both at once, but mostly cold. And moving, without wanting to move. He opened his eyes. The world was stranger than he’d expected it to be; the colors were different and the scents were all wrong. Something inside him got his body moving; he shoved himself upright, his head turning this way and that. The cold, boxy metal things were all around him, and he was inside one! Had he been eaten? He recognized the sound of a man, ahead of him, and tried to speak.

“Keh,” he said.

“What the hell?” Jesse turned around in his seat, staring at the head and shoulders he could see. Dark hair, wet and sticking to his forehead, skin so pale it was almost blue, dark eyes. “Who the hell are you and how did you get into my car?”

The words didn’t mean anything to him, but he tried to respond anyhow. Some little thing inside him, voice or sensation or a combination of the two, told him that it was important. Very important. “Uh.” The young man blinked, opening and closing his mouth a few times as if he wasn’t sure how it worked.

“Who are you? What’s your name? Do you–Damn.” Jesse settled back into the driver’s seat as people honked at him. He turned in at the first parking lot he came to, pulled across two spots, and nearly fell out of his car in his haste to get around to the back.

When the cover over him rose, he got his first close look at the man. The voice (it had a whispery quality to it) said: Yes. This is the right one. Maybe the man could explain, could tell him the right what. With this hope in mind, he looked up into the man’s face.

Jesse was ready for a lot of things: apologies, lies, even laughter and an explanation of some kind of weird prank. He was not at all ready for the look the guy gave him, a look that clearly said I am possibly more helpless than a newborn opossum. Once he was past that, however, the guy was naked, wet, and shivering, the old towel draped across his lap. The towel reminded him that there had been a dead bird in the back; was the guy sitting on it?

“What happened to”–to hell with the stupid bird–“you? Are you all right? What’s your name? Why are you wet and naked and more importantly why are you wet and naked and in my car?” Not that Jesse objected, generally speaking, to guys being naked around him. Or wet. Or wet and naked; however, he preferred to get to know them beforehand. Besides, the guy was in his car without so much as an “excuse me”, which was the pimento olive on top of a very weird sundae.

I tried real hard to hold still, but it wasn’t easy. My left foot was all pins an’ needles, my arms were tired from holdin’ myself up, an’ my feet an’ my hands an’ my ass were all cold. Why’d I ever say yes to replacin’ Ginger as the model for this life-drawin’ class anyhow? I mean, ‘sides from the fact that Ginger’d done me a handfulla favors over the last few years an’ I kinda owed her at least one.

“All right, time,” the lady at the front of the room, Miss Jenkins, said an’ I finally relaxed a little. Notta lot, though, ’cause if I relaxed too much I’d be showin’ off my bits an’ pieces an’ I didn’t wanna do that. She told me I wasn’t s’posed to, anyhow, an’ I didn’t wanna piss her off.
“If you’d please change position, Mister Delaney?”

Thank God. “Okay,” I said, an’ shrugged at her. “Whattya want me to do, now?”

“Um…” She thought about it, then pointed at the wooden box I was layin’ on. “Just stretch out on your side, please. And mind your, er…”

I minded my er an’ did as Miss Jenkins asked. At least I was gettin’ paid for takin’ my clothes off an’ lettin’ people draw me naked. It was easier work than what I usually did, an’ I even kinda liked it—I usually got to see what people drew an’ there were some real artists in the class. There was also this guy. There he was again, sittin’ in the back, all bundled up in a coat an’ hat an’ even a scarf, hunched up an’ drawin’. He never let anybody see any of his pictures, an’ he always left right after my time was up. It was weird, but I’d figured out that mosta the art students were kinda weird, so I didn’t think too much about it.

As I was layin’ there, listenin’ to the scratchy sound of people drawin’ me—it sounded like a buncha mice, really—I wondered what Benny was up to. Whenever I asked him, he just said he didn’t do a whole lot, just read or spent time with the guys or somethin’.

I couldn’t think about Benjamin Summers too much, couldn’t think about the way he looked when he smiled or how he kept our place all tidy or even just the way he smelled, while I was sittin’ around bein’ somethin’ to draw. If I did, Miss Jenkins’d prolly throw me out an’ call the cops, an’ that woulda been even worse than just gettin’ thrown out.