I Don't Like Mondays Page 5

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  "I didn't want to disturb you," Malcolm said when Fernando emerged from the bathroom. Picking up a tea tray from the carrera marble countertop, he zipped along the corridor, bidding Fernando follow by the spark in his smile. "Fresh whole wheat scones. Well, I baked them yesterday, but still fairly fresh. Just the thing to settle an iffy tummy. Butter, too, and organic morello cherry jam if you're feeling up to it."

  The sitting room had precisely the feel he expected of a university professor's. Not a wall in sight, only dark wooden bookcases stacked vertically and then horizontally with everything from leather-bound volumes to paperbacks. The center of the room showcased an elderly steamer trunk, dented badly on one side, and blue paint scraped off the nearby edge. The trunk was stacked with journals and magazines, as well as a few forgotten dishes.

  "Oh," Malcolm said, with the obvious realization he had nowhere to set his tray. "Would you do me a kindness and help declutter?"

  "Yeah, no problem." Finding in himself an unfamiliar eagerness to please, Fernando swept the trunk clear of papers and stoneware salad plates. Then, of course, he had no idea where to put it all.

  Malcolm nodded to the wooden chair seated like a senior prom wallflower in the corner of the room. "Just there would be wonderful, thank you."

  Something in his tone brought Fernando back to his front yard request that Gerry park in the street. He'd too soon forgotten he was a hired hand in this house. All the same, he said, "No problem," and meant it.

  "This," Malcolm went on as he set down his tray, "is a daring combination of green tea and chamomile."

  Fernando tried not to laugh too hard. "Daring?" Of all the things in life he'd call daring, none of them involved chamomile. He'd never heard of extreme tea-drinking or trick kettle-handling.

  "Well, yes, you're right--not spectacularly daring," Malcolm acknowledged. "Perhaps not daring at all, but it should do the trick. Will you take a seat?"

  "Thanks," Fernando said as Malcolm poured weak tea from a tiny green pot into tiny green cups. A very long time ago, his job counselor had told him never to take a seat in an interview room until the employer had invited him to do so. This wasn't an interview, and he'd already taken the best seat in the house twice over, but Fernando stood on formality when he remembered to.

  The sofa was big and old, with a vintage quilt thrown over the back. All of the furniture in this room looked like it would explode with dust the minute anybody sat on it. Upon closer inspection, it was perfectly clean--the paisley had just faded in the sunlight filtering from the backyard.

  "So, what kind of a professor are you, anyway?" Fernando asked. He didn't like the way he'd phrased that question. It sounded like a challenge. You think you're a big man, mister professor? And then in his mind, the leather patches resurfaced, and the dagger, and Pirate Malcolm held Fernando captive on the high seas...

  "Classics," Malcolm answered, swaddling their hot cups in little cloth napkins. He passed one to Fernando, and blew on the other before taking a small sip. "Not bad. I'll have to prepare this blend again. At any rate, this term I'm in cahoots with a colleague from the Art History department--would you believe her name is Carol Carroll? Ah, but she has a sense of humor about it. We're trying out a new third-year course in Greek statuary. I minored in art history when I was at uni, so it's bound to bring up many the recollection of my halcyon days!"

  When Malcolm offered up a scone, Fernando eagerly accepted, and even treated himself to a dab of butter on each half. Not what he'd usually eat, and the tea tasted like boiled socks, but his stomach thanked him for the respite. That was sort of how he felt about the conversation, too. He was out of his depth but, coming out of Malcolm's mouth, the words were nice to hear.

  "I fancy myself a bit of an art collector. Would you like to see my collection? I keep the best of it on the second floor." Malcolm half-rose from the adjacent loveseat before leaning toward Fernando to ask, "Are you feeling up to ascending the staircase?"

  The concern Fernando had found so endearing at first now played on his nerves. Maybe his tone was a little rude when he said, "Yeah, man. A-okay." Now stop asking how I'm feeling! I've got the shits! It's no big deal.

  As Malcolm led him to the second floor, Fernando felt strangely small. He watched, mesmerized as pinstriped ass cheeks writhed beneath a prison of fabric. Yes, he was staring, but what difference did it make when the man was facing forward, taking each stair slowly? Slowly. Slowly enough that his ass rose up with every step before falling to one side or the other. His hips swayed almost imperceptibly as he walked. You had to be looking for it, but the motion was there, the surging and settling, the rising and falling, the...

  "Man, you have got one sweet ass."

  Rising and...

  Stop.

  Fernando's blood turned to ice when he realized, yes, he'd said that out loud. He hadn't just thought it, he'd said it, and, as with all the other damn fool things that'd come tumbling out of his mouth over the past thirty-four years, he couldn't take it back. Malcolm turned. Slowly. Leaning against the railing, he looked down at Fernando. For a moment, he only stood and smiled like the cat that got the canary. When his lips parted, a cold sweat broke along Fernando's brow. His blood had thawed, and now it pulsed in his ears, so loudly he barely made out the words when Malcolm said, "Sorry? I didn't catch that."

  Thank the patron saint of second chances, even if this one was contrived as hell!

  "I...I didn't say anything," Fernando stammered.

  Even as Malcolm sent him shimmering waves of care, Fernando beaded with sweat. His gut gurgled. It sounded worse than it felt. He was sure the nastiest symptoms of his affliction had passed, but Malcolm wouldn't take no for an answer. "Let's get you to bed."

  "Huh?" Fernando stared at the glistening skin behind his unbuttoned shirt until Malcolm skirted past him to bound down the stairs.

  "Where do you live, exactly?" When he arrived at the base of the stairs, Malcolm turned and waited. For a stodgy professor, he seemed blessed with all the energy of Gerry's six-year-old twins. "And what's the best route from here to there? My antiquated MG isn't what you might call a fuel economist."

  Fernando couldn't help the smile growing across his cheeks. "You're driving me home in an MG? What year?" Gerry would have pissed himself if he knew--his big brother was crazy for British roadsters.

  "Nineteen thirty-six," Malcolm said. The pride beamed from his eyes like a rainbow. "I don't know much about cars, but the old boys have a beauty these newer sports cars are lacking. Today's sports cars are pretty young things, but they're feminized, don't you think? I've no intention of riding a girl around town, stunning though she may be."

  Malcolm put on shoes and picked up his keys as well as the jacket he'd left lying across a kitchen barstool. Locking up, he led Fernando to the barn doors and they each heaved one open. "The MG is a dapper young man, wind at his cheeks, hair in his eyes, racing out into life and proclaiming, it is mine! The MG inherited money and class from his father, but the reckless courage and naïve wit he possesses are all his own. He is the car I would be, or the car I would seduce, and in the end, both are me, because aren't we all narcissists, Fernie?"

  Utterly speechless, Fernando stood in the shadow cast by the garage. He stared at the car, but saw nothing for the torrent of words tumbling from Malcolm's mouth. "Fernando," he finally replied. "I hate it when Gerry calls me Fernie. He knows I hate it, too. What a stupid name."

  "I suppose it is," Malcolm agreed, "particularly set against Fernando. Your name reminds me of a bullfighter." And then he paused. "No, I'm thinking of Escamillo."

  He smiled as Malcolm hopped into his witty and courageous roadster. "Would you do me a kindness and close the doors when I'm out?" he bid before starting up the engine. It made roughly the same noise as Fernando's upset stomach.

  "No problem." He tried not to laugh at the sight of a big, tall black man sticking out of the classic car. In the MG, Malcolm looked like a G
.I. Joe crammed into a Hot Wheels. When he opened the passenger door, Fernando realized another strangeness--this was a true British roadster, with the steering wheel on what ought to be the passenger's side. "Doesn't that get confusing?" he asked Malcolm. "Don't you feel like you're driving on the wrong side of the road?"

  Malcolm tossed his head back and laughed. "Sometimes I'm tempted to drive on the wrong side of the road just for the hell of it!"

  "Hoo boy," Fernando muttered.

  "Where did you say you lived, my friend Fernando?"

  Securing his flimsy seat belt, Fernando gripped the car door with combined apprehension and excitement. "Crow Street, just east of Donner."

  And they were off!

  BIRDS OF A FEATHER

  ISBN: 978-1-61124-128-0 (Electronic)

  Genres: Gay / Contemporary / BDSM (Light) / Interracial / Multicultural / Voyeurism / Exhibitionism / Public Places

  Heat Level: 3

  Length: Novella (25k words)

  For nearly ten years, Tim and Ramon have lived together as platonic research associates studying bird cognition. Until the morning Tim storms into Ramon's bedroom to alert him that their parrot and research subject has flown the coop, they've never even seen each other naked.

  When they fly to Brazil on the off-chance they'll find their precious hyacinth macaw in the beautiful Pantanal region, Tim finds out more about the black sheep of Ramon's Brazilian family than his tight-lipped research partner would even have disclosed. In the presence of Ramon's off-beat but encouraging aunts, Tim rediscovers the comforts of family even as he finally realizes the depth of his attraction to Ramon.

  As the love Tim and Ramon denied and feared and pushed aside for so many years bubbles up in them, their concerns are overthrown by sheer lust. Whether they find their bird or not on this trip, they've already found each other...

  * * * *

  PROLOGUE

  "Dude, wake up! She's gone!"

  Ramon rolled toward the wall. He looked like an overgrown child in the twin-size bed pushed into the corner of the room. "Close the door," he moaned at Tim. His voice was heavy with sleep, and he probably thought he was dreaming. He obviously had no idea how serious this was.

  Tim didn't usually set foot inside Ramon's little room unless he was explicitly invited, but today there was an emergency. "Dude, she's gone!"

  Flipping onto his front, Ramon stuck his head underneath a pillow and grunted something indistinct. His back was broad, tan, and naked underneath a threadbare sheet. Tim was a little afraid of touching that slick bare skin, but gave in and shook him. Hard.

  "You have to get up!" Tim cried. He was tipping from incredulous to panic-stricken. "Mrs. Bucket is gone. She's not in her cage. She's not anywhere!"

  Ramon rolled onto his back, nearly falling off the tiny bed. His morning wood tented the sheet, which was so thin Tim could make out the thick cushion of dark hair around that firm erection, but tried hard not to stare.

  "What do you mean she's gone?" Ramon's eyes were large as dinner plates now. Distress had shaken off the sleep, and he scrambled out of bed, his upset obviously building as he fought with his twisted sheets. "She's gotta be somewhere. She's not in the house?"

  In all the years they'd lived together in this place, Tim had never seen his research associate naked. Never. Not once. He stared, dumbstruck, as Ramon picked up the pajama pants puddled on the carpet and punched his feet into the leg holes. Tim gulped as that hard dick disappeared from sight, and forced himself to look up past Ramon's chest and actually meet his gaze straight on.

  "What?" Tim felt flustered now, and unfocused, though he knew something huge had happened.

  "Where have you looked?"

  Tim stood in the middle of Ramon's bedroom as his research partner and housemate pushed past him, rushing into the hallway. "Everywhere," Tim stammered. "I've looked...everywhere..."

  CHAPTER 1

  "Polly" wasn't a particularly creative moniker for a parrot, but in retrospect it would have been kinder than "Mrs. Bucket." Back in grad school, everything was a bit of a joke to him and Ramon, so when the old bearded dude from the avian shelter had offered them a Hyacinth Macaw, Tim just couldn't resist. He'd seen a British TV show called Keeping Up Appearances when he'd first gone to visit his grandfather in Cornwall, and the main character was this snobby woman named Hyacinth Bucket. She insisted everyone pronounce her name "Bouquet" because she had delusions of grandeur and "Bucket" just didn't sound sophisticated enough. Now every time Tim heard the word "Hyacinth," it associated to "Bucket."

  Back when he'd chosen the name, neither he nor Ramon had anticipated the affection, and soon enough the love, they would grow to feel for their pet over the years. There were a lot of things they didn't anticipate.

  And, really, "pet" was the wrong word entirely. Mrs. Bucket wasn't even a research "subject," she was a partner to them, maybe even a friend. Nobody else understood. Some people claimed to understand, but they didn't. Not really. Most people acknowledged outright that they thought he and Ramon were crazy for devoting their entire lives to a parrot.

  Now that their bird was missing, Tim had his regrets about the name.

  At first, he and Ramon had tried to find Mrs. Bucket themselves. When it became abundantly clear that she wasn't in the house--the house that doubled as lab and office, and was hence paid for by grant money--they expanded their search out of doors. She couldn't have gone far, right? Well, she wasn't in the back garden and she wasn't in the neighbors' gardens, either. They had to do some fence hopping to find out that little gem.

  What next? The park? Well, if she was there they certainly couldn't set sights on her. Ramon came up with the idea of checking out local markets in case she'd popped in to peck at the fruit, but no luck there, either. They didn't want to issue a press release or anything, since their research backers would find out pretty fast that their bird was missing if the news was plastered all over the papers. Ramon had printed up a few "missing macaw" flyers and they'd posted them around the area, but that's as public as they were prepared to go for the moment.

  Tim tried to track down the bearded dude from the shelter where they'd bought Mrs. Bucket, but found out the old man had died five years ago. That little nugget only added to Tim's distress, though he wasn't sure exactly why. It's not like he really knew the guy. Maybe it was the timing. It was hard to believe they'd been living together, Ramon and Tim and Mrs. Bucket, for over five years--it was closer to ten, in fact. After devoting nearly ten years of life to this bird, how could he and Ramon not be desperate to find her? And "desperate" was no hyperbole. They'd go to any lengths. It was unspoken, but they were decided. They'd do anything to find their girl.

  Even so, the university was a last resort.

  * * * *

  It wasn't easy to carry on a conversation over the squeaks and squawks of all the birds in the university avian expert's office, but Tim and Ramon managed without raising their voices too much. This was all very hush-hush, after all. A good chunk of their grant money was supplied by this institution, by this department in fact, and they wanted to hold out as long as possible before admitting to their financiers that they'd lost their research subject. They really didn't know this woman well enough to be certain they could trust her with such a radical secret, but she'd sworn she would keep her lips sealed. What more could they ask?

  "Where could she be?" Ramon asked the "bird lady," a big woman with smiling eyes and a Caribbean accent.

  "Hard to imagine," she replied, placing an African Grey named Hercules back in his cage. "No sign of her in a week and a half?" They both shook their heads, though Tim was still watching Hercules preen. "If her wings were not clipped..."

  "We thought it would be cruel," Tim jumped in. "We figured if we ever had to let her go, we'd want her to be able to fly."

  "And now she flew the coop!" Ramon added.

  Tim groaned--growled, more like--so loudly even Hercules turned to give him a puzzled parrot look. Ramon was using tha
t same goddamn joke on everyone they encountered, and Tim hadn't thought it was funny even the first time. It made him feel like Ramon wasn't as freaked out about all this as he was. Tim could barely eat or sleep, and yet the only place he wanted to be right now was in his bed, the great consoler. The world turned upside-down the minute Mrs. Bucket took off, for Christ's sake! How could he be expected to behave like nothing was wrong?

  "Why did you refuse to implant her with a tracking device?" the avian expert asked.

  Ramon looked to Tim, seeming not to notice his irritation, and shrugged. "We never expected her to escape. It's not like we were tracking her in the wild. We didn't think she'd need one."

  The avian expert, Mildred--though she seemed a little too young for that name, Tim thought--searched through a filing cabinet and eventually pulled out a paper map. Unfolding it on the stainless steel veterinary table in the middle of the room, she drew their attention to a lush green segment. "The Pantanal region of Brazil." She pointed at the area. "I've seen a case like this before: macaw escapes captivity, takes off. Thanks to its tracking device, we were able to trace its flight path all the way to Brazil. If your bird went looking for other Hyacinth Macaws, that is where she would find them."

  Tim felt his jaw drop so exaggeratedly hard he was sure he looked like a cartoon character. "You think our bird flew to Brazil?"

  Ramon shrugged, seemingly unfazed by Mildred's suggestion. "That's where she's from. It makes sense that she would go back there."

  "That's where you're from," Tim shot back at Ramon. "You never go back there!"

  Everyone in the room, including the birds, seemed more than a little surprised by Tim's outburst. Even he wasn't sure where it came from. Maybe it was just the idea of her being so far away from them, and the great likelihood that they'd never find her. Or maybe it was the dawning realization, which had trickled in little by little over the past week and a half, that she had chosen to leave them. After almost ten years, she'd made the active decision to go. And he really couldn't understand why.