Anson slept in. There was no need not to, having showered the night before. A cold shower, in which a rush to leave kept him from shampoo, but he was clean enough. And he had a strong desire to lounge given how warm his room had been over the night. When he woke up all relaxed and refreshed he felt better about what had happened last night, like he could handle Calder better. What was he going to do, tell people he’d been rejected? He’d only expose himself. Anson supposed he could still get evicted, but when he opened his door and found all of his clothing hanging on the knob, washed and pressed, he felt safe. Like maybe Mr. Morris didn’t want to take the risk.

He put on his navy suit and gelled his hair in case it was dirty, then made his way out with plans for Italian. At the concierge desk Robert was back at his post, looking unchanged. Anson approached in a better mood than usual, waving, and Robert seemed to hold back a sigh.

“Good morning.” Anson said, chipper to the point of spiteful. “How was your day off, Robert?”

“It was swell, thank you.” He spoke curtly. “I heard while I was away you met our proprietor.”

Anson didn’t let Calder’s mention trip him up, and only smiled politely.

“Yes, what a kind fellow. He was very concerned as to how well I’ve been treated so far.” Anson recalled. Robert retained his stiff upper lip, but Anson could tell he was not entirely thrilled. “I of course let him know what a great concierge you’ve been.”

“Many thanks.” Robert said, his dryness now signature. Anson felt that the man really should have been thankful, given how easily he could have pointed out the general rudeness he exuded, but he wasn’t about to push the point.

“Well, I’m off to see the sights.” Anson said then. His father used to say that before leaving the house to cause trouble. “Have a good day.”

“Mr. Monroe.” Robert called to him as he turned to leave. “If it interests you, many of the townsfolk are attending morning prayer in the library. We don’t have a church here, but you can still worship if you want to.”

“Thank you.” Anson didn’t hesitate, but internally he paused. He often took mass in order to meet the zealots, sell whatever books he could, but he didn’t normally have an attractive couple waiting for him. It did look bad when the bible seller skipped out on church, but since he’d sold most of the bibles he was willing to take the risk and miss. He nodded to Robert and headed out into a brisk day, but after a few steps he heard his name called again. When he turned around Robert was standing there, looking awkward in the cold with nothing but a suit, like he had been the past week.

“Sorry. Mr. Brown had pamphlets done, he gave a lot to the hotel.” Robert said, extending his hand to show Anson a pamphlet with the library’s photo on it. Anson thought it odd that Robert would put the effort into giving this to him, but regardless took a step towards him to take it. “Are you stupid?”

“Wha— what?” Anson stammered with surprise. Robert stepped closer and lowered his voice.

“How much of an asshole do I have to be? Stop risking your dumb ass and get the hell out of here.” He said, then shoved the pamphlet into Anson’s hands. “There is a danger here you need to stop trifling with.”

“I can handle myself.” Anson said, suddenly defensive. He’d proved as much last night, and knowing it he snatched the pamphlet, turned on his heel and stormed off to his car. Once inside he sat down in a huff and threw it in his backseat, then drove away, looking back to see Robert had returned inside.

It didn’t take long for him to drive up to the little Italian joint, park his car and huddle in his coat against the cold as he approached the door. Upon entry he didn’t feel much of a temperature change, but Gin’s warm smile did enough for him. She was sitting at the counter, wiping a glass clean, and looked maybe a little bored until he came in.

“Morning!” He smiled back, and he heard a ‘morning!’ shouted through the kitchen window. “Good morning, Heath!”

“Don’t interrupt me, I’m cooking.” He hollered, and Gin affectionately rolled her eyes.

“How are you, sweetheart?” She asked. He started to slip off his coat, felt the chill, then pulled it back up. She was only wearing a cardigan today though, over what Anson had heard called, often unkindly, a housewife dress. It was a simple swing dress made of cheap gingham cotton that buttoned all the way up to the collar, and big city fellas hated when women dressed them up with hats and pearls instead of buying something more expensive, like taffeta or velvet. Gin wasn’t dressed up at all, in fact she was wearing a thick pair of wool socks and had tied her hair back.

“I’m good. I finally got a good night’s sleep. I swear that hotel gets as cold as this place here.” He said, and she giggled a little. He was not about to ask if the pair knew the hotel’s owner. It was possible they didn’t, as aloof as Calder seemed to be, but it was possible they did, as he was the only other queer man in town. There could be a dark history between them, and Anson was not about to unearth it whilst trying to get lucky. “Yourself?”

“Hungry!” She yelled.

“Alright, alright!” Heath yelled back. “I’m coming, I’m coming, hold your horses!”

“Can’t hold ‘em if you’re hungry enough to eat ‘em.” Anson pointed out, and Heath opened the kitchen door to give him a stink eye. He held two plates in his hands, both of which appeared to hold toast with poached eggs. Gin went and got the other plate, then grabbed some utensils as Heath disappeared into the kitchen and again returned, but now with two small bowls.

“Guess what I made? Drumroll, Gin, if you please.” He requested as he set down the two bowls. Gin drummed her hands on the counter. “Something. . . not Italian.”

“Whoa!” Anson exclaimed, his surprise genuine. Gin laughed. “They don’t eat eggs in Italy?”

“Not like this.” Heath spooned a white sauce on top of everyone’s eggs. “We don’t usually make yogurt. If we have dairy we do ricotta, mozzarella, butter, whatever can go on the menu. But we felt like treating ourselves.”

“Yogurt on eggs?” Anson asked skeptically, but eased as Heath spooned on what appeared to be hot sauce. It looked the way he’d had it around Greece, sharp and cooling.

“No, no, not like the sweet stuff you buy in a big supermarket. It can be very tangy.” He pulled up a stool and Anson followed suit. “Plus I mashed garlic and salt in my mortar and pestle and mixed it in.”

“Bon appetit.” Gin said as she cut into her meal, and Anson did the same. The toast seemed perfectly done, as did the egg given the way the yolk ran when he cut in. He got a bit of bread, egg, yolk, yogurt sauce and the red sauce too before taking a bite. It was not Italian, but with all that fat, tang, and heat had the spirit. Or maybe Heath was just that talented a chef, making everything delectable and just the right kind of nostalgic. His breakfasts in Italy were generally a quick espresso and maybe a pastry, but once or twice a fried egg of his lover’s doing was devoured with as much satisfaction as now.

“Holy crap, this is so good.” He said, and decided to fib a bit when Heath flushed at the compliment. “I didn’t know yogurt could taste so — so—”

“Lactic?” Heath suggested, and Anson nodded, only encouraging him. Anything to butter this man up. “Almost like sour cream, right? But looser, not so intense.”

“And what’s the hot sauce?” He questioned, and Heath beamed. From the interest or just from himself Anson wasn’t quite sure, but the brightness in his eyes suited him.

“Cayenne in melted butter.” He answered, which explained why it was so good.

“Oh! The ravioli last night was delicious.” Anson said, and Heath beamed again. “My compliments to the chef.”

“I let him know.” Gin gave Heath an affectionate look as she cut into her egg. “After all that commotion settled down.”

“God, what was up with that fella? Bug crawl up his ass?” He asked, and Heath snorted.

“Dallas can be a hard man at times, but I assure you he’s a sweetheart normally.” Gin insisted, thought a moment, and added: “And not just because I’m a pretty girl.”

“Pretty full of yourself.” Heath said, and Gin punched his arm. “Ow! Oh God, my whole arm is tingling now.”

“Serves you right.” Anson said as Gin stuck out her tongue. “But he did not seem like a sweetheart.”

“Apparently he didn’t come back from Normandy right.” Heath divulged, not an uncommon phrase in the years after the war. “He snaps easier, and can be more unkind. Especially — well, when people come through he likes to judge and see if they’re draft dodgers.”

“And he’ll judge them harshly.” Gin said, and Anson felt flummoxed.

“Then what the hell is he mad at me for? I didn’t dodge the draft!” Anson said, and Gin raised her hands.

“We’re not accusing you of anything.” She said kindly enough for Anson to believe it.

“Not that we’re in any position.” Heath pointed out, and Anson laughed unexpectedly at that. “I think he could just tell you didn’t serve.”

“No. I started working from a young age at a mechanic’s. I was fourteen when the frame of a car came down on my leg.” Anson said, and at least this was honest. “I’m fine now, can’t feel a thing, but at eighteen I still had a cane.”

That had been a costly injury. His family couldn’t afford it, hence him working at that age in the first place, and it meant his father had to work overtime. Well, ‘work’ wasn’t the right word. Scam people, steal whatever he could get his grubby hands on, bitterly drag Anson along with him for sympathy. When he finally got off those crutches and onto a cane he became the helper, and now he does what his father did, but he did a better job if he said so himself. He used to anyway. Things got too hot and he had to constantly remind himself to cool down, keep under the radar. This town had to be as under the radar as it got.

“And anyway, I don’t see him shouting at you and you’re a draft-dodger.” Anson pointed out before he could do too much recollecting.

“But can you tell looking at me?” Heath said, and Anson had to admit defeat with a shrug there. “Exactly. Helps that yesterday was our first official meeting.”

“But you skipped out on Nazi killing for love.” Gin cooed, and leaned over to kiss him. Anson watched, his envy poisonous, but he’d gotten a hotter, heavier kiss the day before yesterday, so he wasn’t about to pitch a fit. He felt assured he was going to get more than that in the future, too, so he settled into his toast without complaint.

They finished their meal with light conversation, on Heath’s pastas and the bibles Anson had been selling. When they finished Heath took their plates to the kitchen and Gin walked around the counter with a familiar look on her face and pulled Anson close. He caught her drift and kissed her, then skimmed his hands up the back of her skirt. At the sound of the kitchen door Gin pulled away, and when Heath approached kissed him with Anson’s hands still on her ass. When they were through Heath leaned in and kissed Anson, and when he pulled away he spotted the lightest dusting of a blush on both their cheeks.

“I think you should come downstairs.” Heath said, his voice already a little heated. Anson had forgotten there was a basement here: Heath had only mentioned it the day he’d stayed on that cot in the kitchen. He’d also said that Gin had gone home, but that now was a clear lie in order to hide the relationship as they all headed to the back corner of the dining room. Back there Heath opened a discreet trap door with a very steep set of wooden stairs leading down into a darkness the pair seemed more than familiar with due to the candle sat at the top stair. Heath handed it to Gin, who produced a match and lit it, then lead the way downstairs.

Anson followed, uncertain of the steep and rickety descent, but Gin plowed heedlessly ahead, so he played nonchalant as Heath closed the door behind them. Despite being very dark and underground it was warmer than it had been upstairs, maybe protected by the earth. When they reached the bottom Anson stepped onto rough hewn stone and felt like he was in the heart of the mountain. With very little light from the candle he reached out and touched Gin’s waist, and she giggled a little. Another source of light brightened the room slightly, and Anson found that Heath had lit another candle and lifted it to show him the area.

What he saw was two rooms: a small one off to the left he could not see into, but supposed was a bedroom, and a greater area dedicated to food storage. There were maybe a dozen cases of wine pushed against the wall, surrounded with sacks of flour and potatoes. Several milk crates overflowed with vegetables that could keep in cold air for awhile, like onions and garlic, and around those maybe two dozen ceramic crocks likely filled with pickled vegetables. On the right, hanging from the ceiling, he saw pounds and pounds of meat. It reminded him of Italy, or maybe a New York delicatessen, so he stepped closer to take a look.

“We order the salami and ‘nduja.” Heath explained proudly, “But the rest we cure on our own.”

“Oh boy, you’re about to get the whole spiel.” Gin laughed, then disappeared into the other room.

“Don’t act like you don’t like my spieling.” Heath called after her, and Anson grinned. “Here’s pancetta, here’s guanciale, here’s prosciutto.”

He pointed to a massive roll of pork, intricately tied, a few smaller slabs of pork hanging on meat hooks, and a couple hog legs. Anson was too familiar with gore to be disgusted, and he nodded in fascination. The meat was raw but cured, not rotting but preserved. The smell in the room was mostly black pepper, some herbs, but nothing disgusting.

“The leg we just shave off bit by bit once it’s cured. The antipasto is surprisingly popular.” Heath said, then pointed to a shelf lined with bone-in, fatty looking beef. “Short loin. We dry age that for steaks. The fishermen will come in with their own lobsters for me to boil up.”

“For surf and turf?” Anson asked, and laughed when Heath nodded. “That’s amazing. I bet you charge out the ass for this.”

“No, I couldn’t. It’s a total ripoff when restaurants try to charge you ten dollars for something worth two.” Heath said, and Anson nodded silently. It had momentarily slipped his mind that some people are honorable. “Come on, I think Gin’s waiting for us.”

Something about the word ‘us’ enticed him, and he followed Heath into the room on the left to find indeed it was a small bedroom, with Gin lying on a cozy looking quilt. She had removed her cardigan and house dress, leaving only her thick socks and tap pants. Her hair was undone too now, and she spread out and looked up at the pair with maybe more patience than they deserved. Anson’s instinct was to get on her level, so he loosened his tie and began to undo his buttons. Heath removed his white tee shirt and jeans, kicking off work boots as he went, and began to undo Anson’s belt when he was down to his briefs. He leaned close and kissed Heath’s shoulder, then his collarbone, then his neck as a hand reached down his pants and tugged him awake. Anson moaned into his skin and he pulled away — regrettable, but he needed to take off his trousers and oxfords.

They both took the opportunity to look to Gin as he did this, who was passing her time by sliding her hand down her shorts and massaging her clit, taking care of herself the way Anson knew she would soon take care of them. In moments he and Heath were both nude, and he pulled the man into a close kiss — chests touching, hands roaming, arousal evenly met — until Gin let her foot slide up his leg, demanding attention once more. When Anson looked at her she gave him an inviting smile, though it was Heath who pulled away in order to remove her tap pants and throw them to the side. Gin pulled him into a kiss, and when Anson sidled onto the downy bed she released Heath to kiss him, too.

He had hoped there would be more action between he and Heath this time around: he wanted him more than his wife after all, and he was frankly the only reason he was fucking her. But as Gin kissed him deeply, ruffling his hair as she went, Heath picked her up and set her on his lap, causing a gasp and then an eruption of giggles from her end. When he kissed his wife’s shoulder Anson met his gaze and wondered what was in it: Heath looked exhilarated, and so handsome with a blush across his cheeks, and Anson could only pray that his own expression appeared lustful rather than envious. To divert both his eyes and any suspicion he chose to lie down between Gin and Heath’s spread legs, where he used two fingers to part her labia and lay his tongue on her little clit. She moaned for him, soft and sweet, and he eagerly licked her up and down as to hear more. The moaning continued as he ate her out with vigor, all the while stroking his hand up and down Heath’s thigh. He must have been hard against Gin’s ass, with her moaning only aiding the arousal. When she gripped his shoulder tight and cried out in pleasure Anson let her rock against his mouth, then pulled away, ready for more than just oral. Heath was on the same page, leaning over to the nightstand and opening the drawer. Anson laughed aloud.

“Is that olive oil?” He asked, and Heath blushed.

“That’s what the Romans did.” Gin pointed out breathlessly. “And it’s not like we’re going to run out any time soon.”

Anson snorted as Heath squirted some oil from the bottle and into his hand, which immediately moved under Gin’s bottom. She gasped at the touch and Anson had an odd moment of realization at the depravity — watching a married man stick a lubed finger up his wife’s ass, freshly stimulated with his mouth and soon to be again by his erect cock. He suppressed a shiver, but in truth this was some of the best sex he’d ever had. Only that last morning romp with Pietro could surpass this, and he thought of him when he kissed Gin again, of how exciting danger was in the bedroom. If only one of those townies the couple served knew what was happening in the space just below.

Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

Heath worked a second finger into Gin, stretching and scissoring as to relax the muscle, but Anson could see from the look of pleasure on her face that the pair had to do this often. She was too relaxed for a first-timer, or even the type of housewife who only did anal as an occasional thrill, a birthday gift and maybe once on Christmas. Heath may have been absolutely devoted to her, but he still had inclinations that needed to be fought back — a woman’s ass wasn’t quite the equivalent, but for so many years he must have forced it to be enough. Now, though, now Anson was there, with an appeal Gin didn’t possess. An appeal he was confident enough about to swallow his envy when Heath and Gin repositioned so his cock could slide up her ass. Gin moaned for him, and he gripped her hips tighter, but both paused and looked up to him in anticipation.

There was a power in this that caused him some headiness. He was suddenly too warm in a freezing room, and every breath that filled his lungs stung like crystalline ice. An odd feeling seized him, and something deep down told him to run, grab his clothing and get far away from here, and when he pushed the feeling down it was like he was physically beating at it. This wasn’t like Italy: no one was going to chase him through the streets, no mobs with torches would form, and there would be no blood and gore and death, not this time.

If any of his hesitation shown through, Heath and Gin didn’t notice. He leaned into Gin and Heath, with his arms wrapped around her, laid back against the pillows. When Anson looked down he got a gorgeous view of Heath’s cock up Gin’s ass, of her wet pussy just waiting for him, and he thrust himself inside her with a groan of satisfaction. Heath was quick to move, a strange sensation: he could feel his cock so close to his own, thrusting into the very same woman he was so deep in, and he began to thrust along. Gin moaned, her hands roaming on Anson’s back, and Anson couldn’t help but moan himself. He and Heath fucked her until she was screaming, twice then three times, looking at her face twist with pleasure, at Heath’s intense gaze on him. He lost control before Heath did, cumming deep inside her, and after Heath followed the trio lay together awhile, Anson gently kissing Gin’s chest, meeting eyes with her husband pressing his lips to her neck.

Eventually they untangled themselves. Anson sat at the edge of the bed and just breathed a moment, all too aware that Gin and Heath were resisting the urge to cuddle as they kissed on the pillows behind him. But in the restaurant business they must have been used to early mornings and late nights, so they parted and began to dress in easy silence. As Anson slipped on his tie Heath offered to walk him out and share a cigarette, and Gin waved the pair off as they headed back upstairs.

Outside the air was frigid, but Anson was too warmed up inside and felt awkward in his heavy coat. Heath handed him a cigarette and pulled out his zippo — the flame jumped too close to his face, but he didn’t flinch. Just took a long drag and stared out over the ocean.

“Gin’s fucking gorgeous.” He said, with the smoke from his mouth pulled away swiftly by the wind. “I see why you defied the law for her.”

“I’d defy God himself.” Heath answered easily. He flicked ashes from his cigarette in an almost lazy fashion — full of food and fresh off a roll in the hay, Anson understood why. It wasn’t a shared feeling. That sense that he needed to run, and run now, had started up his heart like an old engine. He tucked his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking. This was not Italy. Pietro would not even recognize him now.

“You’re gorgeous, too.” He whispered. “We’re defying the law for you.”

He glanced Heath’s way to see his expression open and full of affection, a wellspring that so quickly bubbled it seemed he had no choice but to display it, to hand it out in tender kisses and warm meals. Fuck. He was really in it now.

“I think I’ll head back to town.” He bent his head and spat out his cigarette before he could catch too much disappointment on the chef’s face. “Find some form of entertainment outside that damned hotel.”

“Climbing the walls, huh?” Heath chuckled. “They have gatherings in the library quite often. And Joe’s got entertainment — books and cards, crossword games.”

“Is that what you and Gin get up to? You must need some way to blow off steam, besides blowing each other.” Heath slapped his arm. “I jest. Sex, candle-making, and cooking Italian. That ought to be enough for anyone.”

“It sure is.” Heath said, but his voice was hollow. When Anson looked his way again he was bombarded with a kiss, so ferocious it almost bowled him over. He pulled his hands from his pockets and embraced the other man, embraced him as his collar was pulled and his breath was ensnared by the wind. He was full, he was spent, but he was hungry, he wanted. Heath brought that out in him, an old familiar feeling. Everything, anything, too much, not enough. He just had to stop his hands from shaking, and then he could soak it all in. Just play it cool, keep a level head, you’ve done so well so far. It’s all a game, his to win. The whole world was his trophy, as was the handsome man pressed against him.

And so that was what life became. Cold, bitter cold. A town with no name, but truly vibrant people, once he came to know them. And he did! Mass every Sunday, nods and greetings in the streets, an odd toast or two in the restaurant. Dallas and Smiley would sit with ruffled feathers, but he would clap for them and the other haggard men on Saturday nights when there’d been maybe too much drink and a shanty would pass around the room. Why, one evening the brothers, Marvin and Isaac, they brought in the spoils of their latest harvest by the case — a sampling, they’d said. Anson admired them just for that, but when the corks were popped and the sweet wine bubbled over every glass in the place, even the one Gin stealthily walked back to the kitchen, he thought them kids after his own heart. They made a killing in pre-sales that night, even if they couldn’t see straight by the end of it.

“Let me walk you fellas home.” He’d said winkingly, somewhat in control of his facilities. “It’s a winding pass, and my precious Victoria would not appreciate any of us at the wheel in our state.”

“I’m going to lay your precious Victoria down and fuck her.” Marvin burped, and Isaac cajoled him all the way down the mountain until Anson was painted a full picture of just what exactly his brother would do to this hypothetical girl.

“You know she’s a car, right?” He’d asked when they finally finished their dissent, and they fell apart with laughter, already completely out of breath.

“She’s got an exhaust pipe.” Marvin answered, and they barely had the air in their chests required for the rest of their journey. When they finally reached the farm the boys thanked him with an unopened bottle and he went on his merry way, half their money tucked neatly into his coat pocket. At library mass the next morning they professed to being so drunk the night prior they’d forgotten who payed and who hadn’t, and Dallas swore on the Lord’s day, but went and surveyed all parties just the same. Anson said nothing, but cracked a smile when Sophia fell from her seat laughing.

David supplied him books, Joe offered cards and games at his counter, and neither guessed what he liked while he got to know all about them. Nothing, really, nothing about their old lives, their careers, where they were from, and Anson was fine about that. He liked to see the make of a man. He liked to study them almost as if they were alien creatures. David was as mad as Sophia had always claimed, but a gentleman first. His accent had worn away over the years, but when he rambled at length on a particular passage the Georgian leapt out of him. Anson could hear it so strongly on “Samson” that he supposed everyone else had noticed and said nothing about it. Joe was mad too, but harmless. The librarian had something manic to him, something around the eyes like a killer, whereas Joe’s fingers would itch and his body take him pacing when he spoke. An investment banker, Gin had supposed. Morphine, Anson guessed to himself.

“Come over one night for a real game.” Joe would offer during a quick hand of hold ‘em. “We’ll get Ole West to warm up to you.”

But he doubted that day would ever come, and declined just to avoid the man further. When he passed Robert in the lobby he still nodded politely, even waved his hand sometimes, but the clerk would just stare him down. There were dark circles beneath his eyes now, and he seemed wary of Anson’s presence, but not ready to shy away. The weather report was starting to appear outside his door in the night, scrawled in Joe’s sloppy writing, then certain words circled and underlined in a different pen. Heavy rain, sleet, winds, flurries. It was getting worse all the time, and yet Anson did not flee.

“You ought to ask Miss Judge for a pair of boots.” Joe said, when Anson walked in one day for Planters to sneak at mass. “You ought to have known it would snow today, too, with all the reports Westy has me take.”

Sonny bellowed with laughter — Anson never startled, but he was tempted. The man was tall, but slender enough to blend in among the junk. He was in the far corner overlooking burlap sacks that, upon closer inspection, were filled with salt. Plenty for him to keep the hotel’s steps from slicking over, Anson supposed.

“Wow, he really wants you out of here!” Sonny laughed. He felt bad even though he wasn’t the one who’d brought it up.

“It’s fine. A joke between us.” Anson said, and Sonny scoffed. “All part of his charm.”

“Now you’re getting it.” Mean Joe cracked that grin of his, and Anson paid for his peanuts and took off. He wouldn’t say something to Calder, would he? Or were the weather reports taken at his direction? At the very least he would read them better now, instead of tossing them aside so quickly. The snow was falling fast, and he wasn’t prepared for it after so long in the south.

He reasoned with himself that he would speak to Anita later, wouldn’t put it off too long even if she did give him just a little bit of the jimmies. She was too smart to really mess with, and chatty, too — he’d socialize in a group with her at the library, but wave her off when the crowd began to thin. And worse than her brains, worse than her mouth, he couldn’t tell whether or not she was crazy. He could take stock and see who belonged in a nuthouse (David, Joe, Isaac and Marvin) and who didn’t (sweet, proud Sophia, kind and eager Ruth, Dallas and Smiley even) and behave accordingly. He could treat that former group as he did his cellmates not so long ago, but the rest he had to dress up in front of.

I’m a human, too. I’ve never met a good atrocity. I don’t enjoy hearing about train crashes. Look at my suit and not at my eyes, but he could control it at least. He had a lifetime of training in this, the ultimate scam. But Anita? How did he behave around someone he couldn’t read?

The snow had slowed when he arrived to the restaurant, but Gin took one look at him and sent Heath to the basement. They were scraping candle wax when he returned, a sheepish look on his face and an old pair of boots in his hand.

“I couldn’t.” Anson said immediately, but Gin waved him off.

“You need something. You’re not prepared.” She set down her razor and kneeled by his feet, untying one of his oxfords. “You’ve traveled the south for how long? And lived in California before that. You’ve known one real winter all your life.”

“And I was hoping it would be my last.” Anson quirked his brow as she pulled off his shoe. Heath handed her the boots, then swung around the chair and began to massage Anson’s shoulders. The blade felt so fine in his hand.

“Then you should’ve left sooner. Too bad you’re an absolute man-whore.” Heath’s words rumbled in his chest and pressed against Anson’s back. Gin slipped on the boot. It was tight, but if the pair really insisted he would rather take them for free than buy a whole new pair. Money wasn’t tight yet thanks to all those bible sales (and the brothers’ wine), but living in a hotel was going to be costly. He was stuck all winter with no new customers but rent to pay each week, and yet a pair of hands on his shoulders made the risk worth it. At least he hoped.

The sex so far had been fantastic, but limited. He’d driven up almost every morning to screw the pair, but mostly he was dicking Gin down with Heath. It didn’t get more creative than that — he wanted to fuck Heath up the ass every second of every day, but he was lucky to get his mouth around the other man’s cock for a few minutes to get him up before Gin pulled him away. He knew it to be envy: he couldn’t imagine she was a selfish lover, but she certainly was the one squirming and crying out the most. The original intention to fuck his way to her husband was a goal now edging further and further away, though this only made him more ambitious. Each day he visited he only grew more feisty, looking Heath deep in the eyes while he rubbed his wife’s clit, holding his hand while they sandwiched themselves against her, fucking her in deep, long strokes, tousling his hair and kissing his chest in the few moments post-coitus before the couple returned to their clothing. He knew now they weren’t the type to cuddle, and Anson would never linger in another’s bed, but goddamn if he didn’t wish he could duck his face against Heath’s neck and live entwined with him for a day. Once it had stormed outside that shack and he could hear it even deep in the mountain with them, and it was almost a physical pain to tear himself from those sheets.

“I don’t really need the boots that badly.” Heath said. “You’re the one running around town, after all. I only step out to smoke.”

Gin slipped on the other boot, and Anson stood, releasing the blade. He would have called that lonely if Heath didn’t have the whole town coming to him — it was a wonder he didn’t get fat. He walked the length of the shack and back, finding the boots serviceable, and ended up back to Gin, who looped her fingers around the waistline of his trousers and pulled him close.

“You’re a little taller in those.” She hummed, and his hands found the small of her back.

“It’s the lifts Heath puts in all his shoes.” He replied, and Heath snorted. “Makes him less self-conscious.”

“I don’t—”

“If only he would just borrow my heels.” Gin sighed. “It would make life so much easier for him.”

“I don’t—”

“Live freely, Heath.” Anson added, and Heath threw a chunk of candle wax at him. “Geez. Real Napoleon complex.”

“Let’s go downstairs.” Heath said, and Anson bit down any suggestion of punishment.

The trio climbed the steep stairs together, as had become routine, past the cured meats and vegetable crates, and into the bedroom, where Gin began to strip as Heath helped him out of the boots. Once she was nude she sat behind him on the bed, undoing his tie as Heath worked on his zipper, Anson running his fingers through his hair. When his cock sprung free Gin began to work gentle kisses against his neck, and anson’s breathing went shallow. Heath was on his knees for him, a hand wrapped around his shaft, those gorgeous lips so close to his head. He wanted Heath to look up at him, wanted to sense what the man was feeling, wanted that perverse feeling of power that came from staring at someone on their knees for you, but Heath didn’t look up as his hand began to move so agonizingly slowly. He put his lips against the tip and Anson felt his tongue swirl against his skin, moaning with the action. Gin’s nails skittered across his torso as Heath’s hand bobbed and Anson fought not to thrust into it.

A knock sounded out against the door, loud enough that Gin jumped and Heath pulled away, his cheeks all red. They met eyes for a moment, his wide with alarm, Anson’s likely still filled with lust. Everyone froze a moment, and the knocking began anew. Heath, almost fully dressed, stood, seemingly willing his semi away as he exited the room. Anson and Gin waited on bated breath as they heard the stairs creak, the trap door open, then close again. He crossed the restaurant and seemingly spoke to someone on the threshold, though they couldn’t hear who. Gin quivered against him. His dick was rock hard. He moved his hand down a fraction, then thought better of it and refrained, but Gin must have seen and shared the feeling. In a moment she was in front of him, and on the edge of the bed she sat with him, her tits against his chest and him filling her. She didn’t share her husband’s apprehension, only Anson’s excitement, and this time he couldn’t resist thrusting into her. She moaned as softly as she could and began to bounce up and down his cock, the full length moving in and out of her wet pussy. He gripped her ass and she bit her lip to contain a yelp, coming down hard enough on him that he heard her skin clap against his.

The door opened again, and the pair froze. It was only one pair of footsteps on the stairs, familiar enough to be Heath’s, but still they waited until he entered the room to gauge his concern. He returned with little fanfare, only admiring their nude forms a moment before passing them to the nightstand.

“It was just Smiley.” He said, and they both sighed with relief. “He caught some really nice crab he wanted me to store for tonight. We buried them in a mound of snow around back to keep ‘em cool.”

“Sounds like your boots would’ve been helpful for that.” Anson grimaced, but Gin laughed. Heath pulled the olive oil from the drawer and went around to the foot of the bed.

“You keep the boots, sweetheart. You don’t know the cold like we do.” She bobbed on his dick one more time, her pert little tits bouncing with her, and Heath pulled down his jeans, kicking them aside.

“Turn over.” He touched her back gently, and she guided Anson down, her back against the mattress, his cock still deep in her. He wondered if Heath was only planning to watch until a warm, strong hand gripped his ass, and he groaned when the other hand hooked his waist. When he looked over his shoulder he could see Heath still red in the face, and knew it wasn’t just he and Gin who hadn’t minded the interruption. Everyone feared being caught, but loved the thrill of coming close. The obscenity of it all. It was as close as normal folk could get to evil with none of the guilt.

Heath thrust into him without a finger to start with, just his thick, lubbed cock, and Anson buried his face in Gin’s chest and moaned with delight. He didn’t need to start slowly, and Heath probably sensed that, because right away he pulled out and thrust back in powerfully enough that Gin was moved by it, and moaned a little herself. Anson tried to move in her; and it wasn’t perfect, it was messy, Heath was thrusting when he should have let Anson work, Anson was buried in a woman while his prostate was so perfectly hit, his moans rung in his own ears, Gin squirmed too much, it was too much, it was overwhelming, Anson came too soon, Heath kept fucking him, Gin rubbed her clit while the cum dribbled out of her, and finally Heath spilled himself all over Anson’s back and the trio had to lie down together, breathing hard.

Anson had spent his whole life chasing this feeling. He thought maybe he ought to spend the rest of it doing the same. Gin kissed his temple absently, then Heath stood, grabbed a rag from the dresser, and wiped down Anson’s back. The cloth was rough on his skin, and Anson wanted more from it, but Heath was quick to toss it aside and return to his clothing. Gin moved beneath him, too, and Anson took that as his cue to dress in silence.

“Would you care for a cigarette?” Anson asked, and Heath didn’t look his way as he turned his shirt right-side-out.

“Just a second.” He said, then shook his head at Anson’s pause. “Sorry. I’m thinking about the crab.”

“Oh my God, do you ever turn off?” Gin laughed, clear and light, and Heath smiled sheepishly. Anson punched his arm, collected his boots, and took them up to sit in a dining chair. Once he had the boots and coat on he felt like a real wild man, ready to tackle whatever weather came his way. Outside he didn’t feel the same; the snow was only a flurry now, but his teeth chattered when the cigarette didn’t sit between his lips. It was so much colder out on the mountain, and he was looking forward to returning to town. He’d probably cut out early today rather than share breakfast, as he sometimes did, and find entertainment on Main Street.

He caught himself thinking of the food as his fag burned. Not the best part of this little tryst, but certainly its own reward. Rich poached eggs on leftover focaccia in the morning, creamy ribollita to stick to his ribs come noon, a clear broth at dinner if it was all too much for him by the end of the day. Not to mention every shape of pasta under the moon, prepared in butter or olive oil, rich cream sauce or marinara, paired with pumpkin or kale, chard or garlic, whatever was cold-hardy. His palate, much like his cock, had entered the world of the divine, and he smirked to himself at the thought of it.

“You’ll have to light another.” Heath said behind him as the door opened. “I had to find my lifts.”

“You’re too much.” Anson declared, and stamped out his cigarette butt. “I’m headed back to town ‘fore I freeze my ass off.”

“God, you really did need my boots.” Heath said, then softened. “Be careful on the drive down. This pass is treacherous on even a fine day.”

“Don’t worry about me.” Anson put a hand on the back of his neck, but felt himself beaming. “I know how to handle the ole girl.”

“Tap the breaks gently. Watch for black patches on the road.” Heath continued in earnest. “Do you have a scraper? You should get a scraper from Joe.”

“I’ll get a scraper.” Anson pulled Heath into a hug, then kissed him gently, touched at the concern. “And I’ll see you tonight, if not tomorrow.”

“Looking forward to it.” He kissed him back, and Anson reluctantly let go. He really would have stayed if his fingers weren’t going numb, but that damn cold got to him, and he returned to his car to blast the heat and make the slow journey back to town.

The ride wasn’t so bad, in fact his car didn’t slip once, but he knew he ought to get that scraper sooner rather than later. After a shower, though, and after he took his kit in with him and washed his own laundry — there was no Christian explanation for olive oil in a man’s underwear. When he walked back up the hotel’s steps he found them salted, and wiped his boots well on the welcome mat as to not track it up the stairs. He thought Robert would appreciate such a thing, and glanced over to the clerk’s desk to make some wry comment, but it was Sonny standing there, not the pale fellow.

“I — oh. I thought Robert put this salt down.” He said, and Sonny, cleaning off a glass just as if he were at the bar, shrugged.

“He left before I could rope him into it. Figures.” He set one glass down and grabbed another. “You have a good day, now.”

“Left? Left where?” Anson asked, and he didn’t quite understand why his nerves grated so.

“For Eureka, of course. He goes back every winter to stay with his family, then returns come Spring.” He said it like Anson ought have remembered, like he was already one of their own. Did this ease him? He wasn’t quite sure. But Robert’s absence certainly did not.

“Ah.” He said, and turned heel. He had no idea what emotions his expression betrayed. “Of course.”

He headed up the stairs, lost in thought. Why did Robert detest him so if he knew he was going home soon? Was he worried what Calder would do without him around? Was he the only thing holding Calder back? The only time he had seen the hotel owner was the weekend Robert hadn’t been around. And why? Those had been the only two days he hadn’t seen the man. And hadn’t Sonny once told him he was born and raised here? So why spend half the year in Eureka?

He returned to his room, then took a long and lonely shower. When he hit the library for tea nothing was amiss, and when he drove back to the restaurant no one showed any difference. And yet, here and now, for the first time, he felt that maybe some of his questions needed answers more than vagaries. He felt it in a big empty hotel he knew wasn’t truly empty, in waving to Sonny walking out the door, in watching Smiley eat a plate of pasta in the evening, not crab. He felt it when no weather report showed on his doorstep the next morning. One answer, really. He needed one answer.

Was there something wrong with the hotel, or the whole damn town?