Date: 3 Sep 2005 14:33:06 -0700
From: xscribe123@yahoo.com
Subject: Gobsmacked 3/3
Source: atxc

Oh, he was lovely. Anxious yet nervous, wavy hair falling over his
obscenely alluring eyelashes, long, exquisite fingers fretting. As I
drove toward the motorway to head west, I tried to reassure him. "Look,
please don't feel you have to pay for dinner. My parents give me quite
a generous allowance. I understand how costly things are in your
situation and as I've told you before, I perfectly understand."

He said nothing.

So I ventured, "You know, I was very pleased that you telephoned me."

"You-you were?"

"Oh, very much so," I said with earnest. "But I'm afraid I wasn't
entirely honest with your friend's family.  I'm afraid I didn't
actually make any reservations. And I certainly hadn't intended to have
dinner at your friend's house, as I said. That wouldn't do at all."

"So where...where are we going?"

"It's a surprise."

"But where--?"

"Hush, now." I pulled off to the side of the road and tossed my hair
back, one gloved hand on the gearshift, depressing the brake. "I have
some gifts in the boot. Go bring them 'round."

"That really wasn't necess--"

"Oh, yes, it was. I bought the gifts for both of us. Now bring the lot
around."

A few moments after he'd gotten out to peruse the boot, he came back to
his door and opened it to lean inside. "Are you crazy? It's got to be
illegal to drink and drive--"

"Oh, don't be silly," I laughed. "It's the dark of a lovely night. No
one's going to see us.  Now get in and open one up."

*****

On asking Fox to consult the map Lloyd had furnished in the glove box,
I discovered he'd not brought his glasses and was therefore having a
difficult time reading the tiny print.  So I drove off the road again
so we could switch duties. The only drawback was that I thought Fox
deliciously sexy in spectacles.

At once, he tried to defer. "I'm not used to driving here--"

Only then did it occur to me that he might not know how. That was
normal enough for English persons; however, I had the idea that driving
was mandatory for all Americans. That may well have been an erroneous
assumption. "You do drive, don't you?" Shifting to rise, I found my
skirt a tad wet in anticipation.

"Well, yeah, but--"

"I understand you Americans are quite skilled at it," I gushed. "You
shouldn't have any trouble handling the chore at all, then." With that,
I got out of the car. The cold air went right up my skirt and all but
frosted my wet privates and bare backside. I hastened around to the
passenger seat.

As I slid into the other seat, under the dome light I think I saw him
poking up his trousers, as he cleared the transmission to take the
driver's seat. To be certain, I hesitated before shutting the door. Fox
was endowed with a nice, admirable length, I knew, and through his
draping, wool trousers, I saw his erection collide with the steering
wheel. Enticed, I switched the dome light to remain on, so I could
study the map, and shut the door.

"We're on the right motorway," I said after exchanging some subtle
perusal between the map and Fox's lap. "I'll tell you which
interchanges to take."

"Where are we going?"

"Basingstoke. Now drive."

"But, I thought we were going to Wokingham."

"We had to. To get to Basingstoke."

"Oh. So we're really going to Basingstoke. What's in Basingstoke?"

"You'll see when we get there. Now drive."

*****

It was a good ways to our destination. I slipped off my gloves, lit a
cigarette then switched on the stereo to listen to classical music.
When at last we polished off the first bottle of bubbly I reached into
the back and took out another. After some struggling with the cork, I
finally gave up and thrust the bottle between Fox's thighs. The cold,
hard contrast of the icy glass plunged against his privates should be
extra stimulating.

On the way to Basingstoke, I couldn't hold out any longer. After all
that bubbly, I was ready to burst. I asked him to pull over, which he
did without argument. Switching off the dome lamp, I popped open my
door then stood up, legs apart, and yanked up my skirt for relief. This
should make it evident that other than my long, knit stockings, I was
quite bare beneath my clothing. I heard him get out and he went to go
relieve himself, as well, a polite ways off.

We got smashed on the champagne quite soon. I even let him switch
channels on the stereo to listen to rock and roll. Politely, he left
the volume low. I had to remember to keep an eye on the map as we
chatted away about our curriculum, tutors, and classmates. His apparent
apprehension gave way as we continued to drink.

Cruising at full speed on the motorway, I took his cup from him to
place his hand on my skin, above my heavy stocking, instead. This
prevented me from drinking or smoking any more for the time being, but
also gave me the chance to regulate his alcohol intake. Up to that
point, he hadn't been drinking much, but he seldom ever did. So I made
him finish off what was left in the plastic goblet. In the meantime, I
slid his hand upwards, little by little until he took to fingering my
nest all on his own.
How splendid that felt. Unwillingly, I was forced to intrude on the
ecstasy he was deftly supplying, with instructions to change roads
again and drive toward Winchester.

"What?" He withdrew his hand. "I thought we were going to Basingstoke."

"Well, not exactly.  We do have to go by way of Basingstoke, though."

"That was what you said about Wokingham." Deliberately, he took the
steering wheel in both hands. "Where the hell are we going?"

"As I said, it's a surprise."

"Can't we just stop anywhere for you to give me my surprise?"

"The location's all part of it."

"How much further do we have to go?"

"Oh, a bit."

"How much is a bit?  Two miles?  Two hundred?"

"My, we are rather delightfully impatient, aren't we?" Instead of
reaching for the champagne bottle to pour more drinks, I reached to his
lap. His stiff bayonet could be felt straining under his layers of
clothes. My fondling silenced his grousing for another several miles.

To heighten the suspense, I released him to pour more drinks. Being
well mannered, he kept any complaints to himself, though he glanced
after me. The champagne seemed to appease him to at least some degree.

At the next interchange, he gestured with his goblet. "That's the route
we took to get Stonehenge."

"You've been to Stonehenge?" I queried with a twinge of jealousy. That
would have made a fascinating trip with Fox.

"Yeah. Just last weekend."

"Oh, I see." I took another sip of champagne, set the goblet aside, and
lit a cigarette. "Did she enjoy it?"

"What she? I went with Perry."

"Oh, him." My jealousy dropped a few points, but I would like to have
been the one to introduce Fox to the mystery of Stonehenge. As it was,
I was particularly displeased with the abhorrent behavior of Fox's mate
at the moment and didn't care to think about him, at all.

"Did-did he say anything to you at the house?" Fox asked, tentatively.

I had to think a moment. "No, actually, he didn't say anything at all."
Upon reflection, that had been odd, considering that Fox's mate wasn't
shy to actively participate in class discussions. "It was his brother
who did all the talking." I wanted to add that for the seemingly
well-bred parents, it was unfortunate that they'd gone astray and
raised two dreadfully spoiled brats for sons.

"What did he say?"

If I told Fox, a fight would ensue and he'd surely be evicted from the
household. "Just nonsense, is all. He was drunk. I wasn't about to pay
him any mind."

"What nonsense was that?"

"Nothing worth mentioning. What time did you go to Stonehenge? In the
daylight?"

"No, after dark."

"Ooh, that's when it's the eeriest," I commented. "Quite extraordinary,
wasn't it?"

Over the next near twenty miles to Winchester, he grew restless and
began to gripe again. All I had to do was cuddle close to him and
nuzzle his ear and once more, he calmed.

Finally, past Southampton, we entered New Forest. Through the vents, we
could detect the scent of pine, damp earth, and ocean within the mist
rolling in off the English Channel. The moment I saw the markers, I
pointed. "There. Minstead. That's what we want; take the slip road to
Minstead."

"What's in Minstead?"

"That's where the surprise awaits."

Never having been in New Forest before, I was as disoriented as Fox.
We'd finished off the second bottle of bubbly and it was before 9:00
p.m. Most of the quaint, tiny village of Minstead appeared closed up
for the night, but then we spotted a lit establishment with a circular
drive. Through the mist, I could see it was large enough to be an inn.
"Let's stop there," I suggested.

"Is this it? You made reservations to spend the night here?" He sounded
more aghast than pleased.

"Of course not," I chided. "But, we're all out of bubbly and I wanted
another drink. Besides, I have to use the facilities in the worst way."
I gave him an earnest look.

For a Saturday night, there were perhaps a little over a dozen patrons,
at the most. That was probably the entire lot of the village denizens
who went out to socialize.

Upon locating a spot at the bar, I ordered two hunter's cocktails. If
I'd asked for more bubbly, it could well have invoked some inquiries.
Our presence was peculiar enough, since we were strangers with accents
that didn't even match each other's, let alone that of the locals'. At
any rate, I was in the mood for something stronger.

"What's in it?" Fox asked when he saw the dark concoctions garnished
with black cherries.

"Whiskey and cherry brandy," I replied. "That should warm us up
nicely."

He toyed with the cherry stem. "By the time I leave England I'm going
to be an alcoholic," he muttered.

As we polished off our two drinks, I looked around the
yuletide-decorated pub. Because we were tourists, we were treated with
cordial hospitality. The innkeeper and his wife and everyone we spoke
to all assumed we were staying on. Before we left, I asked the couple
sitting next to us for the remainder of the directions to my planned
destination.

Walking out to the car, I was all the more pleasantly tipsy. Once more,
I had him take the wheel, expecting he had to be the more sober of us,
as I'd had more of the champagne. Instead of driving off, however, we
took to passionate necking. Unfastening a few buttons of my jumper, he
slipped a hand inside. His cold touch on my bare skin was deliciously
arousing. Undoing more of my buttons, he pulled my nipples to full
erection then pressed me back into the door and applied his mouth,
seeming famished.

Before we both got too carried away, I had to restrain him. "Hold up,"
I panted. "We've got one more stop to make."

It took him a moment to obey, but he finally backed off the handbrake
with a wince. "What? We're already at the back of beyond. How much
further can we go?"

"Why, the Minstead Church, of course, silly. It's hardly any further."

"Church? Why are we going to a church?" He sat up, alarming.

"It's not just any church," I laughed. "It happens to be the very
church where one Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is buried."

"You want to look at a grave right now?" His brow furrowed with
uncertainty.

"That's the whole reason we're here."

"I understand that part." With care, he righted himself in the seat.
"But can't we go later?"

"First to see Sir Arthur."

What Fox didn't know. The quest of mine to one day visit Sir Arthur's
tomb was the holy grail of my existence. In my teens, my fascination
with Holmes began to veer toward the erotic. Oh, I knew Fox greatly
admired the world's greatest detective, but he could never understand
the mysterious, cool sexiness of the character of Sherlock Holmes from
the viewpoint of a woman.

According to the couple in the pub, if the church had been any closer,
we would have tripped over it. They'd scarcely been exaggerating. And
as anticipated, the brandy did a commendable job of warming us--or me,
anyway. I snatched the keys from the ignition and dashed off to the
boot for the torches from the road kit. The cold air swirling up my
skirt actually felt quite bracing.

With torches in hand, we searched the tombstones at the front of the
church, keeping well in sight of each other's beams. Adding to the
thrill, it was all very much like the scene from a horror film, only
darker, as it was only three days out of a new moon and the fog blocked
off any nearby light sources from the little village.

On our way to the rear of the church, Fox blew on his hands to warm
them. "I keep expecting Bela Lugosi to jump out from somewhere."

"Be serious," I rebuffed, elbowing him.

"Oh, wait. What's that over there?"

"What?"

He pointed his torch beam off toward the back of the grounds. "Over
there. I saw something moving."

All I saw was a wall of thick fog.  "You did not."

"Yes, I did," he insisted. "Something black. Maybe it was one of the
Baskerville Hounds."

"Oh, stop it!" I thumped him lightly before we went back to reading
markers. But just in case, I kept glancing toward the back of the
grounds.

For all Fox's admirable intelligence, he could still act very much the
little boy. We'd only searched a short while longer, before he became
restless and impatient again. "Come on, Phoebe, I'm freezing out here.
I'm going back to the car. When you find the tomb, come get me."

"It's no warmer in the car," I pointed out.

"It is with the heater on."

"You'll use all the rest of the petrol. For certain, any petrol stops
around here are all closed up.  As you saw, it's a bit of a ways to the
closest stop on the way back." I didn't mention that from what I knew
about Lyndhurst, only a few scant miles on, there should be some 'round
the clock petrol stops there.

"Then you come warm me up. I promise we'll come back and look until
dawn if we have to."

"I believe the grounds are fairly small. We can't have much more to
search." Directing my torchlight about, I peered through the fog. In
doing so, at the perimeter of my beam, I thought I recognized the
leaves of an oak tree. Holding my breath, I rushed closer and trained
my light along the boughs. Somewhere, I'd read Sir Arthur lay beneath a
large, old oak tree. As my beam probed the mist, I espied a tall cross
on a headstone set on the ground before an oddly branched trunk of an
oak.

"I think this is it!" I cried.

When Fox arrived beside me, I read off the inscription my torch
illuminated. "Steel true, blade straight. Arthur Conan Doyle, Knight.
Patriot, physician, and man of letters...twenty-two May, 1859 - seven
July, 1930, and his beloved, his wife, Jean Conan Doyle, reunited 27
June, 1940..."

Heart pounding, I stood stock still upon the grave. "Fox..."

In respect, I suppose, he hung back.

"Come here." Taking his hand, I drew him against me, tucking my torch
into my coat pocket to dim the light. Then I slipped my arms around his
neck. As I'd only tied my coat shut, I worked it open then began to
unbutton his to press our bodies together without the heavy wool
between us.

"Mm." He tried to pull back.

I worked my mouth over his precious lower lip, down his chin, to his
handsome jaw.

"Wait." Laughing uncomfortably, he put me off. "You don't mean
here...It's freezing."

"Not to worry..." I continued to ravish his jaw. "You're dressed and I
assure you, I'll keep you quite warm." Single-handedly, I gathered my
skirt up to my waist and ground my naked pubis into him.

"Stop it." Firmly, he took my arms and pushed me off him. "Are you
fucking crazy?  You accuse me of being pyrophobic, but look at you. I
knew you were really into Doyle, but this is beyond that. You seem to
have some sort of an abnormal, sexual obsession. I mean, you drag me
all the way out here at near midnight, take your clothes off in this
freezing cold, and want to have sex on his grave?" Abruptly, Fox headed
back the way we'd come.

Astonished, I dropped my skirt and ran after him. "I thought you wanted
to come with me. I thought you wanted to make love to me. Surely,
you're not afraid the dead are going to rise up and get us, are you?"

"I wouldn't blame them if they did. But, this has nothing to do with
haunts."

"I don't understand you. I thought you loved Sir Arthur's novels as
much as I do. I thought you were a fan." I tried to take his arm.

Without so much as a glance at me, he shook me off. "Look, go hump the
headstone and leave me the fuck alone."

Never could I have anticipated such a reaction. I'd employed all my
usual tactics of seduction. They'd never failed before. Wet and
throbbing, the cool air on my half-exposed chest, I stopped at the side
of the church, heaving, and watched Fox proceed alone. "Where are you
going?" I demanded.

The fog muffled his voice, already closing in between us. "Back to the
inn."

"Well, fuck you, too!" I yelled after him, truly cussing for the first
time in his presence. "Don't expect me to drive you home!"

*****

FOX

Fuck, I was furious at myself for having let her talk me into coming
out on this insane trip. What the hell had I been thinking when I
agreed? I mean, Phoebe was beautiful and everything, and I'd had a lot
of respect for her. The trouble was, I hadn't been thinking. The moment
she'd told me she wanted me to go all the way, my brain quit
functioning. Now out here in the middle of some English black forest,
in the wilderness, in the freezing cold, common sense flooded to the
forefront. I'd screwed up and I'd screwed up bad.

In front of the church, a single light burned, which helped guide me
back to the street. As eerie and silent as it was in the village of the
Twilight Zone, it was also kind of cool. Well, not as cool as
Stonehenge, though there'd only been a very slight mist on the
Salisbury Plains. Having grown up on Martha's Vineyard and spent my
entire life living on a coast, I was used to fog. Oxford was the
furthest inland I'd ever spent so much time. If anything, it had been
hard for me to get used to living without it, and the sound of
foghorns.

At the hour we'd visited Stonehenge, the parking lot was closed off
along the narrow motorway, so Perry had pulled off the road behind some
meager brush, where the MGB wouldn't be spotted immediately. We walked
the rest of the long distance. We'd taken torches there too, because
the moon was well on its way into waning. Despite the cold and our
surreptitious, short visit, it had been a real trip. Like through much
of my British experience, I had been in awe--just compounded beyond my
wildest dreams. The sight of those monolithic stones towering and
perched above us, in the light of our torches was breathtaking enough,
but there was this weird, inexplicable reverence that overtook me.

This place wasn't like that, but from what little I could see and feel,
it certainly didn't want for tangible atmosphere. From there, with the
aid of the flashlight, I made my way back to the inn. It wasn't long
before the light began to creep through the mist.

Inside, the front desk was empty again. I knew where to find the
innkeeper and his wife, who'd very graciously introduced themselves,
earlier. As it was now later into the Saturday evening, the noise in
the pub was louder and there were a few more patrons present. Going up
to the bar, as soon as I could, I gestured at the innkeeper's wife.

Quickly, she drew from a raucous conversation at the bar and rushed
over. "Change yer mind about a room, did ya?" she queried over the din.

"Uh, no," I said. "But I need a phone. Is there a phone I can use?"

She led me back out to the front desk. "Where's your girl? She's not
waiting out in car, is she? If you've got a moment, why don't you bring
her in and have one last drink on house before ya go?" A phone was set
before me on top of the desk.

"Um, we'll see. Is it okay if I make a long-distance call? I'll give
you some money." I reached beneath my coat for my wallet. "I've got to
call Windsor."

The innkeeper's wife waved me off on her way back to the pub.

On the fourth ring, Mrs. Elden-Beck picked up, sounding as if I may
have awakened her. "Hull-o."

Aware of the trouble I was causing, I briefly hesitated. "M-Mrs.
Elden-Beck? It's Fox."

"Fox?" She promptly stirred awake. "What is it? What's happened?"

God, I hadn't meant to worry her, but I knew it was coming. Mom would
have done the same thing.  "Don't worry. I'm fine. Phoebe's fine."
Well, physically, anyway. "Can-can I talk to Perry?"

"I'll go fetch him." She set the phone down.

A few long moments later, Perry picked up the phone. I could tell he
was on an extension. God, was it good to hear his affectionately
dumb-sounding voice, even though he seemed surly at the moment. "What
are *you* after? Your stuff?  We'll be sending it--"

"Can you come pick me up?"

"Pick you up? Why? Did her car break down? And she was afraid to ring
up the good constable--?"

"I took off. Her car's fine and everything, but I didn't want to spend
any more time with her. She can take herself home."

There was no answer. For so long, I began to wonder if the phone had
gone dead. "Perry? Hello. Perry, are you--?"

"Yeah. Let me write it down. Just tell me where you're at."

Behind me, I heard the inn door open and shut. "I really hate to put
you out, but I don't know the area or where I can catch a train. I can
ask, I guess--"

"Tell me where you're at."

"Do you think your mom or dad will let you borrow one of the cars?" I
winced. "If not, I under--"

"Where you at, already?"

"It's this little place called Minstead. In Southampton--"

A gentle tug on my arm interrupted me and I looked back. Phoebe had
returned to the inn, despite her surprisingly vehement order to fuck
off. Sweater closed, hair in her eyes, she clutched my arm, wearing one
of her best disarming-waif expressions.

"It's a drive," I warned Perry.

"Southampton!" He seemed aware of the distance. "Are you bloody--? I'll
find it. Give me an address."

"It's the only pub in town, from what I saw. A place called The Trusty
Servant. Just follow the signs off the M27 to Minstead. It's foggy,
but--"

Phoebe tugged harder on my arm. "Fo-ox," she enunciated a little too
loudly.

Once again, I tried shrugging her off and turned away. "You shouldn't
have a problem finding the place."

Sidling up to the desk, Phoebe pressed against me. "I'm not going to
leave you stranded."

"I won't be stranded," I assured her, letting Perry hear this. "My
friend's coming to pick me--"

"Don't be silly," she urged. "My motorcar's right outside. I can't let
you impose on your mate to come all the way--"

"All the same, I'd rather go with him."

Unexpectedly, she tried to take the receiver from me. "Here. Let me
speak to him."

"No!" I snapped, blocking her. "There's nothing you need to say. Look,
you'd better get going before it gets too late or your father will
probably alert Scotland Yard to comb the country for you."

An amused smile quirked at her full lips and she quit pestering. This
gave me a chance to get back to Perry. "Sorry. Anyway, if you can't
make it, I understand. I'll try and get a ride to the nearest--"

"I'll be there," Perry stated, leaving no room for doubt. "If you
leave, when I do find you, I'll thrash the living hell out of you."

For the second time in less than an hour, I'd somehow managed to elicit
the worst possible reactions from the two people who mattered the most
to me, in a country where I was otherwise alone. Prior to her outburst
at the church cemetery, if I'd had to rate Phoebe's language, a PG
would have been about the strongest. And I'd never heard Perry threaten
to kick anyone's ass, other than in jest. Hardly anything ruffled him.


Dazed and still mildly drunk, I pressed past Phoebe to a lobby sofa and
sat down to wait.

She came after me and stood before me. "We don't have to leave you
know," she said quietly. "We can take a room and spend--"

"Don't even suggest it." I wouldn't look at her face.

"I don't understand. All the way down here, you were so anxious to pull
over. Let's do things properly, with a romantic little room--"

"No!" Getting up, I paced away from her to look out one of the front
windows. Damn, it was going to be a long wait.

Once more, she followed me. "We're not out in the cold anymore--"

"I don't care," I hissed. "This wouldn't be 'proper'. There's nothing
proper about this at all. Go home. I don't want your parents getting
worried about you, much less the APB your father's going to issue on me
if I keep you out overnight."

Pausing, she eyed me in the dim parlor lighting. "You're serious.
You're honestly sending me off on that long drive home, by myself. What
if the car should have engine trouble or a punctured tire? I'll be out
there all by myself on the middle of the motorway, after midnight--"

"That car and those tires are practically brand new," I scoffed.
"There's no way in hell anything's going to go wrong." Abruptly, I
steered her to the front door. "Go home, already."

"I can't just leave you," she stressed on the way outside. "It would be
terribly dreadful and uncivilized of me to simply abandon you out
here."

"I'm not going to be abandoned. Perry's coming to pick me up."

"But, what if he doesn't show up?  Do you have the funds to take a room
here?"

"He'll show up."

"You don't know for certain--"

"Don't worry about it. He will."

*****

Once the inn owners heard my story, which I was forced to tell them,
they invited me into the pub and served me all the free ale I wanted,
until my "mate" should arrive. It was a version of the story, anyway,
because I lied about Phoebe's perversion over the corpse of Sir Arthur
Conan Doyle. God, that was way worse than telling them I'd just found
out she was in love with someone else. The innkeepers were extremely
sympathetic, even though I hadn't been seeking any.

Having nothing else to do, I drank. And talked a little to the nearby
patrons with whom the innkeepers shared my tale. As an American, I
never thought to expect publicity over my private affairs, but I guess
people who live in small villages are different. All I could think
about was what an idiot I'd been. Right from the start, I'd known
better than to go on the date, yet I'd been dumb enough to let her talk
me into it.

The place was closing up, with only me and a few close friends of the
innkeepers' hanging around, while they cleaned up. I was willing to
help them, but they "wouldn't hear of it."  That was when I saw Perry
come in through the lobby. I was amazed at how fucking beautiful he
looked. Oh, he was pissed, and his golden curls were a sparkling mess,
looking as though he'd scarcely run his fingers through to comb them,
making him all the more sexy. The pretty, little nose, the sharp,
expressive, dazzling blue eyes, the thick, dark blond lashes, and five
o'clock--or rather after-midnight shadow...

We didn't say much. His eyes flashed at me, uncharacteristically dark
and malevolent, his handsome mouth a straight line.

Outside, I saw his brother's Jaguar parked in front of the door. It was
a hell of a long drop to the low seat in my drunken state, which Perry
didn't help me manage. While I was orienting myself in the bucket seat,
he adroitly cranked the ignition and turned the stereo down to a
whisper. Then wrapped his long fingers around the stick shift knob,
regarding the image through the rearview mirror.

His voice was hollow. "It's out of your system, then."

Confused, I tried to figure out what he was specifically referring to.
Phoebe? How could I get her out of my system that easily? How did I
feel about her any more? I didn't even know.

Evidently, he didn't like my uncertain hesitation. He ripped from the
curb in a neck-breaking jolt.

Even if I'd known what he wanted to hear, I wasn't about to lie. His
silence didn't make it any clearer. I buckled up.

On the motorway, he played with the stereo, switching from the rock and
roll pirate radio stations to a tape of "The Game" by Queen. He let
that play for a while, then turned it down to the previous low level.
"So what happened? Could it have been that you didn't feel her cherry
break?"
I'd anticipated antagonism, but didn't expect it to be so vicious. "Do
we have to do this right now? Can't we postpone--?"

"If you hadn't given me any reason to be here right now, we wouldn't
have to do it, at all. You drag me out of my warm bed to drive out to
the middle of the Southampton forest, after you have a row with your
girl because she's got no cherry--then you expect me not to be pissed
off? And all at the expense of my brother's petrol, no less."

Holding the seat strap, I noticed the speedometer creep upwards. Even
though I'd been in desperate want of his company, I lashed out. "Why do
you keep saying that shit? What the hell do you know about it? Did
*you* sleep with her?"

Once more, he fell silent.

Shit. I knew it. "To be honest, I didn't find out a thing out about her
cherry. So if you're so damn certain, why don't you just say it,
already?"

Glaring out the windshield, he answered immediately. "I've never had a
moment's interest in her."

I didn't have to think twice. Perry wasn't a liar. He kidded, he joked,
but he didn't lie. He was always cool with the truth--whatever it
was--he wouldn't have had reason to. Already, I couldn't get him out of
my mind, and that confession really did it for me. "Pull over."

"Christ," he remarked, quickly searching for a safe shoulder to do as
asked. "My brother would only kill me if you sicked up in his Jag."

Though I didn't give him any details at the moment, I made sure he
found an obscure rural road into the forest, then told him to drive
just far enough so we were hidden from the motorway. "Turn off the
headlights, and come with me," I told him.

The narrow road faded from view, when he hit the switch for the lights.
"Thanks, but I'd rather not watch."

Without another word, I got out and went around to the driver's side.
As he could see I wasn't throwing up, he appeared bewildered when I
opened his door and pulled him out. It had been awkward enough for me
to navigate the low cockpit of the car, but at six foot three, all
long, magnificent limbs and confusion, he nearly fell to the asphalt
when I jerked him out.

After the unmerciful temptation Phoebe had put me through all evening,
I couldn't take any more. At the boot of the Jaguar, I took him from
behind, fumbled beneath his coat, and unfastened his trousers. I fully
expected an argument if not a fight; I didn't know if he was too
shocked or something, but he didn't stop me.

The only light around was the soft glow from instrument panel from
inside the old Jaguar, which was accompanied by the quietly thrumming
engine and stereo. I knew it was bloody cold out there, but he let me
drop his trousers to the ground. Obediently, he opened his stance and
bent over the back of the car for me.

Jesus, I couldn't believe it. He'd blown me off all day. I'd been lucky
if I got so much as a fleeting, pissed glance from him, as opposed to
total indifference. All of a sudden, I was being graced with complete
compliance. He even held his coat out of the way, giving me a shadowed
view of the curve of his utterly beautiful ass, from the soft glow
through the rear window of the Jag.

Unzipping, I popped out. Despite that I'd been leaking, I couldn't
force his rock-hard ring open.

To my further amazement, he backed and swiftly shed his boots and
trousers.  Then he braced his right foot onto the rear bumper to
essentially dry hump the rear of the Jag.

Given access like that, I spread those round cheeks and probed with my
tongue. My liberal licking seemed to defuse his anger; he moaned
softly.

I couldn't wait. Shifting position, I leaned over him to prod and poke
between his cleft with my throbbing hard-on until I felt him give.
Taking his strong shoulder, I proceeded to fuck the hell out of him.

Though it was slippery on the well-waxed, aerodynamic boot of that
Jaguar, he kept his foot hooked on the bumper, and held on through my
pounding. As the frigid air dried the nominal lubricant, the drag, at
least, added to my stimulus. During this, his panting became as labored
as mine. On attempting to work a hand down him for want to handle his
tantalizing male genitals, I found it wasn't possible; he was grinding
himself against the polished, metal deck. I had no idea if he was
enjoying any of it or merely tolerating my lust. That was, up until his
gasping and panting became feverish--then I felt his crushing pelvic
muscles lock tighter, just before they launched into the rhythmic
contractions of his climax. Instantly, that set my own off. To hell
with the cold--I couldn't have been in greater ecstasy.

With a moan, he forced me out, losing his footing on the bumper. Not
that I had any desire to be out of his hot confines and exposed to the
cold. Suddenly, I caught myself; it would be a hell of a mistake if I
retracted into clothes someone else laundered for me.

Meanwhile, Perry's coat fell, regrettably covering his ass. Still
panting, he retrieved his trousers off the rear quarter panel.

I was still panting, too. "Hey, wait a second. How'm I supposed to
clean up?"

Leaning on the left fender for support, he struggled to dress. "What do
you want me to do about it?"

Single-handedly, I began unfastening my own trousers. "At least help me
loosen my clothes until you can get me something to clean up with."

Beneath his trousers, he hadn't been wearing anything, indicative of
his hurry to leave the house. Leaving them undone, he came to me and
helped me not only unfasten, but lower my pants and underwear,
slightly. "Dot's not likely to be very understanding..." he concurred.
Straightening, he fixed his clothes and zipped up.

While he searched the interior of the car, I drew my coat closed over
myself, placing my feet apart to hopefully keep my clothes from
dropping any further. At least the heavy wool of my outerwear blocked
out some of the cold. Of course, if a car were to turn down the road,
to hell with the housekeeper--I'd hasten my pants up in a second.
Listening to Perry's activity, it became apparent it was going to take
him so long, the residue of my come would turn to ice, and thus
eliminate any problem.

The music ceased and the tail and parking lamps came on. He returned,
jingling the keys. "I'm going to have to check the boot," he announced.

"Don't worry about it," I said, lifting my pants beneath my coat. "I'm
so fucking frozen, I'm sure all I'd have to do is brush off the ice
crystals to clean up."

Apparently he found that so amusing, he burst into his charming giggle.

Exhausted, relieved, my clothes fully repaired, I finally sank into the
passenger seat and shut my eyes. Vaguely, I heard him get into the
boot, anyway, as I started to drift off. Then he opened the driver's
side door, letting in the frigid air, and joined me.

Cranking the engine, he ejected the tape, but left the FM on at a quiet
level. Demonstrating admirable driving skill, he promptly threw the Jag
into reverse and negotiated the same, single-laned road backwards,
rather than attempt to turn the long wheel-based car around. A wise
decision, as there was no telling what hazards the deeper edge of the
shoulders of the road might be fraught with. "Wyeth's going to be
pissed off," he said. "I'm sure my buttons scratched the finish, not to
mention what I must have done to the wax job."

I hadn't even thought of any of that. Eyes still shut, I considered.
"Nothing that won't buff out," I assured him.

"I've messed my shirt, too," he went on. "Soaked towels are one thing,
but Dot's going to wonder why I'd hand-wash a shirt before throwing it
in the laundry." He started giggling again. "You shouldn't have made me
come, you know."

"Me?" Opening my eyes, I looked to him. Weird, how sleepy and tired I
was, yet I couldn't miss his striking, bright blue eyes and adorable
nose and mouth in the headlights of an approaching vehicle on the main
road. "I didn't even have a chance to get at you, before you gushed all
over."

"You think feeling you ream me out inside doesn't do a thing for me?"
Focused out the rear window, he waited for the car to pass.

A wave of arousal swept through me, stirring my cock from it's chilled,
spent state. Sure, it hurt when he made love to me, but the ecstasy had
quickly come to overshadow the discomfort, and kept getting better all
the time.

With uncanny adroitness, he whipped the low-slung Jaguar onto the
motorway with a pained cry, as he slammed into first gear. "Bloody
hell," he cursed, hitting the accelerator.

"What?" Fully awakening, I quickly glanced around the roadway and
interior of the car for something amiss.

Even as he dialed the gears, he slipped down lower in his seat, looking
pained. "I think you ripped me from stem to stern."

*****

SUNDAY--DECEMBER 20

It was after 3:00 in the morning when we got back. We tried to be as
quiet as possible. Tiredly, I kicked off my damp shoes in the bedroom
and collected our robes, having left Perry in the bathroom to start
cleaning up. Then I thought I heard his father's voice in the hall and
looked out. Sure enough, he stood at the bathroom door in his pajamas,
tying on his own robe, addressing Perry. I couldn't understand a word,
as they were both speaking quietly, but I could easily guess that his
father would be checking on me next, to make sure I was all right.

Right after I stepped out into the hall, his father turned around.

"There you are, Fox," he said, appearing concerned, then relieved, when
he saw me. If I'd shown up after 3:00 in the morning at my parents'
home, my father would have been too pissed to show any concern. Mr.
Elden-Beck came straight to me, which made me shy back, slightly. Hell,
if my father detected that I'd been drinking as heavily as I had, it
would have been even worse. "What happened with Miss Green, then? Did
she get home all right? I hope her father wasn't too upset, considering
the late hour, and all."

Not having seen her father, I had no idea what to say. "I-I couldn't
say for certain, sir," I stammered stupidly. Then quickly added, "I
mean, she was fine when I last saw her."

"The whole thing's a bit puzzling," Mr. Elden-Beck ventured. "Perry
left the house hours ago."

Evidently, Perry hadn't told his parents he had to drive all the way to
Southampton--only Wyeth, which explained the use of the Jaguar. Finding
the bathrobes still in my arms, I leapt at the chance to avoid the
interrogation. "Um, I was just about to take Perry his robe and get
ready for bed."

"Right. Well, I hope you had a good time."

While he went back to bed to go tell Mrs. Elden-Beck God-knows-what, I
went to the bathroom door, which had been shut, knocked softly, and
tried it. It wasn't locked, though Perry was only wearing a towel
tucked around his waist.

He glanced up from the sink where he was industriously spot-washing not
just his shirt, but his trousers. Somewhere around Basingstoke, he'd
had to stop the car and get out, and his curls were still wet. His
father must have been pretty inquisitive about all of it. Though it was
raining there in Windsor, too, my hair had gotten nowhere that
saturated on the short walk from the driveway to the house. I was
puzzled, myself.

"What are you doing?" I asked, likewise starting to undress. Aside from
our muddy cuffs, which were explicable, I decided I'd better check my
own things for spot-washing.

"What's it look like? Let's have your clothes, and I'll wash them off,
too."

"You-you don't have to," I said, feeling bad enough for all the trouble
I'd caused that day. "I can wash them, myself."

"As long as I'm doing laundry, I may as well."

"How did you explain why you were washing your clothes?"

"I told him I got splashed with mud and didn't think Dot would
appreciate a mess in the hamper."

"My pants are wool," I said, handing them over, reluctantly. "You know
what'll happen if they get too wet."

Preparing the shower, once again, I couldn't help but consider what an
idiot I'd been. He really was incredible--a valuable, understanding
friend, exciting in every way, and God, was he beautiful. I'd been so
stupid; I'd nearly thrown it all away for a morbid necrophiliac.

Less than a couple of minutes after I got into the shower, he joined
me. We both knew how risky that was, but he mumbled that he couldn't
stand it any more, and assured me he'd locked the door. Not that I was
about to complain--I loved showering with him. There was still a
possibility that either of his parents or even Wyeth might come to
check on us, so we had to be quiet and stick strictly to bathing. To
accomplish this, I did my best not to watch him, or I'd attack him
again.

He hissed sharply.

Surprised, my gaze snapped to him. Twisted back, he was soaping his
ass, giving me opportunity to freely observe every delectable, naked
curve, slick with lather and streaming water. I was going to
hyperventilate. Perfect pectoral and abdominal muscles, broad
shoulders, slender waist and hips, coyly hooded, dripping cock...

"I won't be sitting down for anything, tomorrow," he grumbled.
Promptly, he turned toward the showerhead to rinse off, and I was
rewarded with an equally fantastic view of him from behind.

Considering our limited resources, he was bound to be sore. Aware he
was prone to exaggeration for a laugh, I decided to humor him for my
own pleasure. "Want me to have a look?" Without waiting for an answer,
I took his little waist and drew him back a step so I'd not have to
kneel where I'd get hit with the shower spray.

More hesitantly than the first time that evening, he cautiously planted
his handsome feet apart for me. Through his flinching and hissing, I
found he wasn't anywhere near over-dramatizing. Though he'd just
washed, I saw fresh blood. Suddenly, I knew why he'd been scrubbing his
pants.

Alarmed, I stood. "Why the hell didn't you stop me?" I whispered.

"What are you? Batty?" He calmly resumed showering, back to his normal
self. "It was fucking fantastic. Why do you think I couldn't keep from
shooting all over the car and myself?"

*****

The next day, I awoke to find Wyeth sitting on the bed, silently
studying us. As I further awakened, it became clear that Perry and I
were way too entwined with each other, even though we were in our
pajamas. My start woke him and he started, too.

Before I could go into cardiac arrest, Perry handled the situation
adroitly. "Get the fuck out of here, you tosser," he growled, sounding
angry, but not horrified.

Wyeth got up. "Lunch is ready and Dot's been on about making up the
room." Fortunately, he didn't hang around.

While my heart pounded, Perry dropped his head back on my shoulder, as
if to go back to sleep.

"Your brother." I moved to get up.

"Don't worry 'bout him," he murmured against my chest. "He's queer,
too."

*****

PERRY

Both still somewhat groggy, neither of us were properly prepared for
the inquiry that took place over lunch. I got the worst of it, being as
Fox was the guest. My discomfort in trying to sit straight at the table
didn't make it any easier. I appeased my parents' with the assurance
that their precious "Miss Green" had been home by midnight, then told
them that Fox and I had skived about for a while at a pub, on the way
home. Course, I didn't know and didn't care when she really got home,
and Fox didn't correct me. As for the reason he'd called me out, at
all, he had to handle that one. To the disappointment and sympathy of
my parents, he admitted that he and slag had had a bit of a
misunderstanding, and left it at that.

After I'd covered the excuses for our wet clothes with the story that
it was raining harder where she lived, the matter was finally dropped.
Right after lunch, I offered to go refill the tank of the Jaguar for
Wyeth, my main intent being to check the upholstery and finish before
he could get a look at any of it. The thought of the hard ride I was
setting myself up for made me whinge, but it wasn't that great a
distance to the nearest petrol stop.

Unexpectedly, Wyeth invited himself along. I hadn't even meant to take
Fox, just in case I'd messed the seat. He'd been guiltily doting over
me since last night, and it would probably make things worse if that
turned out to be the case.

Being ushered out of the house by Wyeth only aggravated things for me,
sparing Fox, which was precisely what I wanted.

"This is perfect," he remarked on the walk out to the driveway,
sounding devious. "Fox and the bitch having a row and all. Did he tell
you what it was about?"

"No," I said, truthfully, peering out at the Jag, as we approached it.
Except for the splatter of road mud along the undercarriage, it looked
sound as ever.

"Surely, they didn't have sex for the first time, then broke up the
same night."

I didn't comment; I was too busy becoming increasingly leery, as we
neared the car.

Out of nowhere, Wyeth handed me the keys. "You drive."

If nothing else, that would at least give me first look at the driver's
seat.

"Christ," Wyeth commented, bending slightly to eye the mud with
misgivings. "That was a bit of a drive out to Southampton, wasn't it?
The wheels are filthy. It's going to be a right bitch, cleaning them
up."

While he was preoccupied at the left front wheel, I unlocked the door.
If he was expecting me to scrub the spokes, I'd do it--and at the same
time, buff out the wax. After I had a chance to recover. Meanwhile, I
performed a quick once-over of the driver's seat. Nothing where I was
expecting, but I thought I saw very faint, drying water stains along
the outer edge of the seat. My wet coat. Sod it.

Then I noticed Wyeth wandering toward the back of the Jag. Prepared to
duck into the low-roofed vehicle, I froze again. "What are you looking
for? You think I got into a wreck? Let's go, already." Briefly, I
surveyed the boot from where I stood. Thankfully, the heavy rain had
done a right thorough job on the dark sable finish; from where I stood,
anyway, it appeared shiny as ever.

At the last, I realized there wasn't going to be any way to get into
the car without appearing obviously crippled. Aside from my smarting
rectum, I'd over-extended muscles in my hamstring, groin, and backside
during last night's escapade. All I could do was attempt to slip into
the car as normally as possible. Fortunately, Wyeth was still coming
'round from the rear, because I had to bite my knuckle, when I hit the
seat, to keep from howling.

On the way, he carried on, no longer focused on the Jaguar. "That means
the boy's still going to be pining for a woman, don't you see? Cammie
and I figured it out this morning. We'll tell Mum and Dad we're going
into London because Cammie needs to finish up some last-minute
Christmas shopping. You haven't had a chance to get her a gift, either,
so we invited you and Fox to come along then have dinner. They won't
expect us back the rest of the evening. If it gets too late, they'll
understand if we spend the night at my flat."

I knew what he was getting at, and I didn't like it. I was already
gripping the wheel tightly, trying to keep from wincing and grimacing
at every imperfection in the road.

"Instead, we'll go straight over to my flat and spend the day
partying."

"You and Cammie can spend the day doing whatever you want, but don't
expect us to come along."

"So, Fox does coke, right?" Wyeth continued, as if I'd not said a word.
"I'll ring in advance and we'll pick up--"

"I said we're not going, dammit, or did you suddenly go deaf?"

"What? Don't be stupid. You want your little Fox to go chasing after
snatch again? Because he'll do it, and he'll keep doing it until he
gets some. As long as it's inevitable, it would be far better if it
took place under controlled conditions, don't you agree? With you
there, and with a girl you can trust."

"I just don't like the idea, all right?" I said, increasingly
uncomfortable.

"Well, that's odd," he taunted. "You've always been quite pleased with
Cammie. I'd think you'd trust her well enough by now, for all the
number of times you've had it off with her."

"It's not Cammie I don't trust, it's you." I glanced toward him to
emphasize my vehemence.

"Me?" he laughed. "I'm your brother. We've always been square on just
about everything."

"Not everything."

"Damn it all, if you're keeping such thorough count on every little
thing, you'd know how I always go out of my way for you."

Rain began pelting the windscreen; I locked my gaze on the road.

"You know that Cammie and I have been steady for two years, now, and
how odd that is for me. Obviously, I care a great deal more about her
than I ever did any of the others. You've got to admit, my generosity
in sharing her with you over that time has got to be the ultimate show
of trust, on my part."

Considering Wyeth's history, it wasn't all as magnanimous as he was
making it out to be. I'd never asked for it, either. Still, not only
had she been his steady girl for two years, he'd chosen to live with
her. That did show that he had a hell of a lot of trust in me. The use
of his prized Jaguar to make the midnight dash to bloody Southampton
had been further evidence of that trust.

I released my breath. "I'm not being ungrateful..."

"Then what are you being?"

We reached the petrol stop before I had to answer. Upon leaving the
house, he'd waved off my offer to chip in what money I had, seeing as
it had been my mate I was wasting his petrol on. I tarried in filling
the tank to give myself time to word my response. Anyway, I was glad
for the excuse to be out of the seat.

A moment later, Wyeth was out of the car, as well. He gestured at the
shop next door. "I'm going to run in there for a pack of smokes and
some ale. Want anything?"

I shook my head.

By the time I'd paid and was heading back for the Jag, I saw he'd not
yet returned. That gave me the chance to lower myself into the driver's
seat as slowly and carefully as needed.

I'd barely had time to find a comfortable position when the passenger
door opened. Empty-handed, Wyeth effortlessly tossed himself into the
seat, making me jealous. Then removed a pack of fags from inside his
jacket. "The only ale they had was crap. Let's drive to a proper offie
and get something decent to take to London."

Now he was going to make an excursion of it. I'd drive him one more
place and that was it. I'd do much better if I took it easy that day,
and I knew it. Starting the engine, I drove off, while he lit a
cigarette and handed it to me. Then lit his own.

Sighing again, I took the cigarette and lowered my window just enough
for the smoke to escape.

"You know Dad will lend us the Mercedes without our even asking," he
went on. "As I said, it's all perfect."

For reinforcement, I took a long drag. "Look, Wyeth...I'm sorry...but I
can't do it."

"Rubbish. You don't think Fox would turn down the chance to be with a
woman for the first time, do you? Are you barmy?"

"Look, I just can't because...because...I just can't. I don't see him
that way."

Lowering his own window, Wyeth tapped off an ash. "What is it, then? Do
you think you're in love with him or something?"

For some reason, I felt my temper flare. Ordinarily, I didn't get
angry--just lately anymore, whenever anyone mentioned Fox's snotty
little bitch. Having grown up with Wyeth, I was accustomed to his
occasional larks to try and deliberately set me off. Since I usually I
found his efforts more entertaining than anything else, he seldom ever
got the better of me. This time he succeeded. Almost in one straight
breath, I laid it out, and once I got started, I couldn't seem to stop.
"Don't be fucking stupid. It's just that he's not like that. You don't
know how he is. He'd only been chasing that bloody Green tart for more
than a year, and yesterday was the first time he'd actually ever dated
her. Can you believe that? All the while, the slag's been shagging
blokes right and left. Plenty who have nowhere the looks, intelligence,
or equipment Fox has, I can assure you." Christ, did I know it.
"There's only one thing that's kept him from banging her in all this
time, and I'd bet my life, it's him.

"I didn't mean I don't trust you, like you're thinking--it's just that
you don't know about him. I swear, I've never met anyone like him. He's
different, that's all. He's not the type who'd take to sharing. And it
wouldn't be right for me to stand by and just let you take advantage of
him." Some time during my tirade, I'd gone numb. My knuckles had turned
white from my tight grip on the steering wheel and gear stick, but I
knew if it wasn't for that, my hands would be shaking. I honestly
didn't know for sure how Fox would react to the offer--the only thing I
knew for certain was that I couldn't bear any of it.

"Well, if you didn't turn out to be one selfish, unappreciative, little
prick!" Wyeth snapped, affronted, rather than chuffed at having hacked
me off. "I never thought in a million years my own brother would wind
up like this. Haven't I always been generous with you?"

"I'm not saying I don't appreciate--"

"Who the fuck was it who did his best to turf out the nasty twat with
you, last night? Then gave you his car and a full tank of petrol, so
you could go rescue your little boyfriend? And all that after he'd very
generously let you fuck his girlfriend."

"I didn't ask for it! You were right there. You could have stopped it."

"I knew you were in a way. And unlike you, I trust you implicitly. With
my car and my girlfriend."

"It's not the same," I shook my head. "Cammie and I have gotten on
since we met. We all have a mutual concern and respect for one another.
But Fox hardly knows you and Cammie. Hell, I don't even know him well
enough."

"Then how do you know he won't take to it?" Wyeth posed with annoying
logic.

"He's not the type," I defended. "If he wouldn't even fuck that stupid
cow he's been lusting after, how could you think he'd jump into bed
with you and Cammie?"

"But, you just said you didn't know him all that well. So you're not at
all certain what type he really is, then, are you?"

"Well, no, I--"

"When I asked earlier if you knew what their row was about, you said he
wouldn't tell you. Judging by everything you admitted yesterday and
right now, I'd say all you're doing is speculating. I say we leave it
to him. That's only fair. After all, he seems to be a very intelligent,
young man, perfectly competent to make his own decisions."

"No!" I heard myself rage. "I'll not have it, and that's all there is
to it! Not everyone's like you, Wyeth. Not everyone is quite so
indiscriminate when it comes to sex. "

"Is that it how it is, then?" he questioned, calmly exhaling his last
drag.

Suddenly racked with guilt, I toyed with the gear stick knob. "N-no.
That doesn't mean I'm putting you off. You've done a lot for me these
past two days, and I really owe you. I'll make it up to you, I swear."

*****

MONDAY--DECEMBER 21

PERRY

In the morning, I didn't want to get out of bed. Mornings weren't
exactly the high point of my day, even on holiday, and I had even less
reason to want to, with Fox between the sheets with me, keeping me
warm. It wasn't any of those things that undermined my motivation to
rouse, though. And I hadn't overindulged on alcohol the night before;
in fact, Fox and I had gone to bed early.

I just felt lousy.

After I'd agreed to go London with Wyeth and Camille, the previous day,
he noticed my limp. From there on, it had taken a great deal of effort
on my part to keep him from so much as hitting Fox up with accusations,
true as they may be, let alone from attempting to stomp the crap out of
him, once we got home. To keep the peace, I heard out their concocted
story for our departure the next day, and promised to uphold it. By
morning, I was reluctant to go through with the plans that would entail
lying to and ultimately spending the day without him. If that wasn't
enough, I had a scratchy throat, and my head felt a bit thick and
muzzy.

That didn't stop me from necking with Fox in bed a while longer, until
we heard everyone else was up and about. When we'd finally showered and
shaved, we reached the dining room in time to hear that Wyeth and
Camille had already announced our trip to my parents and Dad was
already offering up the keys to the Mercedes.

"That's all right," Dad was saying. "Your mother and I both have to go
into work a few hours today, so I suppose we can to ride together."

"Oh," Wyeth said, haltingly. "If you need to, you know...you can--you
can take the Jaguar." We all knew how much he didn't like lending out
his motorcar.

"Are you sure?" Dad asked, skeptically.

Taking a seat at the table, I spoke up. "Sure, he is. If you're lending
him your car, it's only proper." Before the tea should cool off too
much, I served myself and Fox. "That is, if I was going with them for
certain. Which I'm not certain of, after all."

"Going where?" Fox asked.

Before I could open my mouth, Wyeth replied for me. "What's that?
You've changed your mind about Cammie's Christmas gift? Considering
what she got for you, I think that's pretty damn rude."

"Why can't I get her something down the local shops?" I argued.

"It was your idea," he pointed out. "You're the one who wasn't happy
sticking around here."

He was right, of course. "Does it have to be today?" I tried.

"The longer you wait," Wyeth warned, "the worse trouble you'll cause
for yourself, with Christmas only a few days off, you know."

While Dot served Fox and me, I went on. "I happen to think leaving Fox
on his own like that is pretty damn rude, too."

"Leave him?" Mum started, thinking it just as rude as I. "He's going
along, too, isn't he?"

"He'd be bored," I said, over my teacup.

"Why would he?" Mum queried. "There are so many exciting shops in
London, he could hardly get bored." Setting her empty plate up, she
stood. "Well, I'd better hurry and finish getting ready or I'll be
late."

Cammie presented further ammunition. "See," she said to Fox, "I was
going to be getting my folks a gift, as well. It really wouldn't be
very interesting for you."

Bravely, Fox offered to comply, despite his loathe of shopping. "Where
are we going?"

"Do you like golf?" She set her plate up, too.

"I-I'm afraid I don't know anything about it," he said.

"Well," she went on, "we'll be going to my father's favorite golf shop
so I can surprise him with this golf bag he's been pining for. And for
Mum, I'm buying this fancy peignoir set with lace--"

Politely, Fox cleared his throat. "I see what you mean. On the other
hand, maybe Perry and I can find something to do while you're buying
your parents' gifts."

"Don't be daft," Wyeth rebuffed. "We lose track of each other at midday
in downtown London--especially right before Christmas--and you'll be
taking the bus home, for sure."

*****

Up in my room, I changed into a warmer pullover then combed my hair
with my pick, while Fox made up the bed. I'd given up reminding him
that he was doing Dot's work. I didn't believe in using a comb and
straightening my hair into waves, like Dad did his. The unruliness of
leaving it au naturel suited me fine for the most part. And Fox seemed
to enjoy tugging on my curls and watching them spring back.

"How long will you be gone?" he asked.

Too long, I knew. "I don't know," I sighed. "You probably know how
women are about shopping."

"I guess I'll find something to do in the meantime. Your parents have
some really interesting books in their library. Do you know what you're
getting for Camille? It helps, if you know what you're looking for."

We'd already made up the story the day before, in the event we were
questioned. "There's this music box or something of the like she's got
her heart set on."

"Do you have enough money?"

"Don't worry, Dad already slipped me an extra thirty quid and Mum,
twenty." When my curls were neat enough, I went to the corner of the
bed to set my foot up and tighten one of my trainers.

With the bedcover drawn neat as a pin, Fox sat down and leaned against
the headboard to toy with the manikin. "Your hair looks great."

"Thanks." I paused, looking to him. "You know, I don't really want to
go..."

"How long did you say your brother and Camille have been together?"

"Two--two-and-a-half years," I shrugged.

"Are they planning on getting married?"

I laughed. "How could I know a thing like that?"

"I mean, are they that serious? Two-and-a-half years isn't that long.
Why do you feel compelled to buy something so special for a girl your
brother might break up with tomorrow?"

Slowly, I straightened. He was a smart bugger in the first place and
those psychology classes were making him all the more keen. If Cammie
were my sister-in-law, it would make sense to buy her a gift like that
and only then. In fact, the only thing she wanted from me was a
rumping. "They may," I allowed, "but if you knew my brother...She's the
only one he's ever been serious about. He never dated a girl for longer
than four months, at best, before her. I'm not saying they're going to
get married--they probably won't. She's all right, though. If she wants
this music box, then why not?"

"I take it you've never dated a girl for longer than four months,
either."

To hell with that. Going to him, I took his chin and promptly tipped
his head up for a kiss, ending it by tugging on that luscious lower lip
of his that I couldn't get enough of. "I've been dating you steady for
around as long, you silly git. And I've no mind to go anywhere."

*****

Neither I, nor my throat were feeling any better by the time we left. I
stretched out in the backseat for a kip, only Wyeth kept pestering me
from the front passenger seat, plus the scratch in my throat began to
make me cough, so I never did get to sleep. With all my coughing, he
finally made an inquiry.

"What are you on about?" He eyed me askance, over the seat.

"It's just a cough," I said.

"You're not sick, are you?"

"It's nothing."

"You'd better not be, or I'll give you a sound thrashing."

We made a couple of stops in London before reaching his flat, over
which time I continued to feel worse.  The ale Wyeth gave me to drink
that they purchased at the last stop made no difference--it only made
me feel all the muzzier. Dutifully, I accompanied them up to their flat
without a complaint, save for the coughing I couldn't control.

Just as Cammie brought out the mirror and paraphernalia for the coke,
Wyeth reprimanded us, nicking our bottles of ale into his custody.
"What do you think you're doing? Off with them, first," he gestured.

We'd forgotten. Cammie and I exchanged a look then started to undress.
The flat was still cold as a tomb, the heat having barely been turned
on after four days, when we walked in the door. Since she didn't
object, I followed her lead and went about stripping. Once I got past
my jacket and scarf, though, I hesitated, uncomfortably chilled.

"Off with them, I said," Wyeth prodded, nudging me with a bottle. "You
know you're not getting fuck-all, as long as you're dressed."

Lethargically, I got my shirt and trainers off, coughing all through
it. In the interim, Cammie stripped down to nothing, and Wyeth to his
trousers. At that point, they readily helped themselves to the buffet.

Seeing my slow progress, Wyeth, got onto the sofa beside me to take
over. "Come along now, Peregrine; don't be all...day..." Hands at my
waistband, he paused while I turned my head away and coughed some more.
Then he slid his touch up my belly. "Christ, you're burning hot." He
glanced back at Camille. "He's feverish."

*****

In the softly lit living room of Wyeth's flat, I lay on the pull-out
sleeper, covered with a duvet. Aside from sick, I felt like a right
twit. Wyeth had finished undressing me and put me to bed. Then he sent
Camille out to the chemist's. Sitting on the bed with me, he went about
re-soaking the towel from my forehead that had gone warm, in a bowl of
ice water.

"You should have said something," he chided. "All you said was you had
a bit of a cough."

In the first place, he knew me better than to think I'd act like a
Nancy-boy, even if my leg had been broken in three places, and in the
second, I knew him, and it wouldn't have done any good, anyway.
"Because that's all it is. Prob'ly all I need is a kip and I'll be good
as new..."

"Don't be daft. You're bloody burning up. It's a good thing you didn't
do any Charlie, 'cause right now, you need to sleep. It won't make you
well, but it's the best thing for you. I know why you're sick, too.
Your boyfriend got you naked out in a bloody piss-down, in the middle
of the night to have his way with you. Dad said you and your clothes
were wringing wet when you got home. If there's any justice, the yank
will be sick as a dog, too. It would serve him right."

Briefly, I recalled the scenes from the night in question. It hadn't
happened the way Wyeth described, though he wasn't far off. I'd been in
so much ecstasy, I'd not even noticed the muscles I'd pulled, holding
onto the back of the Jag. All I knew was that I'd wanted it badly, and
I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat. On the way home, I'd had to
stop off the motorway in a downpour much like Wyeth's description, to
tend to Fox's spendings. He'd fallen asleep and I'd left him to it.
That was when I discovered I was bleeding and got a good drenching, all
at the same time. Thus, my brother was probably right, but I'd not
agree and give him more reason to dislike my mate. "I could've taken
ill from anywhere, and you know it. There's no saying."

"I don't know about that. I suppose we'll find out, if you and your
boyfriend are the only ones who come down with it. But, I am sorry for
dragging you out when you're under the weather." He gently drew the
duvet down me. "Now, let's get this thing off you; you know you
oughtn't to cover up, with a fever."

Chills aside for the moment, I was grateful to have the hot cover off
and for my brother's concern.

*****

A while later, I was rousted awake by Cammie, shaking a thermometer in
front of my face. I was covered again. Behind her, Wyeth hovered,
trousers fixed, shirt half-buttoned. I let her poke the thermometer
under my tongue and shut my eyes. The cold, wet towel was reapplied to
my forehead and I started coughing again. I had to take the thermometer
from my mouth to keep from breaking it.

In minutes, I was trying to go back to sleep again, while they argued.
If I hadn't been sick it would have been funny. I heard, "you're
holding it wrong," "no, you're reading it wrong," "well, if you know so
much, how come you can't read it, either," "I could, if you'd quit
standing in the light," and all that sort of thing. Finally, they both
concluded that my temperature was above one hundred and two point five.
They gave me some aspirin from the bottle Cammie had just purchased,
and let me go back to sleep.

*****

I couldn't stop coughing. It was hours later and the telly was on.
Chilled and miserable, I dragged myself to the edge of the bed, duvet
about me. Unable to breathe, it seemed the only way I could get any air
would be to sick up. Before I could get off the bed, Wyeth was there,
holding the bin for me, so I wouldn't have to try and make it all the
way to the toilet. Even after that, when I managed to control my
coughing, I could hear why; I was wheezing and rattling in my chest
something awful. The last time I remembered breathing like that was
when I was around ten and had contracted a bad case of bronchitis.

Sympathetically, Wyeth wiped my face for me. Then I lay back. It went
on like that another few hours. I finally had to stay propped up
against the backrest of the sofa; otherwise, when I lay down, breathing
would get more and more difficult and the coughing would start all
over. I tried watching telly, but for the life of me, I couldn't suss
what was going on.

Apparently, I'd fallen asleep, then woke again when Wyeth got on the
bed with me. "Come along, sleeping beauty, we've got to get you to
hospital."

"I'm not going to hospital," I mumbled, groping about for the duvet.
"I'll be all right."

"Hear yourself breathe? I've heard tippers that make less noise.
Remember when you were so sick they nearly put you in hospital? That's
what you're sounding like."

"Bollocks. Mum took care of me and I was fine. I'll go home, but I
won't go to hospital." Finding the duvet, I pulled it up to my neck.

"Well, I can't remember what all Mum did for you. So I'm going to give
her a ring and get instructions. I'm sure Cammie and I can tend you."

Getting off the bed, Wyeth went off to the kitchen. I curled up in the
duvet to go back to sleep. I didn't succeed, as another bout of
coughing woke me right up.

>From the kitchen, I heard Wyeth talking on the telephone. "Well, no.
He's been ill all day, so we never went anywhere...I think it's the
same thing he had when he was a kid--when they wanted to smack him in
hospital, for pneumonia. He sounds the same, and god knows, I've had
bronchitis, myself...He doesn't want to and I can't say I blame him.
We've been giving him aspirin all day, but he keeps getting chills and
fevers. And the coughing...He's having a hell of a time...No, no. It's
after nine. Unless you think we should get him to hospital, I think we
can manage..."

Vaguely, I was aware when Cammie came into the sitting room. She was
wearing a dressing gown. When she neared me, I saw her hair was pinned
up, showing her dark roots. Apparently, she'd just come from the
shower.

Coming to the pull-out, she touched my forehead. "We're going to have
to get you to hospital."

"I'm not going," I insisted. "Wyeth's talking to Mum. She'll tell him
what to do and I'll be fine."

"You keep sicking up." Cammie leaned over me, still touching my face.
"You're terribly ill."

"I'm not sick like that. I'm just coughing is all. I can't help
throwing up."

"I'm going to talk to Wyeth." She took my shoulder beneath the duvet,
then went off to the kitchen.

Through the haze of my illness, I decided I didn't want to stay there
anymore. I felt a burden to Camille who knew nothing about nursing, I
had a fantastic mother who already knew what to do, and most of all, I
just missed Fox. "Cammie," I called, coughing again.

Instantly, she swept back in.

My chest hurt and I was dizzy, but I carefully sat up with her
assistance. "Have Wyeth tell Mum I'm coming home."

*****

FOX

The moment I heard the telephone ring, I dropped the book I was
reading, and ran downstairs in my glasses. I'd only been waiting all
day for Perry to return. Since the Elden-Becks had been completely calm
about it that meant it was fairly commonplace for their sons to take
off all day and I shouldn't be worried. Still, I was anxious; I missed
Perry.

On the stairs, I heard Mrs. Elden-Beck talking on the phone. "Is he
having a hard time breathing?...That sounds like it all right..." As
she rubbed her temple, I saw she appeared as anxious as I felt. "Okay,
listen, Wyeth: turn the shower on hot and have him sit in the loo for
at least fifteen minutes with the door shut. That'll loosen him up so
he can breathe. Then bundle him up and take him to A and E. Your dad
and I will meet you there--"

"Perry?" I started, gripping the bannister. "Perry's sick?"

Looking up at me, she gestured and nodded, while Mr. Elden-Beck
appeared at the doorway of the great room, television forgotten.

"What's this?" he wanted to know. "Perry's ill?"

*****

Unable to stand the thought of waiting at home, I insisted on going
with the Elden-Becks to London. With only two two-seater automobiles,
though, I had to drive the MGB on my own and follow behind that
mink-brown Jag, the sight of which has become indelibly etched in my
mind. It was the first time I'd driven in England, on my own, as well.
The rain didn't help any and it never let up. Fortunately, I'd learned
all the instrumentation in the little MGB, as Perry had me drive
several times over the course of our outing. I was really grateful that
he had; it made my solo, agitated trip to London in the rain that much
easier.

Parking outside the emergency department was limited and confusing. I
saw the familiar dark blue Mercedes. I could only hope I didn't wind up
costing the Elden-Becks a parking ticket. They, too, parked in the only
place they could find and rushed into the emergency entrance, barely
ahead of me.

We spotted Camille sitting alone in the busy waiting area in completely
different, casual clothes, missing a lot of makeup, her hair pinned up
as if in a hurry. We pounced on her with questions; unfortunately, she
didn't know much. She could only tell us that Perry had had high
fevers, coughed incessantly all day, and had thrown up several times.
God, I'd had no idea he was sick when he left that morning; he'd only
seemed a little tired. I wouldn't have let him go, otherwise,
particularly when I knew that he hadn't wanted to.

Just as Mrs. Elden-Beck made up her mind to storm the department in
search of her youngest son, Wyeth appeared in the waiting area. I
didn't remember what he'd been wearing that morning, but I didn't
recognize his clothes, either. His straight, dark hair was messy and he
was in need of a shave.

"I don't know if they're going to admit him or not," Wyeth reported.
"They took x-rays and put him on oxygen, plus they stuck a--" he
motioned at his forearm. "You know. To put him on IVs."

"Take me to see him," Mrs. Elden-Beck said, anxiously.

Mr. Elden-Beck was no less concerned. "What are they saying it is?"

Wyeth rubbed his whiskers. "Some kind of acute bronchitis. When they
took him in, they said his temperature was a hundred and four. I would
have brought him here earlier, but he refused to come. Cammie and I had
to fight him to get him here."

Without waiting, Mrs. Elden-Beck shot for the double doors of the
treatment area, her husband instantly following.

"Now, let me do the talking, Anora," he advised.

I started, wishing I could go with them. I had no right to.

Abruptly, I felt a hard jab against my chest. Wyeth was glaring at me.
Quietly, he addressed me. "And you, you son-of-a-bitch. You're the one
who put Perry in here."

"Me?" I was taken completely off-guard. "What are you talking--?"

"You know damn well." In disgust, he turned from me and went after his
parents.

*****

Sitting beside Camille in the waiting area, neither of us spoke. I was
too busy brooding over my impulsive act in New Forest, Saturday night,
ripping Perry's clothes off. Hell, I'd been freezing that night, and I
got to wear my long coat and pants, throughout. Whereas poor Perry had
to strip down to his socks and shirt, his coat up around his waist
while he hugged the icy, steel trunk of an automobile, in order to
accommodate me. Somewhere along the way, he apparently got out of the
car and got drenched. I don't know where or when--I slept soundly
through the rest of the trip back to Windsor, in the warm passenger
seat. One never thinks about things like that in moments of
passion--and even less, when drunk. But, how the hell did Wyeth know
about it? He couldn't possibly be referring to those events. Unless
Perry had told him. Why would he tell his brother something so personal
and private? That didn't seem anything like Perry.

Coat thrown open, I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and rubbed my
face, feeling in need of a shave, myself. If it was my fault he was
sick, I felt even worse.

"You don't know how Wyeth can be," Camille said quietly. "He's very,
very protective about Perry."

Yeah, well I couldn't blame him--I felt the same way. And I'd always
been protective of my sister. Much as I wanted to know why Wyeth had
made such an accusation against me, I chose not to ask Camille--just in
case she knew the answer.

"You're lucky Perry talked him out of thumping you once, already; I've
known Wyeth to pull his knife on blokes for mucking with his brother."

In new horror, I looked to her. "Wh-at?"

Opening her purse, she dug inside. "I'm going out for a smoke."

*****

FOX

In about a half hour, Mr. Elden-Beck returned, alone. Camille was back
and I hadn't asked her anything more about her boyfriend and she hadn't
volunteered any further information about him, either.

"They're admitting him," Mr. Elden-Beck announced. "They want to
observe him overnight. You two may as well go home. Here are the keys
to the Jaguar." He held them out to Camille.

"Sir," I stood, restless. "Can I--can I go see him?"

"Let's go talk them into it, shall we?" He led me toward the treatment
area doors. "It'll do Perry good, being as he was asking after you."

That news was so encouraging, I forgot about the brother for the time
being. When we got to the room, Mr. Elden-Beck sent me in, alone,
explaining only two to three visitors were allowed in at a time and
that was pushing it.

On entering, I was immediately disturbed to find the head of the bed
raised at an angle and enshrouded with a clear oxygen tent. Only a
single fluorescent light on the wall in the same vicinity burned. Mrs.
Elden-Beck was in a chair drawn close up beside the bed. I expected
Perry to be asleep, but he wasn't. The moment he saw me, despite his
wan appearance--made all the more evident against the contrast of his
dark whiskers--he lit up. Instantly smiling, he lifted his unencumbered
hand and reached for mine.

"Hey, they let you in," he said. "Either that, or my dad's giving them
hell right now."

His golden curls were a becoming mess, but he no longer resembled his
vibrant self. "Why didn't you say you were sick?" I asked, deeply
reassured to have his long fingers wrapped around my hand, no more
willing to let go of me than I was of him. "You shouldn't have gone if
you knew you were sick."

"Didn't think it was much of anything." He coughed.

>From behind me, I heard Wyeth. "All right, that's enough. You've done
enough to the poor kid, already, haven't you?" he grabbed my shoulder
and pulled me from reach, forcing Perry and me to let go of each other.
"Now, get on--"

Abruptly, Perry pushed himself sitting beneath the tent, still
coughing. "Leave off him, Wyeth, or I swear I'll--"

Before I started grade school, I'd been learning to take care of
myself. Turning back on Wyeth, I shoved him off.

Mrs. Elden-Beck rushed between us, taking her eldest's upper arm.
"Boys! What the devil's got in you? What you think you're doing,
brawling in here, upsetting Perry?"

"It's his fault Perry's sick at all." Wyeth yanked from his mother's
hold. "Dragging him out in a rainstorm the other night, all on account
of his sorry bitch."

I went to Perry who couldn't seem to stop coughing. I took his hand,
again. "You okay? You need me to get a nurse?"

Wyeth lunged at me again. "Fat lot of good your feeble gestures do for
him now!"

Mrs. Elden-Beck caught him. "Stop it right now, Myrddin! I'll take the
switch to you, sure as I ever did! Look what you've gone and done,
riling up your brother. Go on, get out!" she arrived at Perry's other
side. Lifting the oxygen tent, she got beneath it with him to help him
to a drink of water and pat his back.

On my guard, I noticed Wyeth take a step toward me. Still holding
Perry's hand, I straightened to defend myself.

"Myr-ddin!" Mrs. Elden-Beck threatened from beneath the tent.

Casting me a warning look, Wyeth withdrew.

*****

TUESDAY--DECEMBER 22

The hospital released Perry the next day, in the late morning. I
supposed it was his mother who did the intervention, but somehow, I was
spared from having to deal with Wyeth again, one-on-one. When she was
out of the room at one point, I'd asked Perry what language she'd been
speaking, when reprimanding her eldest son. Though it made him cough,
Perry laughed. He said it was Wyeth's first name, which was Welsh. Not
many people could spell it, so somewhere around the time he'd started
primary school, they took to calling him Wyeth. That didn't stop the
family from using his first name every now and then.

On Perry's release from the hospital, I got to stay in his bedroom,
which gave me a great excuse to help care for him, along with Mrs.
Elden-Beck. The arrangement didn't set well with Wyeth, but I didn't
give a damn. I wasn't about to let him intimidate me, with or without a
knife.

Changing Perry into his pajamas from the clothes he left the hospital
in, I realized that I didn't recognize them at all. Suspecting his
brother must have lent him some clothes, I said something to that
effect, but Perry assured me they were his own. That suggested that his
brother's residence was essentially a home away from home for Perry. In
the same way that we used to keep plenty of clothes and belongings at
our summer house in Quonochontaug.

Once he was settled under the blankets that neither of us had slept in
that night, I went upstairs to the attic with his father to bring down
the camp bed that Mr. Elden-Beck had offered when I'd first arrived. As
far as I was concerned, I would have been willing to continue to sleep
with Perry; it did make a little more sense not to, so I wouldn't wind
up sick, too. I couldn't very well tell everyone that Perry and I had
openly kissed on the mouth countless times the same day his symptoms
had manifested.

The camp bed turned out to be a cot, which we set up in Perry's room.
And Mr. Elden-Beck was right--it wasn't all that comfortable. I'd slept
on worse, though; whenever our grandparents used to visit us in
Quonochontaug, Samantha and I would give up our room and we'd sleep out
on the covered veranda, on the porch furniture.

For some reason, Wyeth didn't hassle me too much that day, other than
to give me a few warning looks. I believed I began to understand where
his sudden animosity had come from. Like Camille had told me, he was
indeed a caring and concerned brother. He checked in frequently and
took care of everything else the rest of us weren't already doing for
Perry. Essentially, Perry was waited on completely--that even though
Dorothea had been given the rest of the week off, so the cooking and
housework had to be tended by the family, as well. For that reason,
Perry was all the more determined to try and do as much as he could for
himself.

That first day, he continued to spike fevers, despite the antibiotics
we very diligently administered. Fortunately, they were a lot lower
than one hundred and four, according to Mrs. Elden-Beck's thermometer.
One hundred point nine was the highest. When they proceeded to drop, I
was relieved.

The doctors had advised plenty of fluids and a very light diet. Not
that Perry was particularly hungry until dinner, but on the positive
side, he didn't once throw up, as Camille had alleged. While he'd
sipped water and lemonade all day, at dinner, he finally took soup and
jelly from the tray, in bed. To me, the lemonade appeared to be
lemon-lime soda and the jelly was what I knew as Jell-O.

As I'd managed to shower and change some time during the day, knowing
Perry was being well cared for, after dinner, I curled up on the bed to
read to him. Not Sherlock Holmes, though. For the time being, I didn't
want to think about anything that would remind me of Phoebe or imagine
what I'd be going through if I didn't had Perry to keep me occupied.

The next thing I knew, we'd both fallen asleep, and Mrs. Elden-Beck was
trying to coax me to put on my pajamas and go to the other bed. None of
us had slept, the night before.

*****

WEDNESDAY--DECEMBER 23

The following day, Mrs. Elden-Beck had to go into work again, but she
was the only one who did. I'd eventually learned that Mr. Elden-Beck
had his own law office in London and after Wyeth had obtained his
degree from Oxford, he'd gone on to be employed there, as well. Which
Perry was expected to do, when he graduated. That fully explained why
the two eldest males in the household discussed their cases and clients
at home as if they were both completely familiar with them. They were.
Trusting Perry would receive all the care he needed in her absence,
after kissing his curls, profusely, Mrs. Elden-Beck finally tore
herself away and drove off in her MGB. She'd also left me her work
number, just in case I had any questions.

Once she was gone, Perry set the breakfast tray aside and insisted
having a shower. I offered to give him another sponge bath like I had
the day before, but he was too intent on having the real thing.

Only because it would have to seem strange to his father and Camille,
did I not volunteer to assist him. Since Wyeth already knew about us,
we didn't have to worry about hiding from him. Anyway, if Perry still
felt so ill as to require my attendance, it wouldn't even have occurred
to him to shower. I sent him off with his dressing gown and perched on
the foot of the bed to watch TV while I waited for him to return, so I
could shower next. Within moments, I alarmed when I heard him and Wyeth
fighting in the bathroom.

It was disturbing enough that the guy would suddenly provoke his
younger brother out of nowhere--especially in light of the sympathetic
consideration he'd been demonstrating, the day before. Add to that the
fact that such peculiar behavior from Perry was unprecedented, as far
as my experience with him. The only time we'd ever fought was over
Phoebe's phone number and I had to admit, I'd acted much more
aggressive than he had.

I rushed to the bathroom. The door was shut. Inside, I heard them
arguing, voices muffled. Still, between coughs, I understood Perry
yelling at his brother to "Get the fuck out!"

Seizing the knob I found it unlocked and threw it open. Neither of them
seemed surprised by my entrance, though they did cease arguing. Perry
proceeded to cough, uncontrollably.

Wyeth, likewise in his pajamas, tried to take Perry's shoulders, but
was hastily shrugged off. "Is that how it is?" Wyeth countered.

Advancing, I demanded, "What the fuck is going on?"

"Don't just stand there, you git." Wyeth regarded me. "Turn on the
steam. That's what he's needing."

Whether or not a fight was ensuing, he was right. I went immediately to
the shower and turned the hot tap on.

"Close the door," Wyeth said calmly. "You'll let all the steam out."

Wondering how the hell he had the nerve to order me around, I busied
myself adjusting the tap and showerhead. "You close it. You're not
doing anything."

"I'm getting Perry ready to shower, can't you see?"

The moment he took his brother's shirt to unbutton it, Perry shot to my
side, crashing into me. "Get the fuck out of here," he ordered Wyeth,
again, struggling not to cough. "I told you, already."

Momentarily, Wyeth hesitated then headed for the door. "We'll talk
about this later." Leaving, he shut it behind him.

"What the hell is his problem?" I asked, tempering the hot water from
the cold tap.

Bending over, Perry held his abdomen and coughed so hard I thought he
might very well throw up, after all. He didn't, though, then managed to
control his coughing enough to answer. "Bloody hell, my belly's getting
sore. It's just that...sometimes...Wyeth can be a real arsehole."

"I gathered that," I admitted, thinking of how Wyeth had challenged me
the night before last, in the emergency room. "But, yesterday, he acted
like he couldn't do enough for you. What did he say?"

Seeing Perry struggle to undress, I immediately assisted. I found the
front of his pajama pants to be wet.

In explanation, he supplied, "I wazzed the floor, on accident. I'll mop
it up when I get done showering."

I'd learned what that term meant some time ago. Glancing toward the
toilet, I saw the lid up and a puddle on the tile, on far side of it.
Though I was confused, I couldn't help but be aroused when his pajama
pants dropped to floor, rendering my mate otherwise completely naked.
"Why? Was he harassing you while you were pissing?"

Scoffing, Perry held the wall to carefully step into the tub.

Doubly confused by that answer, I shut the curtain, then draped the
pajama pants over the edge of the hamper, and the shirt, within. "Don't
worry about the floor," I said, placing a towel over the puddle. "I'll
get it. Give me a second to get my dressing gown so I can shower, too."

"Wait! Don't leave--! Okay, but don't dally."

In the hallway, Mr. Elden-Beck had apparently confronted Wyeth about
the fight, as well. His father had risen earlier, and was already
casually dressed. They were standing before Wyeth's closed bedroom
door, engaged in discussion.

"He's just out of sorts," Wyeth explained. "Being sick and all. I
offered to him help and he stubbornly insisted he didn't need any."

Judiciously, his father wasn't buying it. "What the hell are you doing,
winding him up when you know he's ill? What kind of crap is that? If
you can't treat your brother properly, then stay away from him."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Dad--"

"Don't sass me. I know damn well it'd take a hell of a lot more than
that to stir him up the way I heard. Now let him be."

Aware that Mr. Elden-Beck had seen me, I slipped off to Perry's room,
as soon as Wyeth retreated behind his door. I wasn't certain what to
do, since Perry was waiting for me, yet knowing how weird it would look
if I went in to shower with him.

Sure enough, their father came to the door and looked in on me. "Hear,
now. What the devil's going on? I'm downstairs tending to important
business on the telephone, and I hear a row going on upstairs. Mrs.
Elden-Beck and I trusted you to look after Perry; what are you doing
faffing about in here? The boy's ill, lad. What are you doing leaving
him on his own for his brother to harass? Come about."

Thoroughly confused, I leapt off the foot of the bed and switched off
the silent TV. "I-I thought I'd shower right after Perry, so I came to
get my dressing gown. But, I would never have thought--"

"Right after? Are you mad? Grab your dressing gown. As long as you're
planning to shower, too, get in there with him, man. I'll not have my
boy pass out in the middle of his bath!"

Awe-struck, I raced after Mr. Elden-Beck with my bathrobe to do exactly
as told. While I quickly stripped, through the shower curtain, he
briefly explained to Perry why I'd be joining him, then left us.

I have to admit, Perry looked pretty surprised when I stepped into the
bathtub with him. Neither of us were about to turn down his father's
consent to shower together. And as Perry had recovered from his
coughing fit and seemed to have improved from the day before, I had a
hard time restraining myself to strictly bathing.

*****

PERRY

FRIDAY--DECEMBER 25

Every Christmas, we'd have dinner with Dad's side of the family. It was
the only time of the year we saw them. Boxing Day, we'd spend with
Mum's family.

We viewed Christmas dinners at my paternal grandparents' estate with
increasing ambivalence over the years. Starting around late September
to early October, Dad would fret and grumble about buying appropriate
gifts. Fortunately, I'd been away at school the past two falls and
missed most of that. Then, once Wyeth and I had reached the ages where
we had to be on our best manners, and our cousins began to act like
snobs, we'd come to appreciate the stuffy, formal affairs even less.

By Christmas day, I was well enough to make the trip, even if I may
have preferred to miss it. Both Fox and Cammie were invited to come
with us, of course. Despite my cuddling with him, he'd not come down
with so much as a sniffle. Nor had anyone else, which was all very well
with me; I would have felt like hell if I'd someone had had to spend
Christmas day suffering fevers, on account of me. Cammie had gone to
her parents' Christmas Eve, and would be back in time to present
herself as Wyeth's date.

For Fox, I tried not to depict the dinner as dull and uncomfortable as
they could be; I already knew his company, alone, would make all the
difference in the world. Particularly so because me and Wyeth still
weren't getting on.

That morning, we'd all opened our gifts by the Christmas tree. While I
thoroughly enjoyed the astonishment on Fox's face upon the receipt of
his presents, the mood was much more subdued in my brother. Wyeth and I
had hardly spoken to each other since our row. That had suited me fine
at first, but it was Christmas day--not a time for us to be feuding.
Furthermore, I couldn't stand the idea of going our separate ways after
holiday without reaching an understanding with him.

If he'd just acted like a prick and lost his temper, it would have been
a lot easier. I could have just treated him like the prick he was, in
turn. It wasn't that Wyeth was just pissed--he was hurt and brooding.
He seldom ever got that way. He had better than all the self-assurance,
strength of character, and pluck than most blokes in his position
might. Coming from two different sociological classes of family, we
were naturally were rejected by both. That had never bothered him,
though, and having grown up under the shelter of his casual, cocky
attitude, it had taken me years to realize any significant differences
existed between our snotty classmates and us. So, to see him hurt and
brooding disturbed me.

When he gathered up the discarded boxes to take out to the bin, I
slipped away from Fox a moment, to follow. I hardly had time to pull a
jacket on, from the downstairs closet.

Seeing he'd dropped some rubbish, I picked it up on the way. "Wyeth," I
said.

He paused to look up. "What you want?"

The vapor from our warm breath lingered in the cold air; I hoped I
wouldn't start coughing. "The other day...I came off like a right
bastard...That was fucked..."

"You just now figured that out?" he posed sarcastically, snatching the
rubbish from me to stuff into the bins.

I looked away.

"And? Are you just apologizing, or what?"

"I owed you that, didn't I?"

When I hesitated, he exhaled impatiently. "You'd better get back inside
before you catch your death standing out here. I've got more concern
for your health than your boyfriend does."

"Would you quit blaming him for everything? It was my fault, too, you
know. I told you as much."

Covering the bins, he promptly tried to steer me toward the back door.

"Why'd you think I came out here in the freezing cold?" I said,
standing my ground. "I owe you more than that. A hell of a lot more.
That's why I came out here."

As he was wearing nothing heavier than a flannel shirt thrown over a
thermal, he put his hands in his pockets, gaze sweeping down me. "It's
all very easy to pretend to make amends when there's no time to prove
you're not talking crap. This isn't merely about trying to smooth
things over for appearances' sake at dinner tonight, is it?"

"Fuck appearances. Since when have I ever given a damn about
appearances? It's Christmas. You're my brother."

Reaching to me, he drew my collar up and covered my chest a little
better. "Think you can do something about your bodyguard--?" Suddenly
distracted, he fixed his gaze toward the corner of the house. "Speak of
the devil..."

I looked, too.

The peevish expression on Fox's pretty face was priceless. Not only
that, he was wearing the new leather jacket I'd bought and had wrapped
on our London trip, and therefore presented a picture that was all the
more stunning.

"It's kind of cold out here," he remarked, as he approached. "You're
just getting over bronchitis, Perry; the last thing you want is a
relapse."

"We were just coming back inside," I assured him.

He waited, leaving me no choice but to accompany him to the back door.

"Why were you two fighting?" he asked quietly. "You never did tell me."

And hadn't meant to, either. From what he'd told me about his
relationship with his sister, I didn't think he could never fathom the
complexities between and my brother and me. It seemed that though
he'd regarded her as a playmate, she was still his charge to be
looked after. That wasn't how it was between Wyeth and me; we were
mates, above all else. Sure, he looked after me as I did my best to do
the same for him. But, we were mates first and always would be. As I'd
discovered, that didn't mean I could go on sharing everything with him.
"Nothing much. I was just in a bad way--not myself, and all...I
overreacted and was sorry for it. I had to apologize."

"Just the same." Fox opened the back door for me. "I wanted to make
sure you guys weren't killing each other out here."

*****

In the afternoon, Mum and I set up her 35 mm camera in the drawing room
for the traditional Christmas family photos. It gave her a thrill to
see us all dressed up in formal attire at once, so she was always sure
to take the family portraits then, with the stockings on the mantle and
the rest of the Yuletide decorations as background. She'd started the
tradition with Wyeth's first Christmas and had photos from every year,
since.

By late afternoon, we'd showered again, shaved neatly, and were
preparing to go. Fox wasn't relenting an inch as my bodyguard, as Wyeth
had observed. The odd part was that my brother had never tolerated
anyone's attempt to monopolize my time like I allowed Fox to do,
before. Unless it was by a mate who was strictly heterosexual. Then
Wyeth didn't care. That he didn't bring one of his knives after Fox to
quietly threaten to cut his balls off was a first. My brother had a
couple of beautiful Sheffield blades--no feeble little jackknives or
stilettos for him. He'd used them several times to chase blokes off
from me. Thus, I tried to be cautious about how I presented my mates.
Once he'd discovered that I ceased informing him about my prospective
male sex partners, he stopped being so hostile. But, he had to meet my
mates to determine if they met his criteria and if they did, he'd want
at them, too. That was where I'd drawn the line with Fox. Had Wyeth
come after him, if I'd had to thrash the bloody hell out of my brother,
I would have. Though my brother's fighting skills were impressive, I
had no doubt, with what I knew Fox to be capable of and the fact that I
was taller than both of them, we could easily have taken Wyeth down.

Once Fox was properly dressed, I couldn't get over him. I thought he
was lovely in his sub-fusc, but he was even more so in the tux Mum and
Dad had seen to for the occasion. One thing about my parents--they
weren't a couple of farty old sods. Mum's sense of style was always
superb and spot on and Dad well appreciated it. While I straightened
out Fox's tie and smoothed the shoulders and lapels of his jacket, I
had a daft wish that I could dance with him after Christmas dinner, in
the ballroom. "You look downright smashing," I told him.

"Thanks," he said, then went about fixing my tie and jacket and
arranging my curls all the way down to my collar and shoulders. "You
look pretty damn smashing, yourself."

There was a knock on the door, which we'd left about an inch ajar.
Instantly, we backed from each other. Mum looked in. She wore a
resplendent formal dress of velvet, her hair pinned up, except for a
few strands which she'd kept wrapped in curlers all day to make sure
they'd spiral by dinnertime. She'd always envied the curly hair my dad
and I had inherited.

A long time back, I'd learned that the beauty I saw in her wasn't
merely subjective; my mates had always carried on about her looks. When
she dressed up, she was more spectacular than ever. For some reason,
she was holding her 35 mm Canon with the flash attachment, despite the
fact that we'd already set up other camera in the sitting room.

"Oh, my," she said quietly, putting a hand to her heart and looking
faint. "You're both so beautiful, it makes my heart skip a beat."

While Fox blushed over the compliment, Mum shut the door behind her and
crossed the room to switch on another light.

"What you doing?" I asked, confused.

"Taking your picture, silly. What's it look like?"

"But, downstairs--"

"That's different. I want the two of you. Together."

As I was used to Mum popping up with crazy ideas for photos, I figured
this was just another one. I sighed. "How do you want us, then?"

"Me?" Fox queried. "Why would you want to take a picture of me? I'm not
family."

"Don't be silly," Mum further chided. "You're Perry's mate."

"So?" he went on. "You should see all the mates he has at Oxford--at
least a million."

I couldn't help but laugh. Sure, I had them, but I'd never had a mate
like Fox.

"Oh, I'm sure he does," Mum replied, gesturing at a spot for us to
stand at, then peered through the viewfinder. "He's always been a very
popular lad."

"Then," Fox tried, "you take pictures of all his friends?"

"Not at all," Mum dismissed. "Only the special ones."

Beside me, Fox shifted nervously, seeming ready to edge out of the
frame. "Are you sure you want me in the picture?"

"Now, don't just stand there like a couple of twits," she said. "Hold
each other."

Feeling a bit awkward, we attempted to casually comply. I draped my arm
around Fox to his opposite shoulder, and I felt him take my waist,
lightly.

"No, no, no," she admonished. "Cor, but I should've brought some
mistletoe. I want to see you really hold each other like you do when no
one's about. I want to see you kiss like--"

I about had a fit. Instantly, Fox and I shot to opposite sides of the
room.

"Now, don't take on with me," she rebuffed, waving at us to get close,
again. "I'm not blind and I'm not stupid. It's all very well with me.
And I swear on my soul if you two don't make the most adorable couple."

--End--