Midwinter Night's Dream (11 page)

As Errol came down to earth, a couple of aftershocks hit, sending tremors through Errol. Joe nudged him, and then Joe’s lips were on his, gentle and reassuring. Sweet. Too sweet. Errol could lose his heart at this rate.

* * * *

Joe awoke to darkness and silence. Errol lay snuggled beneath the covers, sleeping the deep sleep of the well and properly fucked. The mantel clock said just after midnight; it was officially Christmas. The fire had died down, leaving a chill on the floorboards.

He dressed quietly and stepped out onto the porch. The air was cold and very still and smelled of snow and pine and wood smoke. A full moon shone down on the fresh snow, glinting in a million stippled points. The evergreens surrounding the cabin wore puffy capes. In the sky, stars lit up the dark dome. The drifts looked like a moonscape.

Christmas.

A time of magic and new beginnings. Somehow, he had to believe that the man sleeping in his bed represented a fresh start, a chance for a do-over to get his life back on track. For the first time in ages, Joe felt necessary. The six years of life experience he had on Errol might cause them trouble, but they seemed well matched in every way except ambition.

Truthfully, they were going in opposite directions. Joe wanted out of the biz, and Errol wanted in. Hard to meet in the middle. Joe could never be a firefighter in California—the media would never leave him alone, and he craved privacy. Errol couldn’t be an actor here. It sounded like something had happened in Denver that had shut him out, and Errol wasn’t ready to give up.

As soon as Joe returned to Denver proper, he’d offer to get Errol set up in the condo and see about ransoming his car and his belongings. Then they could talk about a compromise that didn’t involve Hollywood—maybe a locally produced show.

In the meantime, they were still snowed in, they had a comfortable bed, and they had time.

Chapter Ten

“Merry Christmas.” Errol sat on the side of the bed. He’d dressed in Joe’s robe, loving the smell of him clinging to the folds. The stove had cooperated, and Errol had managed the coffee without waking Joe. It was all he had for a gift, really, other than himself, and that he’d give freely.

Errol leaned over and kissed him, first on the forehead, then on the lips, and handed him a cup of coffee laced with whiskey and cream. It was early, but they had all day to go back to bed.

“Merry Christmas,” Joe replied. He lifted up on one elbow and took a sip, and then eyed Errol. “Pretty bracing for this time of day.”

“You won’t be driving.”
Not a motor vehicle, anyway
. He leaned in and licked off a bit of cream from Joe’s bottom lip.

After another mouthful, Joe put the cup on the side table. “What do you want for Christmas?”

“You already gave me a gift. The underwear, remember?” A bit too big, but plenty adequate and much better than a metallic thong.

Joe reached up and tucked Errol’s hair behind his ear. “A Christmas wish, then.”

You
. But how could he say that after only three days together? Instead, he voiced his second wish. “My wish is… Would you… Would you introduce me to your agent?”

Joe studied him for a couple of moments, and a cold sensation settled in Errol’s chest.

With a slow shake of his head, Joe quietly said, “No.”

“Please.”

Joe looked away.

Heat rushed into Errol’s cheeks. And he’d thought they had something here beyond a “marooned with you” fling. Embarrassment gave way to anger, his heart pounding.
Why not?
Wasn’t he worth a little help? Joe knew Errol’s situation; all he wanted was a level playing field. One phone call. One. The temptation to give Joe a red-hot chunk of his mind was strong.

Instead, Errol picked up his drink and moved to the couch. Maybe he should consider walking out to the main road and hitchhiking. Staying here was nigh on impossible now.

“Errol.”

He fixed his gaze on the fire—the fire he’d managed to build himself. No point in talking. So much for Christmas wishes. Made as much sense as his former colleagues ostracizing him on the say-so of an off-off-Broadway director. Errol had taken a risk and shared his body; worse, he’d let himself care, opened himself to rejection, and gotten it in spades. Black, ugly spades.

Meeting Joe Blake was going to boil down to an expensive pair of underwear and a bruised ego.

Behind him the covers rustled. Joe padded over and sat down beside him. Errol scooted away.

“Can we talk?” Joe said.

Errol took a sip of his drink.

“It’s not that I don’t want to help you. It’s—I don’t want to throw you into that world. LA isn’t what you think. They don’t just make movies. They bleed you dry, and when they’re done with you, they throw you away. If we were there, the entertainment news people wouldn’t leave us alone.”

“You mean they wouldn’t leave
you
alone.” Errol turned and set his mug on the coffee table. “And since you’re in the closet, they’d figure out that Blake Huffington has a boyfriend, not a girlfriend.”

“I only use women to protect my privacy.” Joe’s gaze was back to I’m-in-charge.

“Use. Sounds like the right word.” Errol got up, walked around the couch, and grabbed his clothes off the floor. One of them needed to get out of this room, and it looked like it was going to be him. He jammed his legs into his jeans and pulled on socks.

“Please,” Joe said.

Errol’s stomach tightened as he yanked his shirt on over his head.
He said please
. Manners made him turn as he started on the buttons. “I’m out. I’m proud. I don’t hide behind a beard, and I can’t be with someone who does.”

“It’s not that simple.” Joe was standing, hands on hips.

Errol crossed his arms. “It is.”

Joe glared. “Regarding LA. The chance of success is low, and if you do succeed, they’ll grind you up. It’s not what you think, Errol. The town is full of people who would sell their own mother to get ahead. Going to Hollywood is a mistake.”

“Isn’t that my mistake to make?”

Joe studied him. “What…what about us?”

Errol froze.
Us? Joe thinks there’s an “us”?
Much as Errol wanted that, he couldn’t be with someone who didn’t support his ambition.

“I’d like you to stay with me in Denver. There’s plenty of room at the condo—”

“I can’t afford that.”

“It’s not a pay-the-rent situation. You’d be a guest.”

Errol narrowed his eyes. Sounded way too much like what Andrew wanted. Live here, sleep here, do this. Be a kept man. “I’m not for sale, Joe.”

Joe frowned. “That’s not what I meant.”

Errol crossed his arms. “Isn’t it? Come live with me and be my boy, but I call the shots, and no Hollywood? Be the dirty little secret I come home to?”

“That’s not what I said—”

“Isn’t it?”

Shaking his head, Joe got dressed and stomped into his boots. He paused to grab his coat off the peg and strode outside, slamming the door behind him.

Errol blew out a breath.
That went well
. The last thing he wanted was to get involved with another controlling man. As soon as possible, Errol needed to get out of here and back to his life, such as it was.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas.

From the window, Errol gazed outside. Joe had cleared the snow around a large stump. He stood in the sun, ax flashing as it dropped on the unsuspecting log, neatly parting it in two. And again. And again. And…again. Whoa, this was way beyond what was necessary for firewood; Joe was singlehandedly parsing the log into toothpicks. With a vicious swing, he slammed the ax into the stump. The thunk was audible in the cabin.

Errol ducked behind the curtain and swallowed hard. In the wilderness with an armed and possibly dangerous man. Joe wouldn’t touch him in anger…would he? What now?

* * * *

Joe hefted the ax and headed into the tree line. Logs weren’t big enough to sate his anger, but chopping down a tree sure as hell would work.

The conversation had gone downhill so fast. He’d expected Errol to say he wanted a “them” for his Christmas wish. Joe had been so sure there was more between them than Errol seeing Joe as a ticket to Hollywood. There sure as hell was more than Joe seeing Errol as a whore. The last thing Joe had intended with his offer of sharing living space was for Errol to interpret it as coming with strings attached. It was like the reaction Errol had had to the gift of the briefs, a “what do I have to do to earn this?” attitude.

But then again, Joe hadn’t exactly said, “I think there’s something here. Can we keep seeing each other after this is over?” No, he’d had to go all take-charge-and-fix-the-problem instead of asking Errol if he
wanted
to stay at the condo.

You are an idiot, Blake.

Adjacent to a stand of aspen trees, he found a nice-looking fir, the kind of tree that would make for good firewood next season. He walked around the base and peered up at the crown of the tree. Must have been twenty feet tall, the type of fir they’d had at Christmas when he was growing up. Grimacing, he rested the ax on the top of his boot. The last thing he needed was a Christmas tree.

Might as well get to work. Planting his feet, he eyed the tree, swung the ax, chopped the blade into the trunk and then wiggled it loose. A couple more cuts, and chips flew. The rich scent of pitch intensified in the air. Snow sifted down from the branches, clean and cold on his face. He whacked at the trunk, deepening the wedge in the wood. It wouldn’t take much more to fell the tree, and he still had adrenaline to burn. With the exertion he’d worked up a sweat. He pulled his coat off and draped it on a bush.

The tree rocked a bit, and he gave it an experimental kick. There was rustling above him, and he caught a glimpse of something falling before it coshed him on the head, spiny like a hairbrush. He batted at his hair and an abandoned bird’s nest fell to the ground, trailing the pungent odor of sulfur. Feeling around his scalp, he stuck his fingers in cold goo and blinked.

Rotten eggs. Really?

Joe looked at the clear blue Colorado sky and laughed. What were the chances? It was like the universe was trying to tell him something, like “you’re a rotten egg” or “last one in is a rotten egg.” Or “go in and apologize.” In. Well, now he’d have to face Errol. Really, they needed to talk, to get everything straightened out. Time to go in and shampoo the egg out of his hair.

* * * *

Errol checked out the window and saw no sign of Joe. He’d gone into the woods and not returned. Had something bad happened? Grumpy grizzly? Avalanche? Assault by the paparazzi?

Just forget about it and start walking. You’ve got plenty of daylight to reach civilization.

Errol bit his lip. No great option there. This was like choosing between waiting in his car or taking a hike, and whether he’d made the right decision then remained to be seen.

There was stomping on the porch, and then the door flew open. Joe came in, wiping at something in his hair. A small cut above his left eye dripped blood.

Blood. Errol swallowed against the nausea churning to life in his stomach. “What happened?”

To his surprise Joe grinned and said, “A bird’s nest hit me on the head.”

“You—you’re bleeding.”

Joe’s eyebrows lifted. “Where?”

“Above your left eye.” The room shimmered, and his head felt floaty.

Joe wiped his fingertips across his brow, checked the red smear, and eyed Errol. “You’re pale. Sit.”

With hands on Errol’s biceps, Joe steered him to the kitchen and eased him into a chair. Errol leaned forward and put his head between his knees.

“You okay?” Joe asked.

“The sight of blood makes me dizzy.” His voice sounded croaky to his own ears.

“Stay put.” Joe walked away, boots clomping on the hardwood floor as he went to his duffel bag and then to the bathroom. The water came on, followed by a couple of curses.

Great. Was Joe still mad?

Joe returned and squatted in front of Errol, and he risked a look. The dripping blood was gone, replaced by a bandage. “Sorry,” Joe whispered.

Errol sat up far enough to rest his forearms on his knees. “No. I get it.” But Joe didn’t get that Errol didn’t want to be protected from fame—just the opposite.

“You okay?” Joe ran the back of his hand down Errol’s face. The remains of egg varnished his hair, and he smelled of rotten yolk.

“Nice hair conditioner.” Errol managed a smile. “I can help you wash it out without getting the bandage wet.”

“Yeah?” Joe stood.

“Grab one of those plastic cups off the drainboard and follow me.” Errol got to his feet, picked up one of the kitchen chairs, and headed into the bathroom. If nothing else, this should relax Joe. Maybe they could salvage the day.

In the cramped bathroom, Errol situated the chair sideways in front of the sink. “Take off your collared shirt and have a seat, back to the basin.”

Joe complied. “Like this?”

“Yeah.” Errol eased Joe’s head back until his neck rested on the edge of the sink, turned on the water, filled the cup, and poured warm water over Joe’s hair until it was saturated. He lathered the mess, massaging Joe’s scalp. Joe closed his eyes and sighed.

“Good?” Errol asked.

“Exceptional.”

Errol grinned and stroked his fingers along Joe’s forehead. Shampoo attendant at a salon—eight jobs back.

Joe cleared his throat. “Why is Hollywood so important to you?”

“I want to be successful as an actor. Film is like the pinnacle.”

“I thought Broadway was the pinnacle.”

After the
Gently, Gently
scandal, it was unlikely Errol could ever work in New York. “Not for me.”

After a palpable silence, Errol quit the massage and asked, “Why aren’t you out?”

Joe frowned. “I can’t. Firefighters just…aren’t. A firehouse isn’t a very liberal place.”

“But Hollywood is liberal, as you say.”

“Liberal but nosy. Who I spend time with is my own business.”

So maybe that was why Joe hated paparazzi. He’d intended to go back to the firehouse all along. Errol eyed Joe and began to rinse his hair. “You know that you’re kind of promoting a product for gay men.”