FSE

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It was dark, almost too dark to see. A pitiful sliver of moon that barely filtered through the clouds was all there was. Kevin walked alone in an unfamiliar house, bumping into things in the darkness.

Whispers. Hissing whispers were all around him, too quiet to understand. Something thumped in the darkness. He realized it was his heart. He continued on.

There was something following him. No, not following. It was coming and Kevin was running from its coming.

There was light ahead, around a corner. Sickly green light like from a streetlamp with motion sickness. Kevin picked up the pace and hoped for an exit. He turned the corner.

Trista stood in a pool of light, naked, her nudity somehow making her monstrous. Something glinted in her hand, something sharp.

"Hey, lover, I've got a present for you," she said, and raised the hand without the sharpness. It held a rubber band. "Let's get this on you so we can get started."

She started forward, a vicious smile on her muzzle, her teeth showing, sharp and bright. Kevin tried to back away, but the walls had closed behind him. There was nowhere to go. He felt hands on his scrotum and realized he was naked. She squeezed the rubber band around his balls and twisted it tight. He gasped in pain.

"I knew you'd like it," she said and started stroking his limp shaft and despite the pain, blood flowed into it.

His heart started pounding louder and louder. Then he felt warm steel on the underside of his sack. Pain.

He sat up in bed, sheets twisted around his waist and soaked with sweat. His hands flew to his groin and found his balls, unharmed and whole. He breathed a sigh of relief, it was a dream. The pounding started again and Kevin realized it was his door, not his heart.

It was light outside. He checked his clock. 8:32. He left his bed, donned a bathrobe to cover his nudity and had it tied closed by the time he reached the door. He opened it.

Two men stood in the hallway, a wolf and a ram. They had badges hanging from the pockets of their suit coats.

"Dr. Kevin Stair? I'm Detective Sunrise, this is my partner Detective Howl," the wolf said. The ram nodded when he was introduced.

"Can I help you?" Kevin asked, scratching his chin and then yawning. Why were detectives at his door? Did Sheila call them? Did Anthony press charges of some kind?

"May we come in?" Detective Howl said.

"Of course, have a seat. I haven't had breakfast, but there's coffee if you want it." Kevin swept his arm out in welcome as he stepped aside.

The detectives stepped into his condo. "No thank you," Sunrise said.

Kevin closed the door and went into the kitchen for some coffee for himself. "So, how can I help you?" Kevin asked as he poured a cup. Generous amounts of sugar and creamer went in and the nearly black liquid turned light brown. He looked up to find Detective Sunrise in the kitchen with him.

"We understand that an assault took place here three weeks ago," the wolf said.

Sheila was going to get punched in the face.

"Look, I don't know what Sheila told you--" Kevin started.

"Who is Sheila?" Detective Howl asked behind his partner.

"Sheila didn't tell you?"

"We don't know a Sheila, Dr. Stair. Your rape was reported by Charles Truffle, identifying both himself and Trista Sunburst as the perpetrators." At the mention of their names, Kevin flinched inside.

"I'm not pressing charges," Kevin said. He walked his coffee into the living room, the detectives stepped aside to let him pass. He sat down on the couch and took a sip.

"Dr. Stair, I assure you, your name will not be made public."

"I don't want Charlie prosecuted, can you do that?" Kevin asked, looking deep in his coffee.

"Why would you want that?" Detective Howl asked, sitting in a chair opposite Kevin.

"I don't think he was a willing participant."

"There was no mention of coercion in his statement. He says he didn't know what he was doing, but ignorance is no defense. He admitted to his girlfriend drugging you and the both of them taking advantage of you sexually while you were incapable of giving consent."

"I know what they did. Could you prosecute only Trista and not Charlie?" Kevin said.

"No," Detective Sunrise said, "we could never make a case stick against one and not the other. I doubt we could even get the DA to take a crack at it."

"Then I'm not going to press charges. It's simple. I'm not going to ruin a young man's life like that."

"He raped you," Detective Sunrise said. Kevin slammed his cup onto the table, coffee sloshed over the edge and across the hard wood surface.

"I was there," Kevin snapped, "I know what happened. She took advantage of his naiveté and manipulated him into doing what she wanted. She's a goddamned wolf in sheep's clothing, no offense intended. I'm not pressing charges," He tapped the table with his index finger to punctuate his words. "I'd like you to leave now."

The detectives stood. "If you change your mind..."

"I won't. There's the door."

They shook their heads at each other and left. Kevin didn't move. He watched the spilled coffee.

That stupid kid. That stupid, stupid kid. Guilt had torn him apart and he'd gone and done the only thing he could think of to assuage it. Trista was not going to forgive his turning her in to the police. He found himself wishing he knew where they lived so he could do something. He realized he should have said something to the detectives about it.

That woman had a cruelty to her that dwarfed anything he'd seen outside of fiction. He had seen it, the pure joy she felt when she looked in Kevin's eyes and saw the realization set in that what he thought was not.

He touched his ear, felt the scar where her teeth had penetrated. It had been no love bite, it had been calculated to cause pain and mark him as her conquest. Looking back, it had almost seemed like a ritual. He was sure that if he were to look at Charlie's ear, he would find the same mark.

Kevin shook his head. No, the boy should have known better. He had seen the kind of person his girlfriend was, he knew the risk. Right? But how could he know that Kevin would refuse to press charges? How could he know that he would be thrown back to the bitch? Kevin's stomach started to churn at the thought. He pushed it away, shaking his head again. No. It's not your problem, Kevin.

Kevin took the corner of his bathrobe and mopped up the spilled coffee. He cursed himself for leaving it for even a moment. It might have stained the wood. Herbert would have been apoplectic.

Not that him using his bathrobe to clean it up would have made him much happier.

He took the bathrobe off on his way to the kitchen while juggling his coffee. He dumped it in the sink and switched on the tap. After rinsing the sink, he washed the coffee out of his bathrobe, wrung it out, and took it to the bathroom where he hung it over the curtain rod. Then he went back to the kitchen, threw on an apron, and set about making himself breakfast.

Someone knocked at his door. Caught up in his cooking, it took him a moment to realize what it was. He took the pan he was using off the range and turned off the burner. He munched on a piece of bacon on his way to the door. He opened it wide.

Anthony Barrow stood in the hallway. He was not on the list of people Kevin wanted to see that morning.

"Doctor Stair, I..." his eyes traveled down the professor, then shot to the side. Confused, Kevin looked down and realized he was still wearing an apron and only an apron. It was just long enough to cover the important bits, but only just. He grew hot under his fur.

"Uh," he said. He was frozen in place. So was Anthony. They stood like that for a full minute, no speaking and not looking at each other. Finally, Kevin snapped to his senses.

"How did you find out where I live?" He desperately wanted to slam the door and possibly hide under the covers, not from the badger per se, but from the embarrassment of last night combined with this morning. On the other hand, he was determined that he would not be afraid. Surely, he had little to fear from a man who gave up at least a foot and probably fifty or more pounds.

"Well," the cocksure man-eater from the night before was actually stammering, "I tried the phone book, but you're not listed. Then I tried the university directory, but your address wasn't there either. I had to cash in a favor with a friend of mine who works for the fuzz." He sounded very much like a teenager apologizing for a broken window with his father behind him polishing a belt. Guilt, embarrassment, fear, and nervousness were all present.

"And you went through all that trouble because?" Kevin was glad his voice was strong. In fact, other than the fact that shifting his weight a little could expose him, he felt completely confident and collected.

"I, uh, I just wanted to apologize for last night. I was way out of line." He looked away. Kevin's gaze was too direct.

"It's alright, I just overreacted." Kevin said, "It's not that big a deal."

"No, it is. I was a real creep. I mean, I saw all the signs that I was pushing you too hard, but I chose to ignore them. I told myself you were just playing hard to get and I just needed to push harder, but I should have realized..."

Kevin was even more embarrassed. He hadn't expected such earnestness from a man who, just last night, had been handing out blowjobs like business cards and acting like a teenager's idea of a rock star.

"There's no way you could have known," Kevin said.

Anthony shook his head, "No, I knew I was making you uncomfortable, knew you were trying to get away. I thought I knew better than you did what you wanted, which was really stupid and insensitive, and I'm not an insensitive guy. Stupid sure, but not insensitive." Anthony sighed. "Anyway, I'm sorry."

"Look, it's nothing--"

"Don't tell me it's nothing! I was a real asshole to you last night, a real shitty asshole. I couldn't even get back on stage after I chased you out, I felt so sick. Don't downplay it to try and make me feel better. I mean, I've had guys tell me no thanks, I've had guys tell me to go to hell, but I've never had anyone go into straight up fight or flight."

"Look, it's not really anything you did, okay?" Kevin rubbed his nose. He felt a sudden sneeze coming on and he tried his best to hold it in.

His best wasn't good enough.

The sneeze came, puffing up his already large chest, before launching as loudly as possible. Twice more he sneeze, each one as bad as the one before.

"Excuse me," he said, checking his nose for hanging snot. Finding none, he was about to continue when he noticed Anthony staring down the hall with one hand partially extended to the side as if to obscure his vision. Kevin looked down.

His sneeze had lifted his apron above his penis where it caught. He was completely exposed to the hallway. Blushing from head to toe, invisible save for the telltale twitch in his ears, he pulled the apron back down to restore what little modesty he'd had.

"Are you averting your eyes?" Kevin said, not quite sure if he should be impressed or insulted.

"I thought it'd be in really bad taste to stare at your cock after apologizing for treating you like a piece of meat with no feelings."

"You can look at me again. Achilles is back in his tent."

"Are you always so overdressed around the house?" Anthony asked as he turned back to Kevin.

"I got coffee on my bathrobe earlier," Kevin said. "Like I was saying, I overreacted. I'm not trying to downplay anything. I'm just trying to explain myself."

"You don't need to explain, it's none of my business."

Kevin nodded firmly, "Okay. Well then, I was just in the middle of making breakfast so..."

"Oh. Yeah, yeah, I've got to get going myself, things to do." Anthony started to go, but remembered something and stopped. "Oh, yeah, I forgot. I washed this for you." He reached into his pocket. Kevin paused in the middle of closing the door and watched him draw a folded piece of cloth out of his pocket. It was his handkerchief from last night. He offered it to Kevin, who held up his hand and shook his head.

"Keep it," he said, "you might need it again."

"Hey, I'm not always a dirty cumslut like last night. That was an act, the whole promiscuous rock star bit."

"Okay, but keep it anyway. I have dozens and I find they come in handy for a lot of things other than wiping semen off your face."

Anthony laughed. "Alright. Thank you. And thank you for not holding my being a total jerkoff against me."

They said goodbye and Kevin closed the door.

"That was weird," Kevin said as he walked back to the kitchen. His half-cooked breakfast was cold. He ate it. He was already late for his walk, if he took the time to finish cooking, it would be too hot outside.

With his belly at least partially full, he dressed himself in his exercise clothes, a pair of gray knee length shorts and a tan A-shirt, and left. As he walked, he tried to think about the next book he was planning, but instead he found himself thinking about Anthony Barrow.

He wondered which of them was the real one, the horny rocker or the earnest man who'd gone through such trouble just to apologize in person and return a scrap of cloth he'd borrowed. Probably both. Everyone has more than the one face, but which was closer to his true private face? Maybe there was a spot in his next book for a character like that. It could make for interesting writing.

He returned home. The day was heating up and he was glad to be inside again. He showered and dressed, took a snack from the pantry, and retired to his library. He ran his fingers along the spines of the books he and Herbert had written together and separately. He took one of Herbert's solo works.

He didn't usually spend too much time with his own writing. Once it was in the public's hands, he honestly didn't find them too interesting. After all, he'd spent months slaving over every word. He knew them more intimately than anyone else could. Herbert's books, on the other hand, were different, especially after his passing. Kevin made it a point to read one of his books at least once a month. It was one of the ways he kept him close.

Kevin read until his stomach growled. He glanced over at his untouched snack and smiled. Trust Herbert to make him forget to eat. He put the book down, not bothering to mark his place. He would be able to find it again with no trouble.

In the kitchen, Kevin returned his snack to the pantry and set about making sandwiches. He was just about to take the first bite when the phone rang. He sighed and picked up the phone, abandoning his meal for the moment. Was the universe conspiring to starve him?

"Hello, this is Kevin Stair," he said.

"Kev, buddy, how's it going? I'm in town for the weekend, just got in last night. Want to do dinner? I've got somebody I'd like you to meet." It was Jamie, his agent. A shaggy ball of sheepdog energy, Jamie spoke like a friendly machinegun.

"I'm alright," Kevin said, talking slower than normal. He found it was the only way to get Jamie to slow his own speech down. "Sure, I can do dinner. Why didn't you call before you came down?"

"I didn't know how long I'd be staying, thought it might just be an in and out sort of thing, but it turns out I've got time to visit with my favorite writer."

"You just want another book," Kevin said.

"Eh, you caught me fair and square, but what do you expect from a literary agent, eh? We gotta eat, and we only get a tiny little fifteen percent," Jamie said.

"Where at?"

"What was that place we ate at last time, that Chinese place? It was really good."

"Po's? That sounds good. Who's this person you want me to meet?" Kevin asked.

"Kevin, Kevin, it's a surprise."

"You know I hate surprises."

"Oh, you do not," Jamie said.

"Okay, okay. When? Six alright with you?" Kevin asked.

"Sure, sure. See you then."

"Alright, bye." Kevin hung up.

***

Kevin walked into the restaurant. It was a nice place, tastefully decorated in an authentic Chinese style, with food to match.

He saw Jamie as he entered and waved off the host when she approached him. Jamie sat at a table with his back to the door. Thick elastic bands held a fountain of gray hair out of his face in several clumps. Kevin had always thought it looked far more comical than simply letting it hang in front of his face or even cutting it short, but Jamie seemed to like it.

Kevin touched his shoulder. Jamie looked up, surprised, then excited. He jumped to his feet and did his best to envelop Kevin in a hug. Being only five seven and a hundred and fifty pounds, he didn't have much success. Kevin returned the embrace, and sat down.

"Where's this person you wanted me to meet?" Kevin asked.

"Bathroom. You're a hero of his. I think he's a little nervous." Jamie said.

Kevin perused the menu.

"So, you have a new book in the works?" Jamie asked, leaning forward eagerly.

"In the planning stages, nothing too concrete right now." Kevin said. Jamie nodded.

"Ah, here he is, Kevin Stair, meet Wesley Turn." Kevin turned in his seat to see the newcomer. He stopped cold when he laid eyes on him.

Wesley was a giant panda of about thirty, nicely round like they all seemed to be, but the first thing Kevin noticed was his eyes. They were slate gray when seen straight on, but at an angle, they were a pale blue unlike anything he had seen before. The small round glasses in front of them did nothing to hide them. Moving out from the eyes, the next thing he noticed was the black patch on the underside of his muzzle, which gave the impression he wore a goatee. These were only the most outstanding features on a handsome face, perfectly proportioned except for the lopsided grin he wore.

He pushed out his hand and Kevin half stood as he took it. His grip was firm as he enthusiastically pumped Kevin's arm. Kevin found himself mirroring Wesley's grin, though with both sides of his mouth.

"Mister Stair, it's a real honor to meet you," he said, his voice a low tenor or high baritone. It was very pleasant. "You and Mr. Humble are what got me into writing in the first place. "Hold onto Hell" was a revelation."

"You're a writer then?" Kevin said, feeling like an idiot as soon as the words got out. Of course he was a writer, why else would his literary agent introduce them?

"Yeah, my first is on its way to stores," he said as he sat.

"It's got buzz you would not believe. No, I guess you would, it's like when you and Herb were first published. He gets compared to you, actually," Jamie said with obvious pride.

"In a good way, I hope," Kevin said.

"Oh yeah, of course," Jamie said.

Kevin and Wesley maintained eye contact. The younger man seemed to be looking into his soul. Kevin couldn't explain it, but it didn't seem threatening or uncomfortable at all. Kevin found his mouth was dry. He broke their gaze to find his water glass and took a drink.

"Well, congratulations on the book. I hope the public agrees with the critics," Kevin said.

"Me too," Jamie said, and the three of them laughed. They all looked at their menus. Kevin kept stealing glances at Wesley and seeing those blue eyes. Then he saw gray. He quickly went back to looking at his menu as his ears twitched and his face burned. He felt like a kid.

A waiter came. They gave him their orders, which included a bottle of baijiu, often called Chinese Vodka, for Wesley.

"So, Kevin, Eric Nimbus came to me with an idea and I think it's a good one," Jamie said once the waiter had gone.

"Will I think it's a good one?" Kevin asked. Eric Nimbus, Chief Editor at Kevin's publisher, had a bad habit of making unwanted suggestions. It's not that they were bad, but Kevin had never been able to write to order, it came on its own or it didn't come period.

"Okay, now, don't take this the wrong way, but..." Jamie looked at Wesley and then back at Kevin. "Uh, actually, Wes, would you excuse us for a minute?" Jamie stood up. Kevin looked from him to Wesley quizzically and then followed suit. Jamie led him into the foyer.

"What shouldn't I take the wrong way?" Kevin asked. Jamie gritted his teeth and scratched the side of his neck with one finger.

"Well," he said in a manner far removed from his normal motor mouth style, "Okay, your last two books, they were good, I mean, hell, they sold almost as well as any of your others, but, well, you know, they weren't Kevin Stair and Herbert Humble good, if you know what I mean." Jamie paused as if expecting Kevin to say something. Kevin did not.

"Let me put it this way," Jamie's speech sped up, as if he was trying to rush past the awkwardness, "When you guys were together, you made each other better. Even the stuff you wrote alone you collaborated on, right? Ideas, editing, that kind of stuff, I know you did, you said so all the time. You guys, like, completed each other." Jamie put his hand on Kevin's shoulder.

"Look, I know it's kind of shitty to say like this and I wish there was a better way I could, but that's how it is. You're still a great writer, Kevin, don't get me wrong, but Eric's kind of worried. A couple critics kind of mentioned that you didn't seem quite as hot as you were and Eric's afraid it could affect sales if your next one doesn't knock it out of the park like we're used to seeing from you."

Kevin sighed. "Get to the point, Jamie, please?"

"Right, right, the point. 'K, point is, Eric thinks that you and Wes would make a great team. Now, I know what you're going to say, but you know Eric has a great nose for this kind of thing. Remember Lauren and Danny? He brought them together and look what came from that."

"Okay. So you want me to strike up a writing partnership with a complete stranger in order to replace the writing partnership I had with the love of my life for nineteen years and nearly thirty novels. That's what you're suggesting to me?" Kevin said. He felt sick.

"That's not actually what I thought you were going to say," Jamie said. He looked sick. "I guess I should have."

"How suggestive is this suggestion?" Kevin said.

"Well, he didn't say he wouldn't publish you anymore if you said no, but come on. Don't you think he has a point? You're your own strongest critic. You know when your stuff isn't all it could be. Don't you think you've been slipping since Herb passed?" Jamie said.

"Maybe. But you can't just throw two guys in a room together and expect them to shit out a masterpiece. It's not like mixing paint. I might be blue and he might be yellow, but that doesn't mean we're going to come out green." Kevin said. "Besides, Herbert wasn't just some guy."

Kevin choked on his next words, tears welled in his eyes. "Herbert was fucking Herbert and he. Can. Not. Be. Replaced. He was more than an editor or a co-author or a friend or a lover. He was an inspiration. He was my inspiration and--" Kevin turned away, overcome.

Jamie patted him on the back and waiting awkwardly for him to calm himself. After a few moments, Jamie spoke in as gentle a voice as he could manage. "Look, Kevin, it was just a suggestion. Don't hold it against the kid, okay? It wasn't his idea; he didn't have anything to do with it. Come on, man, let's go eat dinner and forget I even said anything."

Kevin shook a few more times, then took a deep breath, wiped his eyes and nose, and turned back around.

"Is he really that good?" Kevin asked.

"As a writer? Yeah. I don't know about the other stuff."

Kevin laughed weakly. "I'll tell you what. We'll talk over dinner and see what happens. Maybe, through some miracle, we'll click or something."

"Don't force yourself into anything," Jamie said, surprised.

"I won't. Come on; let's get back to the table. Who knows what he thinks we've been talking about."

They returned to Wesley.

"Everything alright?" he asked as they sat down.

"Yeah, yeah. Peaches," Jamie said.

They made small talk until their orders came. Jamie and Wesley shared the baijiu after Kevin demurred and proceeded to make their way through three bottles of it as they ate. Once the food was gone -- it was too good to interrupt with talk -- they discussed writing.

Kevin found Wesley to be clever and insightful. Even though the length of his experience was shorter than his own, it seemed the breadth and depth was infinite. He knew something about everything. He could talk about Nabokov or Nietzsche, Fitzgerald or Faulkner, Pratchett or Patterson. He knew obscure French authors and popular American ones.

"Do you live in a library?" Kevin asked after a while.

Deep in his cups, Wesley's voice was slurred, but his brain seemed no less sharp. "Bookshop. Dad and Mom ran it and we lived upstairs. I spent a lot of time reading. Believe it or not, I was the fat kid of my neighborhood and didn't get picked to play football a lot. My name didn't help a lot either."

"Don't you think Wes Turn is a good name?" Jamie asked, laughter in his voice.

"My dad loved Louis L'Amour. More than he expected to love me if my name is anything to go by," Wesley said. His face and voice said it was a joke, but his eyes told a different story.

"Why do you say I got you into writing if you grew up in a place like that? I'm hardly Dostoevsky," Kevin said to change the subject.

"I don't really know, to be honest. I read 'Hold on to Hell' and I just felt this powerful urge to write. I thought, well, what if he hadn't missed at the beginning and he had killed her and it just built up from there."

Kevin nodded. "It's a common story," he said.

"How did you get into writing?" Wesley asked.

"You read "Man Loved by Despair", didn't you?" Jamie asked and took another drink, "It's all there in the foreword"

"Of course I read it. Gorgeous book. I just wanted to hear the story straight from the source."

"You did," Jamie said. Kevin waved off his agent. Jamie was trying to steer the conversation away from potentially painful subjects. Kevin appreciated it, but he didn't think it was necessary.

"When he was alive, my dad wrote book reviews--"

"Don't tell me Darryl Stair is your father," Jamie cut in. "My mom and I used to read his column all the time."

"Yeah, that's my dad. Anyway, Dad had an advance copy, wrote up a review and everything, but Herbert had it shelved just before it got released to the public. Dad kept the book, I read it, and from then on, all I wanted to do was write something as beautiful as that."

"Ever succeeded?"

Kevin shook his head, "I don't think so. I don't know that anyone could really just set out to write something like that. It just happened, like, he managed to take the love he felt and translate it perfectly into words. It takes craft, but far more than that, it takes inspiration and I've just never been in the place I need to have both at the same time. I've tried, but my words were never quite good enough."

Jamie snorted. "Good enough for you. Look, Kevin, I've tried to tell you this before and I know Herbert has too, but that book is just a book. It, in of itself, is not transcendent. You're the one who made it that way; the reader, not the writer."

Jamie nodded sagely at his own input. Then he closed his eyes and slid off his chair. Kevin and Wesley looked at him for a beat and then Kevin motioned for the check. Wesley knelt down beside the agent and checked to see if he was all right.

"I didn't think that happened in real life," Wesley said.

"Only to Jamie." Kevin joined Wesley by his side. Between the two of them, they hauled him back into his chair. The check arrived and Kevin handed over his credit card without looking at it.

"I don't even think he's really asleep," Kevin said, "I think he's just trying to get out of paying the check."

Wesley reached for his wallet. "I can--"

"No, it's alright. Are you two staying at the same hotel?" Kevin said.

"Yeah, the Pines. I'm not real clear on where it is, though."

"I know it," Kevin said. The card came back. Kevin signed the slip, put the card away, and picked Jamie up and put him over his shoulder. He wasn't very heavy.

"I'll give you a ride," Kevin said, "you can pick up your car in the morning since you're in no condition to drive." "I'm not that drunk," Wesley said.

"This is a zero tolerance state. Any drunk is too drunk. Come on."

It wasn't a long drive to the Pines, but every second seemed charged with energy. Kevin kept stealing glances at Wesley and it seemed every time he did, Wesley glanced at him. Their eyes met for only a second or two at a time, but he felt like volumes were being communicated in them. He wasn't quite sure what exactly was being communicated in them, but he felt a strange elation that he had almost forgotten. He still didn't know about a writing partnership, but his hormones were definitely suggesting a connection.

Kevin tried to wake Jamie when they arrived, but he didn't as much as stir. Wesley helped him pull him out of the car. They searched his pockets until they found his room key and then carried him up. They laid him on his bed, carefully positioned him to make sure he didn't Hendrix himself, and let him sleep.

Wesley's room was next door.

"Did you maybe want to come in for a while?" Wesley asked, "It's still pretty early." He stepped closer to Kevin and ran a finger down his chin. Kevin shivered. "We could have... coffee?"

Kevin retreated a step. The fear was starting to rise. He stamped it back down as best he could; there was not threat here, it was just an offer.

"We barely know each other," he said.

"I can't think of a better way to get to know someone," Wesley said, leaning back on his door. "The truth is, I've been horny all night, ever since you came in. I saw you checking me out, did I pass muster?"

Kevin swallowed hard. "Yeah, sure, but I'm not much for jumping into bed with a near complete stranger just because I've got an erection. It's shallow and meaningless."

"What's wrong with shallow and meaningless every once in a while?" Wesley dropped his card into the reader and stepped forward again. "Life's too short for too soon, Kevin." He took Kevin's hand in his own so that his palm was against the back of Kevin's hand. Then he brought it to his crotch.

Kevin felt his erection, hard against the softness of the rest of him. His own penis responded in kind, he felt it stab into the fabric of his pants, trapped.

"That's for you, Kevin," Wesley said. He took Kevin's other hand, stepped in, and placed it on his buttocks. "So is this, and everything else."

Kevin could taste his breath. He felt Wesley's belly against his constricted erection, knew Wesley could feel it too, but still he held back. But why? Fear? Fear of what? Sex? Betrayal? Betrayal of what? Not Herbert. Herbert had been very clear that he wanted Kevin to move on and not to let his life end with his passing. But didn't he deserve better than for Kevin to just start fucking anything that came by, as if Herbert's death was some kind of emancipation?

Was it even really about Herbert? Was it the rape? He told himself it wasn't the rape that hurt, but the betrayal of Herbert's memory, but was it? Was having his sexual agency stolen from him poisoning sex itself? Was sex now something to be afraid of? Fuck that.

He squeezed Wesley's ass and pulled him tight. The panda grinned. The hand holding Kevin's hand to his rear moved to mirror Kevin's grip, while the other, pulled Kevin's zipper down.

"That can't be comfortable," he said as he reached into Kevin's pants, found his erection bent against the fabric of his jeans and pulled it free into the evening air.

Memories of Trista's hand on him flooded in, but Kevin pushed them away. This had nothing like that. He was not being forced, he had not been drugged, this was his decision and he was not going to let her fuck him up any more.

Wesley's hand slowly moved over the smooth, sensitive skin. He stood on his toes in order to reach Kevin's mouth, licked across his own lips and Kevin's in the same motion, and just as Kevin's lips cracked for a kiss...

"For God's sake, get a room!"

The two men snapped their attention to the speaker, a tigress with a pilot case trailing behind and an infant in her arms. Sheepishly, Kevin pushed himself back into hiding, hoping she hadn't seen everything they'd been doing, and Wesley stepped back.

"Sorry," Kevin said to their witness. She shook her head and unlocked her room.

"I do actually have a room," Wesley said. Kevin watched him unlock the door and step inside. He held the door open.

Suddenly, Kevin had second thoughts. Did he really want to do this? He'd talked himself into it a moment ago, but the argument seemed less convincing without the force of Wesley's want so close to him. Walk away? It wasn't too late. He set himself. No. He had made his decision. He would stick to it.

He followed the panda into his hotel room and the door swung closed behind him.