Sean nods.
“In my bed?”
Another nod.
“This is really what you want?”
Sean’s breathing heavily now, and not because Mike’s cutting off his air. Mike knows Sean can take care of himself, that he’s downright scrappy if he needs to be, but that doesn’t mean Mike won’t use his weight a little to hold him up or hold him down. He won’t hurt him. He never could. But he can sure as hell make sure Sean feels him.
Sean’s pupils are dilated and Mike likes that. He likes that quite a bit. He laughs quietly, thinking that he can’t remember the last time he did this. For all he knows, he’s a virgin. How could he possibly know? But he does know what he wants, and it’s an itch that he wants to scratch, unlike his wrist.
He’s grinning, and he knows it’s a dark thing, and he knows that all Walter has to do is stick his head out the back door and see that Mike’s got his waiter pinned up against the wall in an improper fashion, but Mike’s not sure he cares. Sean doesn’t either, by the feel of him. Mike’s a little reckless right now, a little punch-drunk, but he’s floating on this strange, vibrating cloud, and he’s not inclined to find a reason to stop.
“I’ll be here,” he says. “At six. You be ready. We’ll go to your house. You can pack a bag for overnight. And then we’ll go home. That okay with you?”
“Yeah,” Sean breathes through his hand.
And because he can, Mike says, “Yeah,” before removing his hand and kissing Sean to within an inch of his life.
He’s turning around and walking away only seconds later. Before he rounds the corner, he glances back and sees Sean still dazed against the side of the diner, cheeks slightly reddened from the scrape of Mike’s beard.
Mike grins to himself. And maybe he’s starting not to care what Amorea actually is, be it experiments when They Came from Outer Space or experiments when They Came from Eastern Europe Wearing Red or experiments when They Came from the Hospital Carrying Straitjackets. He’s got all he needs right here. He’ll make it work. Somehow.
MRS. RICHARDSON and the Amorea Women’s Club make an appearance just after lunchtime, as he thought they would. He saw them flitting up and down Main Street all morning, Mrs. Richardson barking orders to her minions as they scurried to obey her. He knew it was only a matter of time before they descended upon him with demands of pageantry and ideas for what he should wear.
“The store isn’t festive enough!” Mrs. Richardson cries the moment she dramatically throws open the door, bell ringing overhead. “Where is your Harvest Festival spirit?”
He thinks, I wonder about you. If you’re not real, like some of the others aren’t real, how did you come into being? How were you made in this dream to be so full of life, so demanding? If I’ve made you up, like everyone else (but not Sean, never Sean), how did I make you like this?
He says, rather dryly, “I think that you have enough Harvest Festival spirit for all of us.”
The ladies tut behind her.
She glares.
He’s repentant.
The glare lessens. “We do this every year, Mike. And every year you say, ‘Why yes, Mrs. Richardson, I would be most glad to assist you in this matter. Next year, you’ll see.’ And every year I’m here again and there is nothing done. Nothing done, Mike Frazier.”
He thinks, You told me about your husband. A great man, you said. He died in the war, you said. If I asked you his name, would you know? If I asked you how long you were married, would you be able to tell me? I don’t think you would. I don’t think you’ll know because I don’t know. Are you a figment, Mrs. Richardson?
He says, “And every year you come in here and do up the storefront exactly the way you want it. If I decorated, you would just come and complain that it wasn’t done correctly and then fiddle with it until it was to your liking.”
“I don’t fiddle.”
One of the ladies behind her coughs bravely.
The skin under Mrs. Richardson’s left eye twitches.
Mike waits, because he knows that one should never argue with a lady like Mrs. Richardson.
“Fine,” she says only a moment later. “And only because I’ve seen how you decorate. You should be ashamed of yourself. And you can bet we will be having a discussion on the state of your wardrobe before I leave here. I will not have you looking slovenly like you did last year.”
He’s not offended. After all, how can you be offended by something that might not exist? Why, that would just be madness. He says, “I’m sure the discussion will be most enlightening.”
She narrows her eyes at him, assessing until she’s sure he’s being serious. He keeps the straightest face possible, and eventually she nods and clucks her tongue, like she can’t even begin to imagine having to deal with someone such as him. She snaps her fingers once, a sharp, quick crack, and the ladies of the Amorea Women’s Club begin to move, hanging fancy sashes in the windows and placing cardboard cutouts of smiling pumpkins and scarecrows on each of the book aisles. It takes them only minutes, and by the time they’re done, it smells like apples and spice and there’s even a little bale of hay in one corner with autumn squash placed strategically around it.
Through it all, Mike doesn’t say a thing. It’s easier that way.