Page 300 - Some Dance to Remember

270 Jack Fritscher

“I need you one hundred percent,” Kick said, “and I want you more
than need you. That’s double-edged quality!”
That’s a two-edged sword.
Ryan signaled for the check.
Kick reached for it.
“Let me,” Ryan said.
He followed Kick out to the sidewalk. The mist had thickened. All
around them umbrellas snapped to bloom in the rain. Kick raised his huge
arms to the wet sky.
“This is not rain,” he said. “It never rains in San Francisco in the
summer.” The rain soaked his shirt to a second skin across his shoulders,
Pecs, and belly. “This is no more than a heavy fog.” He hit his famous
double-biceps pose. He knew it was Ryan’s favorite. “It’s never raining
rain,” he held his powerful stance, “unless you let it.” He lowered his arms
and pulled Ryan to him in the middle of the sidewalk for all the world to
see. “I love you,” he said. “Be sure of that.”
“I am sure of it,” Ryan said.
“I want you to be up. I want you to be happy. I want you to keep on
keeping on with me. Trust me. I’m having as much fun as I can possibly
stand. I want that for you too.”
“Then, I guess, we’re ready to publish the book,” Ryan said.
They climbed into the cockpit of the Corvette. Kick ran his fingers
through his damp hair. It was the gesture Ryan loved best. He put his hand
on the nape of Kick’s neck. Kick turned full face to Ryan and squinted his
sexy grin. He pulled the Corvette out from the curb into a wide U-turn in
the middle of Castro and headed back to the Victorian.
Ryan, riding with Kick, never looked out the windows. He twisted
almost sideways always watching every powerful movement of the man
behind the wheel. Kick handled the car the way a man should drive a
car. Ryan watched his perfect profile. His pecs bulged when his hairy
arm reached to shift, biceps peaked working the stick, hand square on
the wheel, his massive legs, rippling under Ryan’s hand through his tight
jeans, working the clutch and brake, his head set high on his square neck
rising out of his broad shoulders, his blue eyes steely and straight forward,
a wet curl of blond hair falling down his forehead, the aquiline straight-
ness of his nose over his luxuriantly groomed moustache, the trace of
an intense smile on his lips, the jut of his chin covered with two-days’
dark-blond stubble.
Ryan’s dick hardened. “Omigod,” he said, “do I love you.”
Kick reached over and tweaked Ryan’s left nipple. Wordless, he drove

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