Page 439 - Some Dance to Remember

Some Dance to Remember 409

wanted. The answer was something he could never have again. Something
he would have to live without forever. “I want Kick.”
The pain was in him now. Thick and thorough and clear. He had to
kill the man to save the ideal. He stood stock-still among the photogra-
phers jostling each other for room at the apron of the stage. The gun in
his pocket was hard in his hand. He hurt from his fingertips to his soul.
His body ached for the touch and smell and taste of the man whose body
was as familiar to him as his own. He raised his left arm high above the
screaming, surging crowd. He cupped his empty left hand in midair, trac-
ing his moves over the imagined, remembered, sweet full curves of Kick’s
massive shoulders, arms, and chest.
In the hot stage light, Kick powered into his finale, lats spread, shoul-
ders wide, head up, face smiling the confidence of victory, legs planted
firm for his final lockdown into the Most Muscular pose, the full presenta-
tion of the Universal Appeal of his Command Presence.
He’s no longer posing only for me.
This was worse suffering than Death could ever be. Kick had made
him fearless. No one could do any worse to him than Kick had done. No
courts. No judge. No jury. Not even God.
Kick hit his Most Muscular for the first of the three times he always
repeated it. The crowd went wild.
There was no God outside themselves. Even gods could be sacrificed.
Kick powered down into the Most Muscular crunch a second time,
extending his arms, revolving his fists one around the other, the rotation
displaying the popping intricacies of his massively sculpted arms.
Ryan had once feared Death. Now he wanted it. Murder, not suicide,
he had once thought the answer. Now he knew the answer was both.
Nothing but Death mattered. Death could freeze them forever together
outside space and time.
Kick raised his arms, drawing all the power of the lights and the music
and the audience to him, and locked down into his final Most Muscular
pose. The audience convulsed, rose, screaming.
Ryan pulled the gun from his pocket. He pointed it through the
blinding sea of flash-popping cameras rushing the stage.
Kick rose from his crouch and threw both arms high over his head.
His body ran rich and golden with sweat and oil.
In the gun sight, Ryan watched his proud grin.
He pulled the trigger, soundless in the cheering auditorium.
Kick’s massive neck bloomed red on blond in the white light. His
upraised arms flew back. His whole body rose up from the platform, like

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