10,007 Words

The sun was making preparations for its daily departure, infusing the air with a light in which Kansas practically shimmered. Bracy’s tastes ran neither towards the rapier slender nor the impressionably youthful, but the pull he felt towards wheat-colored Kansas was almost magnetic. Bold facial features—the unusually sharp jut of his chin, the electrifying blue of his eyes, the ripe juiciness of his raspberry lips—vied for attention, so that Bracy’s gaze refused to settle, wanting to drink in more of this—no, of that! He was acne-scarred and over-toothed in a way that would have been repellent on a grouch or a sulker, but the light in his eyes beckoned so invitingly that Bracy couldn’t help but wade into them. Bracy was not particularly inquisitive by nature—his great good looks had brought him nothing but luck and adoring fans, and the motives of his admirers and the provenance of their good deeds seldom required investigation—but Kansas’s was a hard-worn face, and he was swamped by curiosity; surely each cranny and crag on such a mug had a story, and Bracy knew he wanted to discover the surprise in each one.
For hours they walked. Through the gauzy orange glow of the sunset along the river, through the lavender twilight under sussurating trees, from one to the other of which Ryan Seacrest scurried, nose to the ground, tail wagging, leg, from time to time, lifted. Kansas was an eager, easy laugher, and Bracy wobbled on unfamiliar ground alongside someone who actually expected him to have something to say, and then had something to say back to him other than “Gee, you’re handsome.” Seldom chartered territory that he was emboldened to explore with such an intriguing and seemingly able guide.
An empathetic and eminently fair-minded man who valued substance—witness the unselfconscious stains and frays of his sweatshirt—as well as style—a more figure-flattering cut of trouser than the pair of jeans he inhabited no magic tailor could devise—Kansas easily saw past Bracy’s dazzling exterior. But the treasure trove of relics deep within a gothic French cathedral does not preclude its visitor from standing slack-jawed in awe and admiration of the painstaking artisanship invested in its radiant stained glass rose window. Intelligent, witty, and deep, Kansas was also a man, and when Bracy inquired whether he might like to come up for a glass of wine, Kansas fairly sprinted for the elevator.
Wine was even poured, but it was scarcely quaffed. Kansas set down his glass after a first tentative sip, and Bracy was utterly unable to resist the suggestion of the droplet of red wine glistening on them that he nibble on his lavishly plumped lips. And Kansas knew he was kissed—he clambered up the monolith of Bracy’s torso like a monkey up a tree the better to climb deep into his embrace, and they drank lustily of each other until their foreheads clunked together like coconuts and Bracy had to stagger to the couch and prop the smaller man up on it. Kansas smiled, rubbing his forehead, and brazenly wondered aloud if the view from Bracy’s bedroom was as spectacular. He gasped and floundered on the arm of the sofa when Bracy stepped unhurriedly out of his clothes, assuring him with each sybaritic bounce of his voluptuous butt as he sauntered to it that what there was to see in the bedroom would indeed enchant the eye. Ripping his trusty and treasured hoodie in his frenzy to be free of it, Kansas leapt from the arm of the couch and fairly flew into Bracy’s bedroom.
In nothing but what God gave him, Bracy was indeed a sight to behold, and Kansas stood momentarily mute, gaping at the anatomically elucidating specimen before him. His long, lean body was opulently upholstered, the lines of every obedient muscle clearly visible in relief against its opposition. His stomach was narrow and tight, his chest expansive and full; his legs were smooth and muscled, his ass round and proud; his eyes were hooded, and his desire to see more of Kansas was plain.
And still Kansas stood, compelled to find fault with Bracy’s figure, frustrated in every attempt by its Michelangelesque perfection. Even as it advanced on him, he found himself unable to do more than ogle Bracy’s body, and when Bracy grabbed the waistband of his jeans, Kansas was nearly floored by the shock.
“Your turn,” Bracy murmured, tugging on the younger man’s pants. With two frenzied men in it, the room was abuzz with pheromones, and the smell of hot, horny body was thick in the air, but when Kansas tugged shyly at the hem of his t-shirt, Bracy tuned out all distraction.
He lifted it slowly, the brazen tease, revealing the marbled plank of his abdomen inch by inch. The tight button of his navel nestled among unexpectedly stark ridges and Bracy was breathless with anticipation as the worn cotton met Kansas’s crossed forearms just underneath two promisingly square pecs. Kansas took a deep breath and met Bracy’s eyes. “I hope this is OK,” he said, suddenly self-conscious.
Bracy’s body was humming, hovering rather than standing, and he placed a reassuring hand against Kansas’s flat belly. “It’s amazing,” he assured him.
Kansas dropped a grateful smile and lifted his arms over his head.
Bracy’s knees fell out from under him and he reeled as if he’d taken a bowling ball to the face. No question of rude or polite occurred to him; the swear words spilled out of him like water out of a jostled bucket as the overripe, overpowering stank of Kansas’s armpits knocked him flat on the floor. Kansas ran from the room, and Bracy could do nothing but gag and let him go.

Chapter Six
When at last it happened, Bracy cleaving Kansas at the precise moment the dawn rent the distant sky with the pink slash of sunrise, the sex shook Bracy’s high rise condo like Taipei 101 in an earthquake; the keening, the moaning, the heedless and hyperbolic declarations of passion and need imbued with the tenderness that can only follow a nightlong, wine-fueled confessional bonding Iditarod.
As befits a man whose fortune rests wholly on the radiance of his appearance, Bracy’s dressing room was better stocked than a small town pharmacy with unguents, tinctures, crèmes and essential oils. Fearing that Kansas would beat a hasty retreat, and having no way to get a hold of him again if he did, Bracy scrambled to his knees and then to his feet as soon as he was able. His head still spinning from the oniony ammonia assault, he tore through his aromatherapy drawer until he unearthed a tiny jar of lavender oil. He slathered his fingers in the pure plant extract and jammed one up each nostril, then hurried back to the living room in time to see Kansas shrugging into his sweatshirt on his way out the door.
“Kansas, wait!” Bracy called.
He didn’t look up, but Bracy could see that his sweet face was wet and red. “Don’t worry, I’m going.”
“Don’t leave.”
“Why not? Now you know; you reacted just like everyone else. I was hoping it wouldn’t matter to you, but it did.”
“Kansas, don’t leave.”
“Good bye, Bracy.”
Bracy was unaccustomed to not getting his way, and it took him a second to devise and execute the exactly right plan. Kansas was in the hallway pulling the door shut when Bracy urged him, “Please.”
Kansas hesitated, and Bracy sped to the door to usher him back inside. “Kansas, it doesn’t ‘matter’ to me, necessarily. I just wasn’t ready for it. You have to know, it’s pretty⎯”
“Disgusting?”
“Pretty strong, is all I was going to say.” Bracy softened his tone. “Please stay. Can we at least talk about it?”
More wine was poured and they adjourned to the plushly padded wicker sofa on the balcony. Out of doors, with a large glass of wine and a snoot full of lavender oil, Bracy was able to open his arms to young Kansas, who curled up inside them with his own glass of wine, sniffling away the last traces of the self-pitying tears that had sprung hotly to his eyes unbidden while Bracy was sprawled, stunned, across his bedroom floor. “I’ve had it since I was a kid,” he eventually disclosed.
“And what is ‘it,’ exactly?” Bracy gently inquired.
Kansas shrugged. “I don’t know. My doctor says he’s not sure it has a name. He’s never heard of anyone but me having anything like it.”
“And what can your doctor do for you?”
“Nothing,” Kansas practically whispered. “I’ll probably always smell like this. If anything it’s getting worse as I get older.”
Bracy sipped his wine and tried to absorb this news item. He liked this kid. A lot. He wanted this kid. Real bad. And he was typically very shallow where men were concerned, sometimes appallingly so. There were several ways, each immediately obvious, for this night to end badly; he wanted a way for it to end awesomely, but had to cast about for some idea of how to facilitate that outcome.
In the meantime, he asked, “How come you don’t smell like that all the time? I mean, why didn’t I notice it before?”
“You mean why wasn’t there warning so you could leave me at the park?”
Bracy jostled his lap mate’s narrow shoulders. “Come on, don’t. Is that what you heard me ask?”
“I’m sorry. I’m just used to having to be really defensive about it.”
“Well, I’m just trying to talk to you,” Bracy scolded.
“OK, well, I wear these shields in my shirts. There’s no soap, no cologne, no deodorant—at least not that I’ve found—that can do anything for me. I wash my clothes with this special ionized detergent that my sister makes for me, and these shields absorb most of it. I only stink if I don’t have my shirt on.” Kansas laughed. “For want of a less embarrassing way to say that.”
Bracy shook with a supportive chuckle and stroked Kansas’s hard, narrow chest reassuringly. Annoying, to be sure, as the boy’s torso tantalized, and Bracy was dying to see, feel, and taste it, but it sounded like these ionized t-shirts could pry open a loophole. They sipped wine and cuddled and traded secrets and sweet nothings on the lanai through the night until Bracy could restrain himself no more.
“So, you were saying… if you kept your t-shirt on…”
For his part, Kansas had had a crippling hard-on for the last hour and a half, and he almost came just with relief when Bracy broached the subject. “If I kept my t-shirt on,” he said, “we’d probably bust your bed.”
“I’ve been wanting a new one for a long time,” Bracy said, practically flinging Kansas to the floor in his haste to leap from the couch.
Kansas’s t-shirt fit him nice and snug and hit his waifish little waist right at the hips. He proved to have a round, ready rump and, for a skinny guy, a surprisingly hearty appetite. Bracy was in lavender-laced heaven, and Handsome Man fell right off the radar in Our Fair City, the better to enjoy a long and lusty hiatus.
*
Three days passed, most of which were spent in the arms or ass of his fragrant new boy toy, before Bracy was able to turn loose the bed one afternoon and answer his insistently blaring phone. Troy had taken it upon herself to program the theme from the Greatest American Hero as the custom ring from her office phone, so she was calling specifically for Handsome Man, and Bracy prepped for a verbal onslaught before he picked up. “Hell⎯” was all the Mayor let him utter before she dug in.
“Never mind ‘Hell.’ Don’t you ‘Hell’ me! Where in the hell have you been for the last three days, that’s the ‘Hell’ I’d like to hear. I’ve seen Randy Marquez, so I know you’re not with him, and pizza delivery drivers have been getting rolled like dice all across town, so I know you haven’t been handling Handsome Man’s business. What’s going on?”
“Actually⎯”
“Never mind ‘Actually.’ ‘Actually’ nothing! It doesn’t matter. You can catch me up this afternoon.”
“This afternoon?”
“Never mind ‘This afternoon.’” Troy cried, but then backtracked. “Actually wait, do mind this afternoon. Come down to my office, would ya? I have some downtime between meetings, and I think I may have a plan. There’s an exhibit coming to the Museum that could be a big moment in Handsome Man’s career, so I need you to get out of bed⎯”
“How did you know?”
“What am I, new here? There’s only one reason you don’t answer my phone calls, Bracy, and it’s not cuz you’re on the toilet. Although, off-topic, it would be fine if you wanted to add that to the list. You sound like a damn fire hose, Bracy—do you think no one can hear that? And when you’re taking a⎯”
“Right, then,” he cried, damming her stream of consciousness. “This afternoon, you say? Around what time?”
“Let’s say three.”
“And what time is it now?”
“Eleven o’clock.”
“Check,” Bracy said. Then, scratching his head, he ventured, “And what day is it?”
“Damn,” Troy cackled, so loud that Bracy had to pull the phone from his ear. “He must be something else.” She signed off from her desk phone with a clang.
“He is,” Bracy muttered, pulling Kansas close.
After three days in bed, from which he had risen only to answer the door to the Chinese delivery guy and to huff lavender oil like it was spray paint, even Bracy’s pits were pretty ripe. Kansas’s t-shirt was a surprisingly effective b.o. blocker, but he’d been sweating in it for three days—it was agreed that showers all around was the order of the day.
Bracy wanted to shower together—not having done so since their meeting, he couldn’t imagine spending fifteen minutes apart from Kansas—but even in a soapy shower stall, Kansas’s musk proved prohibitive. So they dressed separately, Bracy in shorts and a pec-hugging t-shirt, Kansas in his second-skin jeans and his dutifully-shielded hoodie, and hopped into Bracy’s Jeep for the trip downtown, Bracy dropping the vial of lavender oil in his pocket just to be on the safe side.
En route, while navigating a four-way stop in the pancake house district, Bracy noticed a pickup truck up a side street hemming in a weather beaten LeCar that sported “Ravinder’s Indian Pizza” signs on its sides and roof. Troy had mentioned a string of pizza driver robberies, and so Bracy couldn’t resist easing around the corner and pulling over.
“Whatcha doin?” Kansas asked, sensing, as Bracy had, the malice on the wind.
“Here’s the thing,” Bracy said. “I do some, um, consulting for the police department, right?”
“Yeah, you mentioned that,” Kansas affirmed.
“Well, so Troy—that was her on the phone earlier. Well, of course you know that, cuz we’re on our way to meet her. Anyway, Troy mentioned something about pizza delivery drivers getting stuck up the last few days, I just wanna make sure everything’s cool.”
“Bracy, I can tell from here everything’s not cool.”
“Well, right. So can I,” Bracy said. “So I’ll be right back. Maybe stay in the Jeep?”
“What kind of ‘consulting’ is it you do, exactly?” Kansas wondered. “This seems kind of dangerous.”
“Maybe just call 9-1-1.” Bracy suggested. “Everything will be fine,” he assured, hopping down from the Jeep. “Just tell them to hurry.”
“Will you at least be careful?”
Bracy nodded as he stalked up the street. There seemed to be two muggers and a driver—piece of cake, as long as the cops didn’t lollygag. “What’s goin on here, fellas?” he shouted, invading the space the thieves had staked out in the middle of the street.
“Who wants to know?” said one of the bad guys, not tearing his attention away from his cowering victim.
“Call me a nosy neighbor.”
“We’re about to call you ‘collateral damage’ if you don’t move along,” he said, turning to level his gun at Bracy. He hadn’t even turned fully around, though, when his gun clattered to the pavement. “Good Gravy, who are you?” he asked, eyes wide and mouth agape.
“He said he’s a nosy neighbor,” griped the partner in crime who seemed to be doing the actual sticking up of the driver. “Get rid of him. Was that your gun I just heard break apart in the street?”
“Of course not,” the first crook said. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Bracy, so he didn’t know if he was lying or telling the truth. His gun could have been in a million pieces or about to go off, what did he care? The handsomest man he’d ever seen was staring at him. Pizza delivery drivers are all over town—guy like this noticing a shlub like him was a once in a lifetime. If that.
“Hey Mister!” the driver called out, sensing a turning of the tables. “Help me! These guys are trying to rob me. I got kids at home. These assholes might think they need the thirty-five bucks more than I do, but I’m here to tell ya, they don’t. And another thing⎯”
“No!” the non-distracted thug shouted. “No other thing. Goddam, I know your life story and this is a stupid two-minute stick up. Hand over the money. You!” he hollered, turning in Bracy’s general direction without registering any recognition. “Get out of here!”
“No, wait!” the first crook hollered. “Don’t leave,” he begged Bracy, who hoped that Kansas had dialed the cops already—this wasn’t going exactly as planned. Why was the robbery still in progress? “Lex, you should see this guy,” Crook 1 called to Crook 2. “He’s crazy hot.”
“I should see him?” cried Lex. “Should I see him? OK, let me just make myself unblind real quick! God, is every accomplice in this town simple?”
“Wait,” said Bracy to Crook 1. “He’s blind?”
“Yeah,” said Crook 1, wiping a trail of drool from his chin. “Tough luck, huh? You’re not one to miss.”
“Well, thank you,” Bracy said, flashing one of his more high-voltage smiles to keep at least one of the baddies on the sidelines. What the heck do I do now? he wondered.
“Mister!” The driver again. “Still getting robbed here. You wanna help me out?”
“I wonder if someone wants to help me out!” cried a frustrated Blind Lex. “Idiot, please tell me you’ve at least picked up your gun.”
“Yeah, right,” muttered the Idiot, tearing nothing away from Bracy. “Just a sec, Lex.”
Not wanting to stand around in the street all afternoon, and really not wanting to have to intervene physically—which was never part of the deal with Troy—Bracy looked back over his shoulder to see if Kansas was on the phone or on the lookout for a police car or what. One look at the kid, of course, and the plan popped into his head fully formed.
“Kansas!” Bracy hollered. The kid looked up from tuning the sattelite radio, and Bracy yelled his name a second time. “Kansas! Come ‘ere, would ya?” A blind bad guy might be immune to Handsome Man’s particular powers, but what if Handsome Man’s sidekick had the power to drop him in his tracks? Troy was gonna love this!
Kansas climbed cautiously down from the Jeep, squinting into the sun to get a better idea of Bracy’s position. Was he calling for him with a gun to his head? Kind of didn’t look like it. In fact, it looked like one of the crooks was up to nothing more sinister than gazing at Bracy with stars in his eyes. He started hesitantly down the street.
“Hurry up!” Bracy hollered, adding “Please!” as an afterthought.
Kansas looked around for the cops that the operator had assured him would be “right out,” and, seeing none, trotted towards Bracy.
“What’s going on?” he asked when he was close enough. The delivery driver seemed to be struggling with a blind man over possession of a cash bag, but Bracy had his back to that scene. With his fingers up his nose, Kansas couldn’t help but notice.
“Kansas, do me a favor would ya?” Bracy called.
“Whatever you need, Brace.”
“Come over here and take off your sweatshirt,” Bracy directed.
Kansas was flummoxed. Now he smelled the lavender, which explained Bracy’s fingers up his nose, but what was he up to? Involuntarily, Kansas blushed hot with shame; did Bracy think it would be funny to showcase Kansas’s b.o. in public like this? Bracy had seemed uncommonly understanding and sensitive in the face of Kansas’s issue, but was he really just some kind of exhibitionist dickhead?
“Um,” Kansas started, trying to give Bracy the benefit of the doubt, and therefore keep the anger out of his voice. “Why?”
Glimpsing Kansas’s flushed face, Bracy sensed his apprehension and met his baby blues. “If I tell you I’ll explain later, could you trust me?”
Kansas hesitated, but with one hand on the zipper of his hoodie. Bracy carried on confidentially, “I’m gonna plug my nose, OK? I don’t want that to hurt your feelings, but if you could lose the sweatshirt and put your hands up, it’d be a big help.”
Kansas shrugged and unzipped his sweatshirt. “Damn,” whistled Crook 1 when the sweatshirt fell open. “He’s super hot, too. Are you guys like⎯” Brothers or what? died on his lips when Kansas dropped his sweatshirt in the street and put his hands over his head, and Crook 1 dropped to his knees in tears.
“God damn!” yelled Lex, trying to jump away from the source of the odor, turning in circles, confused by the notion that he was suddenly swimming in stink. He dropped the money into the car and stumbled away gagging, eventually falling into the street. “What the hell is that?” was all he could cry until the squad cars pulled up, all sirens and screeching brakes.
“Come on,” Bracy said to Kansas through his pinched nose. Kansas shrugged back into his sweatshirt and Bracy put an arm around his shoulder as they walked back to the Jeep. “There’s something I want to ask you.”
The delivery driver had passed out with one whiff, but would be pleased to wake up with his money in his lap. When he sought Bracy and Kansas to thank them for rushing to his aid, though, they were long gone. “My goodness,” he told the police officer who took his report once he came around. “He was one handsome man.”
Officer Randy Marquez smiled nostalgically. “I bet.”


Chapter Seven
“Mayor Dirk-Nowitzki,” Bracy crowed when he barged into the office with a giggling Kansas. “Meet⎯”
Handsome Man’s sidekick, he had been about to say, but Troy interrupted him. “B.O. Boy!” she cried, jumping up from her desk and rushing to hug a now-flustered Kansas.