Page 58 of Men in Shorts

John tamped down his anger at Evan and gave the topic another micro-adjustment. “I bet stamina can be a bit of an issue at first, aye?”

“Hah, definitely,” Fergus said. “The first few times, it lasts about a minute and a half.”

John gasped. “Even for you, the marathon man?”

Fergus’s ears turned even redder than his hair. “Aye. It’s like being sixteen again, but without instant erection resurrection.” He stepped into a pair of briefs with perfect grace, not even needing to lean against the wardrobe for balance. “Eventually you get used to it. You learn to recalibrate.”

John slid an arm beneath his own pillow and gazed at Fergus. “So how ’bout it, then? We could go and get tested together. Then you’d not have to take my word for it I’m negative.”

“I believe you,” Fergus said, but he’d already turned away from John to choose a pair of trousers.

“This way it’d be official. Ooh, we could make a date of it!” John slapped his palm upon the mattress. “Go to our favorite restaurant afterward to celebrate, maybe order champagne. It’ll be fun.”

“Hmph.” Fergus stepped into his trousers.

“You’re right, champagne’s horrible. We’ll do bourbon. You love bourbon.”

This time Fergus said nothing, not even a grunt. John watched him fasten his trousers, then take a pair of ties from the hook on the wardrobe door. He held up each in turn as he examined himself in the mirror beside the hooks.

“The olive-green,” John said, knowing Fergus was only pretending to be preoccupied with the choice. As an architect/artist, he was far too color-aware to consider the alternative.

“Thanks.” Fergus hung the yellow tie back on its hook.

John gazed at his boyfriend’s image in the mirror as he put on the tie. Watching him dress turned John on almost as much as watching himundress. There was something so assured, so masculine, about the way Fergus tied a necktie, his hands moving deftly around each other, twisting, tugging, fine-tuning.

Fergus gave one final adjustment, then his eyes flicked down to meet John’s in the mirror. His gaze was filled with tenderness but etched with pain.

John slid out of bed. In two steps he was at Fergus’s side, taking his hand. “I won’t cheat on you.”

Fergus’s face softened. “I know. It’s not that I don’t trust you.”

“Aye, it’s that you don’t trust men, and I’m a man.”

Fergus sighed and pulled away to retrieve his shoes, which already contained a pair of dark-brown socks, tucked there the night before. “Aren’t things fine the way they are?” he asked as he sat on the bed. “Aren’t we happy?”

“Of course.”

“Then why mess with it? Why fix what’s not broken?” He pulled on his left sock, giving the toe seam more attention than it warranted.

“You’re right.” John fought to keep his voice calm and light as he turned to the wardrobe and pulled out his own clothes. “Forget I mentioned it.” His jeans caught on the inside edge of the hanger, but he didn’t yank them free like he wanted to.

“John—”

“Seriously, it’s fine. Go or you’ll be late for work. There’s a smoothie for you in the fridge to drink on the way. I hope banana with frozen raspberries is all right?”

“It’s wonderful. Thanks for making it.” Fergus stood and gave John’s temple a lingering kiss. “I love you.”

John wanted to lift his chin to meet Fergus’s mouth, but he knew his face would reveal his fear. So he wrapped his arms around Fergus’s waist and buried his face against his collarbone. “I love you, too, ya big numpty.”

Later, during his damp, dreary walk to university, John tried to turn his thoughts toward his nine o’clock History of Political Thought lecture. But all he could think about was how Evan—that treacherous bastard—was coming between him and Fergus again.

Chapter2

Each time Fergusstepped beneath the red metal arch leading to the Barras market in Glasgow’s East End, he told himself,I’m prepared for anything. And each time, the place blew him away.

A hundred sights, sounds, and smells threw Fergus into sensory overload as he and John entered the open-air market, accompanied by Liam and another Warrior, Liam’s lifelong friend Robert McKenzie. A cacophonous chorus of “Two furra pound!” and “Cigarettes, tabaca!” rang out against a background of blaring dance music.

The brightly colored stalls lining the street had no apparent order. Halloween fancy-dress costumes flapped in the steady breeze across from a homemade-soap peddler, whose stall was flanked by two hawkers of bootlegged DVDs. A middle-aged couple to their left seemed to be selling all of the above and more. Few of the vendors sported a business name, since anyone could rent a spot at the Barras. Fergus estimated that roughly forty percent could have been named “Crap from my Attic.”

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