Free The Hardest Thing by James Lear

warning.”
    “You first, then him?”
    “Me first, then his wife, then his kids, then him.”
    “Nice to know where you stand in the pecking order, isn’t it?”
    Stirling shrugged. “He was going to leave his wife, actually.”

    “For you?”
    “That’s what he said—”
    He shut his mouth suddenly, realizing he’d given away too much. I wanted to say, “Oh, come on, Stirling, I wasn’t born yesterday. Rich old men like your boss only pay beautiful young guys like you for one reason, and it ain’t dictation.” But I felt sorry for him. Whoever was pulling the strings, Stirling was just as much of a puppet as I was.
    “Okay. It’s none of my business.” I put an arm around his shoulders. We sat quiet for a while, looking out at the view. Miles and miles of nothing. A man could lose himself out there, hide away, and nobody could find him. What was stopping us? A shack in the woods far from prying eyes, no neighbors, no phones, we could live like wild men—I could grow a beard, and Stirling could stop waxing and plucking and bleaching. We could trap our own food, clean it and cook it over a fire, and then I could fuck him under the stars on a mattress of pine needles…
    Yeah, and knowing my luck I’d land dick first in a patch of poison ivy. It was a nice little dream, but it was about as realistic as the U.S. Marine Corps handing me the Medal of Honor. I don’t know what Stirling was thinking: he had his own dreams, and he wasn’t sharing them with me. But we sat together, my arm around his shoulders, his head resting on mine, with nothing to disturb us but the song of the birds, the buzzing of flies and the soft breeze that ruffled his hair. I’m well beyond ruffling.
    “Dan.” I was half-asleep, and his voice made me start.

    “What?”
    He rubbed his face against my neck. “You know what I said last night?”
    “You said a lot last night.”
    “About how this was just a job, and you were only being nice to me because you were paid for it?”
    “Don’t start that again.”
    “Can I tell you something?”
    “Go on.” Here it comes: the identity of his boss. The key to the mystery, the explanation of all this “secretary” bullshit. I braced myself. Prominent politician? Church leader? Celebrity?
    “I don’t really care anymore.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “If they take it all away from me tomorrow—you know, when the job’s over—if I have to go back to New York and start all over again.” He kissed my neck, just at the point where the stubble turns into chest hair. “Even if they kill me.”
    “Hey. Don’t say that.”
    “Because if it all has to end…” He kissed me again. “I’m glad we had this. These last few days have been… you know.”
    “I know.” I’m not used to this kind of talk. Even during the best times with Will—a couple of nights we spent in a hotel in Kabul, of all places, away from military jurisdiction—we expressed ourselves through action rather than words. Now I felt awkward, and it was easier for me to kiss Stirling on the mouth than to let him carry on talking.
    He kissed me back like he meant it—not the expert kiss of the professional lover, this was urgent, almost
desperate, joining our mouths as if he was afraid we’d be torn apart.
    “Jesus, kid…”
    “Make love to me, Dan. Please.”
    “Let’s get back to the car, at least.”
    “Now.” He extended his legs; his shorts were bulging at the front. Stirling had good legs, long, lean, defined—dancer’s legs, you might call them, and he could get them higher and wider than anyone else I knew. I ran a hand from his ankle up his calf to his thigh, feeling the stubble growing back, the muscles taut under the skin. You must remember that we’d only been fucking for a few days under strange and dangerous circumstances; it’s a tough combination to resist. And out here in the open air with the smell of the trees and the chirping of the chickadees, it seemed like the most natural