Archive of Our Own ^beta

Technically, Danny is homeless now; his ex took the house in the split, and most of Danny’s worldly possessions sit in boxes inside a storage unit. The rest are stuffed into two hardshell luggage bags and stored inside the trunk of his Sunkist-orange Porsche, which is coasting down I-15 at a reasonable speed of twenty miles-per-hour over the speed limit. What does he care if some cop lurking with a radar gun issues him a ticket? Or if he rolls the damn car in a swerve to avoid some road debris (a blown tire from an eighteen-wheeler, most likely) and goes lights-out?

Not like he’s married anymore. Not like he has anyone to nag him about his lead foot. His violent death in a senseless car accident, however, would still be mourned by his remaining family (who await his arrival in the next few days, just in time for Thanksgiving), so he decides against that particular brand of recklessness and eases up on the gas a bit. Just enough to keep his adrenaline pumping, something to make him feel alive after so much of him has died over the last few months.

He still doesn’t understand what changed. Why she fell out of love with him. Maybe being married to a musician wasn’t all the groupies cracked it up to be. But Danny isn’t a rock star in the way of his heroes: he does unglamorous session work and plays in a handful of underground bands that perform in various LA clubs. Not exactly the excess and fame of Led Zeppelin or Motley Crüe.

Did she just get bored of him? Embarrassed that he was over forty and still striving for a big break? If so, it’s news to Danny. She never mentioned it, and from what little he knows about marriage, it’s usually the subject(s) of constant fights that breaks the union.

He makes it into Vegas at dusk. The perfect time for a city like this, with bruise-like blues and purples as a backdrop for the glittery lights and distant canyons. Danny imagines himself making a new start here, the way down-on-their-luck men do in old black-and-white movies. He could tend bar or deal at a poker table, some kind of casino work that would put him at the beating heart of the city.

Who’s he kidding? He hasn’t worked a real job in years. Doesn’t have the grit for it. Apparently he doesn’t have the grit to be a “real” musician, or he would’ve found success by now.

He picks the Venetian, because even in Vegas he’d rather be somewhere else, and the palatial Italian aesthetics do a fine job of transporting him to another time and place. The marble lobby is vast and grand, and he’s surprised to walk up to the concierge desk and find an available room at a price that doesn’t make him recoil.

He pays and takes the key, but he’s not tired, and it seems like a sad surrender to bachelorhood to go up to the room and watch pay-per-view hotel porn until he falls asleep.

So he takes a stroll through the casino instead. Maybe he’ll hit it big on one of the machines, and make a new, better life with his winnings. He could go back to LA (because fuck if she’s going to run him out of the city, it’s big enough for the both of them), buy a mansion in the hills and live the good life.

Fat chance. But he gives it a go anyway, plunking down in front of a video slot machine and letting the one-armed bandit rob him a dollar at a time.

He’s lost in the flashing lights and the rhythmic allure of the reels falling into place, so it takes him a moment to realize someone’s standing near him. He glances at the human-shaped blur in his peripheral vision, and the air goes out of his lungs.

When he first met his ex, he was struck by her beauty, as if a giant hand had reached inside him and squeezed his lungs. He feels that same sensation now, but he’s looking at a man.

“It’s a moral imperative to tell you you’re not gonna hit it big here,” the man says, and it’s his mouth that calls Danny’s attention first: the mischievous shape of his upper lip; the curious mole just above it; the sly little half-smile. “You have a better chance of jumping off the balcony of your room and surviving. Except please don’t actually do that.”

Then it’s his eyes that Danny finds next, dark and luscious and almost hypnotizing, lined with kohl.

“Oh,” Danny says dumbly. “Sorry.”

The man chuckles, as if Danny’s said something amusing. “Just get drunk instead. You’ll be full of regret in the morning, but you won’t be broke.” He’s holding a tray of cocktails that he lowers into Danny’s line of sight.

“Trying to get me drunk so I play more?”

“Nah, you don’t look like you came here to lose all your money.”

“You’ve seen the gamut, huh?”

A shrug. Now Danny notices the shape of his body, hidden under black slacks and a white shirt with a black vest accentuating his slim waistline. And his hair... long platinum blonde, with just enough wave to look natural.

“I know a sad shmuck when I see one,” the man says. “You’re a different type. Sad but not terminal.”

“Maybe heading that way,” Danny says and plucks a drink from the tray. He takes a swallow. It’s sweet, fruity, not his kind of thing at all, but he can’t put it back. He’ll drink it anyway.

“What’s got you down?”

Danny sees no harm in honesty. “Divorce.”

“You?” He lifts an eyebrow. “Well, her loss. Or his.”

Danny smiles, for the first time since signing the papers. It’s not even the words, more about the ridiculousness of all of this, how the divorce cumulated in Danny aimlessly arriving in Vegas, randomly choosing this hotel and this casino, to be pep-talked by the hottest man he’s ever seen. Not that Danny keeps a running list of hot men, or ever found himself attracted to a man until now.

The man sweeps through the rows of machines, doling out drinks to the single female gamblers—old ladies with silver-blue hair, college girls dressed in chiffon, probably at the tail end of a bachelorette party. Then he makes his rounds back to Danny, the only male in his clientele.

“You’re back,” Danny says, grateful for the company. He’s lost fifty bucks already, including four that he won and fed back into the machine.

“I am. And you’re still here. Don’t say I never warned you about the dangers of gambling.”

“Instead you suggested I get drunk.”

“And how’s that going?”

“I’ll need more than one drink. I’m a big guy.” Danny takes another drink from the refilled tray, something clear in a short glass. A Moscow Mule, not his favorite, but a step up from the last. “Not very strong.”

“I’m peddling to lightweights here.”

“Your mother must be proud.” Danny says it with levity, no contempt, but the man’s wry smile falters as if he’s hit a sore spot. “Sorry. That was out of line.”

Danny’s been blindly hitting the buttons, so when the machine starts blinking and chiming noisily, he’s irritated at the disruption of his conversation-slash-flirtation. Then he actually looks at the reels and sees three in a row. He’s won a hundred bucks.

“Well, I stand corrected,” the man says. “Looks like your luck’s turning around.”

“I’m not gonna push it.” Danny crams the payout ticket into his pocket, takes a twenty from another and sets it on the tray. “Thanks for sticking around. Maybe you’re a good luck charm.”

His smile carves through the gloom in Danny’s heart. “You should treat yourself. You look like a guy who enjoys a good burger. That bar and grill over there”—he points to a restaurant on the far side of the casino floor—“makes some of the best. And try one of the milkshakes if you have a sweet tooth. You’ll die of a sugar coma, but it’s better than jumping off the balcony.”

“Which you advised me not to do.”

“Right. Death by chocolate is preferable.” He offers a quirky smile, and Danny finds he likes this man’s bizarre sense of humor, and most of all, his unusual face.

In a moment of brazen courage (or stupidity, depending on how you look at it), Danny says, “You could join me.” He doesn’t expect a yes, and somehow that makes it easier to ask. The guy’s working, flirting to earn tips. There’s no pressure, Danny’s just throwing it out there.

He doesn’t expect the man to say, “I get off in an hour,” which is as much of a yes as Danny can get when asking a dude out on the job.

Danny cashes his payout ticket, hauls his overnight bag out of the car, and goes up to his room a hundred bucks richer. Technically eighty, considering the tip he gave the cute guy (he still can’t believe he’s the kind of person who considers men attractive now) serving drinks. Twenty bucks well spent, if it means more time to stare at him and mull over this bizarre shift in his own sexuality.

Danny takes a quick shower and changes into clean clothes. He didn’t pack anything too dressy, which is for the best. Because this isn’t a date. He just wanted some company, and the guy was nice and seemed like he might be fun to talk to.

He goes back down to the casino level and enters the restaurant. The hostess greets him with a cheery smile. “You’re here for Maynard?”

Danny nods, dazed. Apparently the guy’s name is Maynard. Danny’s not sure what he expected. Not that, for sure.

She leads him through the restaurant to an outdoor promenade overlooking the shimmering waterway where the gondolas float by. Maynard’s already seated at a small table, and he smiles when he sees Danny.

“It’s beautiful at night,” Maynard says, wistful as he gazes at the dark sky. “Don’t you think?”

“Yeah.” Danny sits across from Maynard and watches the sky. The night is a canvas of possibilities, each star in the clear desert sky a beacon guiding him towards a different fate. He wonders if that’s what brought Maynard here, too. Some dark thing he’s trying to outrun, or at least put in the rear-view long enough to breathe.

“Do you live here?” Danny asks instead.

Maynard shrugs. “In the loosest sense of the word.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m here for the time being.”

“How long have you lived here—in a loose sense?”

“A couple weeks.”

The waitress arrives with a milkshake as big as a newborn baby. Not only is the glass itself huge, but the shake is topped with a slice of funfetti cake, a generous dollop of whipped cream, sprinkles, and a glistening cherry.

“Jesus,” Danny says. “You weren’t kidding about the sugar coma.” He orders a beer (he’s got to be at least a little tipsy now that nerves have crept in) and stares at the shake in wonder and disgust. “No way can you eat that entire thing.”

“I thought we’d share. Celebrate your divorce.” Maynard lifts the shake off the plate beneath it and carefully maneuvers the slice of cake onto the plate. “Happy bachelorhood to you,” he sing-songs before blowing out an invisible candle.

“What’s happy about it?”

“You’re here instead of fighting to make the marriage work, so deep down you know it’s probably for the best not to stay together.” Maynard takes a spoonful of shake, makes a sound of contentment around the spoon. “And now that you’re single, you get to find yourself by getting away from the constant input and demands of life long enough to hear your own inner voice.”

Danny supposes that’s why he opted to drive to his parents’ place in Kansas instead of flying. Time. Space. Distance. The open road and the mind-wandering that comes with a boring drive.

“She divorced me.”

“Like I said. Her loss.” Maynard uses the edge of the spoon to collect the sprinkles frosted in a thick layer around the rim of the glass.

Danny sees the waitress approaching with his beer and glances at the menu. He doesn’t want to be the guy who takes forever to order. All of the options sound good because he’s starving, but he settles on a wagyu steakhouse burger.

“Dig in,” Maynard says, edging off a piece of the cake with his spoon.

“You’ve worked here a couple weeks and the hostess already knows you by name?”

“So I come here a lot. You don’t have to point it out.”

Danny finds himself amused by Maynard’s offense. “Sorry.”

“You should be. Just for that, you owe me another shake.”

“It’s my moral imperative to stop you from eating two of these in one sitting.”

Maynard smiles. “I didn’t say I’d eat it tonight.”

“Two nights in a row is still excessive.“ Danny tries a piece of the cake. It’s overwhelmingly sweet and melts in his mouth.

“Good, isn’t it?”

Danny nods. “I’m not really a cake guy. I don’t like most sweets.”

Maynard lifts an eyebrow. “Are we sure you’re human? Is there an alien piloting that big body of yours?”

Danny laughs. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard that.”

Maynard edges off another bite of cake for himself. “More for me, then. What other simple human pleasures don’t you understand, ET?” It’s been so long since someone was playful with Danny. All the teasing and play went out of his marriage years ago, replaced with bitter recriminations. So he’s happy to play along.

“I don’t get the appeal of disaster movies. Remember how they made a whole bunch of them a few years ago? Like every other movie was about natural disasters, and they were all terrible. There were two films in theaters about asteroids hitting the earth within the span of, like, two years. What the hell was that about?”

“You monster,” Maynard deadpans. “Twister is a masterpiece.”

“I grew up in Kansas. For me, that’s just a Tuesday.”

“Of course. You look like a country boy,” Maynard says with that half smile.

“Hey, I lived in LA for almost twenty years.”

“Really? But you’re so down to earth!” Maynard chuckles. “I did my time there. Had to move on.”

“To another glitzy city?” Danny casts a hand toward the palms and the Mirage hotel in the distance.

“Touché. But at least Vegas is up front about what it is. What you see is what you get.”

“Fair enough.”

Danny’s food arrives, and he finds he’s hungrier than he thought. Maynard was right; the burgers here are delicious. He could go for another, even though he’s barely started this one.

“Hungry?”

“Why would you say that?” Danny asks, his mouth full.

Maynard rolls his eyes with a smile. “No reason.” He steals a fry from Danny’s plate and takes a dainty bite.

“You eat them plain? Now who’s the alien hiding in a human suit?”

“Still you.” Another bite of the fry. “How long are you in town?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Danny says, and Maynard’s sly expression slips off his face. “I’m just passing through on my way to Kansas. My parents’ old place.”

“For Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you’ve got time. You should stick around for a bit. It’s a nice city.”

“If you want to gamble and buy things. Otherwise there’s not much else to do.”

“You could visit the Neon Museum. A graveyard of all the old casino signs.”

“Tourist trap,” Danny says around another bite of his burger.

“The Mafia Museum?”

“Tempting, but no.”

“There’s plenty of great food here.”

Danny understands that Maynard wants him to stay, but it would be too easy to stick around and lose all his money in a city like this. He considers it, though, wonders what it would be like to see Vegas with Maynard as his tour guide.

“There’s great food everywhere if you know where to look.”

“Even in Kansas?”

“Barbecue,” Danny says, a little bewildered that Maynard doesn’t know this.

Maynard waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, okay. What else? You can’t just have one specific item as your claim to fame. That’s where Ohio fails. Outside of the chili, there’s nothing.”

He speaks like a man who knows what he’s talking about, and Danny finds that he likes that. Even if Maynard’s dismissing Kansas’s culinary palette.

“Isn’t there a lot of Polish food there?”

“Sure, but Chicago has that too. And more.”

“Chicago isn’t a state.”

“Would anyone give a fuck about Illinois otherwise?”

Danny laughs. “Your rules are incredibly arbitrary.”

“I’m keeping you on your toes.” Maynard seems to want to say more, stops, says, “We’ve been talking for this long and I don’t know your name.”

“Danny.”

“Maynard.”

“I know, the hostess told me.”

“You had an advantage. Very sneaky.”

“What advantage?”

“Names have power. If I were a demon, you could’ve banished me this whole time.”

Danny feels his heart tumbling in his chest. The fluttering of infatuation, a common occurrence around women (and now men, apparently) into occult and arcane shit. And there are plenty of them in LA. “Why would I do that?”

“Once I dissed your home state. ‘Begone, foul demon.’”

If Maynard’s any kind of celestial being, he’s closer to an angel than a demon. Though an argument could be made for the latter. A devilishly handsome man in the modern day Sodom. Walking temptation.

“I can take some good-natured teasing,” Danny says.

“A good quality in a man.” Maynard steals another fry, and, to Danny’s horror, dips it in his ice cream before taking a bite. He notices Danny’s expression of disgust and smiles. “Sweet and salty.”

“Begone, foul demon.”

Maynard laughs, and the sound of it wraps around Danny’s heart. Christ, he’s falling hard. He needs to get the fuck out of here before he does something stupid. A city with no-wait marriages and wedding chapels on every block is the worst place Danny’s lonely heart could possibly be.

In another life, maybe he’d stick around and let Maynard show him the sights. But not this one.

Well…

Why not this one? If divorce marks a new chapter in his life, why shouldn’t he make the most of it? Why follow the same script he’s followed for years, the same play-it-safe decisions that likely contributed to the end of his marriage?

Danny slaps his hands on his thighs. “I’ve decided. I’ll stick around for a bit. If you show me what’s worth seeing here.”

A soft, warm smile comes over Maynard’s alluring mouth. “I’d like that.”

“I’m staying in room 2112.”

“The Rush number.”

Danny grins. Maynard is cute and has good taste in music? Be still, my heart. “Yeah. I should’ve known it was a sign. Come by when you get the chance.”

Danny’s getting dressed the next morning when he hears three brisk knocks on the door. Assuming it’s housekeeping (but hoping it’s Maynard), he opens the door. His heart leaps at the sight of Maynard standing there in jeans and a t-shirt, but remorse lives on his face. He’s carrying a backpack slung over one shoulder and a duffel bag in his hand. No kohl rimming his eyes this morning, and the dark, sleepless circles under them could use some concealer.

“What’s wrong?” Danny asks.

Maynard offers a sad smile. “Sorry, Dan. I can’t be your tour guide through the wonderful world of Vegas debauchery.”

“You have to work?” Stupid question, considering the luggage he’s carrying.

“No, I’m leaving town.”

Not the answer Danny expected to hear. “What? Why?”

“Something came up.”

“Family emergency?”

“You could say that.”

It smells like a lie. Danny wants to ask if he’s the problem, if Maynard reassessed his decision to hang out with a total stranger who could probably murder him easily with his bare hands. Or maybe he doesn’t see Danny as a threat, just a pathetic divorced guy he has no business flirting with.

But asking directly would put Maynard on the defensive. So Danny tests him instead. “Where are you headed? I’ll take you.”

Maynard’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. He didn’t expect Danny to offer, and it’s thrown him off what must be a script. “That’s not...” He shakes his head, somewhat mechanically. “You’re crazy.”

But he hasn’t said no. Interesting.

“I can take a detour if it means helping you out.”

Maynard thinks it over. He’s running through his options, seemingly assessing whether Danny is a secret axe murderer. His gaze darts down the hallway, eyes flicking left and right. “Why would you do that for me?”

“You seem like a good guy. It’s what I would want someone to do for me, if I was in your position.”

“You’re a real Boy Scout, aren’t you, Kansas?” Maynard shakes his head, like he can’t believe this is happening. “Okay. Fine. Thank you.”

Danny opens the door in invitation. Maynard steps inside, tentatively, and Danny doubts very much that Maynard is leaving over a family emergency. Graciously, he allows Maynard to maintain the fiction.

“Just sit tight while I get ready,” Danny says, throwing his clothes into his luggage.

“I hope you didn’t pay for an extension on the room already.”

“Nope. I was too tired last night to do anything but go to bed. I told myself I’d do it this morning. And then you showed up.”

Maynard spreads his hands. “The fly in your chardonnay.”

“It’s not like that, Maynard. I promise.” Danny gathers his toiletries from the bathroom, takes the hotel soaps and bottles from the shower. Maybe he’ll start a collection.

“You should take more stuff,” Maynard says. “Steal one of their robes.”

“Why?”

“A souvenir.”

“Not when they’ll bill me for it. The soaps are good enough.”

“At least take the notepad.”

“Why are you encouraging me to steal?”

“It’s not really stealing. They don’t give a shit about that stuff.”

Danny thinks about it for a moment and tosses the hotel notepad into his bag, along with the pen. “You’re a terrible influence.” In more ways than one.

Danny finishes packing and leads them out. Maynard glances around cautiously in the hallway, then in the casino floor that they have to pass through to get to the lobby. Danny figures Maynard will hate standing around waiting for the valet, so he leads Maynard to the parking lot and finds his Porsche.

“This is your car?” Maynard eyes the Porsche, laughs under his breath. “Not what I was expecting.”

“What did you expect?”

“Something bigger. A pickup. A minivan. There’s no way you fit in this car.”

“Just watch.” Danny unlocks the door and pops the trunk. Maynard loads his duffel bag into the back and keeps the backpack with him.

Danny’s already seated behind the wheel when Maynard takes the seat beside him. He looks Danny over and says, “Okay, I stand corrected.”

Danny turns the ignition. The engine comes to life with a roar. “Where are we headed?” he asks, though he doubts Maynard has a destination in mind.

“Just drive,” he says, gazing out the window.

Danny does. He has a feeling Maynard might relax once they get off the Strip, out of Paradise and closer to the Arizona border, so he doesn’t stop for gas and food until they’re well past Las Vegas. Danny fills up the Porsche and picks up breakfast for them inside the 7-Eleven: a knockoff Egg McMuffin for him, Slim Jims and donuts for Maynard.

Maynard smiles, appreciative, when he sees that Danny chose the most colorful, sprinkled donuts he possibly could, to mirror the milkshake from last night. “Clever. Cute.”

“I figure you have a sweet tooth.”

“You figure right.”

Danny gets them on the highway. Maynard has finished his breakfast and opens the glove box. He thumbs through the discs in Danny’s CD binder, silently scrutinizing Danny’s taste, most likely.

He slides a disc into the player—Danny doesn’t take his eyes off the road to look, only recognizes it from the opening guitar of Zeppelin’s “Custard Pie.”

“Physical Graffiti. Nice.”

“Their best album. Unequivocally. If you argue with me, you’re wrong.”

Danny likes that Maynard is opinionated about music. His ex rarely was, which should’ve been a red flag at the start, because why marry a musician if you don’t particularly give a shit about music?

“You’ll get no argument from me. Why else would I have it?”

Maynard nods, considering, and turns up the volume. A barrier to conversation, but that’s alright. Maynard feels like the kind of person with whom Danny can have comfortable, mutual silences.

After disc one ends, Maynard ejects it and flips to find its partner. “Favorite band and-or solo musician?”

Danny thinks about it. “King Crimson.”

Maynard makes a “hm” sound. Not of surprise, surely he saw all their records in that binder as he flipped through. “Joni Mitchell.”

Danny laughs, sure that Maynard’s fucking with him.

“What?” Maynard says with a grin. “You don’t believe me?”

“You don’t seem like the type.”

“What type do I seem like, Dan?”

Danny shouldn’t enjoy how his name sounds when Maynard says it. “I don’t know.” Maynard looks like he defies genre, like his record collection is full of paradoxes and contradictions. “I guess I take it back. You’re totally the type.”

Maynard laughs and slips disc two into the stereo.

They stop just across the Arizona state line to stretch their legs. Maynard sits on a picnic table and stares at the red dusted canyons and mesas in the distance. Almost meditative, calm and relaxed. Danny’s glad to see the tension is gone from Maynard’s shoulders, that he’s not on the lookout for danger anymore. Danny wants to ask what Maynard’s running from (or who, since it’s almost definitely a who), but now isn’t the time. He can make an educated guess, though, and it hurts his heart.

Danny joins him there on the table. Maynard glances over, his blonde hair fluttering in the breeze. Danny’s been stealing glances during the drive, but now in the sunlight he can actually take a moment and admire the planes of Maynard’s face, how his lips always seem curled in a devilish pouty smirk. There’s a mole above his lip (not unsightly, just faint enough to add charm to his face), and his cheekbones are the ideal that keep LA’s plastic surgery industry in business.

Danny feels a strange tingle in his chest and his groin. He has never admired a man, not physically, not like this. What the hell is happening to him?

Maynard smiles, like he knows what Danny’s thinking and doesn’t much mind. “Anything could happen out here. The desert is a magical place.”

“Is that why you went to Vegas?”

“It was my first stop out of LA. I didn’t get very far.”

“How far do you want to go?”

“As far as I can,” Maynard says, distant, dreaming.

“My dad likes to say ‘put an asshole on a plane in Boston, and an asshole gets off in San Francisco.’”

“Calling me an asshole, Dan?”

“Just suggesting your strategy might be a little flawed. You’re always who you are. Scenery doesn’t change that.”

“It does if you’ve never fit anywhere,” Maynard says, staring ahead.

They settle in to the nearest town just after dusk. There are plenty of food options, mostly chains and drive-thrus, so Danny finds a hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint. If Maynard was a dainty eater last night, he’s ravenous tonight. Enchiladas, rice and beans, tamales, and a slice of tres leches cake. He’s a slow eater, though, taking his time, and Danny wonders where the hell he puts it all.

“This may come as a shock to you,” Maynard says, swiping a tortilla from Danny’s fajita plate so he can make a rice-bean-and-queso roll-up, “but I love food.”

“You don’t say.”

“I’m a pretty good cook, believe it or not.”

“What’s your best dish?”

“I don’t know that it’s my best, but chilli crisp stir fry is a quick, easy comfort food.”

“Oooh. Sounds good.”

“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to make it for you.” Maynard takes a huge bite of the roll-up, tucks it unto his cheek to say, “Circumstances as they are.”

“That’s okay. Mail me the recipe and I’ll give it a shot.”

“Can we be penpals? That would be so quaint.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I guess the fact that neither of us have a permanent address kinda throws a wrench in the works.”

More breadcrumbs about Maynard’s life; Danny’s happy to have them.

“Well, I’ll be staying with my parents for a bit. ‘Til I figure out what I want to do. You can send me letters or postcards there.”

The thought of Maynard sitting in lonely fleabag motel rooms and writing postcards to Danny is depressing. He deserves a stable life, a safe place to come home to.

They find a decent hotel after dinner. In the parking lot, Danny asks, “Do you want to share a room, or are you more comfortable on your own?”

“Sharing is caring. And cheaper. Let’s not forget that. I’m taking a chance that you’re not an axe murderer, Dan. Don’t make me regret it.”

“I should be the one wondering if you’re dangerous. You dip your french fries in ice cream, for fuck’s sake.”

Maynard putters comfortably around the room after his shower. He’s dressed in silk pajamas, like he stepped out of the Playboy mansion, and Danny watches him with an amused smile.

“What?” Maynard finally says when he realizes Danny’s not paying attention to the basketball highlights on the TV, but staring at him instead.

“I’ve never known anyone who actually wears silk pajamas to bed.”

“They’re comfortable,” Maynard says, his nose scrunching like he finds Danny’s comment unreasonable.

“Do what thou wilt, Hugh Hefner.”

“God, you’re a dork.” Maynard climbs into the vacant bed. “Sleep tight, Kansas.” He switches off the table lamp, turns onto his side, and pulls the duvet tightly around himself.

Danny looks at Maynard, at his long hair splayed over the pillow. Despite that they’re in separate beds, it doesn’t feel like there’s much distance between them. The last few months of Danny’s marriage had a chasm of distance. She started sleeping on the sofa in the living room, claiming she couldn’t handle Danny’s snoring, but they’d slept in the same bed for years and it only then started to bother her?

Danny doesn’t even snore. He made sure of it, spent a couple nights recording himself as he slept. No snoring, but he did murmur nonsense in his sleep. Maybe that frightened her, or she heard him say another woman’s name and jumped to conclusions that he was having an affair.

Either way, Danny has a feeling Maynard will tease him about whatever weird shit he does or says in his sleep. And he finds that he doesn’t really mind.

Danny wakes to Maynard gently shaking him. “Dan,” he coos, “how much longer are you going to sleep? Daylight’s wasting.”

Danny groans (he hates being woken up, has to naturally come out of sleep in order to feel human throughout the day), pries open an eye. Maynard’s changed out of his pajamas and into a t-shirt and jeans. The kohl is back, lining his eyes; Danny thinks that means something, but his sleep-drunk brain can’t figure it out.

He rolls onto his back and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “What’s the hurry?”

“Checkout’s at eleven. It’s ten-thirty.”

“Gee, thanks for waking me,” Danny grumbles. He throws off the duvet, forcing himself to wake up by getting moving.

“You needed your beauty sleep,” Maynard says. “And you sounded like you were in the middle of a pretty good dream.”

Danny doesn’t remember what he dreamed last night. He’s calling bullshit. “Ha-ha.”

“Laugh all you want. I wish my dreams were half as horny as yours seem to be.”

Danny ignores this obvious attempt at baiting him. “Nice try, Maynard,” he says, shutting himself in the bathroom. But he wonders: did he say Maynard’s name in his sleep?

They’re packed up and sitting in the parking lot twenty minutes later. Maynard studies the map from Danny’s glovebox like there might be a test on it later.

“While we’re here, we should see the Grand Canyon. Unless you’re in a hurry. On the run from the drug kingpin you double-crossed back in LA.”

Danny snorts a laugh. “In this fiction you’ve created, am I a dealer or a buyer?”

“Dealer, definitely. How else could you afford this car?”

“And what am I slinging? Dope? Cocaine?”

Maynard thinks about it. “Prescription drugs. A more lucrative market. Trust-fund college kids who want Adderall.”

“Where’s the drugs or the money I made off with?”

“One of those suitcases of yours in the trunk. Very suspicious. Let’s hope you don’t get pulled over for speeding. Or a busted taillight. Then we’re both cooked.”

“Would you cut a deal with the feds and rat me out?”

“Oh absolutely. Look at me. I wouldn’t last in prison. You’re huge. Nobody would fuck with you.”

It feels good for Danny to laugh with someone instead of sitting alone in the den chortling at a Simpsons or Seinfeld rerun. She even stopped watching TV with him towards the end, preferring to go out with friends, to no longer be trapped in their loveless marriage for just a few hours.

“Aw, I’m kidding,” Maynard says, giving Danny a playful slug in the shoulder. “We’re ride-or-die. Don’t wear that sad puppy face.”

“Was I? Sorry. My mind tends to wander.”

“Not while you’re driving, I hope. Want me to drive?”

The thought of letting someone else behind the wheel of his baby makes Danny nervous.

“Better not. That’s probably like asking if I can fuck your wife.” Maynard realizes what he’s said and how it might be construed as insensitive. His expression crumples in a grimace. “Sorry. Open mouth, insert foot.”

“She didn’t cheat on me,” Danny says, because he likes Maynard’s odd sense of humor and doesn’t want him to get self-conscious about cracking jokes. Humor is healing, and all. “Not that I know about, at least.”

Maynard watches Danny’s face, studying him, as if trying to decode his specific flavor of sadness. “Then why?”

Danny’s been trying to figure that out too, but the road has helped him find a bit of clarity. The benefit of hindsight. “I think we just became different people who weren’t compatible anymore.”

“Or she found out about the drugs,” Maynard says after a moment.

“Yeah, that too,” Danny says with a grin.

The weather is nice and cool for a walk along the canyon trails. Maynard’s hair ruffles in the breeze, and Danny admires him more than the towering walls of red and ochre of the Grand Canyon.

So caught up in the mesmerizing shape of Maynard’s mouth, Danny only now notices he has what Mom likes to call Bambi Eyes. Maynard’s dark eyes are round and expressive, shimmering when they catch the light. Every day, Danny finds something new to appreciate about him. Not for the first time, he wonders how Maynard might look underneath him, those dark eyes wide and gazing up at him, lips parted and slick, his cheeks flushed in exertion.

Danny shakes his head and shoves that thought away. Nothing good can come of that. He’s just horny after the long sexless death of his marriage. Besides, Maynard is a guy. Danny’s not attracted to men… is he? He’s never had these kind of fantasies before, but his fleeting thoughts of Maynard definitely point in that direction. And what does it mean that these thoughts don’t repulse him?

The air is fresh and invigorating, and the winding, twisting trail reveals hidden alcoves and panoramic vistas. The canyon stretches out before them, a vast expanse of rugged beauty and untamed wilderness. Below, a ribbon of water glistens in the sunlight, meandering through the canyon floor.

They find a bench nearby and sit. Maynard loaded up his backpack with snacks, bottled water, and toasted subs, and now is a good time for a picnic with a killer view.

“Two days in, I should probably ask what you do for a living,” Maynard says before taking a strangely dainty bite of his sub.

“You decided I’m a drug dealer.”

“That’s your side gig.”

“I’m a musician. I do all sorts of stuff, mostly session work, but in my spare time I had a couple bands I played in.”

“Drums, right?” Maynard guesses, probably based on how he’s seen Danny tapping out rhythms on the steering wheel.

“You get a gold star. My kit’s in a storage unit until I figure out if I’m staying in the city or not.”

“LA’s probably the place to be for that. I can’t see a lot of great musical opportunities in Kansas.”

“No shit, that’s why I left.” Danny tears off a chunk of his meatball sub. “What about you? I’m guessing you didn’t leave behind a lucrative career of serving drinks to gamblers.”

“I do lots of odd jobs. Like I said, I don’t really seem to fit anywhere. I’ve been learning programming, trying to get my certification.”

“As in computers?”

Maynard nods. “I need a job where I don’t have to talk to people. Programmers are the stereotype of a computer nerd who never sees the sun. It’s perfect for me.”

Of course he’s hot and smart. Danny’s heartbeat flutters in a swoon. “I don’t get the impression that you don’t enjoy talking to people.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. You’re fun to talk to. But most people are boring as fuck. And I’m just an introvert anyway.”

“What a pair we are,” Danny says, because he’s an extrovert.

The subject of Maynard’s destination has gnawed at Danny’s brain since agreeing to let him ride along. Danny suspects Maynard is somewhat of a rolling stone, on the run from someone, and it makes him sad to think he’ll be spending the holiday alone. Because if he’s trying to evade an abusive ex, family would be the first place that ex would look, right?

“Um... do you have anywhere to go for Thanksgiving?” Danny asks. He hopes Maynard will give him a better answer than a middle finger and the suggestion to mind his own fucking business.

Maynard shakes his head. Danny’s heart breaks for him. “My mom died a few weeks ago. And my dad a couple years before. No siblings. Just some aunts I’d feel weird intruding on. They’ve got their own people.”

“So you’re... just going to roam?”

“I thought I’d stop in New Orleans. See what it’s like during the holidays. At least the food’ll be good. Then...” Maynard shrugs, takes another bite. “Who knows. I’ve been moving around my whole life. I’m used to it.”

That sounds so tragic to Danny. He can’t bear to think about Maynard hitching a ride with the wrong person and ending up the victim of a highway serial killer. Maynard would be the perfect victim: no family, no steady job, not even a permanent address. Who would report him missing if he disappeared?

Danny shakes his head as if shaking off the thought. “You’re welcome to come with me. My folks won’t mind.”

Maynard looks at him in wonder, confusion, and gratitude. “They won’t mind, but they’ll be very confused. They might assume I’m your post-divorce rebound boy-toy.”

Danny blushes. What would his parents think if he showed up with a strange man in tow and tried to convince them he was just a friend? Mom and Dad would definitely assume Danny was bringing along his new boyfriend.

“For a moment, sure, but we’ll straighten it out,” he said, aware of the absurdity. “C’mon, I can’t stand the thought of you alone on Thanksgiving.”

“So I’m a charity case?”

“No. Maybe. But I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t genuinely like you.” Danny blushes deeper. There’s no way Maynard doesn’t hear the subtext there. “If I didn’t trust that you won’t kill us while we sleep.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“About killing us?”

Maynard laughs. He has a gorgeous smile. “Sure, that too.”

“You sure you don’t want me to drive?” Maynard says on their way toward Flagstaff.

“This is a little too much car for you,” Danny says. “No offense.”

“Men and their fucking cars. It’s not really an extension of your manhood, y’know. You can let another man drive it.”

Allowing Maynard anywhere near Danny’s manhood is exactly the problem, though not in the way Maynard might be thinking.

“Are you afraid I’ll kill us?” Maynard asks. “With the way you drive?”

“I’ll consider it,” Danny says after a moment. “At the next rest stop.”

A little while later, Maynard unbuckles his seatbelt to maneuver around to the backseat, reaching for something in their bag of goodies. In doing so, his ass is in Danny’s peripheral view. Danny is grateful they’re on a highway with little to no traffic, because he steals a glance or two (or ten), absolutely ignoring the road to stare.

Maynard’s ass is just... perfect? A thought which Danny has never had about another man, ever, and he’s done wondering what that means about him. He’s just going with it. He’s bisexual now, apparently. And Danny is fine with that if it means admiring Maynard’s ass guilt-free.

Maynard drops back into the seat, brandishing a pack of M&Ms. He clicks the seatbelt back in place, watching Danny with a curious lilted smile. “Why are you so red?”

Danny blushes harder. “We passed one of those signs for a sex shop.”

“One divorce and you’re a virgin all over again.” Maynard shakes his head like this is some great tragedy. “You need to get laid.”

If Danny were a braver man, he’d ask, “Are you volunteering?” and see how Maynard reacts. But he’s not that brave. And he’s definitely not a pull over and have sex on the side of the road in broad daylight kind of guy. “I’ll get laid, don’t you worry.”

Maynard snorts. “That sounds uncomfortably like a threat, Daniel.”

“Alright, smart-ass”—definitely a Freudian slip Danny’s going to power through and ignore—”you get to drive at the next stop.”

“Oh no, cruel and unusual punishment,” Maynard deadpans. He tears opens the package of M&Ms and pops a handful into his mouth.

They swap seats at the next stop. Adorably, Maynard has to adjust the seat so he can reach the pedals, since he’s much shorter than Danny. As if reading Danny’s mind, Maynard says, “I know you’ve got some wiseass comment about my height.”

Danny grins; he had to adjust the passenger seat, so he’s definitely aware of the disparity if he wasn’t already. “No, I don’t.”

“Just know that this car was made for someone like me. Of average height. Not a giant. You cramming yourself into this car is a sin against nature.”

Now that he’s no longer driving, Danny has every reason to stare at Maynard instead of the mesas and canyons outside the window. But Maynard will probably notice Danny gazing at him. So Danny pretends to study the map and occasionally glances at Maynard’s profile.

He’s gorgeous, and he’s probably self-conscious about his nose, or he used to be, but it’s one of his best features. All his features are great, Danny thinks, from his prominent cheekbones to his dark, enigmatic eyes. Even the freckle above his mouth (not visible from this side, but Danny is quite familiar with it) gives his face character, and Danny can imagine Maynard looking at himself in the mirror and loathing that little dot.

“You could go a little faster,” Danny says.

“I’m doing sixty.”

“You can’t drive a Porsche like you’re out for a leisurely Sunday drive. Hit the gas, Gramps.”

“How about I hit you?” Maynard says, playful. That skews Danny’s entire hypothesis about what Maynard’s running from. Because a victim of domestic violence wouldn’t make jokes like that... would they? Danny doesn’t know, all his knowledge about this stuff comes from Law & Order reruns and episodes of Cops. But Maynard just has a different vibe than Danny expects from someone who’s lived under the iron fist of abuse. Maybe that’s his own ignorance shining through.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Danny asks, “Maynard, who are you running from?” He’ll soften it with humor if Maynard bristles, but he doesn’t need to.

“Figured me out, huh? Knew you had a brain buried under all those muscles.”

Danny blushes.

“My ex, but you knew that. I’m not so much on the run anymore. I guarantee we lost him back in Vegas.” Maynard glances at Danny. “He never hit me. I know you were thinking it. No, he was more of an”—he searches for the word—”emotional terrorist. That’s the shit you never learn until you’re in too deep. Because in the beginning everything is fun and sexy and exciting. Then you have your first real argument, and you get to see the truth.”

Danny remembers his first few arguments with his ex, how she’d clam up and give him the silent treatment for the rest of the night, sometimes for days afterward. Not that Danny was any better. He would remove himself from the battle, going for a walk around the block or out to a bar to cool off. He was always afraid of saying something he could never take back.

Maynard goes on. “Raising any kind of complaint or concern turned into an argument, and he’d spin things around to make himself the victim. ‘Why don’t I just kill myself, Maynard, since I can’t fucking do anything right?’ Then I’d spent the rest of the night making him feel better, and how fucked is that?”

“Very fucked,” Danny agrees.

“I know what the real problem was, on my end. I’m too fucking old for this shit. Lesson learned. I only date old men now. My anaconda don’t want none unless you qualify for a senior discount, hun.”

A surprised laugh springs from Danny’s throat. When it settles, he asks, “How much younger was he?”

“Late twenties. And I was a mess at that age, so I should’ve known. But I was stupid. A delayed midlife crisis. It wasn’t that I felt unattractive or old, I just thought there were things I should have at my age that I didn’t. So when this guy came along, I went for it.

“I stuck with him for years, thinking he’d get better. And I think he was trying. That’s the sad part. It just wasn’t enough. He always ended up leaning on excuses. Excuses that kept him from making any real meaningful change. ‘Why should I? It’s too hard. But Maynard will pick up the slack.’”

Danny tries to imagine being locked in a relationship like that. It makes him shudder. It’s the tether that disturbs him, the way someone can worm their way in and become a human shackle. The bonds of sympathy and genuine care leading to fear and dependence.

“What woke you up?” Danny asks. “There’s usually always something, big or little, that makes a person wake up to the life they’re stuck in.”

Maynard smiles ruefully. “My mom’s health took a bad turn. I went back home to be with her in those last days. And it was a fucking relief being away from him. My mother was dying, but I was at peace. Isn’t that fucked up? But I dreaded the phone calls I had to make to him every night. ‘You’re not cheating on me, are you? Please tell me we’re okay!’ Of course I said I wasn’t cheating, that my mother was dying and this wasn’t fun for me. Not like I dumped his ass and went off to the Caribbean. He offered to come—not out of concern for me or her, see, but to soothe himself. I said my extended family, who were all gathered at the house, were homophobic. He hated conflict. I knew that would keep him away.

“I did a lot of soul-searching in that house. Though I guess there wasn’t much to do. I knew what needed to be done. I needed to break up with him. The sympathy that used to hold me there had worn away. I didn’t give a shit if leaving hurt him. If he did follow through with all his empty threats. Maybe that makes me a monster. I was too exhausted to care.”

Maynard could never be a monster in Danny’s eyes. Just through listening to this story, he feels as trapped as Maynard must have been, and he can’t begrudge him for leaving.

“After the funeral, I went back to LA, and I felt the walls closing in again. Going back to that apartment was the last thing I wanted to do. But I did. Because I had to cut the fucking umbilical cord and move on. My mom’s death gave me a bizarre kind of clarity, like a fog had lifted. All the rationalizing and lying to myself just seemed to stop. I saw this relationshit for what it was. I packed up all the things I wanted—there weren’t many—and told him I was leaving. For good. He cried and begged and promised he’d change. But I’d heard that same shit for years, and nothing ever changed. So I left.”

“But he came looking for you, right?”

Maynard sighs, brushes back his hair with an effortless sweep of his hand. “Yeah. That’s on me. I was stupid. When I was packing, I swiped a joint debit card we had for savings. As a petty ‘fuck you.’ Karma bit me on that one. I used it once at the Venetian because my actual card wouldn’t read. He must have kept an eye on the charges to see where I’d gone.”

“Did you have a car?”

“Sure, a shitty old beater I left in the parking lot of a Greyhound station. I thought he might try to find me that way, through the plates. And I’m no criminal mastermind, willing to switch them out. So I just left it.” Another sigh. “If he kills himself, I’m gonna feel like it’s my fault.”

“But it’s not. Everyone’s responsible for their own shit. That’s not on you.”

“I know. But still.”

Danny shakes his head. “No buts. You did a hell of a lot more than you had to.”

“It’s not like I was perfect. I had problems too. But I got thrown into the deep end.”

“Yeah, you did. And you did the right thing.”

Maynard offers a tiny smile. “Thanks. Even if you’re just being polite. I didn’t mean to dump all this on you. But I didn’t want to burden my mom with it while she was dying. So it’s just been taking up space in my head. And part of me wanted to test your goodwill. If you kick me out of the car for being a shithead.”

“Not while you’re driving,” Danny jokes, and Maynard laughs.

They stop at the Meteor Crater, because they haven’t done enough touristy sightseeing. It’s exactly what it says on the tin: a giant crater in the earth from an ancient meteorite impact. Using a disposable camera Danny found in the glovebox of the car, they take silly pictures with the alien statue near the gift shop.

“You know we gotta go to Roswell,” Danny says. “It’s a rite of passage when you travel through New Mexico.”

“When they want you back at your home planet, Dan, they’ll beam you up,” Maynard says with a playful lilt of a smile.

Maynard’s still standing by the alien statue, so Danny says, “Y’know, I see the family resemblance.”

Maynard flips him the bird, and Danny grins.

They spend the night in Winslow, a city made famous by an Eagles song. They share a pizza in a motel off the interstate and watch The X-Files on a TV with piss-poor reception.

“Y’know the government has millions of pounds of cheese in a bunch of underground bunkers,” Danny says during a commercial break.

“Well, now I have to ask. Why? And how?”

“In the ‘70s, the price of dairy rose because of the energy crisis. So the government told the farmers they would buy all the excess dairy that was produced. Obviously the farmers saw that as a win and really started pumping it out. And now the government had a shitload of milk that they couldn’t store, so they turned it into cheese, which has a longer shelf life. But they had way too much, and they couldn’t reasonable feed it back into the market—if they flooded the market, the price would go way down, and the farms would suffer. So they just kept buying cheese and storing it in old bunkers. One of those bunkers is in Kansas City.”

“I see this is a story close to your heart.”

Danny loves that he gets to talk about weird shit with Maynard. Over the last few years, his ex got tired of Danny’s eccentricities, rolling her eyes whenever he brought up aliens, astral projection, or anything under the weird umbrella.

“It gets crazier. So into the ‘80s, the government has, like, 500 million pounds of cheese, right? Then they started incorporating it into welfare programs. But they’re still buying it. If they quit, there could be a market crash. And they can’t flood the market with it. So they were like, ‘why are we the only ones buying a shit-ton of cheese? Let’s make the whole country want to buy more cheese.’ So they did a whole bunch of dairy advertisement campaigns, and that’s where the Got Milk? and the Power of Cheese ads came from. And they lobbied cheese onto fast food and pizza chains.”

Maynard lifts a slice of pizza. “You’re telling me stuffed crust pizza is a government psy-op?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Damn,” Maynard says before taking a bite.

In Albuquerque, the air is crisp and carries the faint aroma of piñon wood and roasting chiles. The Sandia Mountains loom to the east, their rugged peaks casting long shadows that stretch across the city.

Danny and Maynard explore the natural history museum and the botanic garden. Danny’s in no real hurry to get to Kansas; meeting Maynard has allowed him to slow down and see the sights. He wouldn’t have stopped in any of these places if it wasn’t for Maynard. And Danny doesn’t mind. He likes having a friend (if that’s even what they are) to explore with, likes giving Maynard the chance to see things. In some way, this is Maynard’s trip too.

But mostly, the sooner he gets to Kansas, the sooner he’ll find out whether Maynard wants to go his own way. And Danny cannot bear to let Maynard go.

When the sun begins to set, turning the sky into a riot of colors—fiery oranges, deep purples, and soft pinks—they go for dinner. Another round of decadent Mexican food at a cozy little cantina, then next door for dessert. Maynard opts for cherry soft-serve with sprinkles, condensed milk drizzle, and chocolate sticks.

“Vanilla with Oreos?” Maynard says, looking at Danny’s cup. “Could you be any more boring?”

“It’s not boring. It’s reliable. An old favorite.”

“Be adventurous.” Maynard plucks one of the chocolate sticks free, licking the ice cream off it in a way that’s unreasonably (and perhaps unintentionally) seductive before crunching off a piece. “Live a little.”

“I am living. Isn’t picking up a stranger adventurous enough?”

“Mm, right, good point. You’re tapped out.”

Afterwards, Maynard encourages Danny to pull into the parking lot of a nearby upscale hotel. “Let’s see if they have a room,” Maynard says. “Splurge a bit.” He thumbs through his wallet and takes out a hundred dollars in cash. “My half of the room rate. Maybe. I’ll make up the difference if it’s more.” He gives the money to Danny, who counts it (just to annoy Maynard, Danny knows he wouldn’t cheat him) before tucking it into his pocket.

Danny grins. “Y’know, that story about me being a drug dealer was a little too specific. Maybe you’re the one slinging drugs.”

“You got me. Now point us towards Mexico. And bend over, I’ve got ten kilos of coke to stash, and I’m not going back to prison.”

Maynard says all of this with only a hint of a smile, mostly straight-faced, and Danny erupts in laughter, because Maynard is just irresistible, incredible.

Maynard’s sort of leaning towards him, so Danny takes the opportunity to grab Maynard’s face in his hands and kiss him. It’s insane, the kind of thing Danny can’t believe he’s doing, and what’s even more insane is that Maynard’s not fighting it. He allows Danny to kiss his mouth open and slip his tongue inside. His mouth is still a bit cold and sweet from the ice cream. It’s the nicest kiss Danny has ever had, at least in recent memory.

He draws back, frightened and overwhelmed by what he’s done, by the thoughts in his head. “Oops,” Danny says, reflexively, before he can process any of this.

Maynard’s expression crumbles slightly, like he’s hurt that Danny would kiss him and then try to take it back. Maynard liked the kiss, and he probably likes Danny too, judging by how flirty he’s been. Danny’s no expert on body language or flirtation, but his gut tells him Maynard is interested. (That was the vibe he picked up from their first meeting, anyway.)

Danny is interested too, so why doesn’t he just lean into it?

“No. No ‘oops’. I’m gonna own it. Yeah, I kissed you because I like you, Maynard.”

This, apparently, is the right answer. Maynard crawls across the seats and pins Danny against the driver’s door. The car windows fog up quickly, and the car is filled with the wet, hungry sounds of their kisses.

Danny has never felt so alive and so terrified all at once. Maybe as a kid on some carnival ride that went a little too fast, a roller coaster that crept up to a dizzying height before rushing down in a high-speed plummet. That’s what kissing and touching Maynard feels like. And Danny is doing plenty of both. His hands push underneath Maynard’s shirt to feel the hot skin underneath. Maynard groans at Danny’s hands on him and kisses harder, biting Danny’s lower lip.

Danny is awkwardly twisted, one leg stretched out across the seats, the other down by the pedals. Maynard’s practically sitting in his lap, and Danny can’t stop himself from grinding against the weight of him there.

“We should get inside,” Maynard says against his mouth. “The gearshift is poking into my thigh.”

“Sorry. That’s not the gearshift.” Danny smiles sheepishly.

“Oh my,” Maynard says with a grin. He reaches between them and strokes Danny through the fabric of his shorts, cupping him, squeezing him. Danny yelps in surprised pleasure and rolls his hips encouragingly. Maynard has stopped kissing him to perform this task, and he watches with intrigue at how Danny responds to him. It’s the most exciting sexual contact Danny’s had in months, maybe even years. All it takes is Maynard stroking him through his clothes for Danny to choke out a gasp as he comes. He hasn’t come in his pants since he was a teenager. Or that one time in the early stages of his marriage when she gave him an awkward but arousing footjob under their dinner table.

This? So much better.

“Fuck,” Danny sighs, a word that contains a multitude of emotions. Surprise that he liked this much as he did. Sorrow at the true finality of his marriage now that he’s had sex with someone else. A lost sense of direction, because where does he go from here? Contentment with a satisfying orgasm. Hunger to do it again.

Maynard smirks down at him, the color in his cheeks a result of either their makeout session or from watching Danny. “I’ll get the room,” he says, sliding effortlessly (thanks to his shorter height, no doubt) back into the passenger seat. “Give you some time to cool off.”

“Looks like you need it too.” Danny’s referring to the hardon in Maynard’s jeans.

Maynard glances down, scoffs like he suspects his dick is sentient and has specifically chosen this moment to inconvenience him. He settles into the seat, legs stretched out. “That hasn’t happened in a while.”

“Getting hard?”

“Getting hard from kissing, or touching someone.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Yeah. It’s great.” A shy smile, which makes Maynard look cute.

Danny lasted all of five seconds, and he’s grateful that Maynard doesn’t tease him about it. Because he’s a guy. He gets it, without needing to be told. Marathon stamina is just a macho cover to hide vulnerability. Because when you’re really attracted to someone, when there’s a deep emotional connection and excitement and arousal commingle, there’s no lasting very long.

After a few moments, Maynard’s blood calms down, and he leaves the car and enters the hotel to book them a room. Danny suspects the room will have one king bed, forgoing their usual pattern of two queens. Because they won’t be sleeping separately anymore.

Danny can’t believe that he was so brazen to have made this happen. Maybe if he’d been backed into a corner by jealousy, but he supposes there was a proverbial corner to spur his do-or-die impulsivity. Their time together on the road is running out, and Danny wanted to make his feelings known sooner rather than later.

He thinks about introducing Maynard to his family, how his parents will politely welcome Maynard but wonder how many screws are loose in Danny’s head to hook up with what’s essentially a hitchhiker so soon after his divorce. Maynard will be known as the Rebound in the household, and Danny’s brothers will debate how long Danny was closeted.

Maynard returns to the car a few minutes later with the room keys. Danny helps haul their luggage inside. The room is quaintly Southwestern, spacious with a view of the glittering city lights spread out like a constellation. But as Danny suspected: a single bed.

Danny gets the shower going while Maynard fiddles with the TV. The hot water feels good on his skin, then he cranks it colder to calm down his overactive blood; he’s already hard again, just at the possibility of having sex with Maynard again tonight, at sharing a bed with him. He half expects Maynard to join him in the shower, but Danny finishes up alone—a little dismayed, but probably for the best. Shower sex, in his experience, is slippery and impractical. He needs a bed to perform at his best.

When he steps out, towel slung around his hips (in his mindless rush, Danny forgot to grab a handful of clean clothes), the heated look Maynard gives him sends electricity up his spine and down to his toes.

Maynard grabs the towel where it’s wrapped around Danny’s hips, and Danny thinks he might tug it free and jump his bones right here, but he just smiles and says, “Don’t bother getting dressed.” More electricity. Danny shivers.

Maynard takes his turn under the water, and Danny busies himself with the TV, though it’s hard to focus on anything when he knows that Maynard is wet and naked just a few feet away. There’s a low ache of anticipation in his groin, and it’s been so long since he’s felt that, his body thrumming with the possibility of sex.

Maynard takes forever, meticulously drying his hair, and Danny thinks he might explode from how much he wants this. He’s never been teased like this—maybe it’s unintentional on Maynard’s part, but he has to know Danny’s out here, waiting for him.

Finally, Maynard steps out, and Danny makes a choked noise at the sight of his nudity. His body is perfect, sculpted and toned and immaculate, and just as Danny thinks he’d like to put his mouth on every part of him, Maynard crawls into his lap, as if reading his mind. Danny doesn’t know where to touch him first, so he skims his hands along Maynard’s body. Maynard links his arms around Danny’s neck and kisses him. Danny moans through it, hands clutching at Maynard’s back, down to the round curve of his ass. Then he’s groping at Maynard’s chest and thumbing his nipples. Maynard makes a surprised sound around Danny’s mouth.

Danny breaks the kiss to dip his head and nip at one of the cherry nubs. Maynard gasps, fingers raking through Danny’s damp hair. He’s still a little shy about this (his hands have avoided any equipment too familiar for the time being), so he’s sticking with what he knows. Maynard grinds into Danny’s lap, and they’re both acutely aware of how hard Danny is now.

“Is it not gay if you keep a barrier between us?” Maynard wiggles his hips to engorge Danny further under the towel. Danny groans and clutches Maynard closer.

“We passed ‘not gay’ a while back when I kissed you. With tongue.”

Maynard runs his hands down Danny’s chest; Danny shivers. “So you’re not gonna freak out if I touch your dick?”

“You already did,” Danny reminds him.

“Your clothes were in the way.”

“I don’t think I’ll freak out. I’m pretty into this.” Danny rocks his hips against Maynard’s ass. “If you couldn’t tell.”

Maynard rises up, just enough to unwrap Danny like a Christmas present, then strokes him with a tender hand. Danny hears himself gasp, shivering as Maynard’s fingers tent at the tip. “I want you,” Maynard says, low and full of desire, not just for the physical act but for Danny himself. Like he sees Danny inside and out.

“You can have me,” Danny tells him, allowing Maynard to interpret that however he chooses. He glances at Maynard’s cock, hard and leaking against his stomach, and thinks about putting his mouth on it, how Maynard might sound, how he’d taste. And, yep, Danny is definitely some flavor of not-straight, because straight men don’t think about deep-throating other dudes—or even just one specific dude. And the thought of sucking another guy off definitely doesn’t make a perfectly heterosexual male hard, or twitch in the hand of said dude.

“Hurry,” Danny says, all too aware that he’ll probably come soon.

“Hold your horses.” Maynard fumbles in the nightstand drawer and pulls out a bottle of lube.

“I have questions.” Danny can only guess how that might have gotten there—he’s pretty sure this isn’t the kind of hotel that provides lube. A Japanese love hotel, maybe, but not a swanky four-star establishment in the heart of a major American city.

Maynard grins. “I put it in there while you were in the shower.”

“That’s what I figured. But were you expecting to get laid on this trip?”

“Was I wrong?” Maynard snaps open the bottle and gets his hand slick.

“No, but...” Danny’s trying to think of when Maynard could have acquired it, all while Maynard strokes him with a slippery hand. He doesn’t do his best thinking when someone’s touching his dick.

“I brought it when I left home.” Maynard glides his fingers over the shaft. “So he wouldn’t have it. Petty, sure. But it came in handy.”

Danny bucks his hips into Maynard’s touch. “Y—yeah. Sure did.” Maynard stops touching him then, only to touch himself, working himself open. Danny can’t see this (to the good, he’d probably blow his load if he did), but he sees Maynard’s hand doing something back there, and the low moans he’s making underscore the possibility. Danny has never been more turned on in his entire life.

Until Maynard takes hold of him again and sinks on him. The hot, wet grip is unreal, and Maynard drops his head back and cries out as he takes it all, hands braced on Danny’s thighs.

Danny is balls-deep inside another man. The thought makes his cock twitch, and if he keeps thinking he’s going to come, so he shuts off his brain and just enjoys this moment. He doesn’t close his eyes and imagine that Maynard’s someone else, someone soft and curvy and feminine. He’s present in the moment, drinking in the sight of Maynard’s body, of the flush on his chest and his cock, and the sight of these things tugs at something in his groin, a sweet curl of desire he has only felt when aroused, so this must be something he wants, not just the tight warmth around him but the reality of it.

He touches Maynard for the first time, stroking him experimentally, unfamiliar with the motions at this angle. He holds it like a joystick, thumbing over the head, so slick with precum already, and Maynard cries out again, his hips moving faster. Danny helps him along, matching his rhythm, pounding into him when Maynard grinds down and giving him a little squeeze, and after a few of these Maynard gasps his name and comes over Danny’s hand, his wrist, his forearm.

This, Danny’s certain, should break the spell over him, should disgust him with its warm, sticky reality, but it doesn’t. He thinks about tasting it, and he feels that curl again, that pull, undeniable now that it’s anything but pure arousal, and Danny comes too—inside of Maynard, who tightens around him almost deliriously, coaxing more, more, until Danny’s spent and shaking.

Maynard slumps over him, and Danny clutches him impossibly close. They lie there together, their deep inhales for breath falling into synchronicity. Danny runs his fingers through Maynard’s hair, and Maynard hums contentedly.

“Do I need to tell you that was the best sex I’ve ever had?” Maynard says when he can breathe again.

“Only if you mean it.” Danny knows he didn’t do very much; if the sex was good, that’s all thanks to Maynard. Danny mostly laid there.

“I do. That was fucking... transcendental.”

Maybe Maynard is being hyperbolous, but Danny felt the earth move too. Of course, likely for different reasons than Maynard.

“Yet again I wonder why the hell you got divorced.” Maynard settles his chin on Danny’s chest to gaze at him. “Did she find out you’re a serial killer?”

“I thought I was a drug dealer.”

“Side hustle.”

“Believe it or not, people can drift apart, regardless of how good the sex is.”

“I’m trying to compliment you, and you get all literal with me.” Maynard rolls his eyes, settles his cheek on Danny’s warm skin where his heart beats underneath. His fingertips brush over Danny’s chest, toying absently with a nipple.

“Is that what you were doing? Complimenting me?” Danny smiles and buries his nose in Maynard’s hair. He smells of floral shampoo and the faint undertone of something uniquely Maynard. “By suggesting I’m a serial killer and a drug dealer?”

“I also said you gave me the best sex of my life. Pay attention.”

After a few moments, Maynard slithers out of bed and pads to the bathroom. Danny watches him go, intent on staring at his ass, but there’s something much more interesting on his body that makes Danny choke on his breath: a scorpion tattoo trailing down Maynard’s back, the claws almost framing his ass, or at least carefully positioned as if showcasing it.

Maynard half-turns, glancing over his shoulder. “You okay?”

Danny swallows dryly and says, “Your back.”

It takes Maynard a moment, as if remembering the tattoo. Then he grins. “You like it?”

Danny nods. There are no words for how much he likes it.

After they clean up, Maynard settles into bed alongside him, his back tucked against Danny’s front. It’s been ages since he slept with someone, and Maynard’s warmth is a welcome presence. Danny is hard against the small of Maynard’s back, but it will temper soon—it’s just the proximity, the overwhelm of all his senses being so close. The warm touch of skin, the scent of him, the soft susurrus of his breath, the sight of his shape.

Danny’s hand roams from Maynard’s stomach, inching down, finding him hard. This is a more familiar angle, and Danny’s able to touch him more efficiently. Maynard groans sleepily and pushes into it.

“I like this,” Danny murmurs as he touches Maynard, exploring the fascinating topography in his hand. His own cock is nothing new, but Maynard’s is a yet undiscovered world of sensations.

Maynard’s breath hitches as he says, “Good. So do I.” His hips undulate into Danny’s hand. Danny kisses the slope of Maynard’s neck, while his thumb traces the thick vein marking Maynard’s arousal. Maynard moans again and tips his head back against Danny’s shoulder. Each touch and stroke teaches Danny how Maynard likes it, and Danny is a good student. He discovers that Maynard makes a hot, low growl when Danny cups his balls or rolls one gently in his palm, and he gasps high and shaky when Danny strokes the ridges of his cockhead. Tracing a nail along the vein gets Maynard thrusting into Danny’s hand and making small noises of impatient want.

All of it makes Danny’s toes curl and his cock stiffen against Maynard’s back. “Come for me,” he says softly in the quiet room. “Maynard.”

Undone by this simple request (or the sound of his name on Danny’s lips), Maynard shakes apart with a shocked gasp. Danny’s fingertips are sticky and wet with Maynard’s release, and he licks them, tasting him salt-bitter on his tongue.

Maynard sighs a long moan, and that sums up the last few minutes just fine.

In the morning, Danny wakes up to an empty bed. He panics, assuming Maynard has left him, that Danny fell for an elaborate scheme: seduce the big dumb straight guy and steal his wallet, maybe even his car.

But Maynard’s bags are still here. Unlikely he would have left his stuff behind. In the bathroom, Danny finds evidence that Maynard didn’t cut and run: the sink is still wet, and a damp hand towel hangs over the edge. He must have washed his face (or shaved), and why would he take the time to do that if he meant to run out on Danny?

Maynard shows up ten minutes later with a bag of goodies: two cake slices, each one looking almost too beautiful to eat, decorated with colorful icing roses and ornate piping. That doesn’t stop Maynard though.

“Eat up,” Maynard says, offering Danny the second slice. “Breakfast of champions.”

Danny joins him at the little dining table, and he feels like a kid again, eating cake for breakfast. His ex used to hate when he’d nibble on cake or cookies in the morning, not out of dietary or health concerns, but because “You’re not a fucking child, Dan, eat like an adult.” Even waffles, pancakes, and breakfast cereals with cartoon mascots on the box were deemed “too childish.”

After Danny relays this to Maynard, Maynard shakes his head and says, “How’d you last that long with someone so anti-fun?”

“I guess she wasn’t really like that in the beginning. It kinda developed over time.”

“Isn’t that the opposite of how a relationship is supposed to be? You’re supposed to get more comfortable and relaxed with each other, not more rigid.”

“Yeah. It’s weird. She accused me a lot of being immature. I guess she figured I’d grow out of some of my silly interests or hobbies. And when I didn’t, it was disappointing.”

“Well, I like all your silliness. I’m not just tolerating it in the hopes you’ll shape up and become boring,” Maynard says. His voice softens. “It’s part of why I like you.”

“Yeah?” Danny grins despite himself. He’s glad to hear it, especially since their next stop is Roswell. “What’s the other part?”

“Your huge dick, of course.”

“Of course.”

On the road, Danny can’t stop thinking about Maynard, even though they’re sitting right next to each other. It’s the all-encompassing fixation that comes with a new relationship, something Danny hasn’t experienced in years. He forgot how exciting it is to date someone new.

But are they dating? Having sex doesn’t necessarily denote a date-like relationship. And Danny doesn’t want to be that guy who needs to define what this is. But he works best when he knows what’s going on. It’s worth asking, even if it makes him seem like a needy weirdo. Because if they’re not dating, and Danny tries to do something romantic... He can save himself the embarrassment and just ask.

“Are you my boyfriend now?” he asks while Maynard’s flipping through Danny’s CD collection.

“I’d like to be,” Maynard says, raw and honest.

“You would?” A grin forms on Danny’s face.

“Did you think I wasn’t?”

“I was a little confused on whether we’re dating or not. Maybe you just wanted something casual. No strings.”

“We’re both too old for that.”

Danny shrugs in halfhearted agreement. “I had to ask.”

A faint smile touches Maynard’s mouth. “Trying to figure out how to introduce me to your family?”

In the bliss of his new relationship, Danny almost forgot the reason he started this trip in the first place. “Oh. Shit. I should probably call home.”

He stops to refuel the Porsche a little while later—though he gives Maynard the honor of pumping the gas, so Danny can use the pay-phone around the corner of the gas station. He drops a few coins in and dials his parents’ home number.

He thought about what to say while he drove. The best thing to do is come out with it now. Ambushing them with the news on their doorstep is not a good idea. This way, he gives them time and space to make peace with it.

After a few rings, Danny hears his mother’s voice, and he breathes an internal sigh of relief. Mom’s always been a soft touch, the most likely of his parents to accept this new lifestyle.

“Mom? Hey. It’s me.”

“Danny! Oh, so nice to hear from you! How’s your trip going? You haven’t had car trouble, have you?”

“No. No trouble.” Danny watches Maynard leaning against the car while the gas pumps. “Everything’s... gone really smooth.”

“That’s good, the last thing you want is to get stuck in the middle of nowhere.”

Danny doesn’t think that would be so bad, not when Maynard’s with him, but he takes her point. “Yeah, um, so—” He tries to start on the thing that needs to be said, loses his nerve. “How’s Dad?”

“Oh, you know your father. Always keeping busy.”

Danny tries again, clenching his fists as if this might give him the emotional strength. “Mom, hey, listen, um... is it okay if I bring a plus-one? If not, it’s fine, we can stay at a hotel—”

“I won’t have my son staying in some run-down motel instead of our house. That’s absurd. Who are you bringing, dear? Did you two make up for the holidays?”

Of course she assumes he’s made amends with his ex. “No, it’s someone new. But that’s why I’m calling. ‘Cause I didn’t want to show up with this guy and put you in a weird position.”

A dreadful silence. It’s only about four seconds, but it feels like a lifetime.

“Oh. It’s a guy?”

“Yeah.”

Another stretch of silence that Danny feels raking into him like claws. He wants to grab the words back, but they’re out there now.

“Are you telling me that you’re gay?”

“No. I mean—I don’t think I am. I like women. Obviously. I was married to one for years.”

“Rock Hudson was married too,” Mom says like she’s making a point.

“Maybe I am gay,” Danny says, because if terminology is where Mom’s getting stuck, that’s fine with him. He can be gay if it means making this work. “I don’t know. All I know is I really like this guy.” He smiles at the admission, despite himself.

“If you’re gay, that explains a lot about why your marriage didn’t work.”

“It does.”

“Your father’s going to be surprised.”

“That’s why I called. So you have time to let it sink in. And if you decide you don’t want me over for Thanksgiving—”

“Don’t be dramatic, of course we want you. I’ll admit I’m curious. This guy must be somebody really special to turn you gay.”

Danny laughs. “Yeah, he definitely is.”

“It’s very brave of you to come out to us. I know that must have been a big decision.”

“You’re surprisingly okay with this. Not complaining, by the way.”

“It’s the strangest thing, just last week I was at the dentist’s office, and I was flipping through that Oprah magazine, and one of the articles was about what to say when your teen comes out. Of course you’re much older, but I think the main points still hold up.”

“Talk about fortuitous.”

“Your father would call it an omen.”

“Maybe you should let him read that article.” Danny hopes his father won’t berate him or Maynard over this. He doesn’t think that will be the case, but you never know. It’s a guy thing; Dad might feel that Danny’s sexuality is a silent indictment on his parenting or his manhood. A “real” man wouldn’t raise a gay son, and all that nonsense.

“Oh, he’ll be alright,” Mom assures Danny. “It may take some more time for him to get used to the idea of having a son-in-law, but he’ll come around.”

Danny smiles; Mom has to know he can’t actually marry Maynard (or any guy), but it’s the thought that counts. “Thanks. I’ll check in a couple days from now and see how you’re doing.”

“You do that, dear. And have fun on your trip! Take lots of pictures! I want to see where you’ve been.”

Danny assures her he will and says his goodbyes.

Back in the car, Maynard asks, “Are you disowned?”

“My mom is fine with it. Oddly supportive. Who knows how my Dad will take it. My mom seems to think Thanksgiving won’t be a total disaster if you and I show up.”

Maynard smiles shyly, glancing away. “You still wanna take me along?”

“Yeah, of course. You’re my boyfriend now. That means you get to meet my family.”

The smile doesn’t falter; Maynard must not think that’s a fate worse than death.

“Did your last boyfriend ever do that?” Danny asks.

“No. Probably another red flag I ignored. He kept saying they would judge me, like he was sparing me some horrible experience. But I think he just couldn’t handle being in the room with that. Or maybe they would try to warn me about his dramatic tendencies.”

“Worst case, my mom might show you my embarrassing baby pictures,” Danny says. “But if she does, it means she likes you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

They spend two days in Roswell, exploring everything at a leisurely pace. Museums, planetariums, kitschy souvenir shops, all of the alien-themed attractions. Even their hotel has a cartoon alien on the sign out front.

Maynard embraces the kitsch, much to Danny’s delight. His ex would have been embarrassed to stay in a place like this, if he could convince her to come to Roswell in the first place. “Aliens aren’t even real,” she said once when he’d floated the idea of a trip, and he was too embarrassed to suggest it further.

Bur Maynard doesn’t make Danny feel ashamed of anything. The first night in their hotel, Maynard gives Danny the absolute best blowjob he’s ever had, humming and moaning around him. The sight of Maynard on his knees between Danny’s spread thighs is almost enough to get him there, and Maynard’s remarkable technique finishes the job. Danny shakes apart, boneless, melting further when he hears Maynard swallow. On the rare occasions his ex-wife did this for him, she was a spitter. “It’s degrading,” she often said of the act, though never seemed to mind when Danny went down on her.

When it’s Maynard’s turn, after a teasing few minutes of kissing and touching and grinding, Danny touches two lube-slick fingers to Maynard’s entrance. Maynard groans and pushes into it, and Danny’s fingers slip inside. Shaking, Maynard throws an arm around Danny’s shoulders and draws himself closer. His cock is pressed between them, already leaking with arousal. Danny touches him, exploring, experimenting with what gets Maynard rocking into his hand and making hot sounds near his ear.

“Do you like this more or less than having my cock in you?” Danny asks him, spreading his fingers and earning a sharp gasp.

“I’ll always want your cock,” Maynard says, shaky and breathy. “But this is good too.” He settles his chin on the slope of Danny’s neck, then makes a delirious sound at something Danny does with his fingers.

Danny knows enough to do it again, and again, and each time Maynard cries out, losing his breath, his fingers digging into Danny’s skin. His hips clash with Danny’s hand and deepen the stroke, setting a more frantic pace, which would be fine if Danny was buried inside him, but right now he wants to take things slow while he has total control.

“Stop moving,” he says, turning his head to kiss Maynard’s cheek. His hand stills, waiting for Maynard to oblige. Maynard’s trembling, tense with anticipation, but he obeys.

“Ooh, you’re extra hot when you take charge,” Maynard purrs.

“Stay still.”

“Mmm, yes sir.”

Danny resumes the motion of his hand, fingers rubbing and pressing with, judging by Maynard’s sounds, maddening slowness. But Maynard keeps still through it, his body trembling, his hands gripping and dragging over Danny’s back until he cries out in release. He comes between them, splashing Danny’s stomach and chest along with his own. Danny kisses Maynard’s cheek again while his fingers still probe and press.

“Good?”

Maynard slumps against him and moans a long, satisfied noise. “Very good. Haven’t done that in a while.”

“Done what, exactly?”

“Had sex that focused on what felt good for me.”

Danny can’t imagine being with Maynard and not wanting to make him feel amazing all the time. He deserves all of the toe-curling, earth-shaking orgasms he can stand.

As his muscles untense, Maynard settles into Danny’s lap. “It was usually his dick in my ass, and after he came maybe he’d jerk me off, but there was no artistry. Just hurry up and get it over with.”

Even in the dying throes of his marriage, the last few times they’d had sex, Danny gave it his all, took his time, wanting her to reevaluate her stance on their split by granting her an orgasm good enough to fix their marriage. Sure, he had failed at that (whether it was even possible to repair a marriage through sex was another question entirely), but he’d tried.

In Danny’s curious, contemplative silence, Maynard adds, “I don’t think he liked sex when it wasn’t about him.”

Danny doesn’t understand that at all. “Definitely not me. I’m a giver.”

Maynard draws back to look at him. “Ever want to be a receiver?”

Color floods Danny’s face. Since developing his attraction to Maynard, he’s thought about it a time or two. But he might die of embarrassment if he admits it aloud. “I...” He glances away, unable to make eye-contact. “Maybe. Yeah. With you.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t put my dick in you yet.” Maynard takes Danny’s face in his hands, smiling wryly at the blood rising in Danny’s cheeks. “Do you wanna try what you did for me?”

Danny thinks about Maynard’s fingers touching him there, and every muscle below his navel goes tight. “I’ve never...” Of course he hasn’t, and of course Maynard knows that. “Yeah. Just... go easy on me.”

“It won’t hurt if you relax.” Maynard maneuvers them so they’re laying side by side, close enough to kiss. Danny’s heart beats manically behind his ribs. He doesn’t know why he’s nervous; he trusts Maynard and doubts it will hurt all that much. But he has never taken a submissive role in sex before—for some reason receiving a blowjob doesn’t count, he’s not sure why, that’s something to unpack later.

Maynard finds the bottle of lube and gets his fingers slippery. He adjusts Danny’s thigh, moving the leg so it’s draped over Maynard’s hip and allows for easier access. Maynard’s hand slips between Danny’s legs, and Danny hears himself moan as Maynard draws a slick fingertip over the rim.

“Relax,” Maynard reminds him.

Danny does his best—it’s impossible to force yourself to relax—and Maynard’s circling fingers begin to feel good. The sound Danny makes surprises both of them, and Maynard smiles.

“More?”

Danny licks his lips, nods, the words stolen from his throat. Maynard slips his finger inside, and Danny goes tight, but the soothing stroke loosens him up again. His hips rock back into it, out of his control, as if some place inside him desperately needs this.

Maynard goes on that way for what feels both like eternity and a half second: slipping in and out, curling, stroking, until Danny thinks he’ll die. Then Maynard adds a second digit. This total girth is nowhere near the size of his dick, but Danny feels full and stretched just the same. He whimpers, a sound that becomes a groan when Maynard spreads his fingers inside him.

“Too much?” Maynard asks.

Danny shakes his head against the pillow, kind of a tortured sway, as he huffs through it. “‘S good. A lot. But good.”

Fingered by the world’s hottest dude was not on Danny’s road trip bingo card when he set out for a cross-country drive to his parents’ house, but he’s not complaining. Far from it. The gasps and moans he’s making are the exact opposite of complaints. Why has he only now decided to try this, and why does he like it so much?

Maynard’s touch brushes someplace sensitive, and Danny rocks his hips into it, aware of the irony in how he told Maynard to stay still but can’t manage it himself, but he doesn’t care, just wants more, feels himself being pulled apart like taffy, melting, dissolving as he comes like never before. It’s a quick punch of an orgasm, surprising in its immediacy, and Danny makes a shocked cry.

Maynard smirks warmly and chuckles like he’s seen it all before. He’s still touching Danny, his fingers ceaseless in their teasing. “Good, isn’t it?”

Dazed and breathless, all Danny can say is, “Whoa.”

From New Mexico to Oklahoma, the sex is sensational, innovative (at least for Danny), intimate. Danny learns that he might be gay after all (or bisexual with a heavy preference for cock), because no straight dude would enjoy sucking dick this much. And how hard he comes when Maynard fucks him definitely voids Danny’s Heterosexual Male Club card. But he doesn’t care, with Maynard he can be whatever he is, with Maynard he’s actually happy for the first time in years, unbothered by all the bullshit of the outside world or his own inner one.

He calls home from a motel in a small Texas town close to the Oklahoma state line. Maynard’s lying next to him, hair splayed over Danny’s chest, and it feels obscene calling his parents like this, as if they can see his debauchery over the phone.

This time it’s Dad who picks up, and Danny’s mouth goes dry.

“Dad? It’s me. Your son.”

“I’ve got three of those, you’ll have to be more specific,” Dad says, seeming in good cheer.

“Danny.”

“Oh, right. The gay one.” Dad laughs, but it’s the warm, throaty laugh Danny remembers from his childhood.

“So you’ve heard.”

“Your mom tells me everything—more than once, usually, ‘cause I forget stuff a lot.”

“I’m a stone’s throw from Oklahoma. If you want me to turn around and go home, there’s still time.”

“And by home, you mean the house in LA that’s no longer yours?”

Danny sighs. “Just because I moved out doesn’t mean it’s not still mine.”

“Keep tellin’ yourself that, son,” Dad says with a chortle. “As far as you’re concerned, you got no place to go.”

“Home is the place where, no matter what, they have to take you in.”

Dad laughs. “Of course you’re always welcome here, Dan. Gay, straight, or whatever. We’ll tease you about it”—we meaning Dad and Danny’s brothers—“but there’s no animosity.”

He doesn’t know why his eyes burn with tears. Everything he’s seen in made-for-TV movies and television shows about coming out has told him to prepare for at least one parent disowning him, dramatic cries of “I have no son!”, and heated arguments. To bypass all of that strikes him as cheating somehow, like he’s getting off too easy.

Maybe his parents figure he’s taken a big enough hit from the divorce, so let him experiment now that he’s in his forties and newly single. He’s not their problem anymore, really.

Regardless of the reason, Danny is touched by their sensitivity. “Thanks,” he says, his voice distant. “I guess I’ll be there in a day or two, if all goes well.”

“We’ll be waiting.”

“How’s Mom?”

“She’s good. Out picking up a few things from the store. I’ll let her know you called.”

After Danny hangs up, Maynard says, “Your dad sounds nice.”

“He is.” Danny’s not even surprised that Maynard was listening. “Was yours?”

“In his own way, yeah. I don’t know if he would’ve been as supportive as yours.”

“You never said anything?”

Maynard shakes his head. “My mom was religious. And my dad... well, he was a dad.”

Danny nods, knowing what that means. He runs a hand through Maynard’s hair. At this angle, he can see dark roots coming in, and the notion that Maynard has bleached his hair makes Danny smile for some strange reason. The vanity of it, maybe.

“What did you do for work before I met you serving drinks?” Danny asks.

“You’ll never guess.”

“Porn?” That tattoo is pure sex, and he can easily see Maynard as pinup eye-candy for women and men alike. “Stripping?”

Maynard snickers.

“I’m out of guesses.”

“I worked with animals. When I first got to LA in the ‘80s, I worked in a pet store. Then I moved on to animal shelters.”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t have guessed.” But Danny sees a gentleness in Maynard that allows for it. “Did you have any pets of your own?”

“A few. Some birds. A couple cats. When I met my ex, I didn’t have any animals. My oldest cat had just passed. But he was allergic—the ex, not the cat—so I didn’t adopt another one.”

“A huge red flag in hindsight.”

“Right? Goddammit.”

“Well, I’m not allergic,” Danny says. “I love animals. My ex had a dog, so she got to keep him. Otherwise he’d be riding with me.”

Maynard smiles at the idea of meeting Danny with a dog in tow. “As if you couldn’t be more irresistible. What kind of dog?”

“Golden retriever.”

“Perfect. You, but as a dog.”

Danny laughs. “Yeah, I guess so. What kind of animal would you be? Housepets only.”

“A black cat. Because cats are just as loving as dogs, but they aren’t in your face about it. They’re quieter, more relaxed, subdued. But they can be silly too. And ignorant people think black cats mean bad luck.”

Danny sees all of those traits in Maynard, sees how he people could be prejudiced against him for a slew of ignorant reasons.

“I’d want you to have a whole farm of cats,” Danny says. “If that’s what you wanted.”

“You’re a romantic at heart, aren’t you?”

Danny blushes, feeling seen through.

Maynard tilts his head to look at Danny. “I knew you were blushing.” He grins. “I think it’s sweet. Don’t change that. Even if this ends up being just a fling and you go back to dating women.”

Danny runs a hand up Maynard’s thigh, fondling his ass and caressing his back. The feel of him is exquisite, intoxicating, and Danny feels a sense of rightness flowing through him when he touches Maynard, as if two pieces of a whole have finally connected. “I seriously doubt that’s gonna happen.”

The drive through Oklahoma reveals a landscape of rolling prairies and open plains. Farmhouses dot the countryside along with red barns and grain silos, and cattle graze in sprawling pastures. The foliage is a tapestry of golds, russets, and deep crimson. The sky above is a crisp, clear blue, stretching endlessly over the plains and sloping hills.

The gentle monotony of the scenery gives Danny space to think. Which is good, because he has a lot to think about. Mostly anxious thoughts about how his relationship with Maynard will be received by his family. If Maynard will be nervous or uncomfortable around them, or even saddened by being surrounded by Danny’s parents and brothers and having none of his own. Underscoring the tragedy of his life.

And Danny’s own feelings for Maynard are troubling too. He wants to do better at having a relationship this time around, and that means articulating his emotions, even if they’re silly or sometimes hard to find words for. What he feels for Maynard now is love. Or at least something close to it. And that’s absurd, of course, they’ve barely known each other a week, that’s hardly enough time, and Danny hasn’t been single long enough to untangle himself from his marriage.

But there it is all the same.

And he won’t say any of this to Maynard, because after Maynard’s nightmare of an ex, he might hear anything in the ballpark of a love confession as a red flag, a sign of insecure attachment and a desperation for closeness. He fled from one headcase only to fall into the arms of another.

Maynard slides a hand into Danny’s own, the one not holding the wheel. He laces their fingers together and says, “It’ll be okay.” This vague reassurance feels cosmically significant, as if Maynard has looked into Danny’s head and seen the fears there.

“How did you know I was worried?”

“You chew your bottom lip when you’re anxious.”

Did Danny’s ex ever notice that about him in the years they were together? He doubts it.

“Do I?”

Maynard nods. “You were doing it on the phone with your parents. And before you asked if we were dating. Then before you kissed me. And also the first time you let me drive.”

So Maynard has been watching Danny just as closely as Danny observes him. A relief to know.

“So what’s on your mind?” Maynard asks. “You’ve had a great track record with me so far.”

“Then let’s not spoil it.”

“Aw, come on, Dan. If you’ve got some really weird kink you want to try, I promise you it’s not that weird.”

Danny loves how Maynard can always lighten the mood with his bizarre jokes. “No, it’s not that. I just… What’s your policy on honesty?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you want me to talk about what I feel—good and bad—or do you feel like that’s”—Danny tries to find a better, less loaded word, but can’t—“manipulative?”

Maynard gives him a puzzled look.

“I don’t want to remind you of him.”

“I can’t see you threatening to kill yourself because I said ‘maybe that shirt doesn’t go with those pants.’”

“Jesus.”

“So I doubt very much that you would remind me of him.”

“Okay. Good.” Danny takes a breath to steel himself and tightens his grip on the wheel. “I really, really like you. I like spending time with you. I like your dark and often corny sense of humor. The way you roll your eyes and smile when I say something dumb. How you let me go on about stuff even when you probably don’t care. How smart you are, and how you’re willing to call me on my shit.” He’s blushing as he says all of this, acutely aware of how he sounds like Hugh Grant at the end of a rom-com, sans the British accent.

Maynard takes a moment to absorb this, then says, “Nothing about my ass? I thought that’d make your list.”

Danny huffs a laugh. He knows Maynard well enough to hear the appreciation under the words. “That’s on another list.”

Their fingers are still entwined, and Maynard squeezes Danny’s hand. “Good. I have a few lists of my own.”

As the day wanes and Danny passes into Kansas, the sky transforms into a canvas of oranges, pinks, and purples. The landscape takes on a softer, more ethereal quality, the twilight shadows deepening the contours of the plains.

Maynard is quiet and contemplative as he gazes out the window at the first faint stars twinkling overhead. It’s never been too quiet in the car; both of them have kept the stereo going, rotating through Danny’s CD collection and eventually settling on whatever alternative or rock station they can get on the radio. When there’s dead air, Danny tells Maynard anecdotes about his family, so Maynard won’t feel like a total outsider upon arrival.

Danny feels his nerves melt away as the drive goes on. Maynard likes him, enough to endure a potentially awkward Thanksgiving with the family of a man he met about a week ago. That’s got to mean something, since Maynard has proven he’s capable of sticking it out on his own when necessary.

They pull up to the quaint Carey home at nightfall. The headlights cast long shadows across the gravel driveway. Soft, golden light spills from the house’s windows. The silhouette of the home is classic and inviting, with a steeply pitched roof and a wraparound porch adorned with a swing that sways gently in the evening breeze.

“A porch swing? Cozy,” Maynard says with restrained glee.

“Definitely a new addition. I don’t remember that from my childhood.” Danny switches off the radio (it was just static for the last few miles anyway), and they sit in the quiet car, lulled by the soothing rumble of the engine until Danny turns that off too.

After a moment, the headlights blink off. The sky above is a tapestry of stars, brilliantly clear and unspoiled by city lights.

“It’s not a dry Thanksgiving, is it?” Maynard wonders.

It takes a moment for Danny to realize what he means. “Oh. No. My dad’s fond of the drink. Not in an alcoholic way, just, y’know, socially.”

“Then we’ll make it through.”

“I’m not nervous anymore.”

“I noticed. But maybe I am. Just a little.” Maynard holds his thumb and forefinger an immeasurable distance apart to illustrate.

“That’s not very much.”

“Nothing a glass of wine can’t solve.”

The front door opens, and Danny’s father stands silhouetted under the porch light and the glow from inside. “Dan! You made it! Don’t be shy, get on in here, both of you!”

Danny gives Maynard an encouraging smile and pops open the driver’s door. “You heard the man. Let’s go.”