The Promised Land, Book TwoPart SevenMirasta Reed was a Born-Again Christian on her way to heaven, but that didn't stop her from being a hell of a journalist. Beverly took her phone call trepidatiously. Mirasta told her that, because of the Oscars, everything relating to the Boys was still the hottest news in town; she wanted to do a story on Q's wife. She was also going to get in touch with the former Mrs. Rodshenko. The whole story ought to be worth something. If the wives would cooperate. Beverly closed her eyes. Sonny, Junior, and Buddy wanted her to. They said, "Don't you turn that nose up at good money." But Beverly somehow didn't want to. She called Q on the line he had installed especially for his boys. It was the first time she'd ever called him. He seemed frightened to hear from her, but then he calmed down. "Just tell them the truth," he counseled. That she was a willing partner in an ongoing incestuous relationship with all three of her brothers, and her kids weren't her husband's? She decided to ask Q for money instead. He said yes, but the brothers weren't interested in Q's money after it got there. "You're doing that interview, bitch," they told her. Beverly was terrified and close-mouthed for the first half of the interview until she figured out that the reporter was trying to slant her article against Q. "Don't you miss him?" purred Mirasta. "I reckon." "Wouldn't it be better if you were partners in raising those sons?" "Um, yeah." "Isn't it too bad that Q gave into the seductive lure of the dark side, to that evil homosexual Jean-Luc, to the easy temptation of show business and Hollywood? Isn't it too bad that you have been pushed away from your rightful place at your husband's side? Are you not just consumed with utter sorrow?" Beverly nodded in a stunned sort of way. It was obvious to Mirasta that Beverly was a deer in the headlights, frozen by the spotlight and parroting anything that would get her back to anonymity once more. She narrowed her eyes. Lying hussy. Pitiful really, but the investigation had to be done. Now all she needed was a quote from the former Mrs. Rodshenko. Jean-Luc had to hand it to the money-wasting fag architect. The house looked wonderful. It was made of natural stone and white wooden siding. From the swimming pool, he could see way into the Smokies. "I'm okay with this, Boy," Melinda teased. He had to talk to the man the architect recommended as a caretaker. That caretaker shit pissed him off; why couldn't he just have one of the roadies come out here? But they all wanted to stay in Hollywood. All that Cali puss, he guessed. The man drove up in an old white truck and got out. Jean-Luc was not enthused. This character was just some old black guy; he seemed too old to do much caretaking. Still: give the cat a chance. "I'm Jean-Luc Picard. Are you the man Arnold Ring was going to send over?" "Yes, I am. Howdy do, I'm Joe Sisco." Sisko! "I knew a man named Sisko in the pen in Kentucky. I didn't think much of him." "I knew a man named Picard in the army. I didn't think much of him." "This was Ben Sisko." "I don't need the job that much." He turned to go. "Wait a minute. Hold your horses, Joe. I just don't want trouble. I want someone to take care of my new house so I can keep my new wife happy." Joe turned around. "There's a way to keep women happy that's more fun." He was very proud, very dry, very professional. Jean-Luc decided to hire him. Jean-Luc's new house was different from the flophouses and roach motels where he had lived most of his adult life, like the dump he and Q and Worf rented when they were right out of prison. He gave a dark smile. He was proud to actually bring his beautiful bride into this lovely house. This was the life. This was all he needed. He wanted to call and tell Q how happy he was; he wanted to tell Q the maid's room was bigger and more spacious than most places they'd lived in. Q was almost the only one who would understand, but then, thanks to that curious personal Q alchemy, Q would probably turn the whole conversation into some tragedy and boohoo and then where would Jean-Luc be. The maid's room was also bigger than their cell at Fear Alley. It was bigger than the room over the principal's garage where he grew up. Melinda found him sitting in the sofa in the maid's room. "What are you doing in here?" "Resting my feet. Come here, angel meat, and let Daddy lick your pussy. We'll baptize this room along with all the rest. Then go to those goddam Oscars." Oscar? Data, Geordi and Spock poked their head out of Data's bedroom. Oscar who? "*The* Oscars," Will explained patiently. "With movie stars and awards. It's a really big thing that Q's going to, and you guys have to take a break from what you're doing and come down and watch. Jean-Luc's going to be there and everything. It'll be on in about two hours." They reluctantly agreed to watch, but it was hard to walk away from such an interesting project. "You see, once we refine the dimensions of the reactor segment we'll be able to modify the energy impeller housing..." But Will was already backing away. "I uh ... have to go get Patsy." He nearly ran away from their door. Data and Spock watched without comprehension. How could anybody not think this was fascinating? They themselves were engrossed by it. They spent all day working on it, buying parts for it, arguing about the best way to go about it. And they were thrilled to discover that Spock been correct in his assessment of Geordi's engineering abilities. Geordi was a natural. "I suspected you were a genius the moment I met you," Spock said. His eyes were soft. Data smiled. He loved the fact that Spock's esteem for Geordi matched his own. "Spock," he murmured happily. He lifted his face up. "Yes," Spock agreed. This was the other component to their days and nights together: sleep, eat, play with their lovely contraption, make love, play some more. Their days flowed in simple but idyllic rhythm, like paradise. Even the interruptions were benign -- playing with Patsy, spending quiet evenings by the pool with the others, making music. "I feel apprehensive," Data confessed, "when I think that someday this must all end." "Do not be afraid," Spock told him. He put his hands against Data's cheek. Whenever he made that peculiar caress he would whisper, "I am inside you." It was impossible to be afraid when Spock did that. It was the most amazingly soothing sensation, more deeply loving than anything either Geordi or Data had felt before. It had the added effect of making them ravenous for Spock's hands on their bodies. This time was no exception. Data pressed himself forward. "Touch me," he said, offering himself. Spock's hands tightened against his skin. Long moments of silence passed; then Data moaned softly. "Just for times like this," Geordi murmured, "I wish I could see." "If you can't see, then feel," Spock said. He let go of Data long enough to pull Geordi towards them. The bed had been pushed over to a corner to make room for a workbench. Spock led them to it and all three lay down. "My eyes are closed, Geordi." "Mine too," Data said. "I know." When their eyes were shut, Geordi felt their movements go soft and tentative. They'd discovered that even temporary blindness heightened sensation. With Spock, all extraneous sensory input was distraction. Geordi and Data always made love to Spock with a kind of swooning amazement. He had a gift of cocooning them in his presence. And he was intensely vulnerable to physical sensation. It made sense now that he should be so physically distant at other times. Rhemuel could actually be made to tremble with the force of his desire. Yet for all that, he was amazingly unschooled in some ways. Data and Geordi had taught him how to fist. They frequently knelt in front of him, coaxing him to orgasm with their lips and tongues, thrilled with his response. When Rhemuel got very excited, they all felt it--his passion washed over them, engulfed them. They felt his helpless pleasure along with him, and it enhanced their own pleasure a thousand fold. "I can't believe you tried to hide this from us," Geordi said. "I wasn't trying to hide anything." Spock sounded rather solemn for a man who was panting under the stroking hands of two beautiful young lovers. "I simply did not wish to underestimate the effect of my ... differences." "Your differences are beautiful, Spock." "As are yours, Geordi." Data smiled at the exchange, his mouth busy against Spock's superheated flesh. There could be no more perfect happiness than this. Meanwhile Will and Worf and Patsy were waiting at the bottom of the stairs for Q to come down. And when he did, they applauded. He looked wonderful his black tuxedo fit him as if it were made for him, which it was of course. He had the tail coat, the wonderful high-collared shirt. It was his first date with Casey Spevin! They were going to the Oscars! They were going to sit on the front row! Casey was just beaming. How lucky could he get tonight? Maybe lightning would strike twice. Oh, he gritted his teeth, he loved that softness and pliance and giving in Q. And Q was so pretty the prettiest in Hollywood. And Q was his tonight, all his. Casey had a million plans for after the Oscars. But when they got to the auditorium with a thousand screaming fans calling to them, the only real people they saw were Jean-Luc and Melinda. "Fancy meeting you here," Casey said to them in his sardonic way. Melinda gave her trademark baritone squeal, and the foursome entered the pavillion. Will called the reluctant Spock, Data, and Geordi down to the television room. "You have to see this!" Jean-Luc and Q together on the front row! Sandwiched by Melinda and Casey! Man oh man! But, despite all that, the Oscars were faintly boring. But Casey also had on a beautiful tux, and Jean-Luc looked quite handsome, and Melinda was leonine and elegant and statuesque, and then there was Q, so there was at least that. The first important Oscar given was best supporting actress. Lily Sloan won; Melinda was on her feet applauding wildly. Lily's speech was short, sweet; she gave all the credit to her co-workers. Melinda applauded again as Lily walked off stage. Her smile was wide, but she said, "T'aint fair, Boy -- she had as much screen time as I did. She deserved a best-actress nod." Jean-Luc smiled back. "The system's fucked, baby." Boring technical Oscars. But Q was ecstatic. On one side the warmth of Jean-Luc (Jean-Luc would see him in his smart clothes!), on the other, the slightly more tepid wattage of Casey Spevin, and all on the front row at the Oscars. Wouldn't his sons be proud! Then a rising young starlet named Robin Lefler strode out on stage; her silky white strapless dress was slit to her waist. She appeared to have no underwear on, and Jean-Luc had a front row seat for it. He gave a real smile. Robin was giving out the best supporting actor award. She beamed when she saw Jean-Luc looking at her. "Down, Boy," Melinda drawled. Robin gave the award to some man and walked off. A sight to see. As was Q. Jean-Luc knew what Q was thinking: 'Wow, look at me at the Oscars with all the big stars!' Q had always loved things like that, even in prison. In a way, Jean-Luc was enjoying Q's enjoyment more than he enjoyed Melinda's, but every time a smile crossed his face at some Q memory, he tried to remember to turn it to Melinda so it seemed as if he were really enjoying being with her, and, of course, she was a brilliant actress, so she knew just how to give him an amused, excited high-wattage smile in return. Then it was time for Q's song. And Celine Dion was going to sing it. Q was a big enough fool to think this was great; of course, everyone else in America wanted to see Q sing it. Editorials had been written demanding to know why Q was not singing and certain groups responded by saying "certain groups shouldn't be appeased in their immoral demands to have people like that 'Q' up on our fine American Oscar stage. Only good Americans like Celine Dion should be permitted up there." It was pointed out that, among the other things she was not, Celine Dion was also not American. But she was a trier; she gave the song her hysterical best. Beyond the edge of heaven . . . (At home, Geordi jumped, and Data's head ticked.) our friend is wandering now complete -(Spock gave the television a keen searching look.) We know our journey never endsWhen the song ended, it didn't quite end, because without missing a beat, Celine took a deep breath and sang: "Brandy, you're a fine girl, what a good wife you would be." Even grown men were tearing up. "But, my life, my love, my lady . . . " (Q and Kira were splitting the profits. One half went to Kira's odd church; the other half to a reading project in Kentucky named after Horatio. Q had never forgotten him.) Worf and Will and Data, watching at home, looked at each other and shook their heads. No one said anything about the music. "Her dress is very bright, like bubbles and sunshine," Data told Geordi. The dress was yellow. "She has very pointy shoes," Worf observed "She opens her mouth very nicely," Will added. Worf looked at him and rolled his eyes. As parents, they weren't supposed to talk like that anymore, but Patsy was safely asleep in his lap. Geordi got it. "She's hitting almost all the notes right." "Yes," Data agreed. "Almost every one. I am sorry you are blind, Geordi, because you cannot see Jean-Luc's face every time the camera moves past it." "If he were smiling any harder, his teeth would break." Will offered. "Is it like his reporter voice?" They had all heard his reporter voice. "Exactly." Q lost. He barely noticed. Casey patted his arm. Elton John had been named the winner for his song "Tomorrow (Is a Another Day)" from the Disney cartoon version of "Gone with the Wind." Now Elton was climbing the stage in tears. When he composed himself, the first thing he said was, "Q, you deserved this more than I do!" Q clapped his hands until they were bruised. Melinda lost. Jean-Luc and Melinda still seemed merry. Jean-Luc's ex-lover's long legs were crossed away from Jean-Luc and towards Spevin. And then something almost happened. They were announcing the best actor awards, and Q was so thrilled at the excitement of it all that he unthinkingly held his hand out to Jean-Luc who reached back automatically. Then Q remembered that he was reaching towards the wrong man and quickly snatched his hand away from Jean-Luc's grasp, and held his other hand out to Casey. The camera zoomed in on him as he fumbled for Casey's hand, panning right past Jean-Luc's expression of disorientation and shock. And Melinda saw it all. Casey won. Q jumped to his feet -- hugging Casey; one of those full-bodied Q hugs--with a happy, beaming smile because he truly was glad for him. Jean-Luc's heart skipped a beat. Too damn much. Melinda went to the ladies room during Casey's speech. When she came back out, she found Quark idling outside. "Melinda!" he said questioningly, hopefully, sadly. "Tommy!" she said. She was feigning great cheerfulness. Any of the overdressed people milling around with great elan could have been the goddamned press. "You can't tell me you don't have a date to the Oscars." "Well . . ." he said. He actually did have two dates, a couple of leather thirtyish gals, workers in the California sex industry, both of them about 25 per cent silicone. But right now the gals were flirting with some of the robust young lads who were hired to do that night's valet parking. "Quarky-warky," she said with utter sincerity. "How did you achieve peaceful coexistence with Jean-Luc and Q? It's been a hell of a night, really. I think all those Boys are having fun, but frankly it's a nightmare to me." Quark looked at her. She was wearing a royal blue dress, strapless, backless, tight, floor-length -- it seemed to be glued to her. But the tightness, the breathlessness was offset by long floppy white gloves, bunched around her slender wrists and cuffed with sapphires the size of her thumbs. With matching sapphire earrings. The white satin tower of her throat was bare, however. "Miss Melinda," Quark said carefully, "are those rocks real?" "Whatever real means," she said and shrugged. "I always found Jean-Luc a big pain in the ass?" said Quark suggestively. "He may be a pain in the ass, but it's my ass," she leaned against the wall outside the ladies room, putting one arm out to touch the wall. Quark watched her, her outstretched arm, her bare armpit, sexual as a loin. Didn't his idiot Boys say something about a Goddess when they got back from India? Shiva? Or something? Hadn't they visited her temple? Or, who knew, visited HIS temple? The Boys never gave a fuck about what sex anything was. But, boy or girl, they raved about the profound temple they had seen. And now suddenly he was looking at that profundity, into its midst. Gazing at Melinda was like gazing at pure heat, more than a Goddess, indeed into the heart of light. "I'm sorry you're not having a good time. This should be your night, Miss Melinda." "Losing the fucking Oscar isn't helping. But, oh, rats, I shouldn't be mean. Former pop-songstress Esme Dexter was brilliant as the disabled mother of ten who was kidnaped by the IRA." She rolled her eyes. "I've got lots of years to win an Oscar in. It's not like Hard Time is the last film I'll ever be in." "Who do you suppose Esme was sleeping with to get that kind of attention?" Melinda shrugged and then sighed. "She just slept with the same people I slept with. It doesn't make sense." "So you want an Oscar?" "Who doesn't? It can date my old Barbies." Quark couldn't decide if what he was about to do was right or wrong. "I can work on it . . . Melinda. I'm not a bad manager, if I have the right thing to manage. The Boys were singing for free out of an Impala when I met them. I know you're being managed by William Morris and them -- and they're good. But let me get in touch with your manager. Let's be honest. . ." She leaned into him. Innocent-eyed. Goddess-y. Quark would have moved the world for Melinda if he had a place to stand. "It's all in the vehicle, Tommy. " "There's a lot I can do." "Yay!" she smiled. "Give me a ring tomorrow. You've got the number." She kissed the top of his head. Just when everyone thought it couldn't get more complicated. Jean-Luc was infuriated to see Casey ask Q to hold his Oscar for him when Casey went to give his post-Oscar press conference, and, of course, Q did, standing in the background, smiling softly, acting like the perfect, supportive spouse, and one of the reporters said, "I couldn't help but notice you have a different escort from last year, Mr. Spevin?" Casey looked at Q and his smile widened. "If there are no more questions." "Q, Q," a reporter yelled. "What'd you think of the way Celine did your song? Would you rather it had been you up there?" Q was Q. "Celine did a wonderful job with the song," he gushed. "Her voice just soars." The reporters said nothing. "It's party time, boys," Casey said to the reporters; he wanted to get Q off by himself. After the Oscars, Jean-Luc stalked down the street amid the limos and valets and screaming fans, indifferent to them as a tiger to the grass. Where the fuck was Melinda? Where the fuck was Q? Well, he knew actually. Melinda had taken their limo to the governor's party, and Q was still giving press with that Oscar-stealing asshole Spevin. Jean-Luc hated Spevin, no question. Q, gallantly standing by his date, was infuriatingly out of Jean-Luc's grasp. This feeling of being out of control was as irritating as nails on chalk. "Jean-Luc," someone said. Jean-Luc chose not to hear it. Some loser was always yelling Jean-Luc' at him. A limo stopped right in front of him. Oh, that was where the loser's voice was coming from. "Jean-Luc," it insisted. "We're going to the governor's mansion. Melinda told Cami she was going over early. You need a ride?" Jean-Luc glared at the babbling limo. Fame was strange. He'd never met either of the people in the back of the limo before, but he was famous and they were famous so that made them instant friends. At least he recognized the man who was yelling at him. A very pretty actor named Gary Mitchell. Jean-Luc looked warily at the limousine. Well, that was something. Gary Mitchell was far cuter in real life than in the pictures Jean-Luc had seen. Kitten-faced with a pleasantly raspy boy's voice. Well-built, earnest, full-lipped. And his wife was beautiful too. Jean-Luc had heard a thousand times about Cami Spencer. Melinda was not one to gloat or hold grudges, that was part of her magic, but she had often mentioned the fact that she and Cami had come to Hollywood at the same time and had auditioned for many of the same roles. They were quite alike, long-legged, dark auburn hair, freckles, big-boned beautiful faces. Sometimes Melinda got the role, and sometimes Cami got it. But Cami had a quality of ethereal, almost spiritual refinement while Melinda was sex incarnate. Cami spoke four languages and played the violin beautifully, but Melinda's earthy allure was invincible. It sold tickets to movies. Melinda began to get the better roles, and Cami settled down to marriage with Gary Mitchell. Jean-Luc said nothing, he was too pissed off, but he opened the door and climbed in. "Sit between us, Jean-Luc. We both want to be able to hear you," Cami was saying. "I love your voice. I could turn out the lights and listen to it all night long." "The lights stay on," he said in his baritone growl. He was not interested in this woman. He could smell the saintliness coming off her like ozone. She was so fucking spiritual. He was tired of fucking spiritual women like her and Q. Trouble-making bitches. Gary's eyes slid over to him too. The last time Jean-Luc had been in a mood like this was when Q was on that European whoring thing. That was when Jean-Luc felt he could fuck just about anybody. And, if he didn't get to fuck somebody, he would fuck everybody. The chauffeur was driving to the governor's mansion. "Do we pass through any isolated canyons?" Jean-Luc asked suddenly. "We can. . . I suppose," Gary Mitchell said. Jean-Luc sat back. "Do so." They drove for a while. "Stop here," Jean-Luc said. "Do you want to see something, Gary?" "Oh, yes, Jean-Luc." The two men got out of the car. Cami sat there in silence. There was something distastefully overblown about Jean-Luc's masculinity, yet at the same time it drew her in. It was impressive the way a piranha's teeth are impressive. My goodness, she thought. The limo was rocking. Were they leaning against the car and laughing? Cami couldn't quite make sense of it. Even when she thought she heard Gary make the huffing sounds he always made when they made love, she couldn't understand. What were they doing? (The chauffeur knew; the chauffeur enjoyed the view -- Gary with his pants down to his knees, his round white ass glowing in the starlight, Jean-Luc thrusting again and again into him. That Jean-Luc really knew how to fuck. The chauffeur wondered who would give him the most money for this story.) A condom landed in the dirt and then the two men got back in the limo. "What were you doing out there?" Cami asked cautiously. Jean-Luc would have told her the truth, but Gary squeezed him silent. Gary's face was red even in the limousine's dim interior light. He was sweaty, and he sounded a little breathless. "We were talking about sports," he answered her. They went on to the governor's mansion. Well, thank God his wife finally showed up. "Where've you been?" he said to her. She looked at him; they were reading each other. "Melinda, have you been fooling around on me?" "Not yet," she said and smiled. He didn't say anything. "Boy, take me back to Tennessee. I'm pretty fucking depressed and I want to hide out and lick my wounds." Casey and Q were back home in bed by the time Jean-Luc got to the governor's mansion. Of course, they still had their clothes on. For the moment. Casey was trying to figure this one out. What beauty. What talent. What indifference. When he had said, "Let's stretch out on the bed and watch ourselves on TV," Q agreed at once, kicking off his shoes and loosening his tie. Now he was watching Casey with a knowing little smile on his face. Casey was pretty sure he was about to get lucky. "How about a kiss?" he asked. Q leaned in close, all warmth, scent and wetness. Casey couldn't even tell how long the kiss lasted. When he finally pulled away to recuperate, his ears were ringing. "You certainly know your stuff," he gasped. "Thank you." Q's smile was pleased and cordial. Casey leaned away from him. "You're still in love with Jean-Luc, aren't you?" "Of course." "Does that preclude your getting a little tonight?" Q was quite cordial. "Not at all. I've been looking forward to this all day." Casey was quite taken aback. "What a whore." He picked up the Oscar. "I ought to fuck you with this!" Q's eyes grew large. "What's wrong? I thought we both understood where this evening was headed, but if you've changed your mind..." "...that's okay too," Casey finished for him. "You'll be happy to come back some other time, right?" He was seething. "Well, of course." Q's expression was morphing into a soft smile. "But I'd rather stay if it's just the same with you." Casey fell back onto the bed. He shook his head. "I don't believe this." "What?" Q sounded utterly confused. "What don't you believe?" "You." Casey rolled to a sitting position again. He looked a little stunned. "You're a perfect whore, aren't you? One of a kind, a professional, creme de la creme. I had no fucking idea." He stared at Q as if seeing him for the first time. Q gazed back patiently. "Q," Casey began again. "You know... I asked the studio to set up this date because I knew I was going to win, and I knew I wanted to come home with the most perfectly beautiful man I'd ever seen. But you're more than just beautiful, Q. And now that you're here... well, let's just say I'm a little overwhelmed. I didn't expect a professional." Q looked at him. Casey didn't know if he'd ever seen such a sunny expression on a human face. He reached out and put his hand against Q's cheek. "Tell me what you like, Q. We'll do anything you say. Do you like toys? I have a large selection. You like to suck cock? I'd be tickled to help out. You like it in the ass? Just tell me the position. I've even been known to be a very effective bottom." One of the most charming things about Q's pretty face was that little overbite; it made him seemed childishly excited about everything. He reached over and took Casey's hand; then he formed it into a fist. When they were at last naked and Casey's hand was all the way inside Q and Q was moaning like a dove, Casey asked humbly, "Would you pretend I'm Jean-Luc?" Q moaned more loudly. "Oh, yes." He half-opened his eyes. They glowed with tenderness. "I love you," he whispered, and it was so melting and gentle that Casey knew at once that it had nothing to do with him. The thought was sad, but not completely so. "You're so beautiful when you think of him." Q was beyond words. He was undulating against Casey's hand, clenching his sphincter muscle as much as he could, loving it, losing it. His legs were pulled back, splayed wide. His dick was waving in the air like a flag on the breeze. "It's so good," he moaned. Casey smiled his capitulation. "You can call me Jean-Luc if you want." "No!" It was obvious Q was having a hard time focusing, but he managed to open his eyes and find his lover. "One person at a time, please. Casey! Casey!! CASEY!!!" His come jetted up and then landed cold against his belly. Casey looked at it hungrily. His fist moved gently inside Q's body. "I wish I could stay just like this all night." Q smiled tiredly. "I toss and turn in my sleep or else I'd say yes. Come up here so I can hold you." "So you actually want to spend the night here?" Casey's sardonic tone could not belie his eagerness. He slowly worked his hand out of Q's ass, peeled his glove off and threw it away. "I'm honored." "You want me to suck you off?" Q asked gently. "No. I want to fuck you, but not yet." When Casey was lying next to him, Q reached down and stroked his chest, hairy, manly. Silence. Then Casey asked Q if he had liked it. Q kissed him. "Who I love and who I fuck are two different things." "I know." Casey pulled Q on top of him, "But I just like to hear it." "You were better than good." Q tilted his head back and Casey arched up and bit at his neck. "Can I fuck you now? Even though I just pulled my hand out of you?" "Of course." So Casey did. He was careful to treat Q like the accomplished courtesan he was; mauling him, devouring him, but respectfully. Q was a professional, and Casey wanted him to know that he, Casey, appreciated that. Casey's house was gigantic for one person. In the morning, they made love again, and then they walked around nude, nibbling at breakfast things, kissing and caressing slowly. They had all the time in the world. "I want to see you again." Q smiled. He was so flattered that a big movie star like Casey wanted to see him again. Casey misinterpreted. "You do everything perfectly, don't you? No wonder Jean-Luc beats you. He must feel frustrated that he can't live up to you." Q was shocked. Jean-Luc wanted to live up to him? Casey misinterpreted again. "Don't worry. I'll never tell. And don't tell me when it happens, either. I swear I'd come rescue you if you'd just say the word." He was very still, seeing how Q reacted to his offer. Q picked up Casey's hand and kissed it. "I don't need rescuing." "You don't want it either." Jean-Luc was no fool. He called his new friend Gary and they went out. Just boys together. Boys married to the same kind of woman. There were things to talk about. "I bet you go to Casey Spevin's house all the time?" he said to Gary who was lying gasping on the car seat. "Oh, God. Sure. Casey and I go way back. I used to go trolling with Very-Very's crowd all the time." "Where's Casey live anyway?" "It's just down the way a bit. Listen, where'd you learn to fuck that way?" When Mirasta Reed's article about De-Anne appeared, Worf read it voraciously looking for grand words such as "he's the love of my life," but all De-Anne had said was: "Worf Rodshenko and I are no longer married. I have no further comment." He stared at that sentence trying to fathom its emotions. Will came in with a big pan of fresh brownies. Worf had no appetite, but he smiled at his woman anyway. "Oh, hello, Jean-Luc. Somehow I've been expecting you. " Casey Spevin's small muscular mouth was almost as expressive as Q's. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" "Were you busy?" Casey stood still. The sun couldn't have been more opposite to the moon. "I am trying to be a husband to him. Envy, I guess. My sin. I want to take care of him in a way you never could," Casey said. "Maybe I should take care of you, motherfucker." Casey didn't call again. The papers said he was going to parties with his friend Russell. And Jean-Luc went back to Tennessee. Q quietly ignored his disappointment. He threw himself into another project, the biggest one yet. They'd bought the house on the other side, and he and Data and Spock were going to modify it specifically to Geordi's needs. Data was thrilled by this undertaking. He glowed. Q liked planning and looking at blueprints and talking to architects. Will liked buying things. Worf loved Will. Spock was there with them. Except for Q, they were all very happy. Spock and Data wanted the house to hold sensory appeal in ways Geordi could appreciate. They wanted to fill it full of interesting things to feel and smell and hear. They had a decorator in and told him, "One of us is blind. We need for him to be able to enjoy the feel of the house and we need very specific differences in the floors to define spaces for him. We want him to know by the feel under his feet where the pool is, where the kitchen is, when he's coming up on the steps, that sort of thing." The designer was ecstatic. He finally had a challenge worthy of his skills. He rushed back to them with ideas as soon as he thought of them. Rough tile for outdoors leading to the pool. Smooth tile leading to the steps. Vinyl tile for the kitchen and work areas. Talking appliances. Thick rugs for the music rooms. The designer went crazy with texture and fabric and sensation. Heat from the sun, sudden cool spots for interest. Raised wallpaper. For the rest of the Boys, he used restful colors, beautiful plants and 'treatments' all over the house. A 'treatment' for the sun room, and another for Geordi's spa/hot tub and another for the living room and another for the kitchen and another for the TV room. All this was based on his very scientific traffic analysis, the one that didn't quite jibe with Data's analysis and caused a few hot looks at one point. (The Boys tended to eat and play music outside by the pool, in the kitchen and in the TV room. They were too much a product of their background to use the living room for anything but company.) Q conferred with the acoustic people and picked the best material for Geordi's special needs. He met with the plant people -- asking which ones were perennials, which did well in a moist environment with dappled sun, which ones needed a great deal of pruning and care? He sat with the designer and the maid (the laundry room was just off the kitchen, would she fold clothes in the kitchen or should they put another washer and dryer upstairs where it would be most convenient?) He got prices for pool cleaning services. And then he moved the laundry room upstairs and converted the downstairs laundry room into a little gym for Worf. (It was a surprise. One day Q got Will to take Worf for a long drive out to the mountains. When they got back, the room has been converted, complete with mirror tiles, free weights, running machine and rowing machine. It even had a tiny shower. Worf was ecstatic when he saw it. He pushed Q against the mirrors and tongue-kissed him hard and sweet. Q was dizzy by the time they were done, but then Worf pulled Will to him and did the same thing. He and Will changed clothes and worked out. Will's eyes were glowing with joy, and Q was delighted that they were so happy.) Meanwhile, Q pored over the tapes of himself and Casey at the Oscars. He looked so old! Well, obviously one reason Jean-Luc walked out (even if it was a kind of non-conclusive walking out) was because he, Q, was losing his looks. Very-Very was very very sympathetic; Very-Very knew just who to call. So did Timmy. "Dorothy, you landed in the right Munchkinland this time around," they said. And so, very soon, Q had taken on even more of that polished Hollywood perfection. He had a chin tuck and a skin peel and he had worked out with a trainer and he had the bags under his eyes lifted and he hired a consultant who took him wardrobe shopping and who picked the perfect clothes for his body type and season. And he looked more like an emperor's pampered favorite than ever. Then Timmy persuaded Q to work with his reincarnationist. (Will smiled at this, "Remember Sister Queen," he said and Q smiled back.) She told Q he would never get away from Jean-Luc. "Never, never, never, and I don't believe in destiny, but if there ever were such a thing, you're his destiny and he's yours." And to his intense surprise, Q didn't know how he felt about that. He just didn't know. Patsy had a cold. Very-Very was throwing a big beginning-of-summer party to celebrate Q's exciting new look. Everybody from the house went over to Very-Very's but Will. He didn't want his sick subdued Patsy to have to stay with a strange baby-sitter, and he was really just as happy holding her as he would have been at a big Hollywood movie-star party. They watched Floyd videos (well, he didn't want to do that, but it made Patsy happy) and they drank orange juice, and eventually she dozed on the big comfortable sofa right beside her big warm daddy. The doorbell rang. Will went to the door a little trepidatious because he was alone. (The roadies had gone to the party; all Very-Very's Girls were dying to meet these roadies.) But only a few folks had the pass-code so it was probably all right. He opened the door. And nearly passed out. "Remember me," Big Daddy Kyle said and spread his mouth in a wide predatory smile. "How can you forget your poor old gray-haired daddy?" He started to push past Will. "Big Daddy! No." "You said *No* to me. You don't do that, Boy." He saw Will look nervously into the televison room. "Why, what have we got here." He went into the room and Will helplessly followed. "How'd you get in? We have . . . guards." "Those cocksuckers. I talked to the tall one." Klag! "That old boy understood me perfectly." He leaned over Patsy who slept on the sofa, innocent as a flower. "Is that the famous little baby you stole from some poor Christian momma? She sho nuff is dark." Will didn't know quite what to say. "Don't wake her. Please go away. What do you want?" "Where'd all these orders come from, Boy? You got the big head?" "Big Daddy, let's go talk in another room. I don't want to wake her." "I'll leave in a minute. I don't have much to say. You know what I want." "I'll give you more money." "I know you will. I want a million this time." "Big Daddy! What happened to that other money it's just been a couple of months." Big Daddy's eyes shifted around a little. "Wadn't much when it's all said and done." Clearly, Big Daddy had gambled it away. "I'm not giving you a million dollars, Big Daddy." "Yeah, you are. Or I'm taking that baby away. And that's that." "Big Daddy, I think you need help. Let me pay for your treatment." "I don't need any treatment. My little granddaughter will help me get over anything." All the air in the room was no bigger than the head of a pin. Will was drowning, dying, tearing up inside. Big Daddy wasglowing in his malevolence. This could not be happening. "Wadn't I a good Big Daddy to you? " "No, you weren't." Big Daddy's eyes narrowed. "What kind of horseshit is that? I could have raffled you off to the highest bidder when you were eight years old. Believe me, I had offers. But I didn't. I loved you too damn much." Will looked at him. "And I'm going to be just as good a granddaddy as I was a daddy." Will closed his eyes. "You can have a million. Give me some time to get it together." "Fair enough. Hey, this is just between us, cocksucker." And he was gone. Will still couldn't breathe. "Mr. Crosis's residence," the houseboy spoke carefully into the telephone. There was a strange silence at the other end. "Hello?" "Let me talk to . . . .somebody," a subdued voice said. "Hello?" "I have to talk to Worf." Worf's face grew very still, and then he hung up the phone and walked into the dining room where he found Klag and threw him against the wall. The Girls screamed. "What the fuck is that for?" Klag said. Worf turned to the rest of them. "He let Big Daddy in the house." Q put his hand to his mouth. "What was wrong with that?" Klag said, " I thought Will would be lonely. I thought he was just some harmless old . . . cowhand. They could party when the baby was asleep. He had some dirty pictures of Will. I mean, you know Will." Worf began to slam his fists into Klag. And Spock stepped forward and put his hand on Worf's elbow. "Stop this. Will needs us. He needs us now." The party was over. Back at the house, Pen and Chris carefully gathered the sleeping baby in their arms and took her upstairs. Will was wild, wide-eyed. Spock and Worf took Will upstairs. Geordi and Data followed; they always followed Spock. Spock was holding Will's head in his hands. "You are all right, Will. We are all here with you." "How many times will I have to go through this?" "How many times will you let yourself go through this? Will opened his wide blue eyes. "Leave us alone for a few minutes," Spock said; his eyes never left Will's. The next morning, Spock seemed strangely agitated, which was to say he did not go to bed with Geordi and Data but paced sedately along the side of the pool, his hands behind his back. Upenda came out very late to stay with him, but she had finally fallen asleep. Christine found him there when she came out to put a blanket over Upenda. "Spock," Christine coaxed. "Sit down. We can talk about old times." She and Spock exchanged a long, somber glance. "I am glad," Spock finally said, "that you and I have ceased to be enemies." Christine had a very direct stare. "You never admitted that before. I got Pen, and that made you angry, but you would neversay so." "I am saying it now." Spock stared down at Upenda as she lay in her deck chair, his love for her naked to Christine's knowing eyes. "She would have been a great solace to me." "Yes, she would have been." In their tight-knit, paranoid little community of spies and spooks there had been precious few moments of calm and relaxation. They'd all fucked one another as a matter of course. And fought. And got jealous. And resolved their differences because they'd had no choice in the matter. The bonds they'd forged would not be broken simply because one of them had outfoxed the other in the hunt for a mate. "Remember how she sang all the time?" "Of course. Remember when she and Jim paired up?" "Of course." Christine smiled at the memories. "An impossibility." "Indeed." They were quiet for another long moment; then Christine gestured towards the house with her chin. "Will you ... help them?" Spock, too, was hesitant. Remote. "If they ask." "But you want to." Christine's blunt way with the truth had long since ceased to rankle. She was correct. "I do." "You want to bring Kirk in on this, don't you?" "Not before I have to. It would not be . . . appropriate." Christine nodded slowly. "I would like to see him again. Once more, for old times' sake." Spock looked at her with gratitude in his expression. He did not need her permission, but he was glad he had it. He did not yet understand the connection between himself and these wild cowboys, but he had a duty to them. Will wasn't at breakfast. "Where is he?" Q asked Worf. Worf looked out the window. He was a little afraid but not for himself. "He went somewhere." "Where?" "He said a man's got to do what a man's got to do and then he left." "Hey, Snake! Your little friend Quark's back! And he's brought him a buddy!" Ducatti nodded, and his assistant let Quark and the buddy walk in. Ducatti felt he had played around long enough with these hillbillies. "State your business and get out." Then he realized who the buddy was. The adrenalin rush almost deafened him. "Frisk 'em." The assistant was careful to search them over. "They're clean, Snake." "Get out." The assistant left. Ducatti looked at his guests. "What's this new trick, Quark?" "I'm merely the facilitator. Will Riker wants to talk to you alone. I'll be glad to leave. Just say the word." Will turned to him. "It might be better if you did leave us alone." Alone, it was hard to think of things to say. Ducatti didn't want to stare he didn't want to have to think about how old Will had gotten, how big, how much of a man he'd become, bearded, burly. He still had a big round ass and a pretty face, but he was a middle-aged man. Will said, "You busted my cherry, but he busted up my life." Ducatti looked away. "You ain't suffered much. You got everything you want." Will looked back; his enormous blue eyes were clear and calm. "I haven't gotten everything I want." After Will left, Ducatti reared back in his chair. That boy sure had the fuckin balls. The Snake musta done him some good. Beverly had more than one secret. There was the big secret that her brothers knew and Q knew, and then there was her other secret: she'd gotten Sonny, the most listless of her three brothers, to teach her to drive and she'd taken some of Q's money and bought herself a ten-year-old little yellow four-cylinder Dodge K-Car. When she drove it, she felt like a . . . one of those creatures that was half person and half horse, as if she were flying. When she drove, she felt as if she were finally part of the world. (At one time, her brothers drove her places. They liked sitting in the car and glowering at strangers as she shopped. And, of course, Q, when he was in town, would do anything for her, patiently driving her back and forth to the doctors and Sears and the grocery store. But those days had long passed. Her brothers had tired of the novelty of her, and she'd tired of waiting for them to take her places.) So out of the blue she was driving. Besides, there was something she really wanted to see, and there was no reason not to go. Q had the boys, and, since there was some sort of fishing tourney going on, her brothers would be gone for days. At last, she could do what she liked. It was an easy hundred miles to Shepherd's Town, West Virginia and then there she was. She looked at the wrinkled, damp magazine she had been carrying around for weeks. Screaming words on the cover said, "Heartbreak of Cheating Wives Turn Mountain Boys Gay!!!!" Inside there were quotes from Worf and Quentin about how they could no longer love women because of their hardhearted, conniving wives. The story of Worf's trial was laid out in detail, and there were pictures of Q's pay stubs that showed how he'd been working in North Carolina each time Beverly got pregnant. "Mountain Boy Q tried to be a faithful husband, but his loving wife got pregnant everytime he was out of town!" Somehow, they'd gotten a picture of her and put it right next to one of De-Anne, too, standing outside of her little shop. This very shop. She read the name of the shop over and over again, slowly. De-Anne's Hair Hut and Antiques. She knocked on the door, diffident, sweaty-palmed. And was shocked at how familiar the woman opening the door was. "Hello, you must be Beverly." The woman's voice was beautiful, low, throbbing, a slightly flat Virginia accent with soft 'r's. "Hidey, I guess you're De-Anne." "Come on in." Beverly wiped her palms on her polyester slacks and went on in. Beverly had actually never even seen a real apartment, and now she was in one. It was cunningly hidden away above De-Anne's shop, at the top of pretty little carpeted stairs, and once inside its brightly painted little door, she saw how beautiful it really was. De-Anne must have been born to decorate. Big rose-print curtains and lacey curtain liners and stuffed pillows all embroidered with the word "Love," figures and posters of kittens and cupid wallpaper in the bathroom and plastic toilet tissue holders that matched the Kleenex holders and little needlepointed pictures everywhere held to the wall with ribbons. Imagine! With ribbons! "This is so beautiful." "Thank you," said De-Anne. She was very calm and pretty. "I'm glad you decided to come. I hope you were able to follow my directions okay." Beverly nodded. Then, because she was still nervous, she blurted out, "I reckon you wonder what my deal is." "I figured it was about the Boys, right?" "Mostly." De-Anne fixed them tea and served it in beautiful china-glass cups with matching plates and she had actual sugar cubes like people on the television and a real little Lucite sugar-cube tongs-thing and little teeny store-bought cookies. She even had a teenitesey poodle with bows in its ears! And the poodle lived in the apartment with her! "Yes that's mummy's Cocoa, yes it is, yes it is." Then De-Anne gave the adoring Cocoa a cookie! "You sure are doing a good job with all the reporters." "I'm just saying no," De-Anne smiled. "Yeah. It's hard to say no sometimes." She twisted the magazine nervously. "My brothers always want me . . . to talk to the reporters, but I don't want to.'" She put her cup down and leaned forward a bit. "And now that woman reporter wants me to spill the beans on Q and my brothers want to me to too, if they pay me enough money, and she says she'll write a book exposing those Boys and we'll save America from the queers and I'll make a fortune but I don't want to. I mean, I want a fortune, but . . ." How could she explain? Q's going to jail had been her fault. Q's falling in love with that mean old Jean-Luc was her fault. Jean-Luc leaving Q alone and treating him like dirt (there had been a picture in another magazine!) had been her fault. All the bad things in Q's fate had been steered there by her and her alone. Even the paper said so, and now everyone knew what kind of person she was. All Q ever wanted was to be a good husband and father, and she had to go and not say no and get laid by her brothers and all that meant and there everything was and before she knew it she began to cry. And she found herself in this De-Anne's arms and De-Anne was murmuring very soft and soothing things. "I'm just tired of everything getting worse and worse, and every time I turn around somebody else is trying to get me to talk against him and I really don't have anything to say and I don't care either way. I'm tired of it!" "You're very unhappy, aren't you?" "How'd you know!" "I could just tell." De-Anne studied Beverly's face. "What happened?" "Nothing." Beverly took a shuddering breath and tried to pull herself together. "Everything. I don't know. I can't say no to men. I'm worthless." "Beverly, you're not worthless." "If you read the papers, we both are." The tabloid articles had made both women look terrible. Now this Christian reporter wanted to take up their side, but it could backfire, and, if it did, the Christian reporter would simply walk away, leaving them holding the bag again. "Are you gonna talk to that reporter?" De-Anne smiled. "I have a feeling Worf is going to do that for me." Beverly looked alarmed. "What do you mean?" De-Anne rolled her eyes. "He's a mountain man. And even though I'm only an ex-wife, you don't mess with a mountain man's woman. I wouldn't be surprised if you heard from Q on this, too." The thought gave Beverly pause. Q didn't particularly like her, but they had a common interest in their children. He might consider it his duty to protect her. But she didn't deserve it. That thought made her feel more depressed than ever, and she almost started to cry again. "Come on." De-Anne suddenly got to her feet. "Let me show you around." Beverly was startled out of her tears. De-Anne had the best life! She ran the whole beauty shop herself, and she had two shampoo girls who worked for her and everything. The shop was almost as pretty as De-Anne's apartment, with pictures of beautiful women and kitten posters everywhere. Beverly stared at herself in one of the omnipresent mirrors. No wonder De-Anne looked so pretty. She was a professional when it came to this stuff. Beverly's hand went to her ratty home-made dye job, the gray already showing. If only she could take better care of herself . . . Beverly looked up; De-Anne was watching her. "De-Anne, it's about five and I'm an early sleeper. You better tell me where's a good motel around here. Cheap too." "Beverly, we're practically kin. Why don't you stay here with me?" Beverly gasped. What a sweet person De-Anne was! "Let me pay you in advance." De-Anne looked at her. "I'd just throw the money in your face." "You got to let me do something." They looked steadily at each other. "Okay, you can buy us supper at the Dairy Prince." Beverly was taken aback. "Buy supper? Why don't we just cook?" De-Anne's face lit up. "Cook?" Dinner was late. De-Anne didn't have a thing in her fridge but chocolate sauce and yogurt. Beverly ended up going out and buying pork chops, canned baked beans, Irish potatoes, a few other things, and made an emergency meal for them, apologizing as she brought it to the table. De-Anne stared at her with a shocked expression. "What are you talking about? This is wonderful." Was she making fun? "If I'd had more time I could have made you something decent." Beverly's voice was a little hurt. De-Anne looked at her uncertainly. "This is decent, this is better than decent. Beverly, I really meant what I said. I like your food." She wasn't lying. Even as she talked, she didn't stop eating, shoveling daintily between words, making a sizeable dent in her portion. "Oh." Beverly didn't quite know what to say. "Sorry. I thought you were ribbing me." "Hardly," De-Anne gave a rueful smile. "I never really learned to cook. My mother couldn't cook and I guess I take after her." Now it was Beverly's turn to be shocked. She'd been cooking since she was eight years old. She didn't know there was such a thing as women who didn't cook. It made De-Anne seem exotic to her, and even a bit alien. Later on , washing up, Beverly allowed herself to dream that she could stay up here in this beautiful apartment and cook wonderful foods while De-Anne ran her shop downstairs. 'You just wait,' Beverly thought to herself. 'If you think I can cook now,' she thought to herself, 'wait until you see what I can do with real food.' The idea made her feel giddy and happy. De-Anne's bedroom was even more beautiful than the rest of her apartment. Her curtains had this stuff like fur along the edges, and her bed had a pink comforter and lace bolsters everywhere. And De-Anne was easygoing and generous with her things. She lent Beverly a beautiful nightgown that made her feel like a princess. It was so delicate and lacy that Beverly objected. She usually slept in an over-sized NASCAR t-shirt, and she was afraid she would tear this up thrashing around in her sleep. "All my bedclothes are pretty much the same," De-Anne said. She opened her closet and showed Beverly what she meant. Everything was lacy or ruffled or filmy, like Beverly imagined a movie star's nightgowns would be. She put on the nightgown and felt like a princess. De-Anne even brought chocolate to bed with her. She shared a piece with Beverly and suddenly it was like those sleepovers from so long ago. It made Beverly feel giggly and cozy. She was asleep in five minutes. The next day Beverly went to the grocery store and bought some real food. |