It seemed the cold was more brutal on these mountains. Maybe that was the sea’s influence, the sharp winds that rolled off of her and slammed the old brick walls of the Cliffside Hotel. Anson woke up early, frozen solid, then tossed and turned until he returned to an uneasy sleep. When he awoke properly it was late morning, but what the hell did he have to do aside from visit his lovely new friends? All movements following this were leisurely, from stretching to yawning to making his way to empty showers.

He’d asked Robert at the front desk for a blanket previously, but the one left waiting for him when he returned to the hotel the night prior was thin and aged. The flannel had clearly once been soft, but it wasn’t frequent washing that had worn it down: indeed the rich red and green had not at all faded in color. It was time in the closet that had done it, as proven by the small holes throughout that moths had left. As he donned his navy suit he vowed to have a word with dear Robert on his way out, the thought of which put a pep in his step on his way out the door.

Heath. And Gin, as well. For now. Whatever he needed to do to get to him. Or maybe he shouldn’t think that way. Maybe it was a tad obsessive, the way he knew he could be. That obsessive streak had only ever gotten him in trouble before, but fortunately for him and unfortunately for the law he was quite fond of trouble. He bounded down the stairs and made his way to the lobby, where he found Robert preoccupied with a man at the counter. Here he paused, curious. Another guest, perhaps? His thick coat seemed a little worse for wear, maybe he’d been sat in his car for a long while. He further descended the stairs and approached to see a small grin on Robert’s face, the first genuine smile he’d ever seen on the man despite being thin-lipped, almost condescending. As Anson stepped forward the other man glanced his way, then did a double take and gave him a lopsided smile. It wasn’t another guest at all — it was Joe, from the general store.

“Caught another one, huh, Westin?” He elbowed the concierge in the ribs to his great consternation. Then, to Anson: “Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.”

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying.” Anson shifted, but Joe had already turned away.

“Well, whaddya say, Westy, tonight? Me, you, Dave? Hell, let’s grab that bartender of yours too, he’s always better company than you are anyways.”

“Now, Joshua—”

“Joe, please, call me Joe.” He turned back to Anson now. “Mean Joe, that’s what they called me on the pitch. I tackled like a sonuvabitch.”

“As I’m sure our guest is thrilled to learn.” Robert said. Allying himself with Anson just to put down Joe, he thought he’d never see the day. It seemed the pair either furiously hated each other or were just that sort of friend, but either way he had no desire to continue in this conversation. Forget the blanket, he wanted out.

“I must be on my way, gentleman.” He bowed his head and made for the door without any further ado.

“Yes, yes.” Joe waved his hand. “Though, if I may sir. . .”

Anson paused and resisted the urge to sigh.

“It’s getting mighty cold out, and the wind can cut right through you, especially if you’re traveling north through the mountains. I recommend you get yourself a coat. Anita has a little shop not far from the library where you might find yourself something nice.”

It was sound advice where Anson expected something silly. Joe had a quiet, manic aura to him, much the way the librarian David did, but Anson suspected Joe could be a bit more sneaky with it, maybe wear it as charm. Maybe in a little town like this it was charm.

“For a price?” He asked cautiously, and Joe shrugged.

“I couldn’t tell ya, I’ve been wearing this coat for twenty years now.” He said, and Robert scoffed quietly. If he knew the cost he said nothing, and Anson made that his cue to leave.

“Thank you, I’ll definitely have to go see her.” He said graciously. He was tempted to add why he didn’t own a coat: a year traveling on the southern border, selling bibles he would’ve tried to make a profit off of now if he didn’t desperately wish to leave the conversation. Before that, on the north coast, he’d stolen a parka from a handsome (if dull) man in Montana, but it hadn’t nearly been warm enough for those winters and he ended up getting rid of it somewhere in Georgia to make room for a couple more bibles. A thicker coat would be even greater bulk, but he’d been so cold those last few days he already considered it worth it. Well, worth the space. The price was yet to be seen.

“Good day, sir.” Mr. Westin said then, maybe annoyed with him, though definitely annoyed with Joe. Anson nodded in return and made his way out the door, where he was immediately hit with harsh winds as he rushed to his car. He’d left the gel out of his hair, seeing as Heath and Gin were fond of his free flowing curls, and it whipped all around as the keys shook in his hands. At last he got into his car and immediately blasted the heat, even if it came out ice cold at first. As he drove up to the little Italian restaurant the car heated up rather splendidly, and he grew comfortable until he realized that little shack would likely be freezing upon his arrival. He had to groan aloud at that.

He was right, of course. After he parked his car and rushed in, pushing through winds even more intense closer to the shore and higher up the mountains, he found the dining room absolutely frigid. The thin little window panes shook from the wind and rattled faintly as Anson slammed the door behind him.

“Goddamn.” He announced. “Goddamn, it’s cold out there.”

“It is winter on a mountain, sugar.” Gin pointed out. She was the only other person in the room, sat at a table wrapped in a cape coat. One hand was smothered by a mitten, but the other was naked in order to grab the playing cards sat before her. She was passing the time with a game of solitaire, with Heath likely in the kitchen. In fact, with a moment’s pause, he could hear pots and pans clanging in there.

“Do you like it this cold? Why don’t you light some candles?” He asked, and Gin lifted a card, made an aha! sound and placed it with some satisfaction.

“It gets so hot in the evenings you welcome the cold.” She answered, and he guessed he could understand that. It could get stifling with the crowd.

“Turned fast this year.” Heath called, and Anson glanced to see his face in the window between the kitchen and the room he and Gin stood. He gave the pair an apologetic look and raised his hands to reveal them covered in dough. “Give me a minute.”

“Of course.” Anson said, and Heath disappeared into the kitchen. He pulled up a chair and sat beside Gin.

“Give me a minute, too.” She said, brow furrowed in concentration. “When I’m through with this we’ll play a smacking few rounds of gin rummy.”

Anson nodded silently, though gin rummy was not his game by any means. What he really wanted was to warm up, and when he looked at Gin’s lovely, slim figure he could easily imagine a few activities to do so. But he wasn’t sure she trusted him. Historically, he found the best way to gain trust was to ask for advice, something small, then land a compliment or two, and even divulge in some gossip. Remind the person you’re trying to rip off that you’re human and they’ll trust you implicitly.

“Where’d you get that coat?” He asked as she flipped a card, sighed, and set it aside. “I saw Joe from the general store today, he said I ought to visit a woman named Anita.”

“You should, she’s a talented seamstress. I did get this coat from her.” Gin smiled. “I guess someone traveling in the south for so long wouldn’t need an extra layer.”

He told her about the parka from Montana without mentioning the thievery.

“Hm. Makes sense. You pick up the bibles when — yes! — when you get low?”

“Distributor has plenty of locations.” Anson nodded, then thought a moment. “Whaddya think of Joe? He seems. . . I don’t know. Like he’s something.”

“Meanie’s something, alright.” Gin flipped another card. “I think he was some sort of venture capitalist or something. A banker, maybe.”

“And what, he got screwed out of a career?” Anson figured, and Gin shrugged.

“Or he gave up. Wandered, found this place.” She flipped a card, punched the air a little, and set it down. “Happens. Happens often.”

“But do you like him? Do you trust him?” He pulled his chair closer to her as she threw her head back and laughed.

“I don’t trust anyone. But sure, I like him. There’s a lot of nuts here, but he’s not too severe. besides, I’m an LA girl. I’m used to nut jobs.”

“You are married to a mad chef.” Anson slipped a hand onto her thigh, and she smiled and scooted towards him a little. She was already wearing her yellow waitressing dress and her skin was cold against the winter air, but when he moved his hand above her hem he sensed a heat. When she looked at him her expression was guarded, cautious, but he could see the curiosity behind it, the want. If she hadn’t had any she wouldn’t have invited Anson into this. Well, he couldn’t say that for certain. Maybe she was just trying to keep her husband satisfied, but he didn’t think she wasn’t satisfying to some extent herself. He read people extremely well, and he read plenty of lust and love between them, and that they were talents in those two departments. The thought of that, coupled with his hand on her thigh, set a flame alight in his gut.

He leaned in and kissed her, gentle enough as not to scare, and when he closed his eyes only hoped she closed hers as well. He crept his hand further up her thigh, pushing away her skirt, and she leaned closer and laid a hand gently on his waist. Now he kissed her in earnest, and she returned the favor, pulling him close. When he touched her cotton panties he ran his thumb up and down exactly where he knew would thrill her.

“Anson.” She wasn’t moaning just yet, wasn’t falling apart, but he understood what she wanted. He removed his blazer and threw it haphazardly on the table, then drew himself closer to her, to the point he was off his chair. He hovered somewhat awkwardly beside her chair, but neither party paid any mind as Gin grabbed at his button down shirt and pulled him into a few more kisses. He settled one hand at the small of her back and another at her panties, where he rubbed at her clit and kissed her until he felt sufficiently warmed through. When he pulled away to look at her, her cheeks were bright with a flush and her eyes were all hazy with desire. She seemed to drink him in for a moment, then looked over her shoulder towards the kitchen.

Heath was leaning against the counter, so casually one would think he was watching a rather mundane ballgame. But the look on his face reminded Anson of the time they’d spent together, the day he got on his knees for him. Where hope was once concealed it shown a little more obvious now; a hope that struck a nerve Anson didn’t want touched. That desire for happiness in a world that didn’t accept you or the people you loved, that poisonous expectation that maybe this time things will be better. In his experience, the people around him didn’t grow more tolerant. No, he grew more clever. He played a dirtier game. He grifted when he needed and wanted, he stole whatever hearts, wallets, jewelry he pleased. He kept himself alive and he kept that stupid hope away from him.

Not that he could blame Heath for feeling it, albeit with obvious hesitation. A feeling he’d maybe felt with other men, hell, other boys, before, but certainly had felt with Gin. A feeling that broke a lot of innocent people and could break him yet. Anson mused lightly on this — he liked the man enough to bring out the very worst emotions. Was this something normal people did? Something they were turned on by?

He pulled just far enough from Gin to slide down her panties, standing aside so Heath could get the view of her spread legs. She reached out and undid his zipper, then slid down his pants and boxers until his erect cock sprang out. Finally, he was going to get some release, even if it was with the wrong half of this couple. Behind him he could hear Heath undo his own belt with a jingle: there was too much tension in the room, things were moving too fast for Heath to join them, but he would surely enjoy himself just watching, and Anson wanted to give him a show. He hoisted Gin up so quickly her chair was knocked aside and pressed her against the wall. When he pushed into her she gasped, but as he rocked against her she grabbed at his lapel, then wrinkled the back of his shirt with her grasp.

When she looked at Heath she moaned in earnest, right in Anson’s ear. He nearly shuddered as he gripped her waist tighter. She was lightweight and balanced herself well with her back to the wall as her legs wrapped around him. Heath’s view was of those long legs, of that wanton gaze Anson felt her throw to him, of his ass as he thrust into his wife. It wasn’t perfect framing, but under rushed circumstances he could guess without looking Heath’s way the chef was enjoying himself. Gin’s moaning became hitched, and when she stilled, balled her fists against Anson’s back and whined desperately he knew she’d been satisfied. La petite mort, that’s what they called it in France. Well, they didn’t call it something so delicate in the part of France he was familiar with.

It was a good thing she came when she did, because with her sweet little groan he realized he wasn’t far himself. Maybe under the usual circumstances he would try for more than one orgasm for her — it had been awhile since he’d been intimate with a woman, but he still knew it was just the polite thing to do. If Gin really needed another she’d have to call her husband over, because his time was up. He pulled her away from the wall and threw her onto the table, scattering her playing cards as he continued to plunge into her. She moaned at the motion as Anson looked Heath’s way: the man looked nearly undone with the blush on his cheeks and urgency in his expression. He had to be close, too, from the weakness in his eyes, the unravelling. Anson felt a hunger in the pit of his stomach finally begin to sate, though it was far from filled. He looked at Heath and Heath looked back to him and decided he needed so much more of this to be contented. But for now, he felt his eyes roll back, felt that knot in his guts, and groaned with release.

He heard the same from Heath on the other side of the room and for a moment could only lean against Gin, spent as he listened to her heavy breathing. Eventually she sat up and he put his arms around her, then kissed her temple. She kissed his cheek, her gentle lips scratched by his whiskers, and he sensed this was a signal to release her, and pulled away so she could wordlessly pull up her panties. He fixed himself too as she walked over to her husband, though he was a bit put out to see her legs didn’t shake a bit. Heath had grabbed a napkin to tidy himself up, but Gin took it from his hands and did the job for him, an act so intimate Anson felt a sudden, sickening flare of jealousy he had to bite back. Everything was alright, he had Heath right where he wanted him, and this should have been all he wanted. A little fun and nothing more, nothing to hold him up lest the world and all its law enforcement catch up, too. Too obsessive. He couldn’t let himself get too obsessive.

Heath zipped up his jeans, did his buckle, and looked Anson’s way with something soft in his eyes. Anson honestly wasn’t sure what was on his own face, but it must not have been as bad as he thought because Heath only gave him a lazy little smile and brushed the hair from his eyes. Gin went into the kitchen, likely to throw the napkin away, and threw an affectionate look at her husband as she past him. Anson suspected there was a competitive nature to her, that maybe she had a jealous streak, too. And he knew he’d just fucked her and not the man he wanted, but that was enough to want to cheer aloud.

“I’m having a cigarette.” Heath announced, drawing him from his thoughts. “Would you like to join me?”

He nodded and grabbed his blazer, for all the good it would do him in that cold. Smoking inside was the norm, and he would’ve requested it had he smelled even a trace of tobacco in there. Suspicion told him the chef was not keen on mixing smoke with food, and though it must’ve been difficult to enforce he was entertained by the idea of Gin yelling cigars back into pockets. The pair exited after he donned his coat and found it still freezing.

“Shit.” Anson crossed his arms as Heath pulled a box of cigarettes and a lighter from his back pocket. “I don’t know how two Angelinos take this.”

“You get used to it.” Heath handed Anson a cigarette. When he took it and placed it between his lips Heath held the zippo up for him. “Santa Barbara’s nearly just as warm, which I guess shows why you’re so shaken.”

Anson said nothing to that, only puffed his cigarette as Heath lit his own. After a moment the chef spoke again.

“You miss it?” Heath asked, and Anson tilted his head. Making conversation, or digging for information. Heath flushed at the look. “Just — ya know, sometimes I miss Los Angeles. Don’t want to, don’t want to live in the past, but. You know.”

“I know.” Anson tried to ease himself. Heath was a simple man making small talk and he had nothing to worry about. “Tell the truth, I do sometimes, but mostly I love traveling. And I get letters from my Ma and mail her cash every now and then, so it’s not like I’ve abandoned that part of my life.”

His mother was dead. Sometimes lies were not only for the benefit of a scam.

“And you just got to visit her coming up the coast.” Heath pointed out, and Anson nodded. He could offer no likewise affirmations Heath’s way, as this was a man permanently severed from his home and whatever family and friends he’d left behind. He was in the same boat, truthfully, but he didn’t mourn for Santa Barbara the way Heath clearly did for Los Angeles. He had a rough little life there that left nothing but sour memories. But he could still offer the chef some kind words.

“You’ve built something wonderful here.” He said, cigarette smoke dancing in the air. “A great restaurant, a beautiful wife who clearly adores you. Don’t miss what you can’t get back to when you’re doing so well now.”

Heath gave him a look of pure gratitude and Anson decided now was the time to stamp out his cigarette and kiss him. He immediately did so, his hand wrapping around the back of Heath’s neck, and Heath kissed him back, wrapping his arms so tight around Anson’s torso a broken rib would have been a valid concern had he been able to think of it. No, he was too preoccupied by Heath’s soft lips, the gentle scruff of his beard, his minty breath. An Italian chef must’ve had a sharp need to disguise the garlic in his breath but even if Anson had noticed it wouldn’t be a top priority, falling just short of the strength in Heath’s arms and the warmth his body provided. He never wanted to stop drinking him in, but after a minute or so Heath pulled away, beaming.

“I’ll come back tomorrow.” Anson said without asking for permission. It was more like a promise. Heath seemed to beam even further at this.

“Good. Yeah, good. I’ll cook for you. Do — did you want something now?” He asked, and Anson grinned.

“Always so generous.” He said, and Heath chuckled. “No, I can’t eat after a run, swim, or a toss in the sack. My body needs rest.”

“Okay. Fair.” Heath seemed too high off his climax to be disappointed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“And you.” Anson promised, then returned to his Victoria. When he climbed in he shivered against the leather seating and turned his key, then sat a moment in deep thought. He only had a quarter tank left, so he’d have to stop at Joe’s for some gas eventually, but for now he knew he could make the trip into town, and he had some time to kill for the day so he might as well find that seamstress everyone had so highly recommended. When he pulled out Heath was still standing outside, smoking another cigarette, and he nodded as he passed. The nod was returned, and he smiled all the way into town.

He left his window cracked to get the cold air in, hoping he’d smell more like the sea’s icy breeze than cum, and he needed his temperature brought down to fight away his blush besides. When he got to town he parked at the hotel but walked to the library, shivering all the way. Across the street and a few houses over one of the small, almost shack-like houses looked sturdier than most, with a cinder block exterior as opposed to the cedar shingles and even cob surrounding. There were even concrete steps down to a basement, which was where he spotted an old wooden sign that said ‘Tailor’ in large red letters. He walked down, knocked on the old wood door, and waited.

“Just a second!” A woman yelled, not from within but above. He looked up just in time to see a silhouette leaning back into the house from a window she quickly shut, and hugged his arms for warmth as he waited. In a moment she opened the door wide and rushed him inside. “Come in, come in, before you catch your death of cold!”

He did as he was told and entered, wiping his feet on the mat on the way, and stepped further into the small, warm room as she closed the door behind him. The place partially took the appearance of a living room, with a plush leather couch and two old and ornate armchairs across, but when one looked further they could see rolls of fabric lining pegs on the wall, two sewing machines on a dinged-up desk and a rod of coats of various sizes and colors. The floor was covered in Turkish rugs, concealing cracked concrete as much as the dim lighting, but both made the space homey. Anita rubbed her arms against the cold before shaking his hand.

“You must be that handsome new gentleman at the hotel I’ve heard mention of. I’m Anita Judge, the local seamstress. How excitin’! We don’t usually get studs around here.” She looked so jovial he was half prepared for her to elbow him in the ribs, but instead she beckoned him further into the room. “Look at you, you poor thing, your skinny little ass needs a jacket ‘fore you turn to ice! A long one, too, for your height. Now let’s see here. . .”

He had to assume from this interaction alone that this woman was very well liked in her community. She was very petite, but with so much vibrance there was a larger than life quality to her. Her dark hair had been meticulously straightened, and her clothing was all black but appeared to be very rich fabric, likely bought wholesale and crafted herself. He wondered if this was where Gin came for her stylish garments.

“It is a coat you need, right?” She asked as she rifled through the coats. “What’s your name again?”

“Anson.” He said. “Yes, I need a coat. I came up from the south selling my bibles.”

“And this weather smacked your ass, didn’t it?” She asked, and he let out an unexpected burst of laughter. “That’s how it happens. Who recommended you, Westin? What are your thoughts on olive?”

“I’d prefer black, if you have it. Joe gave me your name.” He said, and she lit up at the mention.

“My very best friend! That’s what he’ll say when he comes in here talking about a referral discount. All I do is darn his goddamn socks, he hasn’t upgraded his wardrobe since the first Great War.” She said, and Anson couldn’t disagree. She pulled an olive jacket and headed his way. “I know you said black, I heard ya, but if I’m giving you something right off the rack I don’t think I have any more of that in your size.”

“It’s a popular color.” Anson said, and gestured to her person. She handed him the coat and he slipped it off the hanger and onto his shoulders: it was an olive-colored tweed duster with a fleece interior that warmed him to his bones. The buttons were taught and there were three large inner pockets for him to deposit what he assumed from the locals to be a flask, cigarettes, and maybe a roll of bread or an apple for a long day at sea.

“Thanks.” The smile slid off her face. “It’s my dead husband’s favorite.”

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sor—” He began, but she cracked a smile before he could continue, then laughed loudly.

“Your face!” She said, high-pitched in mirth, and Anson breathed a sigh of relief. “Nah, that fucker’s been dead for years, god rest ‘im. So you like the coat?”

“Uh — yeah.” On second thought, she might have been a touch unhinged. “I love it. But I imagine it comes at a steep price.”

Anita sighed like she was about to give him some bad news, and he braced for it.

“So it’ll be twelve ninety five.” She said, and he paused. That was unexpectedly cheap, and his expression must have shown it. “Normally you’re paying for labor. I don’t make clothing for the labor, I make it so I have something to do on these long, cold days. So not as pricey. And normally you’re up-charged big time on the fabric, but since I buy wholesale I don’t up-charge too much at all. And — on top of all that! — my dead husband left me enough money so charging top-dollar ain’t a priority.”

“Ah.” It was a very obvious if entertaining story — a black widow murdering her husband and running off with the riches. Maybe this little town was the only place where she wouldn’t get caught. He had an immense amount of respect for her. “Listen. You have a very nice place here.”

“Thank you! Inheritance from my parents. Not a lot of basements around here, but where would they hide their barrels of booze during the prohibition days?” She said, only confusing Anson’s initial theory. Maybe she ventured out of the town, seduced a man and came back once she killed him?

“It’s very nice.” He mentioned again, trying to pick up his line of thought. “But maybe folks would enjoy some light reading while they’re here. Or maybe some heavier reading. From a rather fancy book, so as to match these fine surroundings.”

“Like one of your bibles.” Anita narrowed her eyes, then drew a set of finger guns and pointed at him. “I assume you’ll want to throw one of your godly tomes into the pot. Well, I respect another entrepreneur enough to bite. What are they, three bucks?”

“Five sixty-five.” He answered, and she frowned in thought.

“Okay. But just because I’m helping you out and I’ve taken a premature shine.” She said, and he began to thank her as he removed the jacket. “Wear it, it’s cold out.”

“I have to go back to the hotel.” He said, and she nodded obviously.

“And that’s a long, cold walk!” She smiled. “Go, it’s fine. I know where you’re at anyhow.”

He insisted on paying her what he owed without the bible before he departed, then walked back to his car fighting a smile. Maybe she was a normal person who didn’t murder her husband and he was the only son of a bitch alive who thought like this. Besides, this coat was damn warm. He walked to his car, grabbed a bible from the trunk and walked back, thinking about how expensive the coat looked and how easy it would be to convince someone he was moderately wealthy wearing it. He’d steal a nice watch and wear that to add to the imagery, but that scheme generally attracts too much attention anyway. He should know: his father was undone by these attempts to seem a bigger man than he was, though his attempts were quite transparent.

When he returned to Anita’s and gave her the Bible she admired it, and they had some lovely conversation on the weather, his time traveling, her tailoring work, and shared some tea bought at Sophia’s shop. She was nice, funny, sharp. They could be real friends, a thought he’d had many times about many people, but it had been some time since he’d stayed in one spot so long, and for such an attractive reason. He momentarily had to remind himself not to get attached: Heath was married, and he was welcome for now, but things like this always went sour, and he couldn’t live in a hotel forever. As the tea went cold and the conversation dwindled Anson finally bid her good day and walked back to the hotel, warm all the way.

Upon entry he found Robert again had company, this time the bartender, Sonny. He and Westin had a card table set up, but it was covered in silverware that the pair were polishing. His earlier assumption that the pair weren’t cordial was incorrect: Robert was smiling begrudgingly at something Sonny had just said, and Sonny looked amiable enough.

“Good afternoon, sir.” Sonny greeted. “How are you today? I see you’ve met Ms. Judge.”

“It was high time.” He answered. “The cold was just too much for me, and I’m traveling further north still.”

Robert looked dubious as he stepped behind the reception desk. He reached down, grabbed a menu Anson had meant to ask for, and handed it over.

“Thank you kindly.” He did not want to think of how the concierge knew he’d want dinner tonight. Did he know Anson had seen the Italian chef today already? “If you don’t mind, I was hoping to possibly get another blanket for my room? Maybe a quilt? I just like to sleep warm.”

“That’s interesting.” Robert said cooly. “I imagine a traveling salesman spends a lot of time sleeping in a cold car.”

Anson smiled politely at that and did his best to mentally forgive an attitude that may have been due to showing off for a friend. Sonny chortled at that.

“See, I told you he warms up to people eventually.” He laughed, and though Anson doubted this was a friendly encounter he chuckled like he was in on the joke. He had really frozen his ass off the night before.

“I’ll see to it you get another blanket for your room, sir.” Robert said, the laughter apparently not contagious to him. The man was an expert at giving cues to leave — this was his second of the day.

“Thank you. Thanks very much.” Anson said as he moved towards the stairs. “You two have a good night.”

Robert snorted, and Anson turned around and ascended the grand staircase, his footsteps muted by the lush red carpet. Behind him the silverware clinked together as Robert and Sonny continued. Were they in the mood to clean or had they nothing else to do? Did someone else order them to polish that silverware, someone as yet to be seen in this massive old hotel?

“When is Mean Joe getting here?” He heard Sonny ask distantly, and Robert groaned.

“Please do not give him the satisfaction.” He replied, and Anson heard the bartender’s laughter float around the building until he climbed too high to hear it.

Back in his room he consulted the menu once again, doubtful it was changed out for the seasons as Heath’s was. He wanted a big meal, having not eaten at all that day, so he ordered some chicken pot pie and a scoop of apple cobbler with ice cream, price be damned, and put his menu in the mail slot. Then he returned to the seat of his bed and sat a moment, staring at the wall and considering his rapidly thinning wallet. The bibles never sold for as much as he liked, but he wasn’t about to resort to his usual tactics in a town he’d chosen to stay in for awhile. He just really had to press people about these bibles, drum up a lot of buyers quickly.

He wasn’t worried because when was he ever worried, but he still sat and stared at the wall awhile, deep in thought, then roused himself and peeked out his door. His menu was gone, but no meal had been deposited yet. Part of him was determined to see who would deliver it: if Robert and Sonny were leaving it had to be someone unseen. And who was cooking it? There had to be more. So he sat down and reread his paper from a few days prior, as interesting as that was, then decided to get comfortable and change out of his suit and into lounge pants, an undershirt and cardigan. When his clothes were tucked away he had a moment of curiosity and checked the hall again, only to find his meal under a silver cloche and blanket beside it.

A swear was appropriate for the occasion. Someone was sneaky, and that someone had to be Robert because he could tell just from a glance that this blanket would not warm him through the night, even when layered with the previous one. When he picked it up it was scratchy, so he tossed it carelessly on the bed and grabbed his tray. After closing his door he returned to his meal, sitting on the foot of his bed and unwrapping his silverware from the cloth napkin. When he lifted the cloche he was met with a cloud of steam, then a small dish covered in pie pastry aside a neat scoop of apple cobbler topped with already melting vanilla ice cream.

He set this aside and used a fork to shatter the crust of his pot pie. The bite he took nearly burnt his mouth off, but it was warm, filling food and it satisfied. Not as much as a plate of Italian food, especially when his peas were so mushy and he detected a hint of metal from the canned cream of condensed soup. But there was something nostalgic in it, like his childhood and the many diners and motels he’d supped in on his long journey throughout the country.

He finished his meal contented, then deposited the tray back into the hallway, used the ever-empty restroom, and dressed for bed. When he curled up beneath the sheets with his two thin blankets on top he wasn’t as warm as he wanted, so in a stroke of genius he grabbed his coat from Anita out of the armoire and set it on top of those. Not a perfect solution, but good enough. For the first time in awhile he fell asleep with an easy mind.

The next day was cold again, and this cold woke him, but the wind had completely dissipated and with his brand new coat keeping him almost warm during the night he decided he’d like a walk down Main Street — or, rather, the unnamed, unpaved road that acted as a main street in this little town. He bundled up and took off down the stairs, where for the first time he found Robert absent from his concierge desk. Instead there was a little plaque sat next to the bell, asking for a ring for service, but Anson had no requests despite the second thin blanket and didn’t want to bother Robert in case he was summoned from sleep. He and Sonny must have had a late night with Joe.

His walk was more productive than he thought it would be: time was difficult to keep track of here, and really anywhere when one spent so much time in the car, but apparently it was Saturday, because the fishermen had not set out on the water today and were instead walking with their wives and children. He gave a friendly hello to each of them, and though most fishermen gave him only a gruff nod the wives all responded in turn, with phrases he was used to in these small towns. Why, you’re that bible salesman, aren’t you?; I’ve heard of you from the neighbor; I saw your books and I think they’re just lovely; perfect for the mantle; in your trunk? Yes, I’d love to. He ended up selling to a great deal of households, definitely the majority of the town and possibly all of them, funding his payment of the winter coat and giving him plenty of spare change to continue staying in the hotel and eating Italian food. His trunk was decently emptied, too, and he’d be able to get more bibles up in little Myrtletown before making his way through the redwoods.

At least, that was the original plan. A plan he’d been very much looking forward to, since he wanted to see the sequoia from a very young age as most Californian boys did. But with the lingering here he didn’t know when that would be happening and how risky it would be driving through an empty forest while snow could be falling. Thinking back to Heath though, that made it a risk he was perfectly fine taking.

With more time dedicated to his morning walk than previously planned, he hadn’t been able to see Heath and Gin alone: it was around lunchtime on a weekend and they probably already had customers. Best to wait until the evening then, when the place was packed, as it was always easier to avoid attention in a crowd. For now he was growing cold and running out of buyers, so he returned to the hotel to find the concierge desk still empty. Maybe Robert had the weekends off? Or he was extremely hung-over. He was tempted to ring and see if a different employee emerged, but he wasn’t in the mood for the possibility of Robert’s ire and he was too hungry to be bothered with any more polite conversation at the moment, so he bounded up the stairs, returned to his room, and dug into one of the Moon Pies and some Planters peanuts he’d bought at Joe’s the day he got stuck in that storm. He shaved, too, though he skipped the shower, then bundled his worn clothes together and hung them on the doorknob for cleaning.

On his way to the Italian place he passed the concierge desk, still empty, then hopped in his car as the sun began to set, just a little earlier now than the week before. When he drove up the mountain he found the ocean mild, but still dark against jagged rocks, still a threatening, foaming mass that Anson wouldn’t freeze his ass off in for a million dollars. Not that anyone could survive the drop. He was a strong swimmer, he knew that from experience, but his last dip was in far warmer waters. He’d traveled on the coast since then. Maybe he was a masochist — actually, scratch that maybe.

The parking lot was crowded, and light flooded in from the little shack, soft from the candles and distorted by shadows of hungry patrons. The temperature had already dropped at least ten degrees from climbing up the mountain and the sun going down, so Anson walked briskly from his car to the door, and when he opened it was hit with warmth and the smell of garlic and herbs. He stepped in quickly to keep from letting the cold in and approached the counter, where only two other gentlemen sat by the register. He sat furthest from them and slid off his coat, then looked rather slyly around. The restaurant was nearly full, with every table taken and filled with satisfied looking customers, all with plates and most with wine. He spotted Gin in that yellow dress of hers cooing at a toddler in a wooden highchair, but turned away as to not interrupt. When he tried to peer into the little window between the dining room and kitchen he found it closed, which didn’t surprise him, but disappointed nonetheless.

“Evening, sugar.” Gin slipped a menu into his hand and crossed over the counter to lean close to him, her voice warm and honey-sweet. “Can I get you some wine?”

“I’ll just have a water, thanks.” He said. He liked to keep sharp, even in a moment of relaxation. He glanced at the menu. “What’s looking good?”

“What isn’t?” She smiled, then thought a moment. “We’re almost out of lasagna and I want that for dinner, so if you could be a dear—”

“Of course.” He chuckled, and she headed into the kitchen a moment. She returned with someone else’s wine and a water pitcher, which she set down briefly to grab a glass from beneath the counter.

“He says hello.” She spoke softly, and he felt suddenly wistful. It had been worth it to sell bibles in the morning instead of visit, but it would’ve been nice to see him, touch him. Tomorrow for sure. “I’ll give you a minute with the menu.”

She walked away with the wine, and he settled into reading, sensing that she would be too busy to talk much tonight. He examined the menu for awhile until his eyes landed on something that looked interesting. Uova da Ravioli: chard and artichoke hearts sautéed with pancetta and topped with egg yolk ricotta ravioli. It would be nice eating something green. For a few minutes he listened in on the conversations of others, hearing nothing of interest, until Gin returned with a flirty little smile and took his order.

“That’s really good.” She tapped her pencil on the counter thoughtfully, with no need to write it down. “I should have recommended that to you. I haven’t gauged what you like just yet.”

“I guess I like things rich.” He smiled, and she eyed him up and down. His suit wasn’t the finest quality, but maybe that’s not what she was looking at. Maybe she was thinking of the day prior, of all they could still do together.

“I’ll let him know.” She said, then disappeared into the kitchen. When she returned she was holding a few plates of cake and he contained his envy as she passed. There were a few more minutes of subtle people watching: there was a sleepy contentedness to some, thanks to the wine, and for others a great deal of jovial conversation, but in hushed, reverent tones. Gin bounced between them all, smiling, laughing, and hopefully earning several hearty tips. With the room being as hot as it was he took a sip of water and tried not to think too hard of his exploits with Heath and Gin the previous day, lest he grow even hotter under the collar. Gin’s legs in that dress were alright, sure, but thinking of Heath, dick in hand, his cheeks all red, really could undo him.

Soon Gin came out to give him his dish, telling him to enjoy it with a broad smile, like she genuinely wanted him to and knew he would. She was kind, and it made her a good waitress, and didn’t give Anson an ounce of guilt for chasing her husband. Instead he only looked to his bowl. There were two large ravioli, coated lightly with butter and sitting on a bed of chard that hadn’t been wilted to death. Chopped artichoke hearts mixed with small pieces of pancetta and what looked to be red pepper flakes. He unrolled the fork and knife from his napkin and cut in, the yolk and ricotta spilling out and creating its own rich sauce for the greens. He got a forkful of greens, ricotta and pasta and had to control himself when he took a bite — he could have ran into the kitchen to kiss his chef. It was an incredibly rich dish, which seemed to be his taste, but balanced by the hit of spice and the amount of vegetables.

It was perfect. He was happy. It was an unusual experience: the usual was fine, full, tired enough not to question it. Now he was happy, and he could get more of it, and damn fighting obsession. He ate his meal in heaven, enjoying it immensely, and even loosened his tie and undid his top button. Halfway through the dish Gin refilled the glasses of the gentlemen by the register and approached him from the left, squeezing between barstools just to see him.

“You enjoying it, sweetheart?” She asked with a smile. She didn’t even look worn out. He smiled in return and covertly skimmed a hand up her thigh. A sudden slam rang out, and he pulled away in alarm to catch the source at the other end of the counter. One of the men, blond and muscular, had slammed his fist on the table and was now jumping to his feet.

“Hey!” The restaurant went completely silent as he took a massive step Anson’s way. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

He had not expected anyone to see that, and his surprise left him temporarily grappling for an answer. Gin stepped back in a moment of uncertainty and the other man, average looking with brown hair, stood as well.

“Mr. Brown, Mr. Weaver, I don’t think this whole dust up is necessary.” Gin spoke after a moment of silence in which Mr. Brown glared at him.

“He—” Brown began loudly, then lowered his voice. “Gin, let me kick this piece of shit out of here.”

“I don’t want to cause a fuss.” She said softly, though everyone was staring at them already.

“Listen, this was an accident.” Anson began, and the blond took a dangerous step towards him. His friend followed suit, and Anson hopped out of his stool, causing it to slam to the floor. “There’s no need to upset the lady.”

“Oh yeah, we’re the ones upsetting her.” Mr. Haas said then, and however Gin was going to respond, she lost her chance when the kitchen door swung open. Anson, along with everyone else, stared as Heath walked slowly into the room, his brow furrowed and his apron a mess. He already guessed appearances from the chef were rare, but now he was just seeing proof from the shocked expressions he saw on Mr. Weaver and Brown when he snuck a glance over. Even Gin seemed rattled.

“What’s going on out here?” He asked slowly, calmly, and there was a moment’s pause to figure out who should answer.

“This gentleman over here grabbed Gin in a way I didn’t appreciate.” Brown said, and his friend nodded fiercely. Some mumbling could be heard, a dangerous buzz that put Anson on edge. This is not what he’d imagined would force him to leave here.

“I believe he was only trying to catch my pencil.” Gin cut in swiftly. When he looked to the ground he did see a pencil there, but he knew that was not what he had been doing, so Gin must have been acting slick. “He’s been a kind man, and a bible seller to boot, so I don’t take much offense to it.”

This may have turned the crowd, but the room was looking to Heath for a final verdict.

“Would you like him removed?” He asked Gin directly, and Anson got a creepy-crawly feeling that despite Heath’s affections, if she said yes he’d find his ass in the parking lot. But she shook her head, and Heath bowed his. “Dallas, Smiley, if you two have no other quarrels I’d invite you to sit down.”

The pair looked hesitant, but when both met eyes with Gin they sat, seemingly a little embarrassed at causing a kerfuffle.

“And you, bible man, I’d ask you to pick up that stool, then finish up your meal, if you wish.” He said, and Anson nodded quickly. “Great. Now let’s all settle down. We have good food, good company, and — well, cheap wine.”

“Hey!” A young man yelled from the back, and several people laughed at what seemed to be a joking remark against the fellow. Marvin, the farmer Anson had met several days prior, clapped him on the back, so Anson understood this to be his brother, Isaac, and that the pair supplied both vegetables and grapes to the town. By the time the laughter had subsided Heath had already returned to the kitchen with nothing but the smallest glance Anson’s way, his rueful expression barely seen but still appreciated. Anson picked up his stool and gave Gin the most quiet of apologies, which she waved off, then went back to his fork and knife as she went back to her tables. Day saved, though not by his silver tongue. He didn’t want to disparage: he was better at selling bibles and tall tales than calming angry men. Actually, looking back on it, he had a particularly poor history in that department. He fought back a snort at that and returned to his dish.

It wasn’t long after this that Dallas and Smiley, his would-be attackers, left with some kind but whispered words to Gin, what sounded like both apologies and promises of protection. He did not look their way at their departure, but he felt two pair of eyes glaring at the back of his neck. When Gin cleaned their plates he looked over to her, and when she looked back she only shrugged and smiled a little.

“I’ll get you the check soon, sweetheart.” She said, her voice still sweet, and Anson knew this was water under the bridge for her. He was a little less certain with Heath given how his previous upset had been in regards to his wife’s honor, but he did have the man’s affections, and if he kept up with the activities from the morning prior he suspected this would soon be forgotten.

Soon Gin brought the check and he was pleased to see he had not been charged the full amount. He still tipped generously, and gave Gin a small nod as he threw on his coat and departed. Outside the weather had gone absolutely frigid, and he scrambled to get to his car and blast his heat. On the way back to the hotel he could only imagine how cold his room would be, and decided he would take a hot shower before bed, both for the sake of his internal temperature and to make a quick exit so he could see Heath and Gin in the morning. There was no concierge still upon his return, but he ignored this and went upstairs, grabbed his pajamas (a very plain but unstuffy set of matching cotton pants and a button down in red and white stripes) and set off to the communal bathroom for a shower.

The bathroom was empty as usual, so he deposited his soaps by one of the shower heads and his pajamas on the marble counter and removed his coat and tie. As he undid his top button the door opened, so softly he could barely hear it, then closed just as quiet. He continued to unbutton, wondering if it would be Robert, Sonny, or someone new, and didn’t look up when this person stepped into the room. He’d been in enough hostels in Europe, and far worse ones than this hotel, to not feel awkward about this, though he wondered at the appropriate time to sneak a peek or say hello to whomever this was. Fortunately, the other man provided.

“Good evening, Mr. Monroe.” A stranger’s voice said, soft and lilting, and he looked over to see a man far more handsome than he’d anticipated. He was tall and muscular, made clear by his undershirt. His dress shirt was already off and slung over his shoulder, close to chiseled features and silver hair. He wasn’t old, probably Anson’s age, though he didn’t want to spend too long looking for crow’s feet lest he become mesmerized by the gentleman’s deep, dark eyes.

“Good evening.” He eyed the man in the mirror instead of looking him in the eye. “You work here?”

“I own the hotel. Calder Morris.” He moved to shake Anson’s hand, surprised as he was to come across not just another employee, but the boss. “I hope you’re enjoying your stay. Are you accommodations suitable?”

“Yes! Yes.” Anson said as Calder removed his shirt. “This is a beautiful building, I was surprised to find it in such a small town.”

“A beautiful building should have a beautiful landscape to match.” Calder undid his buckle, and Anson took off his own shirt rather than stare. He suddenly remembered his time at those hostels a little more clearly now: he’d had a wandering eye that met him with a lot of handsome boys, poor dear Pietro included. But that was the last person he wanted to think of right now. “Would you get the same further down the coast? My great-grandfather didn’t think so.”

“I’m not sure I could disagree with him.” Anson said thoughtfully, though maybe he was thinking less of the landscape and more of the people. The pair undressed together in a moment’s silence, during which time Anson fought glances Calder’s way.

“But everything’s been to your liking?” Calder asked as he made his way to the shower. Anson looked into the mirror to spot a broad-shouldered frame, a delicate waist and a pert ass, then reminded himself he was nude and had to fight off any enjoyment.

“Sure, yeah. The bartender’s been nice. Robert’s been — well, I’m told he’s like that.” He chuckled a little, and Calder laughed in turn as he turned the shower on and waited for the water to get hot. Anson made his way over to a different head, keeping a good ten feet away, then turned his on and noted the water pressure stayed strong.

“He is. But I was told our newest guest gets cold in the evenings and I wanted to make sure that was remedied.” Calder stepped into the warm water and let it run down his body, and Anson distracted himself with the water temperature. “Robert sent up blankets?”

“Yes—”

“Warm ones?” He asked, and Anson paused. Robert seemed to be a bit of an ass, but he wasn’t about to go crying to his manager about it. He didn’t want to stir anything up and get the man fired.

“Yes. I sleep very well thanks to him.” He stepped into his own water, searing hot, as Calder squirted some soap into his hand. He looked at Anson as he rubbed the soap onto his chest, his brawny arms, down his stomach and happy trail to the hair surrounding a large cock that was not yet erect, but seemed itching for attention. Or maybe Anson just wanted to give it to him. He grabbed his own soap and massaged it into an arm, taking the opportunity to look away.

“That’s good.” Calder said so quietly Anson almost didn’t hear. “I try to do all I can to satisfy the guests.”

“Very hospitable.” Anson tried not to sound dry at this, sudsing up his chest and raking fingers through the curls Wes didn’t have. When he looked over the man was facing him directly, the foamy soap being rinsed off him by rivulets of water that soaked his hair and framed his face. He was handsome enough to put Anson on edge: he was already trying to fuck one man in this small town, he had to avoid setting his sights on another. There was no need to fool around, get caught out, and have a fire lit under his ass. “Y’know, I’m a bible salesman, and looking around the parlor the other day I thought that would be a fantastic spot for a handsome King James.”

“No offense to your bibles, but I can think of a few more enjoyable ways to commune with God.” Calder said, then retrieved what appeared to be a rather expensive glass bottle of conditioner and applied some to the ends of his long hair. “God is love, isn’t he? Joy? Euphoria?”

“And divine. Almighty. Raging.” Anson said, and Calder smiled a little.

“How very Catholic of you.” He said, and there was something in his tone Anson didn’t like. Something sneaky and suspicious, something too clever for a one-horse town like this. “I guess you have to be well-versed in the stuff when you’re speaking to the more intense crowd. Anything to sell.”

“Right. Well I was always a good Catholic boy.” Anson said, trying to get back on track. “That’s why I think a beautiful hotel such as this deserves a beautiful bible to go with it. And for only five sixty-five—”

“If God is euphoria, God is divine, God is almighty, actions taken on the route to finding these feelings will find you God as well.” Calder cut in, his eyes dark and expression foreboding. His hand trailed down and Anson couldn’t look away as he wrapped his fingers around his shaft and began to tug his cock to attention. “Climax, for example.”

“I think you have a slightly different view than the church.” Anson said, but he couldn’t stammer out a laugh. Because he felt the heat on his cheeks and the stirrings in his gut. He watched Calder get hard knowing he sported a semi himself. It was just another reminder that beautiful men were completely his weakness.

“I sure as fuck do.” He took a few bold steps Anson’s way, and he thought fleetingly of the man in the restaurant, Dallas, who’d tried to knock his lights out. This was a different sort of threat, the kind that made his cock fully hard. He touched himself and Calder cleared the space between them immediately, now standing under the same water he was. There was a hungry look in his eyes Anson was sure he shared, but he paused, waiting for Anson to make the first move. Anson’s hand hovered a moment, then settled gently against the man’s slim waist, and Calder had to bend significantly to lay a kiss on Anson’s neck.

He was so close to coming undone, so close to Calder, but something in him was smart enough to stop. Maybe it was his prior experience harking back to him, the memories of blood and viscera, getting run down in the streets, that filthy jail cell. Everything that told him to play it smarter this time. Fuck around with Heath, sure, not this dangerous man. He lifted his hands and stood back suddenly, and Calder looked less than thrilled with the action. Anson looked him in the eye, gathered his resolve, and turned the tap. And the water went cold.