Bethesda (Elemental #2--Preview)

Chapter 1 (Preview) Part 2

   Once they'd finished, Bret nestled into John's shoulder and sighed with satisfaction. John felt drained in more ways than one, but the itching in his hands had subsided at last.

   Under the blanket, Bret traced his finger around John's navel. "Why do I always feel so good after fucking you?"

   "Do you want the one-word answer, or the one-thousand?"

   Bret rolled his eyes. "The one-word, Professor."

   "Dopamine."

   "What?"

   "It's a chemical in your brain, a neurotransmitter."

   "Looks like I'm going to need the longer answer. Can you make it shorter than a thousand words?"

   John considered what he could tell Bret, and what he didn't dare. "Sure. God told us 'be fruitful and multiply,' and then He made fucking feel good so we'd have kids. But then he especially blessed people like you and me. We get to have the fun, without all the whining, blathering consequence."

   "We hardly get it without consequence."

   "Fair enough."

   "Why won't you ever talk about it?"

   "About what?" John asked in mock innocence. One night he'd gotten drunk with Bret and blabbed more than he should have. Their conversation drifted into places he'd never shared with anyone. After that night, a second drink was forever off the table, at least while he remained on Zoloft. Please, God, have him say anything other than "Fostering Families."

   "Don't do that. You know what I'm talking about. Tell me more stories like you did that night. About when you were a kid. That magic pool. Your crazy parents. I mean, conversion therapy, who does that? What was the program called again?"

   "Fostering Families." Though he spoke the program's name aloud, in his head the words came out in his mother's voice, the same way they had for over fifteen years, quickly followed by the rest. You're a disgrace. You've brought shame to the Family. She'd say such things when she'd visit on the weekends to check on his progress. His dad's voice was even worse. You're old enough now. Cross me again, and instead of spanking you, I'm going to beat you with my fists.

   "Do you like to read?" John asked in a rush to change the subject, his lame attempt curdling in his own ears.

   He didn't even remember mentioning the Fountain to Bret. Hell, so far as John knew, besides him, only two other people knew anything about it. What he couldn't tell Bret, no matter the consequences, was what the Fountain did: whatever he touched, the Fountain healed.

   The mere thought of it was enough to reactivate the infernal itching that so often began in the webbing of his hands. Sex was one way he'd found he could stop it, and the real reason why he still kept his client list. No matter what, though, it never lasted long enough. Even now, he rubbed at the spot between his thumb and forefinger. Anxiety made it worse, but the Fountain's charge would grow further in time, regardless of his comfort level, until it took him completely over and released itself in a grand spectacle. Such a display in public would ruin his life. Luckily, he had another client scheduled the very next day.

   Bret frowned, realizing his impromptu interview would not reveal any further information. Narrowing his eyes, he obliged John's non-sequitur. "I read what I'm told to read in class."

   "Well, that's a start. Level two, even."

   "What's level one?"

   "Not reading what you're told to read."

   "Oh."

   "Before you ask, level three is reading what you're told NOT to read."

   Bret removed his hand from John's chest. "I figured that," he replied. "Is there a level where you don't read at all?"

   "Yeah, then you'd be a total zero. I'd have to find a new client." John hazarded a dry chuckle, but it fell flat, his voice settling weakly in the ring instead of echoing across the gym.

   "Whatever."

   Their conversation dwindled to the whispers of their breathing. Bret's tight and lean body radiated an amazing amount of heat, and John snuggled in closer beneath the blanket. Only because this place is so chilly, he told himself.

   A half-hour later, as Bret snored lightly next to him, John's cell phone buzzed with a text message. Seconds later it vibrated a second time, dancing merrily in his pants pocket several feet away.

   Who could that be? Maybe it was another client, something he would welcome. No one was on his calendar for another week after his session tomorrow. He swallowed hard. Age was certainly catching up to both him and his client list. He'd need to find the Fountain another outlet soon.

   The phone buzzed again, unconcerned with their post-coital nap. A student, perhaps. He hadn't yet acquired the habit of texting unnecessarily like so many other people. He preferred to talk directly on the phone.

   Still, it was 2010, and texting had its advantages.

   He slowly pulled away from Bret to avoid waking him. He hooked the bottom of his jeans with his heel and tried to drag them to his outstretched hand. He'd almost gotten them there when Bret rustled, pulling a hand from beneath the blanket to rub at his eye.

   "Why are you moving around so much?" he whined.

   "Phone buzzed," John replied. It writhed again, as though it wished to prove John's claim.

   "More business already?"

   "No, I don't think so."

   Now that he'd failed at subtlety and Bret was awake, John abandoned the blanket and stood, pulling on his pants. He retrieved the cell phone from his pocket.

   It was indeed texts from a client, his very first, one he'd set the phone to refer to cryptically as "Preacher-Teacher".

   "It's one of my TAs," he told Bret, trying to sound nonchalant. The young man quietly nodded and disappeared beneath the blanket to continue drowsing. Lying to Bret was unpleasant, but it was for the best in spite of John's relationship fantasies. Bret was just a client, after all.

   Sent one sentence at a time, the texts read:

   Please.

   I need you back home.

   Now.

   Will you come?

   The Fountain sprang back to life at a sudden and ample influx of fresh anxiety.

   He hadn't seen or heard from this client in almost three years, and it was the first time Preacher-Teacher, whose real name was Paul, hadn't made plans to travel to John in San Francisco for their sessions. This request was major. It meant John returning home to Georgia. To Bethesda. But, as much as he didn't want to go, he would anyway.

   From the beginning, Paul had a unique hold on John. It wasn't just the sex or even that Paul was his first. He was the only one besides John and his mother who knew all about the Fountain. Something big was up for Paul. John did not know what might happen, but he could not risk exposure if he did not do what Paul asked. Regardless of the time and challenges a cross-country trip posed, John would go.

   As mixed feelings of trepidation and excitement rose and fluttered in his chest, he stroked the Christian fish tattoo. He'd leave as soon as he could buy a ticket. 

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