Faith and Fidelity Read Online Free PDF Page B

affection? He wanted what Evan had, what he talked about from the bottom of a pitcher of beer. He wanted to love someone enough to grieve for them.
    He also wanted to stop dreaming of running his tongue all over Evan Cerelli's body— well hey, we could start there and work toward the rest later.
    Facing him on Sunday was going to be tough. Hard. He groaned inwardly. Don't remind me , he thought, trying to ignore the throb located in his groin. It's just a fantasy; it didn't mean he was gay. Didn't mean anything as a matter of fact. He was spending a lot of time with Evan, the first person in a very long while who listened to Matt, who made him feel comfortable, calm. His subconscious was just equating sex— which he hadn't had in a very long time— with that comfort. Man, all that time spent around his friend Liz the Shrink had apparently made him a dream analyst. How impressive. Maybe he should give her a call and ask her opinion of a been-heterosexual-all-my-life guy having sex dreams about another guy who happened to be his closest friend. And also straight. No, he didn't actually want to hear what she had to say. It would probably just make him swan dive off a pier.
    He poured a glass of orange juice down his throat, trying to scrub the tingle off his tongue. Crawled back under the covers repeating his theory about his subconscious doing a little creative writing. Pretended that he wasn't thinking of Evan when his hand finished the job his dream had started.
    Christ.

Chapter Three

    On the Friday before the Giants game, his day off, Matt Haight started jogging and hated it after about five minutes. He huffed and puffed around his block once, twice, three times, waving to the crossing guard as he went by.
    “You want me to time you?” she called out on his second trip.
    “God no,” he wheezed.
    Back at his apartment he stumbled into the shower and stood there, dazed and in pain. He used to be in shape— he vaguely remembered this. Didn't he run after criminals? Didn't he walk up many, many flights of stairs without having a heart attack?! Were these figments of his imagination?
    “I'm not an old man. I will get back into shape.” He felt better announcing this fact to his shower stall. The echo made it sound like an important thing.
    He ate lunch sitting in his recliner, pulled up so he could rest his feet on the windowsill and enjoy the stunning view of the neighboring building's rooftop garden. His whole apartment encompassed one large room with a tiny kitchenette and bathroom. He paid a pittance for it, and it was close enough to his office that he could walk in good weather. It also looked like shit. He hadn't painted it since he'd moved in, the furniture was Salvation Army reject, and, God forbid, he actually clean it once in awhile.
    After his delicious ham sandwich and glass of iced tea (no sugar— he really was trying), Matt wandered around the room, taking stock. Maybe he could get a sofa bed. Replace the recliner with something that didn't need electrical tape to keep the stuffing in. A table, some chairs. Dishes that matched. New towels. Oh yeah. That would be nice. He had the money, sitting in the bank, collecting shit interest and dust. Why not spend some of it? The first thing the apartment needed was a fresh coat of paint.
    Maybe Evan could come over and help him out... Yeah, and maybe they could rent gladiator movies and make out on the couch.
    Christ almighty. He was losing his grip on reality. Matt needed to get laid as soon as humanly possible. This unnatural celibacy had to be the reason for his... odd dreams.
    And the fact that you know what another man smells like. And It Turns You On. Admit it Matthew. Another Man Turns You On.
    Paint. Think about paint. Was yellow a good color? Cream? Did he even know the difference between the two?
    Matt pulled on his shoes, grabbed his wallet and jacket, and headed out the door. Paint. He needed paint.

    * * * *

    Evan's plans for the weekend were