My Best Man by Andy Schell (top 10 novels TXT) 📕

to discuss the Air Florida bankruptcy, perhaps thinking that Amity would at least be interested in something that has to do with the airline industry, but she steers the conversation back to sex again and gets no protest from Thomas, who eventu ally picks her up and carries her into the bedroom while she pretends to kick and scream like a cave woman

Nicolo and I walk to my bedroom. Nicolo lies down on my bed, which is no longer the blow-up mattress, but a queen-size mattress and box springs that sit directly on the floor. Before I close the door, we hear from Amity’s bedroom, “Oh, Thomas, you drive me wild!” Nicolo chuckles while I close the door and pull the shades. I light two candles and turn on the radio. Cyndi Lauper starts into “Time after Time” as I turn to Nicolo. He smiles, pats the empty bed next to him, and says, “Let’s talk.”

“It wasn’t exactly what we were doing on the porch, was it?”

I answer quietly.

“No,” he claims, “we didn’t saying anything. I want to learn of you, Harry.” Never mind that he’s gorgeous. His Spanish accent alone makes him sexy. I lie down beside him, and he takes my hand. “You said before that Kansas is your home. Tell me about Kansas.”

His hand is warm, and his dark skin is reflective with the slight sheen of natural oils. I’ve never been with anything but white boys, but I’ve always craved his type. I like the feel of him and how he looks next to the white sheets. “Kansas is flat,” I answer. My erection isn’t.

“And?”

My heart is pounding, pushing against the skin of my chest. I

want to kiss his aubergine lips. “Hot.” “And?” “Humid.” “And?”

“What do you want?” I ask, desperately wanting to undress him.

“More.” ‘

More than a laugh? More than a refill on the champagne? More than a quick reply? I look at him, into his eyes. They’re unbelievably

beautiful, the first pair of dark eyes that I’ve found prettier than blue or green or hazel. His eyes are on the border where brown becomes black. And his luxuriant eyelashes remind me of the pocket combs I carried as a kid, with their thick black prongs emanating from the base of the comb. I used to run my fingers across them. I’d like to gently run my fingers across his lashes.

He bids, “Tell me the poetry of your home. I know it’s inside your heart.”

There is something about him that makes me not want to disappoint. I take a breath. Think. “Kansas … is like a dirt road that runs for infinity, never dipping or rising, never turning.” He nods and closes his eyes, causing his lashes to fall like fans, and waits for me to continue. “And above the road is a sky so large it could hold the wings of every angel. And people say there’s no ocean, but there is. In the early season, when the wheat is green, almost the color of seaweed, it rolls in waves, pushed by the wind, just like the top of the ocean. As summer wears on, the waves turn gold and stiffen slightly as if the tide has turned. Sometimes I’d ride my horse down a country road and stand on the side of a wheat field and pretend I was on a beach watching the waves roll by. I’d watch them carry life along, just like the sea. Then I’d close my eyes, breathe in, and change the scent of the damp earth and ripening grain into salty air. And sometimes when I opened my eyes, a meadowlark or a whippoorwill would land and roll up and down over the waves while deciding where it was headed next. And even though the waves rolled on for infinity, like the road and the sky, most often the meadowlark flew only as far as a neighbor’s front porch because she couldn’t see leaving such perfection behind.”

He opens his eyes, satisfied. “This is your reward for telling me about Kansas,” he says, lifting my hand to his mouth and gently kissing it.

“I can tell you about Missouri and Colorado too,” I offer eagerly.

He laughs. “Just Kansas, hombre.” He lowers my hand from his lips. “And why did you fly farther than your neighbor’s porch?”

“Well … I had no choice, I guess. My family couldn’t offer me the comfort of their precious little nest, so I took off.”

“Then we are alike,” Nicolo says, his beautiful lips forming a melancholy smile. “I’m here because of my family also. Though we were forced to flee our nest together.” what was left of us.” “What do you mean?” I inquire, my erection subsiding.

“I am from Argentina, Harry. Do you know of our recent his tory?”

“Not really. Just that it’s been kind of unstable down there, right?”

“When Peron returned to power eleven years ago, I was thirteen years old. The people of my country thought that we would be delivered to prosperity, that the end of bad times had come, that Peron would restore Argentina to the glory of its past. But my father believed that Argentina had never known glory, that its successes throughout its history were triumphs only of the rich and were short-lived and had always come at the expense of the common people, la gente verdadera, my father called them. He was a journalist for Liberacion del Alma.”

“Liberation of the soul,” I translate.

“You speak Spanish? You want that we speak in pansn. “No,” I answer. “I only know a little.”

He continues. “Liberacion del Alma was a paper that was not aligned with guerrilla factions. And not with the government. It was a neutral publication dedicated to telling truth through all eyes and letting the reader decide who was righteous. An interview with members of a Marxist guerrilla organization like the ERP would be published beside an essay from the Navy School of Mechanics, the evil military organization that my father knew operated clandestine concentration camps, and below that,