Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 10

basket. The laundry room smelled of mildew and old socks, and the moist heat from the dryers seemed to make the stench cling to the clothes he wore, which in turn made him angry at Oliver, for pointing out something he'd never before noticed. Between loads, he pushed the vacuum in vicious swipes across the chocolate-colored carpeting. Because he couldn't drink, he got drunk on rage instead.
    Crossing the parking lot, headed to get the final load from the dryer, he dodged couples walking arm-in-arm, dressed for an evening out. Some apartments had the curtains opened on the large front window, and he saw couples curled together, watching television, or necking.
    Impatiently checking his watch while watching a load of jeans tumble, he began to wonder whether Sephrim was his guardian angel, and the more he thought about the idea the angel had walked off the job, the more pissed off he became. He was alone in the disgusting room, so he spoke aloud. "Get your sorry ass out here, Sephrim. I have questions, damn you."
    His only answer was the clink of the brads and buttons on his jeans against the rolling metal drum, a homey tune mocking his lack of domesticity, and it seemed the shriek of the buzzer signaled the end of some game he hadn't been aware he'd been playing.
    Slinging the final basket of clean clothes onto the couch, George grabbed his keys. Staying in the apartment was impossible. A drive would help him think since even the wayward inhabitants in his brain didn't seem to want to deal with him.
    George didn't intend to end up at Oliver's. He had a vague plan to drive to the state line and back, but he went right past the wooded seven-acre estate that persisted in the midst of urban sprawl, collared by lacy wrought-iron. Impulsively, he turned up the drive and parked behind Oliver's Audi. Sitting in front of the huge Federal-style home, staring sightlessly at the massive two-story columns, he remembered thinking about this house on his first visit to the White House, mostly due to the rounded porticos on both façades, if not their matching immaculate coats of white paint. Was it right to use Oliver to get past his anger and frustration over Connie and Adam? He'd have gone to an A.A. meeting, but this small town had none at this hour.
    The bars are still open, though. Tapping his key on the steering wheel, George thought about that next drink. He felt the bite of bourbon in the back of his throat and the fizz of the Coke on his tongue. He could handle one drink. Two at the most. Shoving the key into the switch, he backed out of Oliver's driveway.
    There was one gay bar in town, less than a half-mile from Oliver's. The Cattlemen's Club was tucked between a shop selling vacuum cleaners and one selling ceiling fans, set well behind both. At one time in his life, George had gotten a kick out of the now-standard joke that the place was situated between Suck and Blow. There wasn't a sign. The concrete and stucco building was bland. Unless you knew it was there, you'd overlook it. That was the point. Most of the action took place in the back parking lot. He wasn't here for action. George took a parking space at the side of the building and went in through the front door.
    The hum of the crowd fed the buzzing in his head as he made his way through the sea of bodies to the bar and ordered the drink. It soothed him to say the three little words aloud. "Jack and Coke." Propping a foot on the brass railing, he surveyed the room. It was like any Friday night bar scene, but there wasn't a woman in sight. Just men of all descriptions. George had always been attracted to masculine men, guys like himself. The kind of man that made women curse whenever they found out they didn't have a shot. Hot and fit and horny.
    "You sure about that drink?"
    George quit browsing the crowd to glare at the bartender. "Do I know you?" he demanded, angered that someone dared to second-guess his right to nurse his habit.
    The guy smiled as he checked George out. George judged him to be in his mid-twenties. He was blonde, blue-eyed and buff. His taut, sleeveless white tank had 'Lifeguard' screened across the chest, emphasized by the lighting over the bar. Though their features looked nothing alike, he reminded George of Oliver. "No, but we can fix that. I'm just about to go on break."
    The angel wouldn't talk to him, but the guilt that had bedeviled him all day wouldn't shut the fuck up. Oh, c'mon, this guy looks like all the rest. Isn't that an