Love Is Always Write Volume 4

Can't-Keep-It-Zipped.
    ****
    Who knew the smell of fried Twinkies was an aphrodisiac? Simon certainly hadn't. He didn't even like the damn things, and the idea of eating a deep-fried one made his teeth hurt. But the adorable twink at the fried Twinkie stand had blond hair, pouty lips and gave amazing head; and at this point, after a dry spell measured in months, he'd take what he could get wherever he could get it.
    He'd gotten some much-needed stress relief, and had plenty of time to get back to the stable area and strap on his armor for the afternoon's festivities with that asshole Jay. The sad thing was, he'd really rather have Jay than the twink. Not like he was pining or anything, because that would be pathetic. He was thirty-four, not fourteen. Same as Jay …and there went his afterglow. Wonderful . He shouldn't be thinking about Jay, he should be reliving how good – what was the twink's name, anyway?
    Simon jogged along behind the row of concession booths, slipping back onto the main path from between the grilled turkey leg stand and the one selling ears of corn drenched in butter. The history buff in him cringed; the guy who'd majored in business approved of the long lines of paying customers and could care less about historical accuracy.
    A glint of sun on metal caught his eye, the crowd ahead of him parting like the Red Sea. Simon stopped walking, and took the time to appreciate the view as Jay came striding right for him. So much for the not-thinking thing.
    The sleeveless grey gambeson highlighted the width of Jay's shoulders, and somehow, his black linen pants managed to look sexy as opposed to baggy like everyone else's. The black knee-high boots helped. Simon had some good fantasies going about those boots. Jay had lost his hair tie somewhere, so his shoulder-length dark hair waved behind him as he walked, combining with his linen shirt sleeves to make him the very image of the Evil-but-still-Hot Knight. Too bad he was such an asshole.
    Scurrying along behind him was one of the squires – Tim? Tom? Something like that -- and the Herald or whatever he was, Ross. As Jay got closer, the furious scowl on his face sent a slither of apprehension down Simon's back. Well how the hell was he supposed to keep track of time with no watch and no cellphone? One of the damn pages should have ... oh, right. He'd been hiding from the damn pages.
    Jay narrowed his eyes as he came to a stop about six feet away. "Sir Simon." His gloved fingers flexed on the pommel of his sword. "Did you forget our ... appointment?"
    "Appointment, Sir Jeremy?" When in doubt, stall . He totally sucked when he had to ad-lib, especially in the mock-British accent they all had to affect. "I do not recall – ah. You mean your trifling challenge? The defense of your non-existent honor?"
    A muscle jumped in Jay's cheek. He took two steps forward and backhanded Simon across the face before Simon even saw it coming. They'd rehearsed the move, and Jay didn't put a lot of force behind it, but it still hurt like a son of a bitch. Simon snarled at him, swallowing his reflexive what the fuck ? in favor of the more in-character, "You shall regret that."
    Jay, the bastard, grinned at him. It was the first real smile Simon had gotten out of him since they'd met and it stopped him dead. The eyes he'd dismissed as some muddy non-color were in fact dark blue, and the wide mouth curved to reveal straight white teeth. Jay wasn't cute in the least, more like brutally handsome; a French-Norman thug, or maybe a shorter, dark-haired version of Gerard Depardieu. With a better nose. And younger. Okay, not so much like Gerard, then.
    "I doubt it." Jay stepped back and raised his voice. "Do you refuse my challenge?" He spread his arms wide. "Do you refuse to meet me on a field of honor?"
    The crowd that had gathered around them hissed, and Simon rolled his eyes. This whole Good Knight-Bad Knight thing was a tad too theatrical for his taste, which he freely admitted ran more to internet porn than high drama. When he didn't respond on cue, Jay sneered at him. "It is as I thought. You are nothing more than a cringing cur, a spineless whoreson --"
    "Cease your foul prattle, you cod-swallowing --"
    Jay drew his sword and leveled it at Simon. "Draw your sword, sir." Behind Jay, Ross's eyes bugged, and it occurred to Simon that Jay had deviated from the acceptable script a teensy bit.
    Rule One: Always wear a condom. Wrong Rule One . Don't endanger the Faire patrons.