“Get rid of the ball, Kyle!” I shouted out as one of our boys found himself hemmed in. We were all in the back yard playing a game of touch football. It was a needed distraction from the events of the last few days. I was coaching both teams of boys, many of whom weren’t at all athletic. Still, physical activity is one of the best ways to deal with stress and we’d all been under way too much stress.
“Get rid of the ball!” I shouted again, but it was too late. In mere seconds, Dare was triumphantly holding Kyle’s flag high over his head.
These boys had been through so much — all of them kicked out of formerly loving homes just because they were gay, many of them forced to live on the streets for a time before being picked up and shunted to what was now called Youth Services. Some of them bounced from one foster family to another before ending up in the Sanctuary Project.
Put in that context, what happened to us all a short time ago, being held hostage at gunpoint, forced to strip and, in some cases, perform sexual favors, may have seemed like just one more insult among a series of tragedies, but I recognized that the recent events were, for some, the proverbial straw that could easily break the camel's back. We needed to deal with their demons, and we needed to do it now.
That I myself was dealing with untold stress was irrelevant. These boys needed me desperately. At least my Rick was out of the woods and was expected to make a full recovery, thank God. It would be at least a few days before he would be ready to return home, however — days of torture as we so seldom spent our time apart.
As the boys lined up across from each other, I could only imagine what they were going though. It was a game of shirts versus skins and so half the boys were stripped to their waists. Getting them comfortable with their bodies after what had happened was as much a part of their therapy as was playing a football game. I knew that for many of them, being nearly naked, particularly in the chilly, early spring air, only reinforced the feelings of helplessness they still felt from being taken hostage and being stripped.
Combining their state of undress with physical activity was essential to getting over their emotional trauma. Being shirtless in the outdoors, participating in a normal game of football, helped to replace the feelings of helplessness with feelings of enjoyment, fun and power. In time, even sexual activity would again feel natural to them — not that we were going to encourage — or discourage — consensual sexual relations among them. Rick and I saw sexual development as an essential part of growing up. It certainly had been for us.
As I watched the quarterback attempt to break through the other team’s defensive line, the proximity alarm let me know that someone had approached the front door of the house. Reaching over to the portable tablet I’d brought out with me and set down on the table beside me, I picked it up and with a few taps, brought up a holographic image of the front entrance. Facing me was a nondescript man in a business suit, who appeared to be in his mid-forties.
Tapping on the tablet, I opened a two-way communication link, allowing the man to see my face on a similar display at the front door. “May I help you?” I asked the man.
Holding up an ID card, so I could see it, he replied, “Mr. Mathews, I’m Special Agent Durbinson. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“What could you possibly want to know that I haven’t already told your colleagues?” I asked.
“There’s always more,” he replied, “and it’s common to remember details later on that might escape you during the first set of interviews.”
By now the boys had stopped playing and were standing there staring at me. Shouting out to them, I said, “You guys go ahead and play. This shouldn’t take long.”
Turning back to the tablet, I continued, “I’ll be right there, Agent Durbinson.”
The FBI agent seemed taken aback when I answered the door wearing only a light pair of shorts, particularly in the chilly weather. There seemed to be little doubt that he played for our team, given the way he stared at my muscular chest. While it was true that most men stared at my chest, regardless of their sexual orientation — after all, I was ripped — the gay men seemed to do more than stare. There was always a look of longing in their eyes that was almost impossible to mask.
“Agent Durbinson,” I began with a smile, “I’m sorry to greet you as such, but the boys and I were playing a pickup game of touch football when you rang.” The FBI agent only swallowed deeply in response. Stepping aside and motioning with my hands, I continued, “Why don’t you come in?”
“Yes, of course,” he answered as I stepped aside to let him pass.
“Can I get you anything — perhaps a soda or some coffee?” I asked.
“No, that’s OK,” he answered me, and then asked, “Is there someplace private we can go to talk — somewhere where we won’t be interrupted?”
Laughing, I responded, “I can do private, but as to not being interrupted, well, with a household of teenage boys, there’s no way I can ensure not being interrupted under the best of circumstances. I’ll ask them all to leave us alone, but that’s the most I can do. If something really critical happens like one of them getting hungry and not liking anything we have in the house, well, all bets are off.”
With a laugh of his own, surprising for the generally stoic FBI, he replied, “With teenagers of my own at home, my wife and I can scarcely keep anything private. I can relate. Do what you can, and then we’ll begin.”
‘A closeted gay man with teenage children,’ I mused to myself. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Leaving the agent behind for a short time to tell the boys I’d be busy for a while, I led the agent into my private office.
“Before we get started, I need to verify that you are who you say you are. You can understand my skittishness after all that’s happened.”
“I certainly understand,” the agent replied and added, “The local field office will be able to confirm my identity.”
Once I had done so, I asked, “So what can I tell you that I haven’t told the other agents already?”
“You could start by telling me why you’d sell out your friends and commit treason against your country,” he said with a deep, piercing look that seemed to bore straight through to my soul.”
Astounded by what he was saying, I replied, “I don’t know what in fuck you’re talking about,” I replied.
“I think you do know,” Agent Durbinson replied. “The only thing is, I can’t figure out for the life of me why, but there can be little doubt that you played a significant part in the assassination of David Reynolds.”
“This is some sort of joke, right?” I asked wondering who I knew that would play such a sick joke on me.
“I wish it were, Mr. Mathews,” the agent replied.
“Does this have something to do with me being the one who arranged for the President’s trip to Saint Louis in the first place?” I asked.
“That’s part of it,” the agent admitted. “Actually, that’s a big part of it,” he continued. “Surely you must have expected that we’d come calling as part of our investigation of the Reynolds assassination.”
“To be honest, I hadn’t really thought about it,” I replied, “but it’s a rather large jump from investigating David’s murder to, ‘Why’d you sell out your country?’”
“That it is, Mr. Mathews,” the agent responded, “and believe me, we wouldn’t be making it without good reason.”
“Agent Durbinson,” I countered, “I’ve known David Reynolds since I was a young boy. Growing up, he was my hero. It was tough going for Rick and me being the only out and proud sixth-graders in our school — Hell, we were the only out and proud kids in our middle school, period . . . but then when we were in the seventh grade, David Reynolds made the front page of The Star when he ran for Sophomore Class President. That’s something you can’t begin to fathom unless you’re gay.” Again, I saw a flicker in the agent’s eyes that made it obvious he understood what I was talking about all too well.
“David Reynolds was my friend, my confidant, my idol and my rock,” I continued. “Since he ran for Governor, I’ve been a staunch supporter, helping to raise hundreds of millions of dollars toward his campaigns. I was planning to be right there by his side in Saint Louis. By all rights I should have been riding in the very same motorcade in which he was assassinated. I could have very well been in his limousine right with him when he was killed. I could have been killed along with him, had it not been for a last-minute change in plans.”
“Let’s talk about that change in plans,” the agent replied, and with that simple statement I could not help but think back to how it all began.
<> <> <>
The sound of Black Eyed Peas’ Boom Boom Pow blared out of the iPod dock as I started to regain consciousness. Slowly, I lifted the covers off the bed and planted my feet on the floor, preparing myself mentally for another day of school. As I reached out to shut the iPod dock off, I noticed the time, 7:40, and said aloud, “Fuck, I’m gonna be late!”
But then as my mind slowly cleared, I remembered it was Sunday. What the fuck was the alarm clock doin’ going off at seven-fuckin’-forty in the AM on a Sunday. It was then that I remembered that it was Sunday on the Memorial Day weekend and I had damn good reason to be getting’ up early. Rick and I were goin’ to the big race!
Just then I heard a rustlin’ sound behind me as the most adorable face in the Universe appeared out from under the bed sheets. That was yet another clue that this was not another school day. My Ricky had spent the night! No wait, I was the one who spent the night. I was in Rick’s room! How cool it was that our parents let us sleep together on the weekends.
Although we were only fourteen, we’d been a solid couple for more than three years now. Thinking about last night with my wonderful boyfriend, my already hard boner became impossibly that much harder. It was gonna be hard as fuck to piss while I was thinkin’ about what we did last night. Rick nuzzlin’ his face up in my neck and tweakin’ my nipple with his thumb didn’t help none, neither.
“I love what you’re doin’, babe,” I told him, “but I gotta pee!”
“You can pee while we’re in the shower, silly,” Rick replied as he grabbed hold of my dick and started pullin’ me with him. Twenty minutes later, we were squeaky clean, sated, and our bladders were empty.
“Billy?” my Ricky asked, “How about not shavin’ today. You look sooo sexy with a beard.”
“It ain’t a beard,” I replied. “It’s just stubble and besides, we’re meeting some new folks today and you know how I like to make a good first impression.” I was barely fourteen and yet I was already shavin’ three times a week. After I finished up and put away my shaving kit, I led Rick back to his bedroom and said, how about lettin’ me dress you today, Babe? You trust me to do that?”
Rather than say anything, Rick merely nodded his head. Reaching into his dresser, I pulled out a pair of cargo shorts and had him put them on. “There,” I said, “That should do it.”
“I can’t go like this!” Rick responded. “Like you said, we’re meeting strangers. People talk about me enough as it is! I have to wear a shirt and shoes!”
“Damn,” I said halfway jokingly and halfway seriously, “I was hoping to talk you into going without a shirt or shoes. You look sooo sexy, just the way your are right now.”
“Come on, man. Get serious,” Rick said as he grabbed a pair of sandals out of his closet and put them on.
Reaching into his closet myself, I grabbed a leather vest and told him, “Here, put this on.”
“Are you kidding?” Rick replied as he took it from me. “First of all, I usually wear this with a dress shirt underneath. Wearing it without a shirt, it’ll just highlight my lack of muscles. You would look great in this, but not me.”
“I think you’ll look great in it,” I countered. “Just humor me and put it on.”
After he did so, I had to admit that he was right — it made him look scrawny, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. “It looks great on you,” I responded. “You look sooo sexy in it.”
“Yeah, right,” he replied. “And you realize how hot this thing’s gonna get sittin’ out in the sun? It’s made of leather, for fuck’s sake.”
“Which’ll just give you an excuse to take it off,” I replied with a grin.
“Perve,” he replied with an equally large grin.
Putting on a black tank top, shorts and some sandals myself, we were good to go.
Running down the stairs, I expected we’d just grab some cereal, juice and toast. When we got to the kitchen, however, there was a note on the fridge from Rick’s parents, who liked to sleep in on Sundays. Hell, we usually slept in, too! The note read, “I picked up some stuff at Shapiro’s downtown last night on the way home from work. Enjoy the race, boys! Love, Dad.”
Inside the refrigerator were two large plates wrapped in plastic. I handed one plate to Rick and took the other for myself. Underneath the plastic was a bagel and next to it were lox, cream cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, sliced onions — the works!
“Oh man, this is great!” I exclaimed as I grabbed a carton of orange juice and took it and the food to the kitchen table. “Your dad’s the best,” I added.
“We’re both so lucky to have the parents we do,” Rick agreed as he grabbed a couple of large glasses and sat down at the table. We both loaded everything onto our bagels and began to chow down. Before we’d even finished, there was a honk outside.
“Shit, my breath tastes of onion,” Rick said in his cute voice.
“Don’t worry, I packed breath mints,” I replied as we quickly wolfed down the rest of our breakfasts, then placed our dishes in the sink and headed out the door.
Waiting outside was a white minivan. Inside were a guy and a girl in the very back, who both looked to be about eighteen, and up front was the driver, who also looked to be eighteen. I knew they were all high school students, but I felt really out of my league for some reason. Yeah, we’d be entering high school ourselves next fall, but I felt like a little kid next to these guys.
Before I could say anything, however, the driver said, “Hey, man. Welcome to what’s gonna be a really awesome day. Trevor Austin said you two were an adorable couple, and he was right!”
“As we buckled ourselves in, he continued, “By the way, I’m Larry and the guy in back is my boyfriend, Tim. Back there with Tim is our friend, Debbie.” Larry reached out with his hand and I shook it — his grasp was firm but gentle and made me feel at ease.
“I’m Billy,” I said in my deep voice as I shook his hand.
“And I’m Rick,” my boyfriend said in his dainty, almost girl-like voice as he shook Larry’s hand.
Rick and I then turned around and shook hands with Tim and Debbie. As we did so, I took the opportunity to look at them. Whereas Larry was tall, thin and had longish blond hair, Tim was kinda plain looking. Although I wouldn’t have called him fat, he was definitely stocky and had close-cropped, dark brown or maybe even black hair.
Debbie was the one that made me smile, however. Although there was nothing about either Larry or Tim that made me think they were gay, Debbie looked as much like the stereotypical lesbian as did my Ricky look like the stereotypical gay boy. Like Tim, she was a bit stocky, she had short, dark hair and wore boys clothing — a simple T-shirt and shorts. She looked so manly, but she had a really warm smile that made me smile in return.
Before we even had a chance to do more than the basic introductions, we were pulling up in front of another house and a drop-dead gorgeous girl with long, blond hair got in front with Larry. The most noticeable thing about her, however, was that she was pregnant. She looked like she was ready to deliver any time now. She was introduced to us as Cathy.
As we drove away, Cathy asked, “So, are you two a couple?”
When she did that, I giggled — I couldn’t help myself — it was sooo embarrassing. Rick and I then went on to explain how we became boyfriends. After we finished telling our story, I asked Cathy if she had a boyfriend and she explained that she didn’t and that getting pregnant was a stupid mistake. She then confided that she was actually a lesbian, which was a real shock! I would have never guessed it, particularly the way she looked. I guessed her getting pregnant was a lot like when gay guys date girls to try to prove they’re something they’re not. I couldn’t relate to that at all. Rick and I had never tried to hide who we were.
I wondered if maybe Larry and Tim were trying to fix up Cathy and Debbie with each other but, then, why were they sitting at opposite ends of the van?
I asked Larry how he and Tim got together and couldn’t help but smile when he said they’d been best friends forever and started falling for each other before they even finished grade school, just like Rick and me. It took them a lot longer to come to terms with it, though. Whereas Rick and I came out to each other, to our parents and to everyone while we were still in the fifth grade, Larry and Tim didn’t become boyfriends until high school, and they didn’t come out until just last month!
Larry has a homophobic grandfather, however, who had set up a trust fund to send him to college. Tim and Larry had waited to come out until Larry gained full control of the trust fund, on his eighteenth birthday. I couldn’t help but laugh when Larry talked about how they celebrated his birthday by sharing a passionate kiss, right in the middle of the cafeteria, and then proudly served detention. I guess I could understand why they’d stayed in the closet so long, but it was really sad to think of how they’d wasted three years in middle school when they could have been boyfriends, just like me and Rick had.
Traffic was really heavy — this was one of the biggest sporting events in the world, after all — but it wasn’t long before we were pulling up at the Motor Speedway. I didn’t know it before, but I guess pregnant women have to go to the bathroom a lot and so Cathy made a beeline for the restrooms as soon as we were inside. There was a long line at the women’s restroom, so she used the Men’s! It was sooo funny the way she shouted an advance warning, resulting in a symphony of flushes, followed by a mass exodus of men from inside.
I thought we’d just be going to a block of reserved seats, ’cuz Tim said his dad’s company owned a corporate suite and they needed extra bodies to fill it this year but, man, was I naïve! I had no idea what a corporate suite was like at a sporting event like this. We had a humongous, air-conditioned indoor suite, right on turn two of the racetrack, with floor-to-ceiling windows providing panoramic views of the track from three stories up. There was a wet bar with all kinds of drinks and finger foods and a full menu of sandwiches, salads and the like. There were lots of little tables with comfy chairs where folks could sit and watch the race going on outside the windows or on the many flat-panel TVs around the lounge. There was a full staff of servers to get us our food and drinks and stuff if you were too lazy to go to the bar. We even had our own private rest rooms — sure to be a hit with Cathy.
The best part as far as I was concerned, though, was the large outdoor balcony with seating for seventy. The adults were already starting to congregate around the bar and in the lounge chairs, so Rick and I headed out to grab us some seats outside where the other kids were already congregating. Let the adults spend the day socializing — we were here to see the race!
As we took our seats and started to introduce ourselves to some of the other kids sitting near us, Tim came up to us and asked to take our lunch orders. Laughing, he explained, “My dad asked me to handle lunch for my friends so the servers inside could concentrate on his clients but, hey, I’d rather spend the time out here with my friends anyway. The last thing I want is to spend the race with a bunch of drunk old guys.” I couldn’t help but laugh along with Tim — I felt the same way.
“Listen,” Tim continued as he thrust an upside-down baseball cap at us. Inside were a bunch of slips of paper. “I’d like each of you to pick the name of one of the 33 drivers in the race. If one of you picks the name of the winner, you’ll get to come back next year even though Dad promises he’ll have enough clients to fill the whole suite by then.” I reached in and picked a slip that read ‘Ed Carpenter’. Carpenter was an American driver who was pretty solidly in the middle of the pack, being in the center position of the sixth row. I could have done a lot better, but I could have done a lot worse.
“Who the hell is Hélio Castroneves?” Rick asked innocently as he looked at the slip of paper he’d just drawn.
“Are you fuckin’ kidding?” Tim asked.
“Hélio Castroneves is only in the pole position,” I explained. “He was rookie of the year in 2001 and won back-to-back 500s in 2001 and 2002. He’s, like, only one of the greatest racecar drivers in the world.”
“So I guess I picked a good one?” my boyfriend asked.
“Honey, you picked a great one,” I exclaimed, and then I grabbed my baby in a tight hug and kissed him on the lips.
It was just as we were pulling apart that I heard a young male voice call out, “Billy Mathews?”
I turned to look in the direction of the voice I’d heard and quickly recognized the boy who’d called my name. It was Lyle Herndon, perhaps one of the greatest high school basketball players of all time, and he was coming right toward us. Lyle was tall — well, that was a given — and he was strikingly handsome. Lyle would be a senior next year and then he’d be going on to just about any college he chose, prolly on full scholarship.
“Billy, I’m…”
“Lyle Herndon,” I replied, finishing his sentence for him as I extended my hand. “You’re just about the greatest basketball player in the state, if not America,” I added. “It’s great to meet you.”
“It’s great to meet you, Billy,” Lyle countered. “I’ve been following your career and you’re definitely one of the best quarterbacks in the state, if not in America. It’s great to meet you,” he added as he shook my hand. “Do you mind if Carry and I sit next to you guys?” he asked.
“We’d be delighted, wouldn’t we, Rick?” I replied, realizing in my zeal that I’d put my boyfriend in a spot, but he took it all in his stride. He knew how much sports meant to me and wasn’t about to deny me the opportunity to chat with a fellow athlete.”
“By the way, this is my girlfriend, Carry,” Lyle stated as he took his seat. I reached across Lyle to shake Carry’s hand, and then Carry reached across me to shake Rick’s hand. It was as Carry was poised over me, shaking Rick’s hand that I realized something wasn’t quite right. Carry was a beautiful girl with silky, long blond hair and a clear complexion but, in profile, her face didn’t look quite right. There was something oddly masculine about what was otherwise a strikingly feminine appearance. But then it hit me — she was a he! Carry was really a boy in drag, which meant that Lyle was really gay. Holy fuck! I almost seethed in anger thinking of how Lyle must have been forcing poor Carry to pose as a girl, just so he could pretend to be straight. What a bastard!
Once the race got underway, I tugged off my tank top and it wasn’t long before Rick took off his vest — I could only imagine how hot he must have been wearing the damn thing. I grabbed him in a half-hug and he reciprocated by throwing his arm around me. It felt so good to be out and proud, and maybe I wanted to rub it in Lyle’s face, too.
I didn’t speak much to Lyle at first, and I’m sure he could sense how I was giving him the brush-off, but pretty soon our lunches arrived anyway. Rick and I were sharing a large buffalo wing pizza and, man, was it ever good. With all the cokes we drank along with the pizza, it wasn’t long before my bladder was full. I guess Lyle was having the same problem, ’cuz he got up and started making his way inside. I decided on the spot I wasn’t going to leave without giving him a piece of my mind, so I got up and followed him in.
The men’s room was small, with just a urinal and a stall and, fortunately, no one else was inside. Lyle took the urinal and I went into the stall. After we’d done our business and as I waited for Lyle to finish using the sink, so I could wash my hands too, I quietly said under my breath, “what an asshole.”
Before he’d even had a chance to dry his hands, Lyle turned around to face me and responded with, “What did you say?”
“I said, ‘what an asshole,’ you jerk,” I replied.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Lyle answered me. “You’re the one who’s been fuckin’ ignoring me.”
“I don’t talk to closeted shitheads who use people to maintain their cover,” I replied.
“What the fuck do you mean by that?” Lyle responded angrily, but I could sense there was an edge to his voice — and an element of fear. Great! I wanted him to sweat.
“I’m talking about the way you’re using Carry, or whatever his name is, to make people think you’re straight,” I replied. “How can you live with yourself, man? I mean, I suppose it’s a shade better than using some girl, letting her think you’re really interested when you’re not, but to make a boy dress up in drag so you can pretend is just sick, man. It isn’t right, and it’s not fair — to Carry, and to the fans. Think of what a great role model you’d be to all the gay kids out there — the gay athletes who think they’re the only ones in the world — the gay kids who kill themselves thinking they’re alone in all of it…”
“It’s not like that, man,” Lyle interrupted. “Look, I told my coaches I’m gay when I tried out for the team,” he stated, shocking the hell out of me. Of course I did the same, but I was already out and had nothing to hide.
“I told the coaches, and I told all my teammates, too,” he added. “All my friends know about me, and they know about Carry. It’s the coaches who told me it would be better to stay in the closet, but even that wouldn’t be enough to keep me from coming out if the opportunity arose. The only reason I decided to stay in the closet is because of Carry.”
Quieting down, he continued, “I love her, man. I want to be with her, always — with him, actually. Carry doesn’t dress in drag because of me. I stay in the closet because of her. She was already transgendered, or I guess the more correct term is a transvestite, before we even met.
“Carry had a hell of a time in middle school. She was really fucked over, man. She was just so effeminate and the kids were merciless in picking on her. You talk about suicides — well, twice, she tried to kill herself. Do you really think the school would let her pass herself off as a girl if it weren’t an act of desperation?”
“But look at my Ricky,” I countered. “He’s as effeminate as they come. He and I have been out as a couple since the end of the fifth grade, man! We were both out and proud all through middle school, and now we’re gonna start high school as an out and proud couple.
“No one gives Rick a hard time, neither,” I continued. “Everybody knows that no one messes with him and lives to see another day.”
“But that’s just it, Billy,” Lyle responded quietly, “Rick always had you, man. You were always there to defend him. Rick didn’t have to deal with all the shit that Carry did when she was in middle school, trying to survive as an effeminate boy. She wasn’t even out, man. It was all guilt by association.”
As realization slowly dawned on me, I finally understood just what Carry had gone through, and what Lyle was giving up to be with her. Sure, it was easier for him as an athlete to stay in the closet, but it wasn't like he was trying to hide it or anything. He was out to everyone that mattered, and he was respected for it. He just couldn’t be out and proud without dragging Carrie out with him, and that would be a disaster for her, now that everyone knew her as a girl.
Reaching out with my hand, I grasped Lyle’s hand firmly in mine as I said, “I’m sorry, man. I had no idea.” Then reaching out with my other hand, I grabbed his right hand with both my hands before finally pulling him into a heart-felt hug.
“I’m really, really sorry,” I continued. “I hope we can be friends but, no matter what, Rick and I will always have your backs.”
“I know we’ll be friends, Billy,” Lyle replied, “I hope for a very long time.”
Just then the door opened and an older guy — maybe he was in his thirties — entered the men’s room and looked at us suspiciously. I couldn’t help but blush and I saw Lyle do the same, as we were certainly in a compromising position, hugging each other tightly as we were, both of us dressed only in cargo shorts and sandals.
Pulling away from me and turning to the man, Lyle looked down at him and said to him in a sultry voice, “Ready for a gay old time, big boy?” The man actually ran out of the restroom, leaving Lyle and me standing there, laughing hysterically.
“Man, Lyle, you have balls!” I exclaimed through the laughter.
“Carry can attest to that,” Lyle replied, making me laugh even harder, and then he said, “C’mon, Billy. We don’t want to keep our boyfriends waiting.”
With a smile on my face, I replied, “No we don’t,” and then I opened the door and we walked through the lounge and back out onto the balcony, where we joined our boyfriends in our seats.
The remainder of the race seemed to speed right by as Lyle and I talked pretty much non-stop, although we each spent plenty of time cuddling with our boyfriends. At one point we even switched seats so that Carrie and Rick could talk to each other, and it was evident that they were well on the way to becoming friends, too.
Rick was elated when Castroneves won the race, ’cause it meant we would be back next year. That was the least of it as far as I was concerned, however. To me the best thing about the day was the friendship Rick and I had made with Lyle and Carrie — a friendship that I hoped would last a lifetime.
Little did we know that day that less than a year later, Carrie would be brutally exposed during the state basketball championship and that Lyle would be physically attacked because of his sexuality. True to his word, Lyle stood strong and proud, and he remained by Cameron’s side throughout the whole thing and throughout the rest of their lives. Rick and I stood with them too, supporting them at every step of the way.
<> <> <>
“Mr. Mathews?” agent Durbinson repeated, as my mind had obviously been elsewhere.
“I’m sorry, what was the question?” I asked.
“What was it that caused you to change your plans and to cancel your trip to Saint Louis. Why didn’t you join President Reynolds? After all, you were the one who invited him in the first place.”
“Oh yes,” I responded, “It was because of very good friends of ours, Lyle and Cameron Herndon.”
“Lyle Herndon, the coach of the Pacers?” the FBI agent asked.
“One and the same,” I replied. “His husband, Cam, is also a very close friend of ours. It was just before our planned trip that Cam’s mother passed away rather unexpectedly. Lyle and Cam have always been there for us, and we for them. I had to cancel my trip to attend the funeral.
“But surely you must have known that,” I challenged the agent.
“Of course we did,” the agent countered, “and given the suspicious nature of Ms. Dunnington’s unfortunate passing, we had her body exhumed.”
I gasped upon hearing that. I couldn’t believe the FBI would remotely even consider that her death was other than natural. She was in her late seventies, after all.
But then Agent Durbinson shocked me even more as he continued, saying, “Her killer was very clever and we would have never suspected that her death was other than from natural causes, had it not been for a new top-secret forensic technique that allows us to test for trace evidence of poisoning that would have never been detected a few years ago. There is no doubt about it, Mr. Mathews. Cameron Dunnington Herndon’s mother was murdered, undoubtedly by someone who didn’t want you to go to Saint Louis.
“So tell me, Mr. Mathews, where were you and what were you doing three days before David Reynolds’ assassination?”
The author gratefully acknowledges the invaluable assistance of David of Hope in editing, Low Flyer in proofreading and Ed in beta reading my stories, as well as Gay Authors, Awesome Dude and Nifty for hosting them. © Altimexis 2012