Bare feet, white baggie shorts and an old white painter's hat blend
me in perfectly with the rest of the Saturday lunchtime crowd hanging
around the South Beach Hotel bar.
Christ! My skin is so pale, but that only enhances the snowbird
tourist illusion.
Only this time, it's for real. Well, almost for real. Alex Krycek
never took a vacation in his life, but Alexander Trace does.
Alexander Trace never harmed a soul in his life. He's an illustrator
for the machine tools trade, draws boring rotors and widgets, and
makes them look sexy as hell for the salesmen's catalogs.
There are a few salesmen in the crowd and they think Alexander Trace
is sexy as hell, even without his pen and paper. I intend to
capitalize on that later. Just now, I want a sloe gin fizz, a plate
of fresh fish and to watch the boys go by.
The mark Nicotine Breath wanted erased made it easy on me and snorted
enough coke up his nose to give himself a heart attack. And, he did
it hours before I got here. He's one of a dozen bodies any weekend on
Miami Beach washes up at the morgue.
So, I've got time to spare and money to spend and I intend to spare
no expense at all.
I feel a hesitant tap on my shoulder. //You had better be very good-
looking to make it worth me turning around// I take a bite of the
fish //very, very good-looking// "Eh, Mr. Trace," the voice says
tentatively. "I think you should meet this guy. He's an author who
needs some advice about harvesters for his murder mystery. Thought
you might like to help him out."
I recognize the voice; it belongs to the pimply pool boy. He picks up
the discarded beachwear, empty bottles and used rubbers from the
saltwater poolside and sand dunes early in the morning. He's going
places someday with his ability to attach names, faces and
occupations to the transient guests, but I'm not helping him to get
there. I shrug his fingers off my shoulder and take another bite of
fish.
I hear, what must be the author, harrumph "asshole" under his breath
and the squeak of his tennis shoes as he turns to walk away.
The kid sighs, but I don't care. I would recognize that muttered
expletive anywhere. I heard it every time a fellow Fibbie walked by
our desks in the bull pen and interrupted his private pursuits,
whether they be alien hunting or porn, and asked him to hand over
some actual work.
//What the fuck is HE doing here? And posing as a mystery writer? Too
delicious to not take the bait// I swivel on my seat and he catches
site of my profile before he's completely made his turn and gets his
feet tangled as he quickly turns to get back. I jump to my feet and
grab his arm, steady him and apply enough pressure to turn his
natural golden brown skin tone to an off-greenish shade.
Neither of us speaks and it comes to me that he is afraid I will
blurt out 'Mulder' and ruin his cover. I grin at him and he grinds
his teeth.
I look at Poolside Boy and he quickly makes the
introductions, "Alexander Trace this is Isaac Foxx. He needs an
expert on machine parts to flesh out the murder in his book."
"Isaac," I say in greeting and palm the kid a ten with the hand
that's not bending Mulder's index finger backwards. I wish I could
tell the kid to go home, tell the mom, who taught him his manners
that he is a fag and get on with his life. But I am not Dear Abby, so
I don't.
"Alexander," Mulder growls.
"You can call me Alex," I reply, still grinning, "All my friends do."
Poolside Boy leaves us and I reach around with my free hand and pat
Mulder down. Since he's dressed in shorts and tee shirt too, there's,
unfortunately, not too many places I can check for a hidden gun.
"Now, now Mulder," I whisper in his ear and he quivers, I only wish
it weren't with rage, "Stay cool and we'll walk hand in hand to the
beach. No one will notice. All the boys are doing it these days."
Mulder nods and I swear I can hear his teeth grind some more. //Good
thing he has dental coverage with the FBI//
We walk hand in hand down towards the ocean. I never let up on the
bent finger and delicious images of Mulder bending over, oh, almost
anything, occupy my thoughts.
He attempts to slug me, of course, as soon as we are halfway hidden
behind a dune, but I am not the Alex Krycek who bleeds for Fox Mulder
today. So, I twist his arm sharply and he stops, looks at me in
surprise and says, "Fuck you." I say, "Maybe later," and he actually
gets kind of cross eyed. I'm not sure if it's from the painful grasp
I have of his arm or my words, but it looks good on him, regardless.
I laugh and he goggles some more. The sun feels fine and I can almost
taste the salty wind on his lips. //I've got Mulder, the surf and the
sun. Life doesn't get much better than this// He tries again to ruin
the moment, but I kick his feet out from under him and he lands flat
on his back. I am so glad he didn't land on his face and get a
mouthful of sand. I want to kiss him, but I don't want to eat sand in
order to do so. I cheerfully sit on his chest.
"So, 'Isaac'," I say blandly, as if he weren't mad enough to spit and
rigid enough beneath my ass to come if he tries to wriggle enough to
dislodge me, "What do you need to know about harvesters? Got a killer
out there who isn't content using butcher's knives or something to
hack up his victims?"
//Now there's only one-way to get Mulder's mind off of vengeance when
he is anywhere near me and that's to distract him with information.
Mulder needs to know things. It's his reason for living and putting
up with all the shit he has to wade through every day of his life. If
I could get the upper hand like I have so far today, more often, he
would actually get more information. But I really hate talking
through a bloody nose and a split lip, so usually I shut up and get
away//
"Fuck you," he says again.
I roll my eyes, "Haven't we already had this part of the
conversation?" He tries to buck me off. It's quite lovely, really. I
can feel his erection has a mind of its own and doesn't want to stop.
The head on his shoulders, however, or maybe its Scully's voice he
hears in the gulls' squawks, so he grits his teeth and goes still.
I am feeling high on the unexpectedness of the encounter and joy that
we have time to play or rather I have time to play. I have no idea
what kind of case Mulder is on and if catching the bad guy is
actually immanent. I don't know if Scully or Skinner are about to pop
up from the other side of the dune and shoot me and I don't care.
It's just that my heart is overflowing with its own dubious type of
generosity and my ego, as well as my dick, is excited at the chance
to show off. So, I begin a lecture on the various and sundry minutiae
of the inner workings of harvester machinery. I mean, come on, I can
be helpful. I was helpful on those cases we worked on. He has to
remember that.
His eyes really cross this time and his mouth opens, but no words
come out. Eventually, although I am far from finished, he
says, "Uncle." He tosses his head from side to side and gets sand all
in his hair.
He continues, and anyone who ever thought he talks in a monotone
would have been surprised, "I give up. I don't want to know any more
about harvesters. I don't want to know how you know so much about
harvesters." His voice is ragged and I can hear he is truly pleading
with me. He looks me in the eye, "You're a dork," he says, "a nerd, a
dictionary, a thesaurus and an encyclopedia," His voice gets
shrill, "You are worse than Frohike, Langley, Byers and Chuck
combined over lousy tacos and cheap tequila. Stop!"
"Okay," I say agreeably. I may know a lot about harvesters but it's
not like I'm really all that interested in them when I have Mulder
under my hips. I hate to think I was so boring he beginning to lose
his hard on, so I lean over and kiss him. He's surprised, by this
time I don't know why, but he is. He sputters a bit and starts to
laugh, "You've been out in the sun too long." He finally manages to
say. He laughs as if he's forgotten how, or maybe he is trying to
reconcile laughing with me in the bizarre scheme of his life.
I get serious, "You got a killer running around in a John Deere
somewhere in South Florida?" I ask.
"No," he says, "I've got a killer sitting on my lap. I'm writing the
fourth novel in my Detective series and thought 'Harvesting Death'
would be a great title for this one."
"It's only a 'lap' if you're the one who is sitting," I say it
absently though, it's my turn to goggle.
Mulder laughs again, "You really never knew my side job? How the hell
else can I afford my suits, the extra airfares, replacement weapons,
etcetera, etcetera." He's waving his hands around now. I'd forgotten,
while I was describing the inner workings of the machine, to hold him
down.
I'm dumbfounded by my own lack of caution and the fact that I have
never heard anyone really use 'etcetera, etcetera' in a sentence
before. I'm amazed and delighted he has forgotten he can use his free
hands to hit me.
I have to kiss him again. This time he participates. The kiss goes on
and on, he's rubbing his cock unabashedly into my ass, and I'm
rocking on his crotch. I look up to catch my breath and the sun is
shining, and the surf is rolling in and for the moment there isn't a
cloud in sight.
Cloudy (2:15)
Sunshine
by Flutesong
High noon, but I'm not the villain in black today. Today I'm in white
and I cast no shadows at all.
P. Simon, 1966
Cloudy
The sky is gray and white and cloudy
Sometimes I think it's hanging down on me And it's a hitchhike a
hundred miles
I'm a raga-muffin child
Pointed finger-painted smile
I left my shadow waiting down the road for me a while Cloudy
My thoughts are scattered and they're cloudy They have no borders, no
boundaries
They echo and they swell
From Tolstoi to Tinkerbell
Down from Berkeley to Carmel
Got some pictures in my pocket and a lot of time to kill Hey sunshine
I haven't seen you in a long time
Why don't you show your face and bend my mind? These clouds stick to
the sky
Like a floating question why
And they linger there to die
They don't know where they are going, and, my friend, neither do I
Cloudy
Cloudy
