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  You paint houses, ponder, sweat, and recall. A week after the deed, you receive an email from the director—with a private link to preview the video before it goes live and an offer to do more work. A solo, maybe?

  Solo, you think, shaking your head. You’ve had enough of being a lone wolf, and of being alone. While screening the video in the second bedroom—what passes for your man cave—your cock swells. Your nuts liquefy beneath it and hang halfway over the seat of the chair to your big, bare feet, which crave Raul’s tongue. Breathing ceases being easy or even voluntary as you watch the action, aware of the bliss in your body double’s smile. You marvel at how hot your costars appear, each one of them. And you think, how many other porn actors feel this way? That the sex they’re performing is better than simple acting? It’s real. You can’t fake that level of chemistry.

  Probably quite a few, the angel on your shoulder—it could be the devil—says. The industry is likely full of broken hearts and used condoms born of lust masquerading as love.

  You jerk your stick, remember Sam licking you up and down, and Raul cleaning the hot, buttery stink from between your toes like it was a taste straight from Heaven, and how you played with Riley’s maleness in the shower. That last notion unleashes a Fourth of July fireworks display that only you can see. Every atom and molecule in your body comes. You haven’t even made it to the point in the video where you and Riley kiss.

  A chill washes over you. You wipe your stroke-fingers on your sweaty T-shirt, reach for your phone, and text the director.

  Need to talk, you type, and hit send.

  He won’t give you what you want—not their phone numbers, not even their emails. You tell him that you’ll do more work, but only if he floats their contact information your way.

  “Why?” he presses.

  “Nunya,” you growl and add, “bizness. That’s the deal, dawg,” you say, sounding so cool even as your insides tie themselves into knots.

  You’re at work, standing on the scaffolding strung across the second floor of a towering Georgian manor, when your cell phone vibrates in the pocket of your cargo shorts. The agitated ripples travel up your leg, tickle your balls, and tease the head of your cock. All the moisture drains from your mouth as your paintbrush stills. Reaching for your phone drags the seconds out with the weight of minutes. You don’t recognize the number. Still, you answer, drawing looks from your fellow workmen.

  “Yeah,” you growl, your standard greeting.

  In the pause that follows, your heart attempts to burst free of your rib cage or throw itself into your throat.

  “Logan?” asks a young man’s voice.

  You’d know it anywhere. It’s Sam!

  The distortion in time deepens. In a disconnected manner, you’re aware of telling him to hold on a sec, and of climbing down off the scaffolding like an excited kid on a jungle gym, cutting around the grand house to the driveway for some privacy, and of your instant erection.

  “Dude,” you emote, that dopey smile back on your face.

  “I hear you’re looking for me,” Sam says lightly, and your smile widens.

  You stand in the summer sunshine, growing harder, not sure of how to say that, yes, you’ve been looking for him and the others, that you asked the director to pass on your 411 to them. Then you see the boss’s scowl, knowing you’ll catch hell for this, and the words come to you with ease.

  “I have a job offer for you,” you say, no longer feeling like the hired help.

  Raul texts you later that same night. You pace the rented house, expecting to hear from Riley—begging whatever power up there who might be listening that he’ll call. Your phone rings, but it’s a telemarketer. You tell them to remove you from their contact list and hang up before they argue the point.

  You resume pacing, your erection metronoming in your shorts and underwear, complaining of its imprisonment.

  Riley doesn’t call. Ditto on texts and emails.

  You were right about catching hell. The boss is a short man who drives a big truck and seldom does more than direct traffic. You’ve seen him pick up a paint brush, what, half a dozen times over the past four years since you started working for his company?

  A warning? Seriously, for taking a phone call?

  You paint angrily. There are six more houses after this job wraps, of which you’ll get the leftover scraps once he’s lined his pockets. Any time you feel your blood pressure begin to skyrocket and catch yourself grinding your molars, you remember that Raul and Sam are coming over after work.

  You chill a six-pack of beer, put out chips and salsa, shower and change into a clean white T-shirt, jeans, and an old baseball cap with a frayed bill. You forgo socks, and for the second time in your life, you realize how attractive your big boats are after remembering the first time, when Raul was licking between your toes. Then you wait.

  A hybrid pulls into the driveway. Sam bounds out, dressed in loose-fitting cotton shorts, ankle-length white socks, sneakers, a body-conscious polo shirt, and sunglasses. His clothes fit him in a way that should be criminal and makes you think they love his physique. As he glides toward the front door, you forget about acting cool and surrender to your joy.

  “Hey, buddy,” you say in greeting.

  Sam lowers his sunglasses and enters the house. You draw him into your arms and hug, conscious that you’re humping your stiffness into his. He catches on quickly and rewards you with an unapologetic squeeze. The contours of your living room, with its giant flat-screen and overstuffed sofa and chairs, dissolve in an effulgence of imaginary sunlight.

  “I thought this was about a job,” Sam chuckles and gropes your dick again.

  “Yeah, it is,” you say. “And not just a hum job.”

  But oh, the temptation to unzip is tangible, to shove your cock down his throat and kiss him after you shoot, tasting your seed on his tongue!

  Another vehicle pulls into the driveway, a truck more beat-up than yours. You detach from Sam long enough to look out the screen door. You don’t recognize it.

  Raul exits the passenger’s side. He’s in shorts like Sam’s, along with flip-flops that show off decent feet. The driver exits, clad in a ball cap, an old T-shirt bearing the logo of the local Major League baseball team, jeans, and sneakers.

  It’s Riley, and you smile again, because now the day feels complete.

  “Look who I picked up,” Raul says.

  Riley laughs. “I picked up your ass, pal.”

  “The gang’s all together again,” Sam says, appearing beside you at the door, so close that you feel the warmth of his skin and smell the clean scent of his deodorant.

  Yes, complete.

  Riley eyes you once he’s inside the house, his grin flashing a length of clean white teeth, the gesture more wolf’s snarl than actual smile. He offers a tip of his chin, one of those typical greetings between alpha males that make instant buddies out of strangers on hoops courts and dusty summer baseball diamonds.

  You extend your arms, and note the other young alpha’s hesitation at meeting you in a simple bro-hug. A long second later, Riley embraces you. There’s plenty of space between your crotches. You’re not on a set anymore, you realize, and your happiness evaporates while clutching at a stranger. It was only a job to him, to all of them, your inner voice taunts. Just work, like any other labor done for a paycheck.

  The dude-hug ends. Feigning cool, you invite your former costars into your home.

  “Nice crib,” Raul says.

  You catch Riley gazing about. “Yeah,” he agrees. “So why are we all here?”

  “A job opportunity,” Sam says. “I sure as fuck need it.

  ” Turns out, they all do, which is why, like you, they found them-selves sweating and moaning in a hotel room for DesperateCollegeJocks.com.

  “I have an idea about how we all can make some green,” you state. “I think it’s a solid one.”

  “I’m listening,” Riley grumbles.

  You force your eyes over to his, and for the first time notice the depth of their blue color, like sapphires. There’s something else in his bottled gaze, and it makes drawing breath almost impossible. Despite Riley’s tough exterior, you sense the dude is being tormented in silence over the same confusion and desire that’s left you walking around half-hard half the time, bone stiff the rest.

  You smile, sigh. “Okay, here’s my plan.”

  You invite them all to sit and lay out the thought: a second painting company in the college town, offering competitive rates. You took a year of business classes and know at least the basics about insurance and accounting. You’ll need to invest in ladders and scaffolding, sure. But a few great reviews on social media and you’ll be raking in the small fortune your boss presently enjoys, which only trickles down to you.

  “All the company needs is a staff of hard workers,” you say, both exhilarated at the possibilities and terrified that they won’t hop aboard.

  “I don’t know how to paint,” Sam says.

  “There isn’t a lot to know,” you tell him. “You hold the handle like a pencil, firm strokes, feather the edges to stop the paint from clumping up.”

  “I don’t mind working hard,” Raul says, and you catch the mischievous glint in his eye. “Especially if it means being around hot painters all day long.”

  Sam chuckles and fires off an “Amen!” Only, it sounds more like ay-men in this new bromenclature among fellow former porn performers.

  Raul faces Riley, and for the first time you understand there’s more at work between them. They rode over together. Friends? Boyfriends? Some hybrid of the two? Excitement rises from your toes and the temperature in the room seems to double.

  “We clearly work well together as a team,” you continue, ignoring the flush of arousal at what you believe to be the truth. “We could do this.”

  Riley shifts beside Raul. “And what about start-up capital? You sitting on some kind of trust fund?”

  “No,” you say. “But I know where we can land the cash to get things rolling. All four of us, we could come into the business as equal partners.”

  A few days later, the foursome is back in front of the cameras. Raul is servicing Riley, while Sam does this thing to you that no one has before: he’s licking your ass with long, wet revolutions. The ecstasy is so intense that you worry you’ll come not five minutes into the hour-long shoot. Then the paradigm shifts and the betas switch teams. Raul worships at your feet once more—a big hit with the DCJ.com viewership, you’re told.

  You find yourself shoulder-to-shoulder with Riley, growing higher on the clean male scent of his sweat and beguiled by the artistry of his inked arm. Moaning, the other alpha leans his head on your shoulder and, for a moment, you’re back on the amateur hoops court in your driveway. It’s the morning after the conversation in your living room, after pizza delivery, and after the hot four-way that took place in your bedroom. The mattress up there isn’t as big, only your standard queen-size, but it still accommodated two alphas and an equal number of their beta admirers. Raul and Sam are still asleep. You’ve called out sick at work. You and Riley, both bare-chested and barefoot, toss around the basket-ball.

  “I’m so new to this stuff,” he says, the prickle back on his face, and looking so magnificent in the morning sunlight that you want to kiss him hard on the lips, not caring if the whole world sees.

  “That makes two of us,” you say lightly, nailing the next shot.

  Riley gains possession and dribbles. While pretending to focus on the ball, you steal looks at his feet. Big, sexy, in a way that part of a man’s anatomy isn’t supposed to be. He catches you staring and holds the ball.

  “You really think this can work?” he challenges.

  You take a heavy swallow before answering. “I do.”

  “I’m all for trying it, but . . .” he says, and sighs.

  “What, dude?” He looks up, his brows furrowed. “Is it this other stuff?” you press.

  Riley shakes his head. “Fuck, no. That’s been keeping me afloat. Keeping me sane.”

  He confesses to you that he’s been living in his truck since flunking out of college, losing his scholarship, and pissing off his parents. The depth of his embarrassment and pain manifests clearly in those incredible blue gemstone eyes. Desperation, it’s why he did that first video for DesperateCollegeJocks.com.

  “If you hadn’t,” you tell him, “we wouldn’t have met.”

  Riley’s scowl cracks with the barest smile. At that moment, you realize how much you love him, this stranger you’ve only just met. But like the certainty that all four of you are puzzle pieces that fit seamlessly together, you’re sure of this being genuine, too.

  “There’s plenty of room here,” you say.

  A kind of relief washes over his expression. “Dude, you sure?”

  Oh yes. By the time you rejoin Raul and Sam, you’ve hammered out a nice little arrangement for all four of you to share those two bedrooms—one alpha and one beta per room. The deal is that you can switch it up as often as you like: you and Sam, you and Raul, and you and Riley, when the spirit moves you. And when all four of you opt to be together, well, you’ve already proven you can fit in your bed.

  “We’ll divide the rent four ways, and when we bank enough money, we’ll buy this house,” you say.

  “Seeing each other at work and then at home,” Riley says, “aren’t you afraid we’ll get sick of the company?”

  You remember your loneliness, no longer stalking your days and nights, and how each of your new friends in this polyamorous foursome gives you something different, wonderful.

  “I’m not too worried,” you answer. It’s easy to say, because you really and truly believe it.

  You’re back in the present, making out with Riley while Raul sucks your cock. Roommates, costars, coworkers—it strikes you that you’ve never been happier and look forward at last to all the joy your future promises.

  THE TEMPTATION OF THE GARGOYLE

  Kyle E. Miller

  Leviathan dropped from the saint’s feet and joined the cascade of gargoyles at play in the open sky. He adored his brothers, loved to play hide-and-seek with them when the winter fog was up, giving them cover from the busy city below. They knew that a worshipper lifting his head to the sky before ducking into the dark of the cathedral would see only birds of prey. From their vantage on high, the city was a canvas of mist and damp macadam, straight city blocks suddenly warping to a blur as they capered and wheeled in the air. They gave chase in circles and figure eights, their cloud-bound world shifting, recreating itself all at once with each wild turn.

  Rain came, as Leviathan knew it must, and the cascade returned to the cathedral to drain its roof of water and protect the mortar below. Rain was as close as they came to having blood. It was their calling and yet also their undoing. Rain would one day reduce them all to pebbles. But it was a slow death, so slow they might instead be demolished by other means first: an earthquake, perhaps, or the swinging of a wrecking ball. And for Leviathan alone among them, or so he thought, for he never shared thoughts this deep, rain was a pleasant death. He seemed always to be waiting for the next storm to tickle his wings with raindrops. It gave his whole body a tingle, and he relished in the ecstatic dripping of each drop, followed their paths as they lit his skin alive: along the smooth curve of his wings and down into the folds of his back; the nubs of the horns on his head and down across his face; his chest with its two tiny nipples, his stomach, his belly button and down, down, down. Where others saw only pitted wings and scarred brows, Leviathan saw the pattern of life itself. Water was a sensation. Water was erotic erosion.

  Leviathan settled into place at the feet of the saint he thought of as his charge, now weeping tears of stone and rain. He wiped clean the backs of the bare feet and put his wings over them like a parasol. He knew those feet as well as he knew his own hands, and he tended them, he felt, not out of duty, but devotion.

  And there was his neighbor, come home to roost, a rivulet of rainwater dribbling from his puckered lips. “Holy day to you, brother Leviathan.”

  Leviathan nodded, distracted by the gentle drops on his wing-backs, and muttered a reply. “Same to you.”

  “A good game today, yes? I almost . . .” But the gargoyle cut himself short. “What are you looking at, brother?”

  Leviathan raised his head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

  “I see.”

  “H’owlbear,” Leviathan said to his brother, their names often as chimeric as their forms, “why do we never touch each other?” “The works of the flesh are evident: sexual immorality, impurity, sensuality, idolatry, sorcery, enmity, strife, jealousy, fits of anger, rivalries, dissensions, divisions, envy, drunkenness, orgies, and others like these. I warn you, as I warned you before, that those who do such things will not inherit the kingdom of God. It’s from Galatians, brother. Surely you remember Galatians.”

  “Yes. Galatians.” The fog began to clear, and Leviathan could make out the shapes of humans far below. Red heads and blond ones, hatted heads and scarved ones. It was a Wednesday, he knew—gargoyles being born with the gifts of time—and his favorite day, the day his favorite human walked by below, the one he liked to watch. “And what about them?” He nodded toward the shuffling figures below. “Why do we not touch them?”

  “Even more blasphemous,” H’owlbear said. “They are not our charges. That would be to tread on the industry of God the Father. You know these things, brother. Has the rain reached your heart already?” For the gargoyle’s gifts of speech, intelligence, wisdom, and truth are seated in the heart and not the mind, so as to be farther from the eroding rain.

  “No,” Leviathan said. “I just. I just—”

  “Just what, brother? Enjoy the rainstorm. You’ll find joy in your duty.” H’owlbear puckered his lips and let the water flow, as if to say he had had enough talk.

  And maybe it was the quality of the rain that day—a rain the gargoyles named effervescentia for its lightness, the almost buoyant effect it had on all it touched—but something woke in Leviathan that had been a long time dreaming. He felt it as a heaviness in the groin, as if it were made of some denser stone, something volcanic. He looked down again, always watching for the Wednesday man, and his foot slipped off the rain slicked perch. He saw from the corner of his eye H’owlbear chuckling as he pulled himself back up. He wasn’t worried; a gargoyle always takes flight before striking the ground. The wings work of their own accord. It was impossible for a gargoyle to fall.