“You’re moving again.”

Chelsea Wildheart—known to the public at large as the former Forte heroine Moondancer—sighed with some annoyance in response. She was laying on her side on a worn Howard 4 Seater sofa in one of the rooms of the loft home of Davis Alexander—known to the public at large as the current Forte member, Rainier. The loft took up the entire top floor of an otherwise undeveloped, aging building in downtown Seattle owned by the Alexander family. This room, like most of the others, was filled with tables and shelves that were, in turn, filled with all manner of archeological finds, most of them, like her, Native American in origin. But this room, the one with the skylight, which bathed her in the occasional sunlight that the cloudy afternoon sky above let in, also had numerous paintings on various easels and hanging on the walls, and paints and art supplies scattered about on sheet- and tarp-covered tables.

“I’m moving,” she said, tapping her fingers against her cheek, the ones from the hand that was propping her head up, “because the whole right side of my body has gone numb. My hip feels like it’s been dry-humped by a porcupine.”

Davis stood behind an easel a short distance in front of her, studying her form and moving his brush across the canvas. Sunlight reflected off his round glasses, which windowed his focused green eyes.

“Just try to stay still,” he said, distractedly.

“You couldn’t have taken up photography as a kid?”

“I did,” he said, still looking back and forth from his canvas to her waist, not at her face. “But I do that for landscapes, cave walls and pottery, when I don’t have time to sketch.”

“Oh, for the life of an urn,” she sighed again, fighting the urge to shift her weight.

“Try to look at this as an opportunity,” he said. “A chance for you to try out something the rest of us call ‘patience’. It can be very rewarding.”

“Just paint me. Don’t try to ‘fix’ me.”

He smiled a little. “Okay. Just hang in there. We’re getting close. Trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

Rolling her eyes, she tapped her cheek some more.

“Fingers,” he noted.

Making a grumpy noise from her throat, she stopped moving them.

There was silence between them for a couple of minutes before she could take it no more and spoke again.

“You know, I saw this documentary once.”

“Uh huh?” he said, tracing the curve of her leg.

“It was on aging and long-term relationships. I think it was on Discovery. Anyway, they were talking about couples in different cultures, how they maintained their intimacy throughout the decades.”

“Really?” he asked, looking at her eyes now, grinning knowingly. “Sounds interesting.”

She smiled back, looking a little sultry. “Oh, it was. Divorce is a very American thing. In many cultures around the world, monogamy is still a lifelong norm.”

“This is true,” he said, no stranger to anthropology in his chosen career. He went back to his painting.

“And the loss of the sex drive over the years seems to be very western, too. A lot of couples keep right on going at it after they’ve had grandchildren, and great-grandchildren even.”

“Sounds nice,” he said.

“Mmm hmm,” she said, watching him. “There was this one couple in Tibet they interviewed. They were well into their eighties. And they still had a very active and fulfilling sex life.”

“Good for them.”

“I thought the same thing,” she smiled. “Anyway, I was just laying here, remembering that, and remembering them.”

“Uh huh.”

“And it just got me to thinking.”

“About what?” he asked, smiling more.

“It just occurred to me…” she said, sheepishly. Then her tone changed. “That watching them fucking must be an awful lot like watching you paint.”

He looked at her and narrowed his eyes. He’d walked right into that one. Again. He went back to his canvas, noticeably less friendly than he’d been a moment before.

“Just saying,” she said. “You won’t hear this from me a lot when it comes to us, but how ‘bout you hurry it up and get this over with?”

He exhaled and did, in fact, try to pick up the pace, realizing he might not ever get to finish this if he didn’t finish soon.

“You’re such a sucker,” she laughed.

“You’re not the first one to say so,” he answered, flatly.

“Really?” she asked. “Ooh, does that hint at a sordid history I’m unaware of?”

“Not very sordid. And not much of a history.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, believe it. I’m an archeologist, Chelsea. We’re not exactly rock stars. Which means the ladies aren’t exactly beating down the door.”

“Aww,” she said, cutting him some comical, but probably genuine, sympathy. “Well, they’re all morons, and they don’t know what they’re missing. They REALLY don’t know what they’re missing.”

He grinned carefully, half-afraid she was setting him up again.

“Just don’t take it personal,” she said.

“I’ve tried not to.”

“It’s probably just…well, you know. The assumption.”

“The assumption?” he asked, doing a little shading he’d missed near her navel.

“You know. Come on.”

“What?”

“The gay assumption.”

He looked up from his unfinished interpretation of her. “The…wait, the what?”

“Davis!” she laughed. “Be serious. You know this.”

“I know…what? What are you talking about?”

“Davis,” she laughed again, looking at him like he was somehow putting her on. “People think you’re gay.”

He looked at her, very confused. “Who thinks I’m gay?”

“Everyone thinks you’re gay.”

“Everyone thinks I’m GAY?”

“Well, *I* don’t think you’re gay…” she purred.

“Wait, back up,” he said, cutting off her seductive sidestep. “People think I’m gay.”

“Yes.”

“Why would people think I’m gay?” he asked, more baffled than concerned.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious.”

She snickered. “Davis, please. Come on, you’re bookish, to start. You spend all your time in libraries or home reading historical volumes.”

“So? It’s my job.”

“And you’re an artist. And you’ve got that whole motorcycle fetish…”

“Fetish?”

“…And you’re not married and you don’t even have a girlfriend. You’re obsessive, meticulously cataloging all your little clay things and arrowheads and not letting anyone pull any of your books off your shelf and mess up your precious ‘system’. And you spend your weekends running around in the woods and camping out with Jason, your hunky long-haired Indian ‘buddy’.”

He furrowed his brow in thought and indignation.

“And all that spells gay to people?” he asked.

“Better than the letters ‘G’, ‘A’ and ‘Y’ do, sweetheart.”

“I’m just…” He reached ineffectively for words. “EVERYONE thinks I’m gay?”

“No, they just think it’s a possibility. Based on all the evidence.”

“How did I not know this?”

“Because you’re very, very smart,” she smiled, amused. “But you’re not very bright. That’s one of the things about you that turns me on.”

He was trying to interpret that, and decide whether or not it was a compliment, when his doorbell rang.

“Oh, thank God,” Chelsea breathed, sitting up. “Saved by the bell.”

“Wait…” he said, then surrendered in frustration and dropped his brush as she stood up and stretched.

“I need a shower,” she said, in a much better mood already. “Actually, I need a hot tub soak, but somebody whose mommy and daddy can clearly afford to get him one doesn’t think he needs one.” She walked past him, not bothering to put on the robe she’d been wearing earlier, one that was now draped over a nearby Wing Armchair. She slapped him hard on the backside as she left the room.

Shaking his head, Davis reached for a nearby towel and wrapped it around his waist. Grumbling, he marched across the main room and headed for the large sliding door that served as his home’s entrance. After a quick glance through the peephole he’d installed, he unlatched the handle and slid the door loudly open.

“What’s up, bro?” his friend Jason Tulee asked, standing there in jeans and a Papa Roach tee shirt, his dark green motorcycle helmet under his arm.

“Hey,” Davis said, crossing his arms. “What’s, uh, what’s going on?”

“I was just driving by. Thought I’d let you know I just talked with the elders.”

“Really?” Davis asked, perking up. “Did they, uh…”

“We’re go. We can get into the cave.”

“Fantastic!” Davis’ demeanor brightened about tenfold. “Wow, just like that?”

“Well,” Jason shrugged. “A little hitch. You gotta do a thing.”

“A…thing?”

“A Rainier thing.”

“Oh,” Davis said, understanding.

“Yeah, they want a little time with Tac-o-bet. Want you to talk to some of the young people, get ‘em back with the old ways…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Davis nodded in agreement. He was starting to get used to it. Being inhabited by the spirit of an ancient Native American god did come with some responsibilities to the local Native American people. It wasn’t as if Tac-o-bet actually spoke through him or anything—or even to him, except for the occasional cryptic vision—but he knew that just the walking proof of the legend’s reality meant more to them than he’d ever understand. “Sure, whatever. I just can’t believe we’ve got access. That’s amazing news. Thank you. And, please, thank them.”

“Sure. We’re looking at next week.”

“Great. Great. I’ll get everything ready.”

He stopped and thought about something un-cave-related.

“Can I ask you something?” he asked Jason, scratching his scalp.

“Sure, bro.”

“Do people…?” He paused to consider his words. “Do people think we’re…gay?”

“Oh, yeah. Totally.”

Davis raised his hands in wordless consternation. “How do… Why do they think that?”

Jason shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably because you fit the type, and I’m just unnaturally good looking.”

“What TYPE?” he asked loudly, exasperated.

“Hi, Jason,” Chelsea’s voice said behind them.

Davis turned around. Chelsea stood next to his coffee table, leaning over and going through her travel bag. She pulled out a bottle of shampoo.

Davis stared at her, and she looked back at him. “What?” she asked. “I hate your shampoo.”

She turned and strolled back toward the bathroom.

“Hey, Chelsea,” Jason said over Davis’s shoulder, casually, and nodded to her as she disappeared from their sight.

Davis turned back to Jason, looking at him oddly.

“See?” Jason shrugged. “Naked women? No effect on me. That doesn’t help, either.”

Davis rubbed his temple, feeling a throbbing coming on there.

“Anyway,” Jason said, dismissing the subject, “I gotta bail. Hey, are we still doing that botanical survey at Mt. Olympus?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.”

“Cool. I’m open tomorrow. So, we’re going out and picking some flowers, then?”

Davis just looked at Jason. His friend and guide looked back without reaction.

“I’ll let you know on that,” Davis finally said.

“All right,” Jason said. “I’ll catch you guys later, then.”

He turned to leave, but paused to look at Davis’ chest first.

“Your pecks are looking good, bro. You been working out?”

He kept on walking. Davis watched him go, stewing, not enjoying being the butt of everyone’s jokes today.

He slid the door shut and latched it, sighing to himself. He stood there with his hands on his hips, listening to the sound of the shower running in the bathroom. After a moment he grinned to himself and walked in that direction. He stepped through the door and let his towel drop to the floor.

Moments later, the sound of Chelsea’s surprised, short scream echoed out of the room.

“What you doing?” her voice asked, draped in laughter.

“Overcompensating,” his returned, resolutely.

The sound of more of her laughter drifted across the empty living room. Followed, soon after, by a whole new set of sounds.

 

END.

 

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