Chapter 155

But more than his mind delivered him. Jeanne-Marie had come along at some point, maybe even scared his attackers away.

“You saved me.” Beau moved his face away from Jeanne-Marie’s back and repeated, “You saved me.” He kissed his neck again and forced him, with his hands on Jeanne-Marie’s shoulders, to turn around. Beau stared into his eyes with gratitude, with love, with compassion.

“I did what anyone would do.” Jeanne-Marie pulled Beau to him, positioning Beau’s head so it rested on his chest. Jeanne-Marie stroked his hair and spoke softly. Beau felt the rumble of the deep voice in his chest as much as he heard it.

“I heard them taunting you, calling you names. ‘The pussy faggot artist from down at the waterfront,’ one of them hissed. I got there just as one of them hit you over the head with a sock filled with coins. He hit you so hard, it opened a big gash on your head. I saw you drop, but I still wasn’t close enough to stop them from kicking you as you lay on the ground.

“As I got closer, I pulled off the ball cap and sunglasses I wear even in the dark when I go into town, so they could see the full measure of the scars on my face. One of them kicked you again, the other grabbed your stuff, and then they were off running down the alley, laughing. One of them paused long enough to turn and scream, ‘Fuckin’ freak’ at me.

“I would have gone after them, but when I saw how badly you were hurt, the blood almost obscuring your face, I knew to let them go. Your life was more important than whatever it was they took from you.”

Jeanne-Marie kissed him again and Beau offered no resistance, accepting the kiss hungrily, reaching up to grab the back of Jeanne-Marie’s neck and pull him closer. “My hero,” he whispered.

Jeanne-Marie stepped back and actually laughed. He repeated that he had done what anyone would do, but Beau doubted that. No one else would have been as strong or as intimidating—and those qualities were the things that may have saved Beau’s life.

Jeanne-Marie laughed when they came up for air from their kiss. “For once, I was glad I looked like a monster, or a fuckin’ freak as your friend called me. I think it had a lot to do with scaring those creeps away.”

“I’m glad you look the way you do,” Beau said quietly. “Not so much because you scared them away, but because those looks are what make you…you.”

They fell silent and Jeanne-Marie turned back to the dishes he had originally set out to rinse. “You should go back to bed, rest.”

Beau felt like something had come to an end. The moment had passed and he wanted more. But he didn’t know yet if Jeanne-Marie felt the same. He hazarded a question, “So what happened to you?”

He watched as Jeanne-Marie’s spine stiffened. “Go. Go back to your room. You ask too much.”

“But—”

“I said go.” Jeanne-Marie turned to him. His eyes were once again bright with tears. He blinked rapidly, Beau supposed, to try and rid himself of them. “Please. You’re hurting me.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Please—just let me be.”

Beau reached up, to touch his face, to brush away the single tear that had fallen, and Jeanne-Marie slapped his hand away, not hard, but enough to make it clear that he no longer wanted to be touched.

Beau stared at Jeanne-Marie for a long moment. “I’ll go. But I want you to, if you feel like it, come talk to me later.”

Jeanne-Marie nodded and turned back to his chores. “I’ll think about that.” 6

Beau’s bedroom was dark, but the silvery opalescence of the moon caused it to almost glow. Beau lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the crown molding, and turning his head to stare out the window, where a huge full moon hung on the horizon. Stars glittered in the black sky.

Beau could not sleep because he was waiting—for Jeanne-Marie to come to him. It didn’t matter to Beau what they would say or what they would do, he simply wanted the man near him. He hoped to convince Jeanne-Marie somehow that he was worthy of Beau’s love, that Beau could be attracted to him in spite of his disfigurement.

He knew how hard it was for Jeanne-Marie to believe the truth. He realized that Jeanne-Marie hid here in the mountains, probably from, at worst, the cruel taunts of the insensitive and, at best, the pity of the compassionate.

But Jeanne-Marie did not come. The moon rose higher, higher, finally disappearing from his view. The room grew darker.