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UNLOVABLE
SHOOTING STAR BOOK THREE
SIENNA SWAY
 copyright © 2022 Sienna Sway
All Rights Reserved
Cover Art © Covers By Jo

978-1-990307-16-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by electronic or other means, including information
storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief
passages in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
 C O NT E NT S

Foreword
UNLOVABLE

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue

Thank you for reading

About the Author
Also by Sienna Sway
 FO R E WO R D

Thank you for picking up Unlovable, the second book in the Shooting Star series. Although this series
was supposed to be about celebrities, it has turned out to be more about exploring vulnerable
characters and Unlovable is no different.
This book is mostly about Alain and Elliot’s dysfunctional relationships with each other, their
families, and themselves.
Despite all their flaws, I certainly found them lovable while writing this short book, and I hope
that you will too.
Please also note that french conversations have been written in Italics to help differentiate them.
U N L OVA B LE
 PROLOGUE

Alain

ALAIN ’ S HEART SQUEEZED WITH GIDDY EXCITEMENT AT THE SIGHT OF THE VERY PERSON HE’ D BEEN
scouring campus looking for. His friend Elliot was sitting with his head bowed over a book at one of
the long library tables. Straight, strawberry blond hair hung down, hiding exquisite green eyes.
Alain loved the unique color, but more than that, it was the way they were so easy to read that
really got to him. He couldn’t wait to see them.
Without announcing his presence, he threw himself into the chair opposite the ginger with a loud
huff as though he had been running and grinned when Elliot jumped.
“Jesus,” he muttered, even though his gaze lit up when he saw who it was. “At least warn a guy
you’re coming.”
“Oh, I always warn guys when I’m coming,” Alain said. “I am a gentleman, after all.”
Elliot laughed outright, a loud contagious burst that made Alain’s spirit soar.
“Not sure about you being a gentleman, but you are many things, Alain,” he said and then held his
fingers up to count out a list. “Loud, shameless, self-absorbed—”
“And rich and handsome, I know,” he feigned boredom and got another laugh that was promptly
ruined by the librarian poking out from behind an aisle to shush them.
“Sorry,” Elliot whispered, grimacing.
He folded up his book and stacked the rest of his work, packing them into his bag, and then stood,
silently gesturing for Alain to follow him.
Alain did, falling into step next to him with a smile on his face.
Unfamiliar happiness had overcome him since starting at UBC last month for Film Production. He
liked to think the university life just suited him, the parties, the classes, the boys… He glanced over,
catching Elliot’s strong profile and noting how his entire body tingled when he looked at him.
He’d never hit it off with someone so completely. He’d never wanted to share himself, the good
and the bad. There was just something in Elliot’s eyes that made him feel safe. Like no matter what
Alain said, he wouldn’t judge. He would understand.
As soon as they were out in the cool September evening, Elliot swung around playfully to face
him, smiling.
“So, I’m guessing you didn’t go to the library to study. Were you looking for me?”
“Of course not,” Alain lied.
“You know, you could have just texted me.”
For a moment, Alain didn’t know what to say. When he finally looked up at Elliot, ready to play it
off, just like he always did, Elliot was smiling.
They caught each other’s gazes and for a moment it lingered.
Alain was no virgin. All jokes aside, he knew he really was rich and handsome. And he knew
immediately what that look said. Elliot liked him. For that one moment, Alain’s heart felt like it was
floating, and then, the strangest thing happened; he went numb.
That was the only way he could describe it. It felt like thick steel walls rose all around him and
they were spray painted with all the reasons that going for Elliot was a terrible idea.
“Are we going to that party tonight?” Elliot asked, oblivious to the turmoil overcoming Alain as
they walked.
“Yeah,” Alain said, absently. “I’ll meet you there later.”
He barely looked back at the confused expression on Elliot’s face as he walked away. Truthfully,
he wasn’t sure what to do except go back to the dorm room.
He’d insisted on it despite his parent’s arguments but the lack of privacy was turning out to be
nothing but a headache.
Luckily, his roommate wasn’t there, so he shut the door behind him and leaned back against it for
support while his mind raced.
He liked Elliot.
Back in Montreal, Alain was sometimes followed. People took his pictures when he wasn’t
expecting it, and every wrong move he made inevitably ended up in the paper or online. At eighteen,
he’d kind of embraced that about life. He’d even made a point to do ridiculous things to see what
people would say. Last year, he’d climbed up on the ledge of Jacques Cartier Bridge and laughed for
weeks at the speculations of his mental health—much to his father’s chagrin and mother’s concern.
But here, in Vancouver, his family name held no real power the way it did back home. He wasn’t a
celebrity here. He could be himself, and the person he could be the most himself with was Elliot. And
for the first time, Alain thought he had the chance to make a good choice.
After all, Elliot himself was good.
It was almost funny how minutes ago, he would have died happily staring into those innocent
green eyes and now, he wanted to hide from them.
The longer he sat there alone, thinking about it, the surer he was. Elliot was good, all right, too
good for Alain.
Alain had been given a lifetime of harsh words to prove it. Every teacher he’d had, his parents,
every friend that he hadn’t managed to hold onto… they all knew the truth; Alain wasn’t worth trying
for.
Elliot didn’t know that yet and it wouldn’t be fair to start something with him. It would only hurt
that much more when he finally decided Alain wasn’t for him.
Right now, just as friends, Alain thought he could probably get over losing Elliot when it
eventually happened, either when he went back home or ruined things in another way.
And here he was, being self-absorbed, just like Elliot had joked he was. What if Elliot didn’t
even like him that way?
All this fear he was feeling was pointless. He should just forget about it and move on and have
fun like he always did.
It was that thought that pushed him to message Akil and invite him along to the party. It was what
made him pretend that he didn’t see the way Elliot seemed to shut down when he saw them arriving
together.
When he recovered quickly and continued to joke around with Alain like it was nothing, it stung.
He knew it was for the best if he wanted to keep Elliot as a friend for as long as possible.
Somehow though, as time went on, he didn’t scare Elliot away, the way he thought he would.
Instead, he became Alain’s steadfast friend, who remained forever unbothered by his string of
boyfriends.
If Elliot had ever really had any interest in Alain, it was long gone now.
And Alain realized what a fool he’d been, just for that one moment, to have thought that they could
ever be anything more.
 C HAPTER ONE

six years later

Elliot

A SMIRK DANCED ON ALAIN ’ S LIPS AS HE REACHED HIS ARMS AROUND THE MAN ’ S NECK. THE GUY
twisted on his stool eagerly to make more room for him.
Without hesitation, Alain squished in closer, pressing his narrow hips between the man’s spread
thighs.
It was like the entire bar—all the music and everyone in it—was put on mute.
As Elliot watched, nothing existed but the man he loved, throwing himself at some random, and
his stupid eyes couldn’t look away even though it made his heart clench and fail.
Normally the men Alain dated were so goddamn beautiful that Elliot wouldn’t even bother trying
to intervene. Each ex somehow outranked the last to the point that he found Beau, Alain’s most recent
breakup, nearly impossible to make eye contact with.
This guy though… well, he was just normal. In fact, he was scruffy as hell, with white sprinkled
through his hair. His beard was growing patchy and sparse, and his clothes were all worn out. He
looked like he was coming to the end of a bender. Elliot couldn’t blame the guy for looking like he’d
won the lottery.
Frustration suddenly filled him.
If Alain was willing to go for someone below average, Elliot was right here.
Without thinking, he was there, pulling Alain away by the shoulder like a jealous boyfriend.
Regret filled him the moment he did it. He and Alain were just friends. Alain could do what—or
who—he wanted. Elliot had no right to act like he owned him.
But then Alain swung around, his gaze landed on him, his eyes lit up and Elliot’s entire body
melted.
“Elly!” Alain shouted, throwing his arms around his neck, the older man forgotten. Their cheeks
pressed together, long black hair tickled his nose and his arms wound around Alain’s back, pulling
him in closer, despite the voice in his head telling him to step back.
“Where were you?” Alain demanded.
“Right here,” Elliot chuckled.
Whenever Alain drank, the lilt of his French accent intensified. God, Alain was so sexy. It really
wasn’t fair.
Suddenly, a large hand landed on his arm. Elliot looked up, surprised to see the man from the bar
glaring at him.
“I’ve got it from here,” the guy said gruffly, pulling Alain back toward him.
Elliot yanked his friend free, glaring at the man while Alain didn’t help matters by giggling like a
maniac.
“He’s drunk, and he’s mine. Back off,” Elliot snapped.
Not waiting for a reply, he pulled Alain to the other side of the bar. He watched Elliot, his gaze
wide with shock until he melted into another giggle.
“Wow. I don’t think I ever saw you so commanding.” He faked an exaggerated shiver. “How
erotic.”
“You’re drunk,” Elliot said, cheeks heating.
Suddenly, Alain pulled him to a stop and looked at him closely, his eyes unfocused.
“And you’re sober,” he pouted.
He glanced back in the direction of the man they’d left at the bar, as though considering going back
to him, and Elliot’s arms instinctively tightened around him.
“You just had a bad breakup,” he reminded Alain, shamelessly using that as an excuse to keep him
for a few minutes longer. “You should probably try to get over Beau before you start going after other
guys, right?”
“The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else,” Alain said absently. He was
still looking back. Elliot caught the older man licking his lips at Alain, who shot him a wicked smile
in return, his arms still around Elliot’s neck.
Elliot nearly let him go right then, but then Alain added, “besides, I don’t want him. I’m just trying
to get a free drink.”
He turned back to Elliot, leaning against him slightly, and gave him a smile—a real one, devoid of
the whole cocky act, just sweet, genuine, Alain—the one only he seemed to know.
“I’m broke now, remember?” he asked, smiling like being broke was the wildest thing.
Elliot couldn’t smile along though.
“I’ll buy you a drink,” he said, incredulously. “I’ll buy you all the drinks.”
To prove his point, he dragged him to the other bar, the one set along the back wall, far away from
the older man.
“Why didn’t you just ask?”
He waved at the bartender, automatically ordering Alain’s favorite when she approached.
Alain pulled free from Elliot, the pout back on his full pink lips.
“Don’t,” he said. “I don’t want one from you.”
“Why?” Elliot demanded, stung.
“Because you won’t drink with me,” Alain whined.
His frown intensified, turning into a glare.
“It feels like you’re judging me.”
He’d said as much before. Elliot didn’t drink really, not unless Alain pressured him into it—just
like he was right now.
“I’ll have a drink,” he said, giving easily under his friend’s glare. Usually, he didn’t like how
alcohol made him feel, but right now, he didn’t care. That creepy guy didn’t deserve Alain. Anyone
short of unattainably perfect was nowhere near good enough for him.
“Make it two,” he told the bartender.
While he was turned away, Alain slipped his arms around Elliot’s waist from behind, resting his
chin on his shoulder.
“Yay,” he said, quietly.
His hands splayed over Elliot’s abs, and he let out a small appreciative noise that could only be
heard over the music because his breath was ghosting Elliot’s ear, close enough to make him shiver.
“Damn, Elly. You’re so sexy.”
Elliot couldn’t move. When the drinks arrived, Alain let him go and he could finally breathe
again.
His whole body felt like a ball of twisted emotions, most notably was guilt. He felt like he was
stopping Alain from having a good time just because he couldn’t bear to see him with other men. He
felt ridiculous for enjoying Alain’s arms around him when he was only playing.
Elliot knew Alain didn’t want him like that. He only ever got this touchy-feely when alcohol was
involved. Since Elliot never drank too much, he always managed to hold back his own reactions, at
least.
Most of the time, Elliot was okay with that.
After all, Alain was out of his league.
Alain Tremblay was the only child of one of the wealthiest people in Quebec. His family had a
massive hotel empire that they had built from the ground up. It had been passed down for four
generations now and Alain was next in line. That was supposing that he’d only been cut off as a
warning, and Alain certainly seemed to think the whole being broke thing was temporary. He was
taking the experience as a new adventure.
Elliot had quickly learned that Alain was the type of guy to immediately throw himself into
whatever struck his fancy. Boys, vacations, business ventures, you name it. For a while now, his big
thing had been movies. He’d used altogether too much money to invest into big Hollywood flops
under the guise of business when in reality, it was more of an excuse to party with celebrities. Elliot
knew firsthand. He’d been invited to LA and New York and even Spain once to join in the fun, but
after joining him once in LA, he turned all the other offers down.
Tagging along with Alain and all his rich friends in Vancouver was already more than enough for
him.
Less than two weeks ago, his father had finally cut him off and since then, Alain had flaunted his
new poverty. From the top of the top to completely broke, Alain didn’t seem to care.
That was just how he was. He took risks, he was impulsive and fun and outgoing and on top of all
that, he looked like a cross between a Hollywood vampire and an Abercrombie model with his sharp,
unique features and piercing dark eyes, his long, elegant body, pale skin, and silky black hair that hung
almost to his shoulders. He was perfection. But above all that, he was the person that Elliot loved
more than air.
He’d loved him with all his heart ever since he’d first met him during frosh week at UBC, just
before their first semester.
Alain had loudly mocked all the way through the ghost tour and then was the only one to jump
when one of the actors leaped out in zombie gear. The fact that he’d jumped into Elliot’s arms didn’t
hurt either, neither did his cute accent. The way he still missed all the h’s made Elliot’s heart melt, but
it was the ease with which they were able to talk that really got to him.
He'd never connected so much with someone so quickly. Never looked into someone’s eyes and
felt that he had always known them.
Six years later and he had never once tried to tell Alain how he felt.
Even though it was getting harder and harder to be by his side when he wasn’t with him the way
he wanted to be, he had no intention of ever telling him.
He couldn’t.
Because as perfect as Alain was, Elliot was just as flawed.
He had a hard time making friends and a tendency to be reclusive. He had enough baggage that it
was hard to carry sometimes and on top of that, he was just—well, ugly.
Even though his skin had eventually cleared, and he had lost the extra weight he’d carried as a
child, Elliot had never grown past the red hair and freckles and terrible features.
No, he did not grow into the nose.
Back in university, he had started jogging and going to the gym to help manage stress and he had
kept it up, so now he had abs, at least, but one decent feature didn’t undo the rest.
Although Alain always complimented him, Elliot knew he only dated sexy men on a level with
himself.
Honestly, he didn’t even feel bad about it. It was good to know where he stood. It was good to
have the reminder that even if he threw himself at Alain, his friend just wouldn’t be interested.
He couldn’t blame him for that.
 C H A P T E R T WO

Alain

ALAIN SMILED WHILE HE WATCHED ELLIOT SWALLOW DOWN A GENEROUS PORTION OF HIS GIN AND
tonic.
He was tall and broad and everything he did, even the way he pulled out the straw and gulped
down a G&T, was somehow masculine.
The conversation came quick. It always did between them. Elliot was just one of those guys with
a quick wit and sparkling aura. He drew people to him, but what Alain loved was that he wasn't that
interested in other people.
Elliot didn't have time for people he didn't know. He had all the time in the world for his friends,
but he just wasn't interested in making new ones.
To be accepted into Elliot’s inner circle was something like striking oil.
He wasn't interested in appearances; he wasn't interested in money. It was a wonder that he liked
Alain at all, really. Most people didn't once the initial allure of his wealth and looks dwindled but
Elliot never wavered, never judged Alain, he was always there with a shoulder to lean on and an
honest remark.
“You know,” he said just then, proving Alain’s thoughts. “You should probably think about getting
a job if you're planning on staying cut off.”
“Why do that when I have you to buy me my drinks?”
A smile pulled at the corners of Elliot’s lips. He tried to stop it, but his pale green eyes still
sparkled.
“I don't think I can afford to cover all your drinking,” he quipped.
Alain glowered at him, but there was no heat in it.
They both knew that he liked to go out on the weekends but mostly because he loved to dance. If
anyone else was there with them, he would be out on the dance floor right now, moving to absolutely
anything that they played.
Elliot was the only friend who had agreed to join him tonight though, and usually, he refused
point-blank, to dance.
 Alain didn't want to leave him alone at the bar while he went to the dancefloor. Partially to be
polite but also, he’d noticed a few guys eying his friend throughout the night and Elliot was terrible at
handling it when people hit on him. It was a wonder that he wasn't still a virgin. Not that Alain knew
for sure. Elliot said he wasn’t, but he had never seen him with anyone. Which was for the best, Alain
didn’t think he would handle Elliot dating very gracefully.
Maybe it was petty, but Alain was glad that if Elliot did hook up with people, he did it discreetly
and didn't tell him about it.
Alain’s heart pounded just thinking about it and he downed the rest of his drink, wishing Beau
hadn't dropped him the way that he had. He needed the distraction.
“Maybe I should get a sugar daddy,” he said thoughtfully, looking at the empty glass.
Elliot rolled his eyes.
“No need,” he said. “I already said I'd buy your drinks, remember?”
“Yes, but I drink so much you’re about to go broke, remember?”
Elliot sighed and motioned the bartender for another, then slid it over to him silently.
“You’re moping again,” Alain informed him. “You mope far too much.”
Elliot pointedly ignored the comment. Well, that wouldn’t do.
To get his attention, Alain draped himself around his shoulders. Elliot’s tense back softened the
smallest bit and satisfaction washed over Alain.
“Shall I apologize to daddy dearest and get back into his good books then?”
There was that smile again. The one Elliot tried his damnedest to reign in. The one only he could
coax from him.
“I thought you said that you would rather die?” Elliot reminded him. “Something along the lines
of; that man is more repressed than a comatose nun. I’d rather die than act in a way he finds
appropriate—”
“Yes, that’s enough,” Alain interrupted as Elliot imitated his accent and voice. “And I don’t
appreciate the voice. Mine is nowhere near that high.”
“My dick would probably shrivel and turn to dust—” Elliot continued.
“I don’t sound like that!”
He couldn’t help bursting into laughter though and Elliot, the bastard, started laughing too.
“Hey,” Elliot said, still smiling. “What are we doing here, anyway?”
“Getting drunk,” Alain said, indicating the drink in his hand.
“Mmhm.”
Elliot pulled it from his hand and took a sip before handing it back to him.
“But what are we really doing here?”
Alain shrugged helplessly. He was tipsy enough to feel light and giddy, but his emotions were too
close to the surface. He wanted to push them down and forget about them. He didn’t want to talk
about them. Especially not with Elliot, not when he was the whole damned problem.
Then again, it was hard to forget about someone who was currently slinking an arm around your
waist.
It was casual enough. They did this when they were drinking, blurred the lines the slightest bit,
and his arm was still around Elliot’s shoulders, but now Alain’s heart was pounding. He wanted
more. God, it had been six years. Why was he still so weak?
With a shuddering breath, Alain pulled back, quickly finishing his drink.
When their eyes met again, Elliot looked worried.
“Don’t you want to talk about it?” he asked.
 Alain knew he meant Beau. Aside from his phone call earlier, which consisted of—Beau and me
broke up. I’m coming over. Get the vodka ready—he hadn’t mentioned his new ex-boyfriend since.
But the issue wasn’t Beau. It was never Beau. It was always Elliot and how he felt for him and
how every other person in the world, it seemed, could see it.
Beau was the third boyfriend in a row now who didn’t believe that he and Elliot weren’t hooking
up in secret. He was one of the countless guys to say Alain was stuck on Elliot like a fly to sticky
tape.
The irony was that he didn’t want to be with Elliot. He knew it would make him happier than he
had ever been in his entire life, but for how long?
If he threw himself at him the way he really wanted to, Elliot just might go for it. He liked Alain,
they were friends, he knew Elliot cared for him. He might just give it a chance. But then what? Would
he realize that Alain was too much? Would he decide it wasn’t worth the drama or the hassle?
He had fucked up nearly every relationship he ever had, right down to his mom and dad. Every
boyfriend and every friend—except for Elliot.
At this point, Elliot had already stuck by him the longest and the truth was, Alain didn’t know how
to live without him anymore. The thought of losing him made his stomach ache.
And he couldn’t tell him any of that. Not without ruining everything that they had.
So instead, he grabbed him by the hand and tugged him toward the dance floor.
“Dance with me!” he shouted as they drew closer to the speakers.
Elliot didn’t look pleased, but as soon as Alain found a spot and started to sway to the beat, his
gaze softened.
He smiled and shook his head and then started to dance.
Alain crowded in close, using the mass of people as an excuse. He pressed his lips to Elliot’s ear.
“You’re a terrible dancer,” he informed his friend.
Elliot chuckled and pushed him playfully.
“I know,” he said, but he kept dancing, jumping to songs that he couldn’t figure out the beat to, and
laughing every time he stepped on someone’s toes. Alain couldn’t stop smiling.
God, he loved him so much.
 C HAPTER THREE

Elliot

ELLIOT WOKE UP TO THE SOUND OF A LOUD BANG , FOLLOWED BY A CURSE.

A smile was on his lips before his eyes even opened.
“Who put that table there?” he heard Alain grumble from the other room.
When he finally stopped chuckling long enough to open his bedroom door and look out into the
living room of his humble apartment, the coffee table was knocked out of place and the blankets and
pillows that had been on the couch, were now on the floor.
“Did you fall off the couch?” he asked unnecessarily.
“No comment,” Alain mumbled.
He was leaning against the kitchen island, glaring daggers at the coffee machine while it brewed.
“Did my coffee machine do something to offend you?” Elliot asked.
“Hm?”
Alain squinted at Elliot, confused.
“I thought you were glaring at the machine,” he explained, finally taking in Alain’s disheveled
state. His hair was a bird’s nest of fine black strands, and his skin looked a little grey. “Or can you
just not open your eyes yet?”
“The second one,” Alain agreed.
The machine hissed out the last bit of steam and Alain let out a groan.
“Finally!”
He poured himself a cup while Elliot passed him to pull painkillers out of the cupboard and pour
a glass of water.
Alain wasn't surprised when he handed them to him, he just took them, swallowed down the pills,
and then finally blinked at him as though only just seeing him.
“God, I hate you,” he said, disparagingly.
Elliot’s lips parted in surprise, but before he could say anything, Alain went on.
“How is it you roll out of bed looking even better than the night before?” he demanded. “Where's
your hangover face? Ugh. Do you even get morning breath?”
 A shocked laugh left Elliot.
“I only had a couple drinks,” he reminded him.
For a moment, Alain just stared at him.
“I could have sworn that you were matching me... hm.”
Shrugging, he went back to the couch with his coffee, collapsing onto it and yanking the blankets
back up around himself.
He turned on the TV while Elliot made breakfast. Eggs and toast. He used to make bacon too, but
now Alain was a vegetarian. He hadn’t thought it would last. Alain was prone to big, life-changing
declarations. Elliot’s favorites included pollution is destroying our world. I’ll never get in another
car again… Sushi is the best food in the world. I’ll only ever eat sushi for the rest of my life!
His exclamation about animals—what’s happening is the equivalent of the holocaust but to farm
animals and I’ll have no part in it—was hard to take seriously. Normally, Alain only ever stuck to
things for a few weeks at most and yet here he was, six months later, and no meat had passed through
his lips—well, no literal meat anyway. Elliot was sure the other kind had been tasted plenty. He
pushed the thought away as the familiar pang of jealousy and sadness twisted his stomach.
Suddenly, his phone rang, breaking him from his thoughts.
He’d left it sitting on the coffee table and Alain reached for it.
“Oh, it’s your mom,” he said, answering just before Elliot could tell him not to.
“Hello, beautiful!” he greeted.
Elliot groaned. The last thing he wanted was to ruin his pleasant mood with another roundabout
conversation with his mother.
“Yes, it’s me. I slept over… Oh, I’m hungover, all right, but Elly is taking care of me.”
Alain laughed at whatever she said while Elliot carried their breakfasts to the couch. Alain was
still bundled up in the blankets.
“Sorry, we’ll invite you next time. I promise.”
His gaze caught Elliot’s look at that proclamation, and he winced and mouthed sorry.
“Yes, you can talk to Elliot, he’s—” He stopped dead when Elliot fervently shook his head. “Oh
sorry, I didn’t realize he went to the washroom. I think I hear the shower. Want him to call you
back...? Okay, I’ll tell him.”
He hung up and set the phone down, giving Elliot a look.
“Avoiding her calls again?”
“She keeps asking for more money,” Elliot sighed. “I mean, I do want to help her but last month I
sent her my full paycheck—”
“You help her enough,” Alain cut in.
He reached out, took the plates from his hand, and set them on the table, then before Elliot could
sit down, Alain pulled the blanket back for him. Once Elliot was settled in, he tucked it over his lap.
“Look at this show, it’s crazy. This woman thinks her ex is stalking her.” He handed Elliot his
plate and placed his own on his lap. “She’s been calling the police on him over and over while he’s
minding his business in a different state. She’s bat-shit.”
Elliot appreciated the attempt at distraction, but cheap reality shows were more Alain’s thing. The
more drama, the better. Elliot didn’t get the appeal but despite himself, found it endearing.
It was his turn to pick the next show. That was how it worked. They took turns choosing
everything they did together; places to eat, places to go… that was how he ended up at the bar so
often, despite not being much of a drinker, and that was how Alain had sat through every Avengers
movie.
 Halfway through an episode of Explained, Alain’s head drooped sleepily onto Elliot’s shoulder.
His matted hair tickled Elliot’s nose, but he didn’t dare move. His traitorous heart loved it when
Alain leaned on him, hugged him, or touched him in any way, and he always milked it.
It was all he would ever get, and so he was powerless to stop it. He didn’t even want to.
Sometimes, on sleepy days like today, when Alain sank against him on the couch, he pretended that
there was more to them. He pretended that Alain wasn’t just a touchy guy. He pretended that they
were more than friends.
It was pathetic, but it was what it was. Elliot couldn’t help himself.
Right now, it was easier than usual to do because as the episode dragged on, Alain kept getting
more comfortable under the blanket. He pulled it up around his neck and snuggled closer until Elliot
was pressed into the arm of the couch.
“Put your legs up,” he ordered sleepily.
Elliot did as he was told while a warning started blaring in his head. The second he was
horizontal, his alarms were proved right.
Alain spread out beside him, sandwiched between the cushions and Elliot’s body. He draped a
leg over Elliot’s and slipped an arm around his waist before resting his head on Elliot’s shoulder.
Somehow, they were laying on the couch, cuddling under the covers.
Elliot’s heart was pounding, but if Alain could feel it, he didn’t say anything, just sighed
contentedly as he continued watching TV.
He started to comment on the show again, but all Elliot could do was make non-committal noises
in response because he had no clue what they were watching anymore. Then Alain’s comments started
to dwindle, and his breathing evened, and Elliot was left with the man he couldn’t have, draped
across his body, fast asleep.
Elliot shifted in discomfort, and not because he didn't want Alain on top of him with all his soul,
but because Alain was warm and felt too good. Elliot couldn’t help the way his body reacted to him.
Alain’s inner thigh was draped over both of Elliot’s, holding his legs down in dangerously close
range of his crotch. He shifted, trying to slide the offending limb a little bit lower, but Alain sighed
heavily in sleep and his body moved even closer and that damn leg came up again, even higher than
before. His inner thigh pressed down heavily on Elliot’s growing erection.
He had to bite his lip to keep from moaning. He tilted his head back, releasing a slow, measured
breath. Now would be a wise time to think of something else, something that would kill the desire
coiling in his belly, but literally nothing came to mind that would be strong enough to stop him from
wanting more.
Why did Alain always have to smell so damn good?
And how the hell was Elliot supposed to pretend he didn't want him with all his heart when Alain
was willing to push him down and wrap around him like an octopus. It was so cute and needy and
sexy and reckless all at once. It made him want to tangle his arms and legs around him too and pull
him in closer and protect him and devour him all in one go.
But it also made it apparent just how little Alain thought of him in that way. Did it not even cross
his mind how Elliot may react to him?
So, Elliot just laid there, stiff—in more ways than one—and still, trying not to disturb Alain while
simultaneously soaking in every moment of this torture.
Alain was always touchy. Sometimes Elliot thought he was teasing him—the way he would grab
onto him and pretend to flirt—but this was new.
Maybe the low of a hangover mixed with a breakup was making him feel lonely. Lord knew Elliot
had seen this before. As a child, his mom had always been the most loving and attentive on days after
a breakup binge session.
She would lay on the couch and watch TV with her eyes puffy and bruised from tears and so little
sleep. She would give him hugs on those days and say silly, sappy things about how he was the only
man for her and how she was sorry for not paying enough attention to him. Sometimes she would cry
and cling to him… and Elliot loved it so much that he wouldn't even care that her breath smelled like
vodka and vomit.
He blinked, trying to push those thoughts away. A moment as perfect as this didn't need to be
ruined by thoughts about his mother and their dysfunctional relationship.
Alain was nothing like her. He drank, but never to such excess. He wasn’t an alcoholic and he
didn’t need to be depressed to appreciate Elliot.
He always tried to build Elliot up, saying he was the best and that he could get anyone he wanted.
Now and then, he even said Elliot was sexy. Once, when Alain had had a few drinks on board, he’d
told him that he looked like a fairy-tale prince. It might have been the cringiest compliment that once
could ever receive, but the tenderness in his gaze had almost made Elliot believe it.
His mother had never had a nice word for Elliot. All his life he’d heard that he’d unfortunately
taken after his father. Whether that was true, he had no idea. At twenty-four, he still had no clue who
the man was. Aside from, he was ‘a piece of shit from the bar who didn’t stick around till morning’
and how she ‘never got his last name’ Elliot had heard nothing about the man.
While she may have been the more honest of the two, Alain was willing to lie to make Elliot feel
good about himself. As silly as it was, Elliot appreciated it. At least Alain wanted him to be happy.
He always cared about him. He didn’t need to be drunk or hungover to be nice…
Elliot looked down at Alain’s form, buried under the covers and his heart clenched because this
suddenly felt all too familiar. Far too much like how it had been with his mother.
He couldn’t deny the way it stung that Alain would only do this while lonely, hungover, and
probably heartbroken. If only he could like Elliot the way he so desperately wanted him to.
Just then, his brain ceased its incessant depressing thoughts because Alain shifted and let out a
long, deep breath that brushed against his neck and ear.
He shivered and Alain moaned softly.
The sound sent a bolt straight through him and that was all the warning he got before Alain moved,
his entire body rolling atop Elliot’s, hips pressing their erections between them.
Elliot’s entire body short-circuited from the shock. Alain was hard, just as hard as he was, if not
more so—then Alain’s lips pressed to his neck.
A soft, needy noise left Elliot, as Alain started to suck the skin between his lips. He bit him softly
and Elliot’s hips bucked of their own accord. Alain groaned and pushed down against him, grinding
their erections together with more purpose.
Elliot wrapped him in his arms. He pulled him in closer and Alain groaned again, completely
uninhibited because—because he was still asleep.
Alain hadn’t suddenly decided he wanted Elliot. He didn’t even know what was happening.
It was like being doused in ice water; Elliot’s whole body jerked. Just like that, his hands were on
Alain’s shoulders, pushing him roughly away.
Alain blinked at him, startled and sleepy, a confused frown on his lips which were swollen and
pink from kissing him.
“What—what's wrong?” he asked, voice still slurred from sleep.
“You—” he managed. “You were...”
 Slowly, Alain looked down at them, their hips were still pressed together, and Elliot thought he
would probably die from embarrassment. The only comforting fact was that Alain had a hard-on too.
Then again, he didn't know whom he was rubbing it against until this second, whereas Elliot had been
in on it from the start.
For a long moment, Alain remained silent and blank. He didn’t seem to react at all.
Then, he slowly climbed off as Elliot realized he’d been hoping Alain would continue on but on
purpose this time.
Still sitting on his legs, the blankets around them, he finally met Elliot’s gaze.
He looked upset. More upset than Elliot could ever remember seeing him. He could barely look
him in the eye, but he did.
“I'm sorry,” he said, swallowing. “I—I didn't mean to...”
Elliot nodded, unsure what to say.
He didn't want the apology.
“It’s not a big deal,” he managed, surprised by how normal his voice sounded.
Alain glanced around the room, seeming to search for something to say. Finally, his gaze landed
on the tv.
“What are we watching?” he asked.
Elliot followed his gaze, surprised it was still on.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly.
He pushed himself up, awkwardly untangling their legs.
Somehow, they ended up on opposite sides of the couch, the air thick between them. The tension
was weird and unfamiliar, but he didn’t know what to do about it because all he could think about
was what had happened.
He could still feel Alain’s lips against his neck, the wetness of his tongue lapping his skin, and the
sharp bite of his teeth.
His skin was tingling. He wanted to touch the spot and after a moment, he did. He couldn’t help it.
Alain caught him, his gaze darting over and then away like it burned his eyes.
A moment later, he pulled out his phone and started texting someone. Elliot knew what he was
doing, so it wasn’t a surprise when he turned to him.
“I have to go,” he said. “I’m meeting someone.”
“Yeah, okay,” Elliot replied.
Alain got up, silently collecting his things.
Elliot knew he shouldn’t ask, but he’d learned long ago that when it came to Alain, he was a
masochist.
“Who are you meeting?” he asked.
“Beau,” Alain said, not looking at him.
Elliot swallowed.
“You going to make up?”
“Maybe.”
Alain pulled on his jacket and shoes, but he paused before he reached the door.
“Want to do something on the weekend?” he asked.
“Yes,” Elliot said, relieved.
Alain smiled at him, one of those small, precious, real smiles. The kind Elliot never once saw
him give to Beau.
When the door shut behind him Elliot’s hands started to shake.
 “God, I’m so fucked,” he breathed.
He was still half-hard, despite the awkwardness that had followed. It was nothing really, barely a
kiss to his neck and their crotches pressed together for a minute, but the sexiness of such a long-term
fantasy almost coming true was still better than any sexual encounter that Elliot had experienced.
Groaning, he pushed to his feet, straight into a pair of sweats and his running shoes. Within
minutes he was out in the early May air, feet hitting the sidewalk as he started to run.
For a while, he couldn’t stop his mind or emotions from going wild. He alternated between
embarrassment, frustration, and hatred for Beau, which he knew was unwarranted. It wasn’t Beau’s
fault that Alain wanted him. It was his fault for wanting Alain.
Elliot would do anything for Alain to want him the way he wanted him.
He never would though. How long was he going to entertain these stupid hopeful fantasies? It was
too hard. Especially after this.
As he ran, the logical side of him switched on, saying the same things as usual. He should walk
away. It would hurt for a while, he would miss Alain, but someday, he might meet someone who
actually wanted him.
Sweat dampened his skin, cooling his back and face and he pushed harder, farther, faster. He kept
running until his mind shut down and finally cleared.
When he finally made it back to his apartment entrance, his entire outfit was drenched in sweat,
his body was drained and satiated, his head was clear and matter of fact.
He breathed deeply in the elevator, heart, and lungs continuing their decline in speed to a normal
rate.
When he entered his apartment, the first thing he saw was the blanket, still a crumpled mess on the
couch where they’d cuddled.
Then he remembered Alain’s hesitant request to meet up again the coming weekend.
The truth was, he couldn’t say no to Alain. He had never been able to. The cards were in the other
man’s hands, as always.
“This is just how things are,” he told himself, repeating the mantra that had started in his head way
back six years ago when Alain had first started dating someone else.
Back then, the way Alain had looked at him and clung to him had made him stupidly hopeful. But
then he’d suddenly brought Akil around—yes, he remembered the guy’s name, he remembered all
their names—and flaunted him like the gorgeous, exotic arm candy that he was, and Elliot couldn’t
even blame him.
He remembered looking at himself in the mirror, feeling the way his heart was closing in on itself,
and thinking this is just how things are. If he wanted Alain in his life at all, he just had to accept it.
Nothing had changed.
 C H A P T E R FO U R

Alain

“S O , HERE’ S THE THING ,” ALAIN STARTED , AN IRRESISTIBLE SPEECH READY ON HIS LIPS . “WE SHOULD
get back together—”
“No.”
Beau’s firm response cut him off short.
He took a slow sip from his mojito and blinked at him as though the conversation was over. If
Beau didn’t want to talk, then why the hell had he agreed to meet him here?
Instantly aggravated, Alain took a sip of his strawberry martini and glanced around the patio
where they sat. For a Sunday afternoon, it was packed. Tourists and locals alike enjoyed the sunshine
and the views of Kits Beach. It was a picture-perfect view; the water was a cool blue and, in the
distance, mountains faded into the crystal sky. The true Vancouverites were jogging and swimming. A
group was doing yoga in the distance and nearby, three or four people were practicing their hoop
moves.
It was fun and different. Eclectic and beautiful at the same time and even though he did none of
those things, days like this were the reason that he stayed in the city.
And Elliot, of course.
He was also Alain’s reason for sitting here with Beau right now.
Alain shook off the thought of Elliot, under him, warm and receptive, and fought to remember his
preplanned arguments. He turned back to his lunch date.
“Look,” he began calmly, “you're single, and I'm single.”
Beau balked.
“That's it? We’re both single so we should be together?” He threw his head back and barked out
a laugh. “Come on, you've gotta do better than that!”
Still chuckling, Beau shook his head at Alain as though he was incredibly funny, and Alain
decided he hated him. While they had been dating, Beau never found his actual jokes funny, just the
accidental things Alain had done or said… but he needed a boyfriend and Beau was here.
Sighing at the amused glint in Beau’s eyes, he pressed on.
 “I know you think I'm hot. We can work out whatever the issue was,” he said dismissively.
This time, Beau only arched a brow at him incredulously.
“Are you for real?” he asked.
He set his glass down on the table, leaning his elbows on it to address Alain. It was like he was
trying to look straight through him and succeeding spectacularly. Alain shrank back a little in his seat
before he caught himself.
“Alain,” Beau finally said, gently. “You're in love with someone else. That's the reason we broke
up and it’s not something I'm going to work out with you. You can't just brush that aside.”
Alain bit his lip, unable to hold Beau’s gaze.
“I never said that I loved him.”
“You never denied it either,” Beau said, shrugging and leaning back in his chair. “Even if you had,
it wouldn’t have mattered. It was too obvious.”
He caught the look on Alain’s face and shook his head.
“Don't worry, I'm not that hurt about it. I'm getting on just fine without you.”
He finished off his drink and motioned casually to the waitress for another.
“Besides, I still don't see why you and Elliot aren’t together.”
Alain couldn’t answer and he didn’t appreciate the turn in the conversation.
“I'm asking you to be my boyfriend again,” he said dejectedly. “Must you really tell me to get with
someone else? You're hurting my pride right now.”
Beau rolled his eyes.
“Always so dramatic,” he chided.
The waitress appeared with Beau's second drink. Alain watched him sip it in silence for a
moment.
Beau was a good-looking man. When Alain had met him, his first thought was that he looked like
the lovechild of all the Hollywood Chris’. For some twisted reason, that reminded him of Elliot, how
he made him watch every one of those stupid Avengers movies and how many hours he got to sit next
to him in a dark theatre, wondering what would happen if he grabbed his hand. That was why he
wanted to date Beau so badly, even though he wasn't really his type. Even though no one had been his
type aside from Elliot since they’d met.
Sometimes being next to him was so hard that Alain couldn't handle it and the only reprieve he
had was forcing himself to be with someone else.
He thought of this morning, how Elliot had tasted on his lips, how half asleep, he’d thought it was
a good idea to just go for it. Except that Elliot was too much of a gentleman for that. He was so pure.
He'd never just fuck Alain unless they were properly together, and Alain knew that wasn't an option.
If he gave himself to Elliot the way he wanted to, and it didn’t work out…
The thought of losing him was simply too frightening to bear.
The only problem was that Alain had felt him today, his warmth, his strong arms around him, his
erection pressing against him. How could he ever face him again and pretend it was nothing but his
body’s sleepy reaction? He needed to have someone as a buffer. Someone so that Elliot would think
he wasn't interested and could relax around him.
Alain knew Elliot. If his friend thought he was really interested in him, he would try to do the
right thing and be with him, even if it wasn’t what he wanted.
Alain swallowed down the rest of his drink before deciding to give it one last try.
He reached across the table and put a hand over Beau’s where it was resting on the table. He gave
him a suggestive smile.
 “We had fun together at least, right?” he asked. “It doesn’t have to be serious.”
Beau watched him for a moment, his expression unreadable.
“The sex was fine, I guess,” he said.
Alain gaped.
“Just fine?”
“To be honest,” Beau went on, “you never seemed that into it.”
Before Alain could say anything, he pulled his hand free and gestured to the waitress again,
pointing to Alain’s drink this time.
He was the complete opposite of Elliot. He was cool, composed, confident. That was another
reason Alain had gone for him; because Beau wasn't what he wanted.
Guilt swept him.
He pulled back in his seat, cheeks flaming hot as the truth of the situation hit him.
He barely noticed the drink being put in front of him, but he took it and gulped down the sweet,
cold liquid, coming back to reality.
Beau was watching him, something like sympathy in his gaze.
“Tell me again why you’re not with Elliot?” he asked.
He’d never told him a first time. He’d never told anyone. The truth was that Elliot was the only
person he felt he could confide in, and this was the only thing he couldn’t tell him.
Surprisingly, words spilled out.
“It would never work. We’re best friends.”
“Don’t they say that friendship is the basis of a good relationship?”
Alain looked out toward the beach, watching the yoga class as though it was of great interest. He
didn’t know how to explain or why he was even trying to.
“It wouldn’t work,” he said again.
Beau hummed a noncommittal noise and then came back with another unexpected question.
“Is it you, or him that would be the problem?”
Surprised, it was Alain’s turn to laugh.
“Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but I’m not very good at relationships…” he frowned as the
absurdity of the situation hit him. “The irony being that the relationship I’m trying to save is the reason
I’m now messing up other ones…”
Beau huffed out a laugh.
“Not to mention it’s not very nice.”
Alain nodded, shame rippling through him again.
“I mean, I did think you liked me at first,” Beau admitted. “It wasn’t until I saw you with Elliot
that I caught on.”
Alain remembered their first argument about it and bit his lip.
“It wasn’t the first time a boyfriend thought we were cheating behind his back,” he confessed.
Beau grimaced.
“I still find it hard to believe that nothing’s ever happened between you two.”
For a moment Alain remembered the feeling of Elliot against him this morning but pushed the
thought quickly away.
“It’s one thing if you think you’ll fuck it up,” Beau said. “But it seems like he’s got it just as bad,
or worse, for you.”
Alain fervently shook his head.
“He cares about me, and he takes care of me because he’s just that type of person.”
 A smile pulled at Beau’s lips. Once again, he was looking at him like he was cute, and it made
Alain’s jaw clench.
“It’s true,” he insisted. “He’s just nice.”
“No one’s that nice,” Beau said. “The guy is in love with you.”
For a moment, the entire world seemed to flip upside down. Alain managed to shake his head,
weakly. What did Beau know?
“That’s not true,” he managed.
Seeming to take pity on him, Beau stopped arguing.
He finished his drink and then looked at his watch and Alain knew that was it. No more Beau.
Time to find a new temporary boy toy.
“I’ve gotta run,” Beau said. “I’m supposed to meet a friend at the country club pretty soon.”
He saluted Alain in parting and pushed to his feet but paused before leaving.
“You know, I’ll be playing at the Belford on Thursday,” he said. “You and Elliot should come.”
Surprised, Alain nodded.
“Does this mean—”
“No,” Beau laughed. “We are not back together.”
He walked away, shaking his head like Alain was crazy.
“Jerk,” he muttered.
But the invitation made his heart skip. Another excuse to try to take Elliot dancing. Would he
come?
He texted him, nerves spiking as he waited for a reply. He wanted more than anything for things to
be normal between them.
Even so, when Elliot texted back sure like it was nothing, disappointment hit him hard.
A deep, unruly part of him, wanted this to be hard for Elliot too. He wanted Elliot to love him the
way Beau thought he already did. In reality, he knew that if they were together, it would end in
disaster, and then, he would be truly alone. Maybe it was selfish, but Alain couldn’t handle losing his
best friend.
 C HAPTER FIVE

Elliot

ELLIOT STARED AT ALAIN ’ S MESSAGE.

Beau invited us to his gig on Thursday. Want to go?
He was proud of his reply.
Sure.
Straightforward. Like nothing was wrong.
And nothing was wrong. Nothing had changed. They were carrying on as though nothing had
happened. Except that, clearly, things felt weird between them because they hadn't seen each other all
week. Not even another message had flown between them.
Elliot couldn’t help being nervous as he got ready. He pulled on a pair of jeans, the dark navy
ones that Alain had jokingly said his ass looked good in. It was stupid, he knew, but he couldn’t help
following with the green shirt Alain had picked out for him. He'd gone on and on about how it made
Elliot’s eye color pop and insisted he wore it out of the store. That day, Alain had barely torn his gaze
away, smiling and shaking his head and saying sappy things about how Elliot’s momma had blessed
him with those eyes and other things that had made his cheeks heat and his heart flutter.
It had been too hard to even meet Alain’s gaze while he looked at him like that, so the shirt had
gone straight into his closet when he got home, and he hadn't worn it since.
It was only later when the cab slowed next to the Belford and Elliot caught sight of Alain standing
outside with Beau, that he realized what he was doing. He was trying to compete with the blond
Adonis, as though that was even possible.
Beau was leaning against the wall in a tailored pair of slacks and a pressed shirt that clung to his
thick muscles. A cigarette dangled from his hand as he grinned at Alain, dimples showing and bright
blue eyes crinkling in that ridiculously attractive way.
Elliot wanted to be mad at Beau for being so perfect, but he couldn't help it, could he? If he could
just turn the wattage down on that smile at least, then maybe Alain wouldn't have been so desperate to
get back with him. Especially when he'd never done that before. He'd never gone back to a previous
boyfriend in all the time Elliot had known him.
 Elliot’s body went cold as the truth of the matter hit him.
Until this week, Alain would say 'never the ex, only the next' whenever it came up, as though that
was a true nugget of wisdom.
The fact that he was back with Beau now... did that mean that Alain was finally serious about
someone? Did that mean that Elliot was finally going to lose him?
Was that why he had subconsciously wanted to try to win Alain over tonight?
Heat rose in his cheeks as he watched them.
No green shirt was going to change anything. He shouldn't have come.
Before he could consider telling the cabby to keep driving, Beau seemed to sense him. He glanced
up, straight into Elliot’s eyes and his smile brightened.
He waved and nudged Alain, gesturing to Elliot.
Alain turned and glanced at him over his shoulder. Their eyes caught, but he couldn’t read the
expression in them.
Silently, Elliot paid the driver and climbed from the taxi as they walked over to meet him. It was
still early, barely dusk and it felt a bit weird to see Alain in his clubbing clothes. Today he was
wearing black pants and a red shirt, but no matter the color, they were always skintight when he went
out. His long hair was pushed back, exposing his clean, handsome face. He smiled at Elliot; a twisted
tilt of his lips that didn’t look quite natural.
“You made it,” Beau said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thanks for coming.”
Elliot managed a smile.
“Yeah, thanks for the invite,” he said. “When do you start?”
His gaze kept flying to Alain, and not because he looked good enough to eat. He wasn’t looking at
Elliot.
Great. Alain felt weird. Probably just as weird as Elliot did.
He probably couldn’t believe that he’d made a move on him. He probably got a shiver when he
thought about it.
“In about half an hour,” Beau said.
Elliot struggled to pay attention to him until he tossed his cigarette aside and patted Alain on the
shoulder.
“I should get back to the band,” he said. “See you two inside?”
He ruffled Alain's hair affectionately as he passed. Elliot’s heart shut down another notch and he
looked away.
The periods between Alain's partners were always a relief. It was like Elliot could breathe easy
again. Seeing him with someone always took a few days to get used to. He would get used to this just
as he always did.
“Drinks?” Alain asked.
Elliot nodded and Alain’s gaze shot to him briefly, then dropped to his shirt just for a moment
before he looked away.
Elliot’s cheeks heated. Alain could probably read straight through him.
They ended up inside at one of the tables.
The lounge was dimly lit and classy as hell. Coming from money, Alain always took him to places
like these with shining glass top bars, backlit alcohol displays, comfortable couches, and sleek tables.
To places where the drink prices were double the hourly wage of most of the population.
A chandelier hung from the ceiling over the small dance floor just in front of the stage where
Beau's band would be playing.
 “Have you been here?” Alain asked.
He shook his head.
“No. You?”
Alain nodded.
“Last time Beau played here, I came to watch.”
“Oh.”
They fell into silence. Some upbeat music was playing on the speakers and the people at the table
closest to theirs were laughing loudly at something. It was all Elliot could pay attention to.
Suddenly, Alain sighed heavily, loud enough to draw his attention.
He was watching Elliot shrewdly, his lips twisted.
“I don't want this between us,” he said.
For a moment, Elliot’s entire world stopped.
“There's no reason we should be so awkward, right?” he went on.
“Right,” Elliot choked. For a moment there, he’d thought Alain was talking about something else.
Specifically, moving their relationship in the direction that Elliot couldn’t stop thinking about.
Alain's shoulders relaxed and he reached over the table, gripping his wrist.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “The other day, I didn't mean to—”
His words seemed to die on his lips. He licked them and went on in a quiet voice.
“You didn't hate it that much, did you?”
Before Elliot’s brain could even come up with an acceptable answer, Alain chuckled and leaned
back in his chair.
“I mean, I always thought I was quite attractive,” he said. “You're hurting my ego.”
Elliot managed a smile.
“You are attractive,” he said, shaking his head. “As you already know.”
“If I was so great you wouldn't have pushed me away like that.”
He said it lightly but there was something like disappointment in his eyes. Of course. Alain wasn't
used to getting turned down.
Wait. Was that what Elliot had done? But Alain hadn’t even meant to come onto him, had he?
Elliot’s hands gripped the table with sudden force.
“I didn't—”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Alain said, waving a dismissive hand. “I have plenty of other men to boost my
ego back up again.”
He kicked Elliot playfully under the table and the server arrived, distracting him with the wine
menu.
Elliot took the chance to ground himself in reality until the server left.
“So, how is it going with Beau now?” he asked. He had to, even if he didn’t want to know.
Friends asked things like that. “It looks like you made up.”
Alain shrugged but didn’t offer any more than that. It was even less detail than he’d given him
before. That was always how he knew it was bad. Whenever Alain didn’t share the stupid, flippant
reasons for a breakup, those were the times Alain seemed particularly upset by it and Elliot knew it
had ended for a reason that hurt him.
Those were also, usually, the times that he clung to Elliot the hardest.
“What did you do all week?” Alain asked.
Elliot didn’t argue the change of subject, grateful for the way conversation started to flow again,
the way he was used to it being between them.
 Soon after, the band came on.
Beau looked good up there, the whole group did. He’d mentioned to him before that they’d met in
high school and kept the band going since then, playing gigs all over the west coast. Elliot still found
it incredibly strange that four, equally attractive and talented young men had attended the same high
school at the same time and become friends.
Beau was on the bass, the others played a guitar, drums and one sang.
The moment they started with an upbeat tune, the atmosphere of the place lifted. Smiles lit
everyone’s faces and people bounced in their seats.
Elliot watched the band bob and move with their notes, somehow showing charisma through the
way they played their instruments. He was smiling the whole time.
When the song ended, they all clapped. The guy on guitar leaned toward his mic.
“Hope everyone’s ready to dance,” he said with a charming wink.
The second he said it, Elliot shrank down in his seat and turned back to the table, catching Alain’s
eyes on him.
He was watching him with a soft, warm smile. He didn’t look away when he got caught but leaned
toward Elliot instead.
“We should take ballroom dance classes together,” he said.
Surprised, Elliot shook his head fervently.
“No thanks,” he said. “I think you like having toes.”
Alain snorted.
“I also like when you dance with me.”
Elliot’s smile faltered.
It was moments like this that always kept him hanging on.
The music started back up again. He sipped his drink and turned his attention to the people who
jumped up to take the guitarist’s suggestion.
The small dance floor was already a whirl of colors as people whipped across the polished
wood.
It was too loud to talk anyway, but everything still felt off.
The atmosphere in the place was just as upbeat as before, but now there was a sinking feeling in
Elliot’s chest. They’d both agreed to forget about what had happened but everything Alain said was
too easy to confuse with more.
And the way he was looking at Elliot… he was reading too much into it again. He was seeing
what he wanted to see. Reading more from the lingering gazes than there was.
When the band finished their set, Beau wasted no time coming over to their table.
“Having fun?” he asked.
“Well, the music here's a bit of a disappointment,” Alain joked. “But aside from that—”
Beau smacked his arm.
A moment later, a hand landed on the back of Elliot’s chair, and he glanced up to see an intensely
attractive man sliding in to sit next to him. He was tall and slim with olive skin and piercing brown
eyes. His dark brown hair was slicked artfully back, and Elliot was sure that even the light scruff of
his beard had been left to create a certain effect. He looked familiar, but Elliot couldn’t place him.
“This is Samir,” Alain said, kicking him under the table to get his attention. “He’s a friend of mine
and knows Beau too.”
He nodded at Elliot and reached around to hug Alain.
“It’s been a while, man. Thanks for the invite.”
 “What brings you to Vancouver this time?”
“A super-secret project,” Samir grinned. “Can’t share.”
“Oh, come on,” Alain said, rolling his eyes. “I probably paid for it. Is it a movie, or show?”
Samir grinned.
“Don’t give me that. I know your daddy cut you off.”
Still, he leaned in and whispered something in Alain’s ear. Alain’s eyes widened.
“Nope. You’re right. I had nothing to do with that movie. That’s a big one. Will you play the
lead?”
Elliot’s mind raced until suddenly, he realized why Samir was so familiar.
He was an actor. One of Alain’s big-shot friends. Sometimes Elliot forgot that he was in with the
celebrities. Hell, Alain himself ended up in the tabloids sometimes, especially in Quebec where his
family was so well known.
It was hard to think of Alain as anything other than Alain though. Until he casually invited over
friends that Elliot sometimes watched in movies, of course.
Before he could get too star-struck though, Samir turned to look at him.
“So, this is the infamous BFF,” he mused. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Oh—uh, yeah?”
His cheeks heated and Samir gave him a lingering smile.
“I didn't see you two dancing,” he said.
“Don't take it personally,” Alain quipped. “This one doesn't dance.”
“No?” Samir asked, arching an interested brow at Elliot.
Elliot tried for a casual shrug.
“I can't dance,” he insisted.
“Anyone can dance,” Samir said.
Elliot chose not to argue that. Luckily, he didn't have to, because just then, the other band members
joined them, squeezing around the small table, and just like Beau, they were all friendly and charming
and impossible to not like. The server arrived then with glasses for the others and another bottle of
wine.
Alain ended up squishing up against Beau, but for once that was easy enough for Elliot to ignore
because Samir seemed genuinely interested in talking to him.
“What do you do?” he asked.
“Nothing as interesting as acting,” Elliot said. “Just graphic design for a marketing firm.”
“Ooh, an artist.”
Elliot laughed.
“I'm usually just sitting in front of a computer,” he corrected but Samir smiled.
“Anyone who does design is secretly an artist,” he said. “I'll bet you like to do other art too, don't
you?”
He felt the blush returning to his cheeks.
“I like to sketch,” he admitted. “Sometimes I paint too. Just caricatures, and things like that.
Nothing fancy.”
Samir chuckled.
“You should draw me.”
“Uh,” Elliot looked at Samir’s utter perfection. “It might be hard to make a caricature of you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. The whole point is to exaggerate flaws, and you don’t appear to have any.”
 Samir’s eyes widened and then he threw his head back, laughing. God help him, even his laugh
was perfect, light, and contagious, and Elliot found himself laughing along.
“You’re funny,” Samir said, still smiling.
“I try,” he replied, taking a sip of his drink.
Just then, his gaze caught Alain’s across the table. Elliot swallowed. Even though he had Beau
squeezed up against his side, he looked miserable. Elliot noticed that no one was talking to him as
Beau was deep in conversation with his other bandmates.
He knocked Alain’s foot under the table, and he glanced up at him, looking surprised.
“You good?” he asked.
Alain nodded, a frown battling with the smile on his lips.
“I can’t help thinking of the caricature you had no problem drawing of me.”
Elliot bit his lip.
“Ah. You heard that?”
The frown won on Alain’s face.
“Every word!” he pouted. “There I was feeling like Rose on the Titanic and you drew me with big
Dumbo ears!”
Elliot tried to bite back a smile, but it was impossible, Alain was too cute sometimes. That day
he’d roared and complained about the drawing but then the next time Elliot was at his place, it was
framed on the wall.
“Don’t worry, your big Dumbo ears are cute,” he told him.
Allain’s hands flew up to cover them.
“You’re going to give me a complex,” he informed him. “Feel guilty.”
Elliot laughed.
Suddenly, Samir dropped his arm around Elliot’s shoulder leaning in to be heard over the music.
“I have an idea,” he said, voice low. “We can do a trade. You draw me and I’ll teach you to
dance.”
Elliot noticed that Samir was already swaying to the music and shook his head fervently.
“No thanks, I’m good.”
“What? Come on.”
“It’ll take more than that to convince him,” Alain said.
Samir ignored him, leaning a little closer.
“You can’t be the only guy not dancing in the club,” he insisted, and Elliot finally realized that
Samir might be hitting on him. After all, he was practically breathing into his ear.
Surprised, he pulled back a little, catching Samir’s intense gaze, and yes, he was definitely giving
him a suggestive, flirtatious look.
For a split second, Elliot was sure that someone had put him up to it and then he had to shake the
thought away. This wasn’t middle school. Sometimes people really were interested, as unlikely as
that may seem.
Heart hammering, he shot a glance at Alain. Part of him wanted Alain to stop him, to jump up and
tell Samir and anyone else who would listen that Elliot was his—because he was.
But Alain wasn’t even watching them. He was turned toward his boyfriend, drinking his wine as
though Elliot wasn’t even there anymore.
Swallowing, he pushed to his feet, a little bit mollified by the way Samir’s eyes lit up when he
did.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said.
 He pulled Elliot onto the small dance floor, which was crowded now, and turned to face him.
Without hesitation, he grabbed Elliot’s hips firmly and pulled him close.
They were just about the same height at a couple of inches over six feet, Samir’s hips pressed
against his and he started to sway them to the beat.
“Just follow along,” he murmured.
Heart racing, Elliot tried. He couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Aside from being
shockingly handsome, Samir was a celebrity. He could probably have anyone he wanted. That fact
made Elliot suddenly want like crazy to show Samir that he had made a decent choice. Still, he was
nervous as hell and half a step behind the whole time.
“A little faster,” Samir said, smiling.
Elliot tried to do as he said, while simultaneously trying to find a place for his hands. Tentatively,
he placed them on Samir’s lower back and was rewarded with a smile and Samir’s grip on him
tightening.
Alain was normally the only person who could convince him to get on the dance floor and
whenever he did, they did nothing more than jumping and waving their arms. It was probably a
pathetic sight compared to this. This was intimate and warm. It made him want to pull Samir a bit
closer, if only because he was starting to enjoy the way they were leaning on each other. It had been a
long time since someone had just stood with him, body to body, just touching.
It had been a long time since he’d felt like someone really wanted him.
Would it be so bad to forget about Alain?
Suddenly, a shoulder bumped into him, hard enough to nearly knock him off balance.
Samir’s grip tightened on him, stabilizing him.
“Watch it,” he said, and Elliot was surprised to see Beau and Alain next to them.
“Sorry,” Beau grimaced. “My partner here is a little clumsy.”
He suddenly shoved Alain forcibly in between them. Elliot and Samir stumbled apart.
“You two dance,” Beau said. “I need to talk to Sam.”
He pulled his friend away, ignoring his protests, and Elliot was suddenly left alone with Alain.
For a moment, he watched as Beau said something to Samir that he couldn't hear.
Samir frowned and then looked at Beau, saying something that didn’t look all that friendly.
“I think they're fighting,” Elliot said. “Did something happen?”
Alain stared sullenly down at the floor for a moment before looking purposefully up at him.
“Aren’t we supposed to be dancing?”
He gripped him by the hips and the next thing he knew, Alain was right there pressing up against
him even closer than Samir had been.
Elliot nearly choked.
Blood surged to his groin, and he willed his cock to stay down.
“Alain,” he gasped. “I don’t think Beau meant he wanted us grinding.”
It was supposed to come out as a joke, but he missed the mark, his voice practically coming out as
a squeak. Alain didn’t even smile.
“Trust me, he doesn’t care.”
“But—”
“He doesn’t want me,” Alain insisted.
“Of course, he does,” Elliot argued. “Anyone would.
Alain let out a heavy breath and dropped his face into Elliot’s chest.
“Are you going to dance with me, or not?”
 Before Elliot could answer, Alain stepped back, shaking his head.
“Forget it. Never mind.”
He turned to leave, but Elliot reached out automatically, catching him by the sleeve before he
could get very far, concern gripping him.
“Hang on,” he said. “Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine,” Alain muttered, shaking free of his grip.
Elliot watched him leave the dancefloor. Before he could go after him, someone else leaving the
dancefloor caught his eye. He watched Samir march back to the table with his arms crossed and a
glower on his face.
What the hell was going on tonight?
Disappointment over the end of whatever was happening with Samir warred with worry over
Alain. He stood there, alone on the dancefloor, feeling more out of place than ever, unsure who to go
after.
He could go back to the table, sit down next to Samir again, and see where the night went, or he
could go after Alain. Like he always did.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Beau’s voice, shouting into his ear, made him jump.
“I’m… standing here,” Elliot said, after a moment.
“Yeah,” Beau agreed, rolling his eyes. “Where did you chase Alain off to?”
Right, of course his boyfriend would want to know where he went. He was the one who was
supposed to be chasing after Alain. Elliot had to stop doing things like that.
Decision made, he turned toward the table with a shrug.
“I didn’t see where he went,” he said.
Beau stopped him.
“Well go find him.”
Elliot stopped in his tracks.
“What about you?”
“I’m going to go finish his drink,” he said. “Then get back on stage for the rest of our set.”
Shocked, Elliot stared at him.
“Look,” Beau said, leaning closer. “I know, okay?”
A chill settled over Elliot.
“Know what?” he asked, slowly.
“You have a thing for him, right?” he asked.
Elliot must have made quite the face because Beau laughed.
“It’s fine,” he chuckled, patting his arm. “I mean, I practically handed him to you, and you still
blew your chance.”
It took Elliot a full minute to find his voice.
“But you—”
“Me? You don’t need to worry about me,” he said. “I really don’t mind.”
He turned to head off the dance floor but paused and leaned toward him again.
“Go take care of him, will you?”
Dumbfounded, Elliot watched Beau go. Not only did he know that Elliot wanted Alain as more
than a friend, but he was also totally fine with handing Alain off to him.
Elliot’s heart sank for his friend. Alain was right. Beau didn’t care about him. No wonder he had
been so upset.
 Alain deserved better.
Elliot’s feet moved on their own. He checked the washrooms first, the smoking patio, and then
exited through the front doors.
Alain was leaning against the brick wall a few feet past the bouncers. His head was down, arms
crossed protectively over his chest, and he looked so damn dejected that Elliot wanted to wrap him
up in his arms and carry him home.
When his shoes entered Alain’s line of vision, he didn’t look surprised at all. He met Elliot’s gaze
and pushed off the wall.
For a moment, Elliot thought he was going to walk straight into his arms, but he stopped with a
few inches between them.
“Can you take me home?” he asked quietly.
Unable and unwilling to stop himself, Elliot reached out and pulled Alain into his arms.
“Of course.”
 C HAPTER SIX

Alain

EVEN THOUGH HE KNEW HE SHOULDN ’ T , ALAIN CLUNG TO ELLIOT . THE ENTIRE CAB RIDE BACK TO HIS
place, he leaned against him, his fingers tightly gripping the fabric of his green shirt. The exact one
that Alain had been dying to see him in again.
Top to bottom, he looked so damn good tonight that it was no wonder Samir had gone for him.
Alain had never in his life felt so possessive and jealous. It was a warm night. His skin was hot
against Elliot’s side, but he didn't pull away or move at all.
Elliot kept looking at Alain like he was afraid that he was going to fall apart and that was pretty
much how he was feeling.
The fact that he was verging on an obvious breakdown was probably the only reason that Elliot
had come with him instead of straight back into the bar and right back into Sam's welcoming arms.
Well, if that was the case, Alain would look as pathetic as fucking possible. He would do
anything he could to keep from seeing that ever again.
Alain’s heart squeezed as he remembered them pressed together, the flirty way that asshole kept
leaning in, his full body pressed along Elliot's as they danced.
A bitter taste rose in Alain’s mouth.
This was wrong. For the first time in ages, reality broke through the self-absorbed cloud that he
saw through. He didn't mean to be so selfish, he didn't want to be, but he couldn't help wanting Elliot
all for himself.
Except, if that was the case, the right thing to do was to tell him how he felt.
But he thought of how Elliot had pushed him away only a few days ago and fear chilled his body.
Part of him wondered if Elliot only pushed him away because he was such a gentleman… the rest of
him though, wondered if there was something about him that Elliot could already see as a reason not
to go there.
What if Elliot pushed him away again, properly this time? What if he told him to his face that he
couldn't love him that way? It would be too hard to stay friends after that.
Elliot shifted against him. For a moment, Alain thought he was pulling away but then his arm went
around Alain’s shoulders, and he pulled him in closer.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
Alain nodded. Another lie. But he couldn't exactly admit that he was trembling with fear at the
thought of losing his only deep friendship.
If he didn't tell Elliot how he felt, someone else might take him. Elliot would put his all into a
relationship. Alain might never get another chance if he got serious with someone else.
Normally, he banked on how oblivious to flirting Elliot was, but with someone as forward as
Samir, it was hard, even for Elliot, to miss.
They had been friends for a long time, but he would have to stop hanging out with Samir, he
decided. He needed to keep him away.
Was that really better than just telling Elliot and ending this hamster wheel of emotions and
thoughts?
Ugh. Beau had really gotten to him.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Elliot asked quietly.
For a moment, Alain thought he could read his mind.
“About what?” he asked, heart racing.
“Beau,” he said gently.
“Beau?”
“Is... is everything okay there?” he asked. “You said some things and then he said some things... it
sounds like you’re still on the rocks?”
Alain managed a noncommittal noise.
He didn't know what to say. After all, he had wanted Elliot to think that they'd gotten back
together.
“Everything's fine,” he managed.
Elliot was silent for a long moment.
“Are you sure you don't want to talk—?”
“Yes. Positive.”
The cab slowed to a stop. Alain fished out the cash in his wallet, a little worried to see that he
was down to his last fifty dollars.
He handed the driver a twenty anyway and climbed out.
He waited for a moment and then when Elliot didn't follow, he slowly leaned back down to look
into the car, already knowing what was coming. The look on Elliot's face said it all.
“I should head home,” he said.
“Right. Okay.”
“I have a deadline on a project,” Elliot explained. “I’ll need to start working on it early in the
morning.”
“Okay.”
They stared at each other for a moment and then Alain remembered the door was wide open.
“Oh. Sorry.”
He swung it shut and the driver wasted no time moving.
Alain watched them drive away, feeling more alone than he could ever remember feeling.
He swallowed hard, pushing down the irrational thoughts that hit him over and over; that Elliot
was going back to the bar, that he was going to hook up with Sam tonight and that would fucking kill
him.
But Elliot was going to move on eventually, right? He deserved better than him, anyway.
 The only thing was… if Alain told him how he felt, there was a slim chance that Elliot would give
it a go. If Alain tried with all his might to make it work, if Elliot told him when he was annoying or
did something wrong, Alain could fix the issues as they came up, and maybe then they could be
together.
He shook the fanciful thoughts away, cursing Beau for getting in his head.
Beau didn't know. He didn't know how Alain had always lashed out. He didn't know that Alain
had always shot his nose to spite his face.
Ever since he was a child, it had been like that. He couldn't control himself.
His parents had stuck him with a nanny, and he'd wanted attention and love so he'd acted out. He’d
started throwing tantrums and smashing up the house. At seven he had thrown a glass through an
expensive painting and what had that done? It got his nanny, Elizabeth—Lizzie—fired and replaced in
a heartbeat. The only person who had seemed to give a damn for him. Gone because of his own
actions.
At ten, he had stopped doing schoolwork and had ended up having to repeat the grade. At fifteen,
he had openly started dating boys, flaunting it in everyone’s faces—probably trying to cause a
commotion and it had worked; he had lost all his friends and been taken advantage of. He didn’t want
to remember those particular memories, but he couldn’t deny that he had then started to push away
anyone else trying to get close to him.
Until Elliot, no one had ever stuck with him, despite the strange, self-destructive ways he acted
out.
Alain knew it was his fault. He was always the one who got screwed over by his actions, but he
didn’t know how to fix himself. Something was just wrong with him.
He trudged up the stairs into his building, waving at the security guard who nodded to him.
“Good evening, Mr. Tremblay.”
“You as well,” he said.
Alain was sure he still looked like the spoiled socialite that he was. After all, he still had the
penthouse and the clothes, but what no one knew was that he didn’t have next month’s rent money.
Out of everyone, his parents wanted the least to do with him, taking the last straw and cutting him
off, and so far, he had done nothing to either appease them or get on his own two feet.
With a heavy sigh, he realized that he should stop putting off dealing with them.
He would talk to them in the morning. And yet, despite the impending phone call, all night, all he
could think about was Elliot.
Over and over, he remembered the way he had joked and flirted with Sam, the details exaggerated
in his mind.
Alain woke up grumpy and tired in the morning from fitful dreams with a splitting headache and
walked to the kitchen on autopilot. The marble tiles were cold on his feet, waking him up a small bit
more.
Fortunately, there were still painkillers in the cupboard, but there was no food in the fridge.
He fished out his last thirty dollars and sighed.
“Probably should not have bought that bottle of wine last night,” he muttered.
With a sigh, he pulled out his phone.
He’d known it would come to this eventually, but he hadn't expected to cave so soon.
Then again, if he'd been more careful with the money he’d had left, maybe he would have held out
longer.
The moment the phone rang on the other end, his heart started pounding. He thought about hanging
up and almost did, but then there was a click and his father's voice, answering in french.
“Alain, you finally decided to grace me with the sound of your voice.”
“I didn't want to deprive you.”
His father snorted.
“What do you want? And it better not be my money, because I told you how it was going to be
the last time we spoke.”
It was always like this between them, but despite the familiarity of the exchange, it still made
Alain’s teeth clench.
His silence spoke for itself, because his father chuckled, a low humorless sound. Alain really
should have just found a job...
“You won’t even pretend that you've called to say hello?” his father asked.
“Of course, father,” Alain quipped. “How are you? Are you well?”
He chuckled again.
“I'm good, son,” he said. “I'm glad you called, honestly.”
“You are?”
“Of course. Because I assume that means you're out of money?”
“That would be correct,” Alain agreed, swallowing down what little pride he had.
“What are you down to?”
“About a thousand dollars,” Alain lied.
“A thousand! That won’t last you the week, will it?”
“No sir.”
“I'd better reactivate your cards, then,” he said.
For a moment, Alain’s heart leaped.
“Just like that?” and then he realized it couldn’t be that simple. Not with his family. “What's the
catch?”
“There's no catch,” his father said. “You know what I want from you. We’ve discussed it many
times, Alain.”
Of course. He shouldn’t have expected him to want to help him, not without getting something in
return. He should have known that he wouldn't get anything for free where his parents were
concerned.
“I told you before,” Alain said, blood pressure rising, “I won’t be your little puppet.”
The pleasant tone in his father’s voice dropped like it was hot.
“I don't want you to be a puppet, Alain, don't insult me. You've been nothing but an
embarrassment since you were up to my knee—”
“Okay, I know I'm a fuck up. Anything else?”
“Yes, you are a fuck up, and you need to change!” he bellowed. “Let me and your mother help
you to get your life together—”
Alain’s hand was shaking as he pulled the phone from his ear. He hit the end call button
aggressively and flung his phone to the side.
It hit the floor hard, and he stared down at it, breathing heavily.
When he finally bent to retrieve it, there was a large crack through the glass.
Cursing, he nearly threw it again but managed to stop himself.
He'd broken many a phone before, but he wouldn't be able to replace this one if it got destroyed.
There was something about his father. Talking to him set him on edge at the best of times. At the
worst, it made his blood boil, his head hurt, and his heart heavy. Nothing ever made him feel as low
as a conversation between them.
His phone vibrated in his hand and Alain nearly hung up without answering before he saw
Samir’s name lighting up the screen.
Sighing, he answered. Mood plunging even more.
“Can I help you?” he answered.
“What the hell was that last night?” Samir demanded.
“Nothing.”
Samir snorted.
“Wow. You’re still denying it, huh?”
Alain didn’t have the strength to deal with his friend right now.
“I have to go—”
“Alain, you’re one of my besties, man, but you’ve gotta get it together, okay? You literally fought
me on this, remember? Last time I asked what was going on with you and that Elliot guy you were
constantly on about, remember?”
Alain did, unfortunately. At a mutual friend’s wedding getaway, Samir had interrogated him about
his failed relationships and his sad example of a love life, accurately concluding that it was
something to do with his friend Elliot.
“I can’t believe I actually believed your little speech about how you’d never see him that way.
You’re clearly obsessed with him.”
“I’m not,” Alain said, cheeks heating. “Look, it’s none of your business, anyway.”
“You made it my business when you had your ex drag me away from my dance partner and then
left with him.”
Alain cringed.
“Oh god. That does sound bad.”
To his surprise, Samir chuckled.
“I wouldn’t have come onto him so strong if I’d known,” he said. “I hope things went well with
him?”
Sighing, Alain sank down, collapsing onto his couch, suddenly wishing he could share a different
story than what had happened.
“He went home. I went home. Nothing happened.”
Samir let out a low whistle.
“Shit. You might want to fix that. And soon. Beau filled me in on the story once I cooled down.”
Alain snorted.
“That guy needs to mind his own business.”
Samir laughed.
“Maybe.”
They made plans to meet up while Sam was in town and Alain hung up, feeling even more
deflated than before.
His parents really knew how to ruin his mood, but now that not one, but two people knew his
feelings for Elliot, it made him feel even worse. What was the point of all the pain of hiding his
feelings if they were obvious?
Counterintuitive as it was, he suddenly desperately wanted Elliot to comfort him.
It was stupid and selfish, but Elliot was the only person who ever really made him feel good. He
was like hot chocolate, or a bubble bath, and Alain wanted him there to sink into and devour.
But Elliot told him he was busy today. It was a lie, Alain knew. He just didn't want to see him.
 Alain managed to stay away until early evening, then he was at his friend’s door with a bottle of
whiskey as a peace offering.
Elliot barely drank and rarely more than one drink for the night and the bottle was already half
empty, but it was the only thing Alain had in his place, and he couldn't really afford to show up with
food, so he knocked on his door and prayed that he would understand what he was trying to say.
Luckily, Elliot was exactly the prince charming that he always was, because he opened the door,
took one look at him and his pathetic bottle of booze, and moved out of the way for him to enter.
Overwhelmed with relief, Alain stepped up to him and Elliot was ready with a hug, engulfing him
in his warm, solid embrace for a long moment before patting his back and pulling away.
“What happened?” he asked, holding him by the shoulders. “You okay?”
Alain cleared his throat, choking back sudden tears as Elliot took him in, his warm eyes looking
straight through him.
“You're not mad at me, are you?” he found himself asking.
“What?” Elliot asked. “No, I'm not mad.”
“I took you away from that guy last night...”
He obviously knew Sam's name, but it wouldn't come out of his mouth. He didn’t even mean to
bring it up.
Elliot flushed, pale cheeks turning pink.
“Don't worry about that,” he muttered.
He shut the door behind them and took the offered bottle, walking to the kitchen and placing it on
the counter.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Alain went on, “I know you had work to do...”
Elliot shook his head.
“I'm done for the day,” he said, not looking at him.
The obvious lie did nothing to ease the feeling of unease growing inside Alain.
They were growing apart. Alain could feel it and it was freaking him out. He had to do something
to fix it, but he didn’t know what.
“What happened?” Elliot asked, leaning back against the counter to look at him.
Alain shrugged helplessly.
“I spoke to my dad.”
He swallowed, feeling like an even bigger idiot for coming here for support. How stupid was he
that he needed a hug after having a conversation with his own parents?
“I'm ridiculous, I know.”
To his surprise, Elliot shook his head, genuine sympathy in his eyes.
“Family is hard,” he said.
Alain nodded eagerly.
“Yes. He makes me feel so pathetic... and he's right to,” he admitted. “I don't want to rely on them
anymore.”
Elliot smiled at him indulgently.
“That's what you said when they first cut you off,” he reminded him.
Alain frowned.
“I didn't think they'd stick to it this time,” he said. “I thought this was a bit of an experiment.”
“Hm. To experience living like common folk?” Elliot asked. “Like me?”
Amusement glinted in Elliot's eyes, and he knew he was teasing him, so instead of arguing, he
shrugged.
 “You're the one who said it.”
Elliot laughed and shook his head and then walked into the kitchen, pulling food out of the fridge.
Alain watched him throw Quinoa into a pot and then take out ingredients for a salad.
“What are you doing?” he asked as Elliot chopped lettuce.
“I'm pretty sure you've ingested nothing but alcohol for the week,” he said. “You're getting
something healthy.”
Alain didn’t argue, mostly because it was true. Instead, he pulled a chair over to the island and sat
down, watching him.
There was something about the way that Elliot chopped vegetables that made him smile. The way
he frowned when he concentrated always made Alain want to kiss him.
It must have been Beau's influence. Alain had never told anyone how he felt about Elliot. He had
never even said it out loud. Having someone who not only knew but also encouraged him to go for it,
made it overwhelmingly hard to fight against his instincts.
By the time a delicious quinoa and avocado salad was placed in front of him, Alain had made his
decision.
He was going to tell him. Even though he was genuinely terrified, he simply couldn’t take it
anymore.
He opened his mouth, their gazes met. Fear seized him and he looked down at his food, heart
ricocheting into his ribs as though he had just escaped tripping off a dangerous ledge.
Even that time, standing on the edge of the bridge, noting how easily life could slip from his
grasp, he hadn’t been as scared.
His hands were shaking when he picked up his fork.
Elliot noticed. From his peripherals, Alain saw him watching his hand and his lovely green eyes
scanned his face as he took a seat across from him. Alain couldn't look up though, he couldn't meet his
gaze. Some irrational part of his brain thought that Elliot would know what he was thinking. He
would take one look into Alain’s eyes, and they would tell him everything.
He took a shallow breath, attempting to calm his racing heart as he swallowed down a bite of the
food, tasting nothing.
“It was really bad, huh?” Elliot asked.
“Hm?”
“Your dad,” he pressed gently. “What did he say?”
Alain blinked at him for a moment, realizing Elliot’s assumption that he was such a mess from
their phone call earlier. Truthfully, he wanted to forget about the man. If he could use a permanent
marker to strike him from his brain, he would.
Unfortunately, his father’s voice was still fresh, confusing his thoughts and emotions even more.
They were a muddled mess of tender feelings, fear, love, frustration, and shame.
“He said that my life is a mess and that I'm a disappointment. Just the usual.”
His attempt at sounding casual didn't work.
Elliot's brows drew down in a frown.
“Maybe he's worried?” he suggested.
“If he was worried, he wouldn't have cut me off. I have like thirty bucks left.”
Elliot's frown intensified.
“What are you going to do?”
No judgment, no better-than-thou attitude. God, he loved that about him.
How in hell was he so pure?
 “I don’t know.”
“You know,” Elliot said absently. “I always wished my mom would worry about what the hell I
was up to. She never seemed to give a damn.”
Alain didn’t know what to say to that.
He’d met Elliot’s mother a few times. She was outgoing and good fun. They’d drank together on a
few occasions, but Alain had quickly put a stop to that when it became clear that Elliot was never
going to be comfortable with it. He’d sat quietly with them, getting tenser and tenser as the minutes
went by and he never seemed to be on board. It wasn’t worth upsetting him and even though Alain did
like her, it was clear that she wasn’t much of a mother figure.
Not that his parents were much better.
“My mother’s not exactly the epitome of warmth and caring that a mother should be, either,” he
said. “I don’t think I can remember her ever hugging me.”
Elliot’s clear, pale skin turned red again.
“I didn’t mean that I have it worse, or something. I was just thinking out loud.”
“I know. Sorry.”
They fell silent and then after a long moment, Elliot laughed.
“It looks like that was a good call,” he chuckled, indicating the whiskey still on the counter.
“Should I make us a drink?”
Surprised, Alain nodded.
He watched Elliot prepare their drinks, just whiskey and ginger ale with ice. When he walked
over with the glasses, he was shaking his head.
“Things have been tense between us,” he said. “It’s stupid.”
“Yeah,” Alain breathed, touched by his forwardness. “It is.”
They clinked their glasses together, finished their food and it was like the dam broke between
them, all the discomfort and tension drained before they even had a sip.
The conversation flowed after that, the way it used to, and Alain was so grateful he could have
cried.
As they drank, Elliot suggested different jobs he might like, and Alain shot down each one, even if
they struck his interest, just because he liked to see Elliot laugh.
“Walmart?” Elliot asked.
Alain huffed and the look on his face alone made Elliot crack up.
“This body?” he demanded. “Hidden in a Walmart uniform?”
He shook his head in mock disappointment.
“You really have lost it.”
Elliot was so unguarded when he laughed. It warmed Alain straight through. He had to tear his
gaze away, using his drink as a distraction but when he went to take a sip, it was empty.
Elliot was up to make him another before he could even say anything. It was only their second
drink, but he paused at the fridge, frowning.
“I forgot the mix is all gone. You okay with it straight?”
It was a rare occasion that Elliot was in the mood for anything like this, so Alain didn’t complain.
He held out his empty glass in answer and Elliot poured a generous portion into it. To his
surprise, he downed the last sip of his own drink and then poured an equal amount of straight whiskey
into his empty glass as well.
Alain watched him take a sip and wince.
Elliot was never like this. Not since Alain had known him. For the first time, Alain had an inkling
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had no one dependent on them, who were setting out foot loose for a
great adventure, there was nothing to interfere with the thrill of the
unknown before them. But the majority of these men had been taken
out of their civilian life but two or three weeks before; they were
among strangers, and in an absolutely foreign environment; their
new uniforms still uncomfortable and scratchy, and army regulations
and discipline an incomprehensible set of shibboleths. Far down in
each heart the love of their country burned, steadily enough for the
most part; white hot in some; in others, but recently kindled. All hid it
diligently, of course, from the general view. They had been so fed up
with windy orators, with politicians waving the flag with one hand and
keeping the other on exemption certificates, that the real thing was
jealously concealed.
As I made my final inspection that night, looking out from the
companion-way over the rows of close slung hammocks, I wondered
what their occupants were thinking; what forms of dear ones were
present to their minds; to what homes their thoughts went back—a
Harlem flat, a Jersey farmhouse, a great hotel, a tiny pair of rooms in
Jersey City; comfortable, well-off American homes; tenements in the
foreign districts—each one dear for its memories, each one the
home to fight for. Would we have time to train these men into a
fighting machine, or would we be thrown in at once to stop the great
Hun drive in Flanders, then at its height? How many of us would see
these homes, these dear ones again?—But a company commander
has little time to indulge in reflections; and thoughts of the morning
report, and how to distribute the chow more evenly, and a large
budget of orders I had to read, soon chased away everything else.
The NESTOR carried the 1st and 2d Bns. and Headquarters Co. of
the 311th Inf., a Machine Gun battalion, and Brig. Gen. Dean, our
brigade commander, and his staff. Our colonel was in command of
the troops on board, such things being below the dignity of general
officers. He was in his element; he had an officers’ meeting the first
thing, and dished out about 4 square acres of orders to be read and
put into effect at once.
 1st Platoon, Flavigny, France, 1919.
Now no one knows better than I how many orders you men received,
and how it was often beyond human power to obey all of them. But I
call any company commander to witness that we got them coming
and going. The Co. Cmdr. is the one man who can’t pass the buck
on responsibility. We had to take the bushels of orders we received,
eliminate those utterly impossible, select from those remaining what
seemed essential and what we thought the Major and Colonel would
deem essential, and then get those things done by the company—
that is, issue orders to the 1st Sgt. for details, Supply Sgt. for
supplies, Mess Sgt. for mess, officers for drill and instruction,
company clerk for paper work, and then see to it that the whole is
carried out. And then one usually amasses a balling out for
something or other that he has left out.
One of these orders was the censorship order, of which we had
heard so much. Instead of having all letters censored at post offices
by clerks, some genius had decided to follow the British plan of
having officers censor their own men’s mail. Thus at one brilliant
stroke a situation was created which embarrassed men and officers
alike, imposed an irksome and continual task on over-burdened
officers, delayed the mail, and was in every way sweet incense in the
nostrils of the little tin gods of the red tape; the exponents of the
theory of How Not to Do It.
The principal morning sport on the trip was the ship’s inspection. The
holds of that old tub received such a scrubbing and cleaning as they
had never had before. In spite of the close quarters, everything was
kept quite fresh and clean. It gave me a vast respect for the women
who do such work all day for paltry wages. At 10:00 A. M. the call
would be sounded, and all except the day’s orderlies would be
massed on decks in their boat drill stations, and a merry little crush it
was. Then the lords of the earth would solemnly parade along in
single file, preceded by a bugler, who blew a seasick “Attention” at
each deck. Everybody would then step on everyone else’s feet, and
make a little lane for the procession. The adjutant, the ship’s captain,
the colonel, the ship supply officer—poor old Gibbs was the goat for
that job—would play “follow my leader,” and look into corners, and
sniff importantly, and everything would be very formal and terrible,
and grand.
The rest of the day would be taken up with physical drills—one
company using the deck at a time—and fire and boat drills. It was
given out at first that four long blasts of the boat’s whistle would be
the signal for “Abandon ship.” This was changed later by the ship’s
captain, but somewhere along the line there was a hitch, and the
information never got down to the company commanders. About five
nights out, at about 10:30 P. M., the whistle began to toot, once—
twice—heads began to appear over the hammocks; thrice—the
hammocks began to be agitated; four times—two hundred and thirty
odd hearts gave a leap, four hundred and sixty feet hit the floor, and
B Company started up the gangway, with three sergeants, who shall
be nameless, leading the way to victory. Lt. Foulkes, who was on fire
watch, judged hastily that it must be all a mistake somehow, and
calmed the riot with his .45 and a few choice remarks in the
vernacular.
Then the chow—oh, the chow; oh, the Gawd-forsaken chow. It was
doled out as breakfast, dinner, and tea. It was none too much in
quantity. There were here and there newly made n. c. o.’s who were
not above holding out more than their share. And our American
stomachs were several times abruptly introduced to strange dishes.
First it was a weird looking mess that tasted like an explosion of
mustard gas. How did we know it was currie? Few had sufficient faith
in human nature to down their portion. Then one day a ghastly odor
tainted the noonday air, and we were introduced to tripe. The latter
was finally buried with military honors, and I arrived on the scene just
in time to save the ship’s cooks from being the star actors in a similar
ceremony.
“Tea” was bread and cheese and tea. We thought of the days of
plenty at Camp Dix and reflected that the culinary end of this war
business was hardly a success so far.
The officers were fed well and in civilized fashion in the cabin, which
didn’t help matters much for the men. Also some members of the
boat’s crew took advantage of the situation by running a sub-rosa
restaurant in the forecastle, gouging such as had the price. Of
course the Americans thought right away that they were holding out
part of our rations for this purpose, and international relations began
to get very strained. The officers were finally informed, and the
practice stopped.
There were ten or twelve other ships in the convoy, which was
headed by the battleship Montana. At last one morning the latter was
missing, and we knew that we must be nearly across. Precautions
were redoubled and life preservers were not removed even at night.
On the morning of May 31st we sighted land—a welcome sight
indeed. Capt. Breen at once identified it as dear auld Ireland, and
was much disgusted when we learned later that it was Scotland. We
had sailed around the north of Ireland, and were dropping down the
Irish sea to Liverpool.
This was the submarine zone indeed. Destroyers appeared from the
horizon and hovered on the outskirts of the convoy. A great silver
dirigible swung lazily from the clouds and floated along above us.
The Irish coast came into view on our right.
At about 2:00 P. M. there was a scurry among the destroyers. The
dirigible descended above a spot some half mile off our port bow.
Guns began to speak from the transports and destroyers. It only
lasted for about five minutes, however, and we couldn’t see any
visible results. But we were told that a sub had been spotted and
destroyed.
Late that night we took the pilot aboard and proceeded up the
Mersey. Few of us slept a wink. After the long strain it was good to
see ourselves surrounded by the lights of shipping, and to see the
shore on either side, though as few lights as possible were shown
even then. However, we could open the portholes, and the long, long
line of docks slipped by until we wondered if this great harbor had
any end. At last, about 2:00 A. M., we docked and settled down to
wait until morning for a glimpse of Merry England.
The next day we waited around until 1:30, when we disembarked.
We were marched about half a mile through the streets to a railroad
terminal. The people hardly glanced at us. They were well used to
soldiers by that time. Not a cheer, not a sign of curiosity. Another
herd for the slaughter house. A few wounded soldiers, in their flaring
“blues,” looked us over with some professional curiosity.
At the railroad station we were halted on a cobbled street for a weary
three hours’ wait. There was an English-American Red Cross
canteen there, and we bought them out of buns in short order and
distributed them to the companies. An aviator appeared on the scene
and amused us for a while by doing all sorts of acrobatics—loops,
whirls, twists through the air—such as we had never seen before.
Finally we were formed and marched into the station, and boarded
the funny little English coaches, and were locked up in different
compartments. Canteen girls gave each of us a printed letter of
welcome from King George, and finally we jolted out of the station,
rolled along between factories and munition plants—manned mostly
by girls and women—and so out into the countryside.
That was a wonderful ride through England on the last day of May. It
was a perfect evening, the air soft and balmy; light until ten o’clock. It
was like a toy country to us, beautifully ordered and groomed, with
little villages here and there, and green hedgerows, and usually one
or two Tommies on leave walking down the lane with their
sweethearts—that made us homesick already. And the train sped
along, stopping only once for us to get out and have some coffee
and a drink of water; and we were all thrilled and excited and felt a
little tickly in the stomach, as you do before a big football game. We
were fast drawing near the greatest game, now being played to a
finish.
As the night wore on, and it became dark, and we couldn’t look out
the windows any more, our cramped quarters were anything but
comfortable. Also, sanitary arrangements on European trains are
conspicuous by their absence. When at last, at 2:00 A. M., we were
told to detrain, we were pretty thoroughly uncomfortable.
After the usual hubbub of detraining—“which way’s comp’ny
form?”—“I dunno”—“First squad”—“Ninth squad”—“Where’s me
bayonet?”—“Oh, thanks”—“D’ja get the can open all right?”—We
departed into the night, filing past a little station out into a dark road,
and then at a good round pace on through silent, dark streets, for
about a mile. There we were introduced to our first billet.
It was a large empty stone house in a row of similar ones. Bare
floors, bare walls, but clean, and not so bad. After a vast amount of
unnecessary fussing about the company got itself settled. Sixty men
were to leave at six o’clock under Lt. Foulkes.
That night and early the next morning we heard for the first time the
distant rumble of the guns in France.
In the morning we discovered that we were in an embarkation camp
at Folkestone, near Dover. A beautiful place it was, something like
Atlantic City, only everything seemed more permanent, and the
boardwalk was lacking. The camp was a section of the town set
apart for the purpose. Everything was well ordered. These
Englishmen had been at the game a long time, and after some
chafing and fussing around we discovered that though no one
displayed any particular “pep,” nevertheless things really got done
quite well; in the British way, of course. But woe be unto the
ambitious Yank who sought to alter anything.
Most of the company had not even been in the service long enough
to master the manual of arms, and part of the day was used in
instilling the rudiments of this essential into them. Time was still left
for a short ramble about Folkestone, however; and the promenade,
town, pubs, Tommies and Waacs were all investigated
enthusiastically and as thoroughly as time and opportunity permitted.
The next morning the battalion was formed at 6 A. M. and marched
along cobbled streets to the pier, where we were sardined into a fast
channel steamer, and donned those confounded lifebelts again for a
short farewell wearing. Then, with an American destroyer racing
along on either side, we slipped swiftly down under the Dover Cliffs,
then swerving out and across the channel to Calais. A dock, a Red
Cross train on the other side of it, a fisherman in a little boat
alongside us—France at last.
 CHAPTER IV
THE ENGLISH SECTOR
The company filed off the boat, and crossing the dock stumbled into
formation down the railroad track by the hospital train, and was
introduced to a bit of backwash from the drive. Some English
wounded were being carried from the train to the boat by German
prisoners. We looked curiously at the latter. These were the Huns we
were taught to hate, whom we were to kill. They were husky, blonde
chaps, in faded greenish gray uniforms, with their little flat caps.
They paid scant attention to us, but carried the English very carefully
and gently. Maybe the Tommy who walked near by with fixed
bayonet had something to do with it. At any rate, I didn’t feel any
very lusty rage or horror at them, and though one or two of our men
cursed at them under their breath, it didn’t seem at all convincing,
but rather forced. Most of the wounded men whose faces I saw
glared at us with the usual British “What the devil do you mean by
looking at me, sir?” so I suppose they were officers. I don’t blame
them for not liking to be stared at. One or two fellows couldn’t help
groaning when their stretchers were lifted.
But “C” Co. is moving off, and we swing into column of squads and
hike off behind them, our great heavy packs, religiously packed with
all the items prescribed for us and much besides, getting heavier and
heavier. It was a beautiful, sunny day. Calais was quiet; the cobbled
streets apparently peopled only by a few little gamins of both sexes
who greeted us with the cries that accompanied us through France
—“Souvenir,” “Bis-keet,” “Chocolat.”
We passed through the outskirts of the town and into a dusty, sandy
road between green dikes or ramparts dotted with anti-aircraft guns.
Then we passed by a group of weather-worn barracks, dusty and
dreary, labeled—doubtless by some wag, we thought—“Rest Camp,”
surrounded by wire fences.
We cross a canal, turn to the left, and pass along to another—“Rest
Camp No. 6.” The leading company turns in at a gate in the wire
fence; we see American uniforms and campaign hats; one or two
officers in overseas caps, strange looking to us then; then we pass in
through the gate and realize that this is our temporary destination.
We were billeted in tents, about 12 feet in diameter—and about 20
men to a tent. Sand everywhere. A hideous open latrine next to the
mess hall. After the usual hurly-burly and confusion, we finally kick
other companies out of our tents, are in turn kicked out of theirs, and,
after a long wait, get—“tea.” Oh, how Americans did love that word!
The officers were lodged in luxury—the five of us had a whole tent,
with some boards to sleep on. We ate at the British officers’ mess,
where meals and very good beer and wine were served by Waacs.
The next thing was an officers’ meeting, and that night a talk by an
English major. He cheered us up by telling us that very few ever
came back, and narrated several choice tales of sudden death in
unusual and gruesome forms. He was apparently bent on removing
from our minds any impression that we were in for a pleasure trip.
We afterwards heard that he was severely criticised by other British
officers for trying to get our wind up first thing.
The next morning our equipment was cut down. We could only keep
what we could carry on our backs. The contents of our barrack bags,
the extra equipment, the complete outfit that had been subjected to
so many inspections, upon which we had turned in reams upon
reams of reports at Camp Dix, were ruthlessly collected, dumped
into trucks and carted off to Heaven knows where by a Q. M. 2nd
Lieutenant. No count was taken, no papers signed. The omniscient
powers, who had deviled our lives out to collect this stuff, hadn’t told
us anything about this little ceremony. So underwear, socks, extra
pairs of shoes were a drug on the market; and we simply couldn’t
give the cigarettes away. A great quantity were turned over to the Y.
M. C. A. canteen. Of course, we never saw our barrack bags again.
The next day we formed with rifles, belts and bayonets, and marched
about four miles out into the flat, flat country; past windmills and
hedges and a little estaminet here and there, until we came to a
British gas house. Here some English and Scotch sergeants issued
English gas masks, and after a couple of hours gas mask drill we
went through the gas house, and started back to camp. On our way
we stopped by at an ordnance hut where our American Enfields
were exchanged for English Enfields, with their stubby looking
barrels and heavy sight guards. In our army issuing or exchanging
any piece of ordnance property is like getting married, and when a
rifle is involved it is like five actions at law and a couple of breach of
promise suits. Here we filed in one door, shoved our rifle at a
Tommy, beat it for the other door, grabbed an English weapon and
bayonet, and the deed was done. I happened to be in command of
the battalion that day, and somewhere I suppose the British
government has a couple of grubby slips of paper on which I’ve
signed for 1,000 gas masks, rifles and bayonets. The transaction
would probably have been a fatal blow to a U. S. ordnance officer.
Being only a reserve officer of infantry, it seemed to me pretty
sensible.
Back in camp we were pretty much left alone, and some there were
who lost no time making an acquaintance with the estaminets of
Calais. In thirty-six hours we had learned enough English to
discourse glibly of “tuppence ha’ penny,” and I even overheard Price
offer to “Shoot you a bob,” and somebody promptly took “six penn
’orth of it.” But this was nothing compared to our excursions into the
unexplored fields of the long suffering French language. By that
evening most of the men seemed quite proficient in a few such
indispensable phrases as “Vin rouge tout de suite” or rather “Van
rooge toot sweet,” “Encore,” “Combien,” and “Oo la la, ma cherie.”
The next morning—Wednesday, June 5th—we left Rest Camp No. 6,
and glad we were to leave it, for a dirty, hot hole it was. We hadn’t
been bombed, though the town got its usual raid, and the camp was
complimented the next night by the Boche.
The hike to the station was long and hot and made without a rest. Of
course, not knowing as much as they would later, the men’s packs
were tremendous. The overcoat, blanket, 100 rounds of ammunition
and extra shoes and rations alone are a good load, and when one
adds several suits of underwear, extra toilet articles, Jenny’s
sweaters, Aunt Sarah’s wristlets, a couple of cartons of cigarettes
and pipe tobacco, and some chocolate, it gets tremendous. Little
Effingham’s pack as usual, was down to his heels, but he stoutly
refused assistance, also as usual. The company arrived at the
station feeling like a dyspeptic bear with scarlet fever.
We were forthwith introduced to the famous “Hommes 40, Chevaux
8.” It was seldom that bad, but even 25 or 30 men are a tight fit in
those little cattle cars, as you all can testify.
We rolled out of Havre, pursued to the last by the children and
orange sellers, who seemed to spring up from the ground
everywhere in Northern France.
This first trip was short. We passed from the low country into a gently
rolling terrain, and at about 1 o’clock arrived at Marquise, where we
detrained.
We were met by a couple of Scotch officers from the 14th Highland
Light Infantry. They guided us up the road to the village where we
were billeted, about two miles away. On the way one of them,
Captain “Jimmie” Johnston, told us that their battalion was detailed
to act as instructors for the 311th Infantry.
The first little crossroads village was our billet—Rinxent. The
command “Fall out t’ right of th’ road” sounded quite welcome to the
overloaded marchers and we watched the rest of the battalion march
by enroute to their billets at Rety, two kilos further.
The company was scattered along the road in small billets of from
ten to forty men. Company headquarters was established in the
corner estaminet. This was our first introduction to French billets.
The usual procedure consisted of:
1. Protest to billeting officer or N. C. O. at putting human beings into
such a place. Unsuccessful.
2. Long argument with house holder, he speaking French very fast
and we speaking American very loud. Usually ended by the
argument of a five franc note to the frugal French peasant.
3. Cleaning out the stable, chicken house, or barn, with voluble
protests from f. F. p.
4. Making sundry discoveries during the first night.
5. Pitching pup tents in nearest field.
We got permission to use a field about 100 yards square for a drill
ground and two platoons pitched pup tents there.
The first night a few of the boys became slightly excited over the
privilege of visiting the estaminets, and tried to drink up all the vin
rouge and cognac at once. The consequence was that the
dispensers of good cheer were put under the ban for several days.
Now the training of the company began in earnest. The majority of
the men had had only the most hasty smattering of the elements of
squad drill; many could not shoulder arms properly. Two platoons
would use the drill field while two drilled on the roads outside. The
training schedules called for a good nine-hour day of drill and
ceremonies, varied occasionally by short practice hikes by company
or battalion.
Lewis guns were issued to us here. A few officers and n. c. o.’s had
taken courses in the use of this weapon at Camp Dix; company and
battalion schools were at once started, the latter conducted by
Scottish n. c. o.’s from the 14th H. L. I.
In addition, there were battalion, regimental and corps schools for
bayonet, gas defense, liaison (for the runners), bombing, rifle
grenade, musketry and several more. From this time until we left
France there were always a number of men away at schools. Of
course this was necessary, but it broke up the training of the
company as a whole. Also, we were brigaded with the British, and
some men would go to a British school and qualify as instructors,
only to come back and find that the American system was being
used, and vice versa. Both systems might have their good points,
and did have, but the rate at which orders and instructions and ways
of doing things changed from day to day was enough to bewilder old
hands at this game; and we were greenhorns.
“Jimmy” Johnston helped a lot. He was in command of what was left
of the 14th battalion, Highland Light Infantry—about four squads. Of
medium height, rather stocky build, with a bonny, handsome face
and bright blue eyes under his Scotch cap, Jimmy was one of the
finest fellows and best officers that ever stepped. He had been
through the Gallipoli expedition, and two years on the Western front;
had been reported killed in action, and gone home on leave to be
greeted as one risen from the dead.
Jimmy had been through the mill. He knew. Always with a word of
encouragement, to avoid dampening our American energy, he would
help along with quiet hints and canny suggestions that were worth
their weight in gold. When we came staggering along under heavy
packs, he said nothing, but strolled along with his little cane and
admired the landscape. When orders would come in thick and fast,
each one contradicting the last, and all to be executed at once,
Jimmy would intimate verra, verra cautiously, that if we used our own
judgment we should get along somehow, and that C. O’s and chiefs
of staff had to keep themselves busy, and what they didn’t know
wouldn’t hurt ’em. Like most Scotch officers he seemed to live mostly
on whiskey, and throve on the diet.
On June 11, Major Odom went to a Corps school, and I was left in
charge of the battalion. Of course, that evening orders came in to
move next morning. We had just begun to get in our English
transport—the little limbers and the cranky rolling kitchen with which
we were to become so familiar later. Up to then we had cooked on
our American field ranges.
At 7 o’clock next morning we pulled out and marched down to Rety.
There we fell in behind the 2d battalion, and started on our first full
day’s hike. The packs were still heavy, and those full cartridge belts
—Lord, how much 100 rounds of ammunition can weigh after a
while! As usual with green troops, the leading element set too fast a
pace. Rests seemed but a minute. Finally, on a long, long up grade,
we halted for lunch. After chow and an hour’s rest, we pulled on,
picking ’em up and putting ’em down. On, over broad white roads;
turning off into narrower roads shaded by rows of tall trees, turning
into the highroad again. We passed stragglers from the 309th and
310th Infantry, so knew that the whole 78th Division must be in
France and on the move near us. The hills were higher, the women
were older. We came to a village; three estaminets, two stores, a
school house, a blacksmith’s shop, a sign. “Brunembert.” Regimental
Hdqrs. and Supply Co. are halted there. We keep on; on the other
side of town “C” and “D” companies meet their advance party guides
and turn off; we hike on half a kilometer, half way up a hill, turn off to
the right, hike around the hill, and finally, at about 3 P. M., plumb
tuckered, the company is split, two platoons going to one farmhouse,
the other two to another, at Haute Creuse.
Haute Creuse itself was only a crossroads, with one poor cottage.
Battalion headquarters was there. The company billets were a good
quarter of a mile apart. In addition, when I inspected the billet
assigned the 3rd and 4th platoons, I found a remarkably dirty old
barn, with a cesspool and manure heap outside that was awful, even
for France. The only spring was near the pool. So the next morning
we moved these platoons over to the other billet, pitching pup tents
in a beautiful field just on the other side of the barnyard.
That afternoon an old duffer in an English major’s uniform came
ambling along. He expressed great anguish at our not using the
billets assigned to us. It meant nothing to him that our comfort,
health, convenience were served by our using our own tents. The
plan was that that lousy old typhoid trap should be occupied, and so
it must be done. And he, it appeared, was the “area commandant.”
So I said “Yessir,” and tipped Sgt. Ertwine off to have some men
make a great show of striking tents, and resolved privately to take a
chance yet. Jimmy Johnston came along later and told me that area
commandants were a tribe of dud officers who were given that job to
keep ’em out of mischief.
I was hauled over the coals three or four times about it. The old
Major wrote to his General Hdq., and they wrote to our hdq., and it
came down the line to our Colonel, whose soul shivered before the
wintry blast. But finally Lt. Col. Myers took it up and obtained
permission for us to stay where we were.
At Rinxent a number of second lieutenants, just commissioned at the
Officers’ Training Camp at Langres, had joined us. We had a captain
and five or six second lieuts. attached to “B” Co. The captain, who
was commanding the company in my absence at bn. hdq., was a
peculiar individual, with very fierce and imposing mustachios, and a
manner to match; but an absurdly incongruous weak and husky
voice, due to throat trouble. The lieuts. were rather a good bunch;
men who had been n. c. o.’s in outfits that had come over during the
preceding year, and some of whom had been in the trenches
already. We were fortunate in keeping one of them, Lieut. Bivens
Moore, in the company; the others we lost by transfers from time to
time.
Training was resumed again; schools ran in full force. Officers and
men were continually going off to sundry corps or army schools in
the vicinity; at St. Omer or points near by. Harold Sculthorpe went off
to a cooks’ school, and we didn’t see him again for many a month.
Sgt. Peterson was made Brigade Postal N. C. O. We received our
first mail from home, and nobody can ever tell how welcome it was.
Letters were the one slender thread that connected our new life with
the old. A bit of mail cheered up a soldier for days; a disappointment
when mail came in without one for him made him blue for a week. It
was pleasant to see the earnest faces of fellows like Sgt. Schelter,
and Corporal DeGrote beaming when they heard from their wives
and little ones. With the impatience and eagerness of the
newlyweds, I was of course sympathetic. And as for the majority,
who were waiting for letters from the best little girl in the world, they
were either insufferable in their glamourous egotism, or serio-comic
in their suffering, according to whether the lady had seen fit to be
kind or cool when she took her pen in hand. Certain ones, too, who
shall be nameless, would receive letters in sundry handwritings, with
a variety of post-marks. Don Juans, these; gay and giddy Lotharios
in the old home town.
We were billeted at a typical French farm of the larger type. As you
turned in off the road through the gateway, a black dog chained in a
little stone dungeon just inside barked fiercely. This poor beast had
been chained in that one place for so long that he knew nothing else.
He was half blind; and one day when I unchained him and took him
for a walk down the road, he was desperately frightened; and as
soon as he got back he made a dash for his kennel, and refused to
come out.
The long, two story house took up most of the left hand side of the
courtyard. The officers had two rooms here, one of which we used
for a mess. The family lived mostly in the big kitchen, where a little
fire burned on the great hearth. On the other two sides were stables,
some of which were used as billets, storeroom and orderly room.
The manure heap adorned the center of the courtyard. Behind lay a
small but important yard, which in turn opened on the big field where
two platoons were in pup tents around the border, and where the
company formed.
The people here were dull, homely, grasping and churlish. I do not
recollect ever having been given a pleasant word by one of them; but
of complaints and claims for damages there was no lack. They
seemed to resent our presence from the very first; we were
apparently as much intruders to them as German troops could have
been.
The men soon began to resent this attitude, and to reciprocate in
kind. Soldiers are apt to be heedless, and are of course a nuisance
to the people they are quartered on; but at Rety they had greeted us
in the main as friends, and we in turn tried to give as little trouble as
possible. Here our notions of being the welcome young warriors got
a good severe jolt.
We on our side took some time to learn how to conduct ourselves.
How were we to know that a French peasant would far rather have
you walk over him than over one of his fields? Why was it a crime to
cut down a stunted dead tree for the company kitchen? And where,
oh, where were the pretty mademoiselles?
But even in Northern France all the people were not like this.
Remember the old woman just down the road, who lived with her
daughters in the cottage which was battalion headquarters? They
were very poor, and worked very hard; all the long summer day—
and it was light from 4:30 A. M. to 9:00 P. M.—they were busy,
indoors and out. Her three sons were in the army, one a prisonier de
guerre, two at the front. When one of them, only a young lad, came
home for a few days’ permission, he went out every morning at 6:00
o’clock and worked until dusk. How many of us would have done as
much? And the old lady and girl always had a smile and cheery
word, and would give soldiers a drink of milk and insisted on having
officers going to bn. hdq. stop for a cup of coffee. Even the pretty
little goat in the yard grew friendly with olive drab, and would romp
with us like a dog.
For several days we used whatever little fields we could for drill;
every square foot of land that was suitable seemed to be under
cultivation. This was unsatisfactory, to say the least. Finally Col.
Meyers arranged for us to have the use of the top of the great hill. It
was a splendid place to drill—after you got there. But oh, that hike up
that young mountain and down again, twice a day! Will we ever
forget it?
When we had been here about a week, Major Odom returned, and a
day or so later Lieuts. Schuyler and Merrill rejoined the company.
They were all primed with the new wrinkles they had picked up at
school at Chatillon, and took over the first and third platoons
respectively. Schuyler’s conscientiousness, high spirits and
inexhaustible energy made him a great asset to the company. Merrill
was an equally hard and willing worker, and though young, was one
of the brightest men in the regiment. He had graduated from the
school at the head of his class, which included majors, captains and
lieuts. from all over the A. E. F.
We were stationed about 50 kilometers behind the lines; and had the
Germans made one more drive on Calais that summer we should
have undoubtedly gone into action. No lights were shown at night,
and it was seldom that we did not hear the droning buzz of the great
Boche bombing planes winging their way to bomb Calais or
Boulogne, or maybe some nearer town, Desvres or St. Omer.
At the beginning of July details of officers and n. c. o.’s were sent up
to the front lines for four day tours of observation. Sgts. Ertwine,
Perry and I went on the first one, and were in the line with a battalion
of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers. Our experiences, while
interesting, hardly belong here. Lieut. Foulkes went up the next week
and landed in the midst of an attack, so he saw plenty of action.
Then Lieut. Schuyler went up with an Australian outfit, who didn’t let
him pine for excitement during his stay. It was an excellent system,
and we saw at first hand how things were really run in the trenches.
When I returned from my tour, an orderly brought around late that
night some red covered books and leaflets, and we were told that
these would be put into effect the next day. These were the new
system of combat formations, involving an absolutely new extended
order drill, and formation of the company. Lieut. Moore had drilled a
few times in these formations; the rest of us knew no more about
them than the company cooks did. So next morning we sallied forth,
books in hand, and worked the formations out step by step.
Everyone was quick to see that this was something like business, as
of course our old army regulations were absurd when it came to
using the new special weapons, such as automatic rifles, hand and
rifle grenades, and so on. So the new formations were mastered
remarkably quickly.
A bayonet course with trenches, “shell holes” and dummies was
installed, and a sergeant of the Northumberland Fusileers was
instructor. He was a good one, too; but as usual, we were up against
it, as he taught some things slightly differently from the American
methods.
It was while going over this course that Gustave Fleischmann
stepped in a hole and broke his leg. It was a bad break, for I saw his
foot and lower leg go out sideways at a right angle, in spite of his
leggings. He was game enough, though, and smoked a cigarette
while waiting for an ambulance and surgeon. We heard from him
several times from English hospitals, but he was never able to rejoin
the company.
We also lost another very valuable man in Corporal Edward
Johnson. This man could have claimed exemption for either
dependents or a weak heart. He refused to do either, and we
managed to get him passed by the medicos for foreign service. The
daily hike up that hill, however, and the strenuous life generally, were
too much for him, though he kept at it until he was worn down to a
very dangerous point. I made him go before the surgeon, who at
once ordered him transferred to a depot brigade. I know that
Johnson was not liked by some of you men on account of his
conscientiousness. I believe, however, that when you look back upon
it you will appreciate his honest, unselfish and unceasing labor for
his squad, platoon, and company.
That countryside was beautiful at this time. It rained often, but in
showers; not the continuous drizzle that came later. Maybe it was
because we took more notice of such things than usual, not knowing
if we would see another summer, but the green fields, fresh in the
early morning and cool and sweet at night, and the hedges, and the
pretty little bits of woodland along the creeks and ravines, all seemed
lovely as never before.
In the next town, just over the hill, was an Australian rest camp. We
got along with the Aussies much better than with Tommies, and
every night numerous visitors went down to cultivate the entente
cordial with the assistance of the town estaminets.
Our first payday in France came about this time, and what with back
pay coming in, and the high rate of exchange, and being paid in
francs, some of the boys waxed rather too exuberant over the
flowing bowl. What with Janicki and Effingham trying to clean up
Brunembert, starting in with a couple of Tommies and ending with an
abrupt thud when they got around to “D” Co. headquarters; and
sundry members of the Irish brigade making a Donnybrook Fair out
of the highways and byways, I had a busy night.
Another night we shall remember is that of July 4th. Sgts. Ertwine,
Perry and Anness were going up for commissions at the Officer
Candidates’ School at Langres, and the officers gave them a farewell
supper that evening. The company was, I understand, also
celebrating the national holiday conscientiously. When the festivities
were at their height, we heard the squealing of bagpipes, and the
curious bump-bump-bumpetty-bum of the Scottish drummer, that
nobody on earth but a Jock can keep step with. The band of the H.
L. I. had been serenading the Col. and were going back to their
billets.
All turned out to see them pass, and as they swung up the road, Lt.
Foulkes, in an inspired moment, detailed Supply Sgt. Levy to bring
’em back for “B” Co.
In five minutes the pipes returned, with Joe marching at their head
twirling the drum major’s baton. They turned into the courtyard, and
were taken into our midst with a mighty burst of cheers, skirling of
pipes, and thunder of the drums. That was a scene I shall never
forget—a wonderful setting for a musical comedy. The dark
courtyard, fitfully illumined by the glare of a few lanterns and torches
—the crowd of olive drab figures around the Scotties in their kilts,
with one in the center doing a Highland fling. The visitors were
already fortified, but additional liquid refreshments were hastily
procured for them, and a testimonial taken up in the way of a
collection. In the meantime the drummer, well on the shady side of
sober, rendered several ballads. We reciprocated with Irish songs by
Peter and others, and a breakdown by Kitson. It was well on towards
midnight when they left; and next morning the Major wanted to know
“what the hell was B Company up to last night?”
Another pleasant time was had by all one day while I was at the
front. Someone at staff hdq. felt an idle curiosity to see how fast the
division could turn out, if it had to. Accordingly the order went forth—
march at 2:00 P. M. Thinking the Boches had broken through and we
were “for it,” there was a mad scurry and scramble; the kitchen
pulled to pieces; rations hastily issued; and the company, under Lt.
Dunn, reported to the Brunembert road about half an hour after the
time set, and about two hours sooner than had seemed possible that
morning. After fussing about a bit, the companies were marched
back to their hastily abandoned billets.
All the time we were in the English area, rations were short. The
British ration must have been much smaller than ours, or else there
was a hitch somewhere. Our men were used to three square meals
a day. The British only had porridge, tea and bread and jam for
breakfast; a regular meal—stew or meat and vegetables—in the