Ten minutes later the highway came to an end, turning abruptly down to the Bay of Quinte. Apart from the brewery and a former gristmill that housed the current Ministry of Natural Resources, there was little to see.
“What’s this place?” Bill grumbled.
“This is the Glenora ferry crossing. John A. Macdonald used to live here.”
“Who?”
“Our first prime minister? Sir John A. Macdonald?”
“Oh, him.” Bill grunted.
“You know, sometimes you worry me,” Dan said.
“I’m distracted,” Bill snarled. “I didn’t sleep much.”
Dan reached over and squeezed his knee. “I was kidding. Don’t worry.”
“I work hard, you know,” Bill said petulantly. “Thom better have champagne waiting for us when we get there.”
They joined the line of vehicles waiting to be transported across the tenuous link connecting the two counties. Bill craned his head to make out the far shore. It was draped in fog. “This place is eerie.”
“But beautiful,” Dan said. “I like the feeling of isolation….”
“I don’t. It creeps me out. I don’t like to be this far from the city.”
Dan cocked an eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you the one who always wants to go camping?”
Bill snorted. “Sure — as long as I get to sleep in a five-star hotel.”
The line-up advanced, braking and inching forward again in little shimmy movements. The gate swung closed on a full load and the boat surged into the bay. Fifteen minutes later they rolled onto the opposite shore. The fog was denser, hanging in soft folds in the trees. Dan drove slowly, alert for road signs and wary of oncoming cars shooting out of the grey gauze in an anxious rush to catch the return ferry. He skidded past the arrow pointing down a country road, then reversed and headed for the north shore.
The house was visible from a distance where it sat framed by pines. Once the mist cleared, it promised a breathtaking view of the bay. A whimsical third-floor tower with curved glass windows and a wrap-around porch softened the otherwise sober exterior. Red creeper curled over grey stone. Flowerbeds surrounded the drive in fizzy, mist-muted bands of yellow and a late-season patch of bright azure blue. Dan turned up the cobblestone half-circle. The house seemed to be watching them. Its windows winked in and out of the fog.
“Leave the car here,” Bill commanded, craning his head to look at the upper stories.
“I can’t leave it in the middle of the driveway.”
“Don’t worry about it. Park it over there, then.” He waved to the side.
Dan hefted their bags from the trunk and turned to find Bill staring at him. “What? Am I dressed wrong for this set?” he joked, glancing down at his plaid jacket, navy T and khaki pants.
“Thom’s going to love you,” Bill said apprehensively.
“What? How do you mean?”
Bill gave him a pained look. “I know Thom’s type. And you’re essentially it. I just hope he doesn’t try to steal you from me.”
Dan made a face. “I thought he was getting married this weekend.”
“That wouldn’t stop Thom.”
“Well, I’ll stop him if he tries. I’m here with you.”
“You don’t know Thom,” Bill said. “Besides, the rich make their own rules.”
“You’re rich, aren’t you?”
“Not that rich.”
A knocker resounded deep inside, as though the house went on for miles. After a few seconds, Bill grabbed the handle. The door opened onto a panelled foyer bright with flowers. A note awaited them on the hall table.
Welcome Billy and Daniel!
Your love nest is the first room on the left up the stairs. Make yourselves at home. (Food, drink, pool boys, etc.)
Seb and I will be back around 2.
XO Thom.
It was well past two now. Dan followed Bill up the stairs. Their room had an en suite bath and a fireplace. He set their bags down and looked around. A bay window overlooked a green swath that disappeared in mist before it reached the water. Dan walked over to the mantle and picked up a framed photo of a young man in a rowing scull. Big smile, bigger arms. The blond, blue-eyed looks of a matinee idol. Pretty enough for daytime soaps, though possibly not serious enough for prime time.
“That’s Thom,” Bill said, almost reluctantly.
“He’s rich and good looking?” Dan exclaimed. “How unfair!”
“He was an Olympic rower the year the team won a silver medal. Thom’s got it all,” Bill said with what sounded like disdain. “In fact, he’s even better looking in person.”
Dan thought it over. It wasn’t disdain; it was resentment. He heard it clearly now.
Bill pulled a rose from a bud vase, sniffed it, then laid it aside on the runner. “Come on,” he said, turning. “I want a shower.”
In the bathroom, Bill yanked at Dan’s T-shirt, then left off to unzip his fly. Fingers snaked inside his pants. “You have the most perfect cock.”
Dan slipped off his trousers and stepped into the shower. Bill knelt and looked up at him through the stream. “Who am I?” he demanded.
“You’re a dirty little hitchhiker I picked up on the Trans-Canada,” Dan said. This was Bill’s game, though for the most part Dan went along with it. “Who am I?”
“You’re a big sweaty trucker and you’re taking me to a place off the highway to make me suck your big dick.”
Dan ran a hand through Bill’s hair.
“Oh yeah!” Bill exclaimed. “Hit me … slap me around.”
Dan tapped Bill gently on the cheek.
“Harder!”
Dan gave his hair a tug. “I told you — I don’t mind make-believe, but I won’t hit you for real.”
Bill leered up through the pouring water. “What if I deserve it?”
“Then you’ll have to find someone else to give you what you deserve.”
“What if I told you I already have?”
Dan felt himself stiffen.
“You like the thought of someone else fucking me, don’t you? It turns you on.”
“Shut
