“Don’t do it!"
Pastor Tim Leitner heard the voice thunder out, and immediately stopped what he was doing – taking hold of the deep crown of his Montana hat, covered in snow.
"It's wrong, wrong. Don't!"
He froze, and flicked his eyes to the left and to the right. But there was no one in the hallway, after all. No one, that is, apart from his lover, standing right there in a pool of lamp light, straight in front of him.
And yet that voice had come from somewhere close by. Closer than his jugular vein. Puzzling...Tim thought to himself. Very puzzling.
Or maybe, just maybe, the voice was his conscience crying out, warning him not to waste his precious time on earth on the things of the flesh, he mused as he wiped away the drops trickling down his cheeks, so red it looked like he'd been crying.
And wasn't he, after all, a pastor? A man who was supposed to embody the moral force of God here on earth? A towering figure of authority that others looked up to for guidance?
He was, in fact, no less than the senior pastor of one of the biggest fundamentalist churches Colorado. So why wasn’t he studying his Bible right now? Down on his knees praying? Preparing his character for spiritual illumination?
The truth was he found studying his Matthew Henry Bible Commentary tedious; he wanted some excitement, some adventure, the thrill of paddling palms and pinching fingers, to lift his spirits. Who wouldn't, if they were honest?
His body was a raging fire and he wanted to roll around in a smoothe and silky bed, wallowing like a pig in the depths of pleasure. Who wouldn't if they could only let go of all the conditioning from authorities? The abstract, moral commandments, and the cold notion of God, were as dry as dust, as dark as a grave, compared to the hot thrill of flesh on flesh.
Tim took hold of the zip of his glossy brown leather jacket, steaming and quivering so much at the thought that he would soon be writhing in satin sheets with his lover that he forgot all about his wife, Cindy, of 26 years.
Bending his fingers at the joints, he pulled down the zip so excited at the thought he’d soon be high on crystal meth he forgot, too, all about his congregation.
The minute the meeting with FEMA officials on how what ways pastors should employ to pacify citizens and make them obey the government in the event of the declaration of martial law had finished at 3:25 that Thursday afternoon, he’d picked up his briefcase and left his Young Life Church, housed in a brand new steel and glass complex built for 35 million dollars on the outskirts of Denver, gotten into his car and had headed down the highway, where a storm of blizzard proportions was raging, to his home in Roche Heights, only to peel away from the straight and narrow road as soon as he was sure he was clear, and, putting pedal to metal, to head back into Denver.
In his black Chevy, equipped with built-in steel reinforced, shock absorbing bumpers, he’d powered through the icy streets, reducing speed only to reconnoitre his lover’s apartment block before parking in a side street.
Pulling down the stiff brim of his Montana hat against the snow, he’d walked, past a Chinese grocery store, plastered with the recruiting posters for a new Civilian Expeditionary Army, before turning left into an alley, which was covered with snow, puddles and trash, ducking only to hide from a Hell's Angel who emerged from a back door to stride through the snow, pulling on a cigarette, then scrambling through a back door, up five flights of step...until he finally reached his destination.
Glory, glory be! Tim felt such a thrill, such a high, such a rush of adrenaline when he set eyes on his lover that he swore he could hear a choir of angels singing out: “Halleluja! Halleluja!”
Dear Lord! Rob Owen was the most stunning man Tim had ever set eyes on.
Standing there in a navy blue T-shirt, jeans and plastic flip flops, he looked like Achilles. And that at 47 years old! Six foot four, he had Herculean biceps, narrow hips and long legs. His hair was fair and curly. And what a face he had! What a soft mouth he had! Apart from his razor thin upper lip that added a slightly arrogant touch to his otherwise good-natured, honest expression.
Not that Owen had much to be arrogant about however much the twilight might conspire to hide just how run down his two-roomed apartment in downtown Denver was, Tim thought to himself, as he blew onto his frozen fingers, and then smoothed down his short, brown hair, which stood up like a hedgehog from the top of his head.
Owen was one of the growing army of impoverished Americans, hit by the Bush years of deregulation, outsourcing, job cuts, declining real incomes, high fuel prices, high grocery prices, the subprime crisis, foreclosures, and astronomical interest rates on their 5 or 6 credit cards, and destined to end up in one of the many tent city or FEMA camps springing up around the country with the imminent implosion of the US economy and society, and the creation of a New World Order, Tim mused to himself, as he glanced at a poster of Iggy Pop.
Yes, guys like Owen would not be wanted in Denver when it became the western capital of a new nation controlled by the UN...
“Geez, it’s tropical in here,” Tim said, pulling off his jacket.
“Waddya expect? It's freezing outside,” muttered Owen, pointing at the snow, pattering down outside in the blue twilight.
“You could always put on a pullover. It'd keep down your bills.”
“I could always rob a bank," Owen shot back. "Or join a march on Washington DC and overthrow the whole gawddamn band of robbers."
Tim laughed.
“The crooks have been running the country since the Fed was privatised, Rob. Everyone knows that!” Tim said, lifting up his fingers and wiped his cheeks. "America's a corporation and everyone's working for the profit of the Rockefellers, the Rothschilds and the Bushes. That's the reality. Might as well accept it. Nothing anyone can do."
“Nothing anyone wants to do. Need a towel?" Owen asked, frowning.
Tim nodded.
Owen picked up a peach-coloured towel, muscles bulging underneath his short-sleeved T shirt, and held it out.
“Thanks,” said Tim, taking the towel.
Owen stood there, and looked down at him from his Mount Everest heights with clear blue eyes. Tim dropped his face to the ground, overcome with shame.
And to think he even paid with Owen for an hour of sex! Yes, he paid his idol, the love of his life, 250 bucks in cash for an hour of his company! And yet Owen couldn't even be bothered talking to him. How humiliating! Boy, was he a looser!
In the meantime, Owen had turned back to the TV. Hands on his hips, he stood there, watching a game of soccer. He was so absorbed, he seemed oblivious to everything around him.
Frustrated, Tim hold of the bottom of his shirt. He pulled it out of the waistband of his chinos which had two knifelike creases down the front.
“Who am I kidding?” he mused, unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m just another Joe to him!”
At that thought that there was no one in the whole world who really loved him, Tim felt a stomach churning, gut-wrenching feeling of abandonment. What a roller coaster of emotions he went throug every time he saw Owen! What agony and what ecstasy!
Tim dropped down to his knees, and untied his shoe laces, fighting back his emotions, trying to keep up the facade of being someone in control of his life.
“What the f**k! That was a free kick! Give it to him ref! Yess!” Owen yelled out.
“Didn’t know you liked soccer?” Tim remarked, forcing himself to smile as he grappled with a knot in his laces.
“Love it! Used to play all the time as a kid. At least soccer doesn't have an ad break every ten seconds like American football. Sometimes I think they invented that game just for the advertisers."
“Could be right! Mind you, soccer looks pretty boring to me. The players are just standing around on the pitch like some Dad’s army."
“They’re waiting for Beckham to take a free kick.”
“Who?”
“Holy shit! Look at that! What a goal! He just slammed it home from 20 yards outside the penalty box. Into the top corner!”
Owen pumped his fists in the air, walloped with delight. Smiling, he picked up an apple from a bowl beside a lamp, and bit out a chunk.
“Fucking hell! That goal was what I call skill under pressure,” he said between mouthfuls of apple. “Everyone wrote Beckham off when he started at LA. It just spurred him on. That’s what I call character, steel under pressure! I'm looking forward to seeing him play here."
“I thought you were broke?”
“I am! You think I’d be doing this if I wasn’t?” Owen said, taking hold of the bottom of his T-shirt and pulling it over his belt with a silver buckle.
He pulled his T-shirt over his abdomen and torso and head, and threw it aside. That same second, Tim caught sight of a gash on Owen’s arm.
"What's that?" he asked, pointing.
“What?”
“That cut there on your arm!”
Owen shrugged.
“Oh, some guys gave me a spot of trouble down at the pub,” he said, rolling on the "o" sounds in "spot of trouble" with a deep voice.
“They did?” “Came at me with broken bottle.”
“You mean they slashed your arm?”
Owen tossed his T shirt to one side.
“Down at Molly Malone’s.”
“That Irish pub round the corner that’s always jammed to the rafters?”
“Just got a few gargles down my neck when the mother of all smash ups started,” Owen said pressing down a bar on his belt and releasing the clasp.
“Three guys? You're goddamn lucky they didn't put you six feet under, Rob.”
“Yeah, you wouldn't plunk it,” Owen said, pulling down his trousers.
“You must have been on the lash, right? Said something to really annoy them?”
“If asking for a coaster is that annoying…?”
“Is that all you did?”
“Yep, that’s all.” Owen lifted up his eyes to the ceiling, and laughed out loud.
He stood there, arms folded, preoccupied with some thought of his own, apparently perfectly happy. For a second, Tim was sure he could even see a light shining around his head. A halo? Was that it? Was Owen an angel then? So pure in heart that he wasn’t afraid even of death? Or was he just plain crazy?
“So those guys just attacked you without any reason, did they?” Tim muttered, frowning, shaking his head, compressing his lips. “My, my! There are some angry folks around, aren’t there? Was it cos they knew you were gay?”
“Don’t know.”
“What else? If you’re gay, you might as well get used to abuse. Like I choose to be gay! I can’t help it Anyone must be crazy to think someone would chose to expose themselves to such hatred!”
“You’re pretty scared, aren’t you? Worried about what others think!”
“Who isn’t? They say America is a free and tolerant society,” Tim said, pulling down his boxer shorts. “Who are they kidding? It’s a fascist state! Full of clones, robots. Mind control. Conformity. Work, work, work! Perform, perform! Anyone who’s different has to hide…”
"Hide? I don't think anyone should change the way they are just to fit in with. So what if I’m gay? I have never done anyone any harm,” Owen said.
“Yeah, like I really want an early exit.”
“We’re all going to exit anyway. The question to is whether we’ve lived beforehand.”
But Tim was too busy peeling off his cayote brown socks to listen.
“Why is there so much hatred around, I wonder?” he muttered. “Everywhere you go, there’s so much discrimination, bigotry, prejudice. It’s race, religion, sexual orientation. How did it ever get so bad? Or was it always like this? What do you think, Rob? You’re a man of the world.”
“If you ask me, most people just hate themselves. That’s why they don’t value anyone else. No respect left for what it means to be human being.”
“Think so? Maybe you’re right. I meet so many people who think they’re worth next to nothing in our consumer society. They almost apologise for breathing. They feel they have to own a private jet and a yacht before they have the right to be taken seriously. And when their salary drops or they lose their job, they go away and hide. That's the way our Wall Street banks and media has conditioned them to think. And don't forget the Masters of the Universe follows the Talmud and according to that book non Jews are beasts, sub human, destined to be slaves and robbed."
Owen looked over in surprise.
"You're kidding? I never heard that."
"IT's true. As for Christians, they're to be exterminated. Read it in the Talmud! It's really there. We're called Goyims, sub human beasts."
"Sounds like Adolf Hitler."
"The Talmud tells the Jews to hide their true believes from the non Jews. Make believe and cunning are what's recommended."
"No wonder!" muttered Owen.
"Anyway, I certainly don’t have issues with self confidence!” Tim added, jutting out his chin.
"Good," Owen said and pulled down his boxer shorts, took off his hands and let them drop down around his ankles.
Tim observed Owen with hawk like eyes as he lifted a leg and stepped out from the tangle.
"Do you?"
“What?”
“Hate yourself?”
“You mean, cos I don’t fit in with some retarded advertiser's image? Sure. I absolutely detest myself!” Owen said, with laughing eyes.
“I can see that!” Tim snorted, watching Owen’s relaxed movements as he walked over to the double bed.
“I guess I've just learned to accept I'm just another dumb ass," Owen drawled. "So what if I love men more? Murder is worse. Robbery is worse. Complain to God, I say, if you find that a fault. I am as God made me, after all. Anyway, our world needs love, any kind of love, right?”
“Sure, sure, but does the world need paid sex?”
“I need it. This stuff pays my bills,” Owen said. “I'd be out on the street otherwise. Worst Depression since 1931 thanks to the bandits in the government and the banks. Hats off to the them for taking us to the cleaners with their bailout," Owen said and swung his body across the bed in a single, graceful athletic movement and dropped down onto the bed, crumpling the blue satin sheets.
He buried his face in the big, soft pillow.
"You could soon be fighting for Israel, Owen," Tim said, half joking. "I saw a recruitment poster for a Civilian Expeditionary Force hung up in the grocery store at the corner."
"No thanks. Until they kick down my door and throw me into a FEMA camp, I'm staying put."
"Sure, in my church, the pastors are being trained by the FEMA Zionists to get their congregation to accept martial law."
"That figures! They destroy our financial system, rob us, impoverish us and then they have to get rid of us."
"There's nothing anyone can do. It's too late."
“Anyway, it’s not like I'm forcing myself on anyone. It's all mutual, consensual adult stuff, right?” Owen mumbled, crossing his arms underneath the pillow.
“Absolutely! Anyone can see you're a good man. It's something we can all feel intuitively. It's their aura or presence or charisma or whatever. Imagine what the world would be like if everyone's aura was visible to the naked eye."
"I guess quite a few people might be ashamed to go out onto the street."
"I bet. The Emperor has no clothes!" Tim said, laughing, and sat down naked on the side of the bed, feasting his eyes on Owen’s back and shoulders.
Trembling from excitement, he placed his hands on Owen’s warm skin.
Oh, a glorious angel had fallen into those blue satin sheets, breathing forbidden life. A crown, a King's crown, encrusted with jewels, lay there for his taking!
"Are you going to take the meth?" Owen asked out of the corner of his mouth.
“The meth! Geez! I'd forgotten all about it!”
"Second drawer." Tim rummaged among tubes of sun cream and packets of cough drops.
“275 bucks a stash,” Owen mumbled.
“275 bucks. The price is going up… Got it from Sam?”
Owen lifted up his fist and punched his pillow with a right hook.
“No, hell, he’s catatonic.”
“Oh?”
“Drunk like ten men when I saw him at breakfast... In self destruct mode."
"What's up?"
"Lost his job, wife left him."
“Geez. Talk about a downward spiral. Why doesn't he pull himself together and pick himself up?"
"I keep telling him that."
"Anyway, 275 bucks isn’t a problem if it’s good, clean stuff. Got three thousand bucks in my wallet.”
"Say what do you do for a living? You always seem to be so flush," asked Owen, punching his pillow.
Tim froze.
"That's the first time you've asked me a personal question in all these two years,” he remarked.
"Just curious."
Tim smiled with pseudo-friendliness.
“I'm an air traffic controller.”
He couldn't tell Owen the truth, could he? Couldn't tell him he was an evangelical pastor, who preached against gay sex and adultery evry Sunday.
“Interesting job?” Owen asked.
“Good pay. That’s why I have to be so careful. A lot at stake. Job, family. If the folks where I live ever found out I was gay it’d be curtains for me.”
“So you're married?”
“Yes, but let's just say, I love men more.”
“Have you ever thought of telling your wife you have these feelings for men?”
“Are you kidding? She's got no idea I'm gay and we've been married over 25 years! I don’t want to hurt my kids either. The eldest are at college, but the youngest is still at home. No, this works just fine! I visit you and get it out of my system.”
“Isn't it hard living a double life?"
"It's not easy."
"What if your wife finds out?”
“She won't!”
“Are you so sure?"
“You’d never tell, would you?”
Owen snorted.
“You think I'm a two-timer, don't you?” said Tim. “Too spineless to confront my own wife and tell her the truth? An egotist who just wants his bread buttered on both sides, right?”
“Well, you are cheating on your wife, aren't you?”
“I know. But like I said there's a big taboo about being gay where I live down in North Carolina. There's zero tolerance for this kind of thing. To be gay is like being a supporter of Osama bin Laden!”
“I bet.”
“If anyone back home found out I was having gay sex, I'd be lynched. My wife and kids would be hounded."
"Terrible! I’m slowly falling out of love with creation. Especially the human being part of in it.”
Tim bit his lip, then said in a voice full of emotion. His eyes were trembling.
“Don’t think this is easy for me. I wish I could stop coming to see you, Rob. You don’t know how much I wish I could beat this addiction! And it is like I’m addicted to you. I can’t get enough of you. You give me this thrill, this high. Unbeatable. You don’t know how hard I try to fight it. But I feel like there's this hole inside me. I feel so down, so depressed so much of the time. I spend all my energy trying to look like I’m okay, trying to look like I’m on top of my life. But inside, I feel so empty. I guess it’s a mid life crisis, huh? Anyway, I feel like I've missed out on the most essential thing in life! I don’t even know what it is. I reckon it’s love. I come here, see you and take this meth, and for an hour, I can believe all my fantasies about love have come true….” Tim’s voice quivered.
“I imagine you love me and I feel ten foot tall..."
"I don't."
"I know. For you it's just a job. I pay you 250 bucks and you watch the clock. For me, it’s a high that keeps me going for the whole month. The hour with you is the only time when I feel really alive. Incredible, isn’t it? I pray to God and nothing ever happens. I see you and all the choirs of angels start singing! Explain that?”
"Hate to rush you, Tim, but the next client's coming..."
“Sure, I know the clock is ticking…” Tim muttered.
He dug his fingers into Owen's hair.
"You know if you were a figure in the Bible…"
"The Bible?"
“Do you believe in God, Rob?”
“I believe in a light.”
“In a light. What kind?”
“Just am inner light, a voice, a conscience, a light that never goes out.”
“Okay. Anyway, if you were a figure in the Bible, I'd say you were King David. He was good looking, a courageous warrior but also a great musician."
“Sure I'm Superman. Do you read the Bible?”
“I belong to a church like I said.”
“Baptist?”
“Yeah. It's pretty conservative. But that's the way churches are around where I am."
"That so?"
"Like pretty much everywhere else. Everyone knows the Illuminati have a secret agenda when it comes to the fundamentalist Christian churches."
"Really?"
"Sure. I know preachers funded to the tune of millions by the Israeli lobby to tell Christians their first obligation is to fight for Israel, arm Israel with nukes, give money to Israel! The Illuminati hate religion."
"Didn't that author Dan Brown talk about that bunch in his book?"
"Yeap. They're for real. Black masses. Esoteric stuff."
"Satanic?"
"They don't see themselves that way."
"I bet. But then these people never do see themselves like they are, do they?"
"They're powerful, mind you, and they've used the whole fundamentalist Christian movement as part of a system of mind control and social control. Smart!"
"You think so?"
"Hey, Christ didn't say anything about gay sex or abortion, did he?"
"No, he didn't say anything about sex at all come to think of it."
"But your average fundamentalist church talks about nothing except sex, gay sex, abortion and obedience.”
"Why do you stay in a church like that? I mean you blame it on these other guys. But if you go to a church like that, it's you fault."
"There's a lot of pressure," said Tim.
“Maybe you need to just learn to be more accepting about your sexuality, come to terms with who you are. Why let these people put you down? Your church doesn’t sound at all Christian anyway. I mean, God is the God of love, right?” Owen snorted.
“God? God is the God of good-cleaning living…,” retorted Tim. “But you’re right. Am I really that bad? I have a conscience, at least. I get upset when I don't live up to my own standards. I even kinda believe in God. A lot of people I know don't. They think he's just a cynical invention to make people feel guilty. I get upset when I, you know….I fantasise about orgies, too….”
“You do?”
“Sure, I fantasise about a night of sex with five, fresh young college guys. Needless to say, I can’t tell my wife. Sometimes I just wish I were straight. Why can’t I be?”
“Look, I'm not Sigmund Freud.”
“Sure, sure…. You know, I just wonder why I married in the first place. But there was so pressure…. Everyone was getting hitched as soon as they turned 21. My wife seemed ideal. I was sure I would grow to love her, but I never did. Mind you, she’s a great person. I respect her. Just my heart doesn’t go boom when she walks into the room. Know what I mean?”
"Personally, I think you should talk to her. It sounds like you got a good thing going. Maybe you can find a way forward. I think living in denial is not healthy, you know. You might be surprised at her reaction.”
“No way! I know she’d be shattered if she found out I was gay. She has all these prejudices, fixed ideas.”
“Why not talk to her?”
“Pointless. She's a total sheep. She believes September 9/11 was a terrorist attack.”
"Really? Even my grandmother of 92 knows it was an inside Israeli job!"
"That's Cindy! Hundred per cent sheep!" Tim pressed his thumb down harder onto Owen’s shoulder.
"Like most Americans. John Wayne was one of the last with a backbone. At least, he took responsibility for his actions. Nowadays, no one accepts responsibilities. It's the government's fault, the church's fault, the banker's fault. Heck, they need to get off their ass, march and change the system if they don't like it, not just moan!"
“Where do you start? Say, how did someone like you ever end up in this business?” he asked.
“I ask myself that same question every day…It pays the rent, you know. I dropped out of high school and it’s not easy to find a job that pays a living wage nowadays even if you have a PhD from Harvard. I worked on construction sites but my back gave in.”
“Why did you drop out of school?”
“Didn’t get on with my step father.”
“That so?” “He had a big fist. I was 15 when I moved out. This guy gave me a job in his lumber yard, next thing I know he’s trying to rape me.”
“Terrible. Didn’t anyone help?”
“Help? In America? You kidding! Hey, here you can really fall low. Our government offers their butt to any sodom-lover of a corporation who will pay them enough to rob us of our rights. I remember my Dad used to work in a factory and had a decent wage. We had our own neat house in San Fran and a car and all that and no debts. It was a good life, till he found another woman. My Mum left him and we ended up in a trailer park in Montana with the incredible hulk,” said Owen, wearily, plumping up his pillow.
“Do you have a boyfriend, Rob?”
“He calls himself that. I call him a ball and chain around my neck.”
“Known him long?”
“Too long.”
"What does he think about you doing this?"
“He knows it's just business. I make ten times more dough than I would stacking shelves in Wal Mart. Figure out the math. Anyway, most of the clients are okay.”
“Doesn't he ever get jealous?”
“No. Why should he? In fact, this helps him. He was in Iraq.”
“A vet?”
“Yeah. A marine, would you believe it? But he came back a drug addict, and there was f**k all help there for him, f**k all help from government. They just want cheap mercenaries for their oil and drug wars.”
"Like I said, the Talmud says non Jews are beasts, monkeys and slaves, and half the US government are dual Israeli citizens."
"I know. I mean, who the f**K rules us?"
"They do. Their Talmud also says Jews are permitted to lie any Christian or goyim about what's in the Talmud."
"No kidding! The Talmud sounds just as racist and genocidal as Adolf Hitler"
"It is! The Talmud says the Jews are the master race destined to rule the world and all the property of the world belongs to them."
"That explains it, then! That explains why the Jews killed Jesus Christ! I bet he must have got up their nose with his message of love. That explains our media today, too. 70 per cent is owned by the Jews. If lying is okay by them..."
“Believe me, I've studied the Talmud in Hebrew so I know what's in there."
"It's too easy to blame it all on the Talmud. Our own government is so corrupt, it's beyond belief! Americans are shallow, materialistic and stupid. Everyone seems to be up for sale!"
"Hey, so are you, Rob!"
"I can't make a living any other way."
"Hey, there must be some guys you like more than others?”
“A client is a client. They pay for a service, for sex, for their fantasies. I keep my private and business life strictly separate. ”
“Makes sense,” Tim said, smiling with fake cheerfulness, hiding a pang of jealousy.
“And your boyfriend? Did he go to college?”
“Hell no. He's scraping by with odd jobs like most average Joes in our out-sourced economy."
“But you help him out…”
“Like I say, we help each other out if and when we can. We’re going on vacation next month. Down south where there’s a bit of sun. My brother lives in the Florida Keys. Great fishing, great scuba diving and we don’t have to pay for our digs. We just have to get the gas money together."
Next, there was a bleep. He heard the cell phone in his jacket start to ring. He tensed up. Who was that? Cindy, his wife? Arlen Pierce from the church board?
Tim ignored it. He quickly shook out some meth onto the palm of his hand.
“Will you be around next month, Owen?” he asked. “Unless Santa Claus whisks me away to the North Pole.” Tim laughed.
“That’s not your destiny, Rob. What Santa Claus? Life is no fairy tale. It’s brutal, bruising stuff… Dog eat dog. No let up! And it’s getting worse.“
“Incredible but true….” Owen muttered, lifting his big fist and punching the pillow.
“All the rock singers and poets go on about love,” Tim said. “But I sure never come across much of it. Why is that? I mean, we all crave love. But no one can get it. Are we really such a rich country, if we are so poor in love and in happiness? Even the most corrupt, depraved kind of love is better than no love at all, don’t you think? I mean, if you have to scrape around in the mud for a nugget of gold, you’d do it, wouldn’t you? Wasn’t it Dante who called love la luce etterna? Eternal light! That’s what it is! That’s what we all crave and hunger for. Love! Light! Happiness! Money, power and all that is just an ersatz….If we can’t get love directly, we build up our power and money to get it indirectly by impressing others. There are some people who think gold makes the world go round. But isn’t love what we all crave?”
“Search me,” Owen mumbled and thumped the pillow, wearily.
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