Rendezvous With Six
To say that it was a day is the understatement of a lifetime. As I get comfortable in my usual chair, I mentally pull out my little black book and turn to the last page. The page is almost full, only enough room for one more entry. Jimmy, the bartender, hands me my usual concoction of Vodka, mixed with pineapple juice, a hint of lime and a shot of Bolls Blue for effect. This bar aptly named No-Where was my one solace and where I met them: the Wingfield twins, Chris and James, my best friends and lovers. It was my 16th birthday when I walked into No-Where, mid-day, gave Jimmy a false ID and ordered a drink. Ten minutes later those two hooligans came in, laughing at a private joke. James spotted me right away and smiled. Chris was too involved in his latest flight of fantasy to notice anyone else, but I noticed him. He was tall, broad shoulders, with dirty blond hair that had a stubborn curl just below his ears, thin waist and powerful legs. He was wearing faded jeans, with a white t-shirt and a black leather jacket. As they sauntered in the direction of the bar, he looked at me and my mind stopped working, his eyes were the color of blue flames that taunted the shadows and the demons within.
