Elmer Grant looked at Jon and said, “Better than Hampstead Heath? Better than any toilet in the dark. All your most Pagan dreams. Now it’s your turn, yes?” And eerily, unnervingly he began to sing. Ludicrously it was opera. But in spite of his darkening smile, in spite of the fact Jon was sure it was sarcasm of some sort, the singing was exquisite, haunting.
03.20.2010
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One hairy arm, one smooth. Oh, he’d noticed. Incredibly erotic that, like getting the best of both worlds, like some kind of exotic hermaphrodite. Except he was much too masculine for that. That strong Greek face. He stopped, aware of how his foot had gone down on the accelerator. Grant was looking at him, smiling. Now Jon knew what that accent was.
03.13.2010
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He straightened up abruptly and pulled his shirt off over his head. It was all she could do to stop herself from crying out. His back was not matted in thick black hair as she had expected, instead there was a thick seam of it going down his spine, exactly as it left the nape of his neck. Thick seam as in animal fur thick.
03.05.2010
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Grant was whistling, an odd random collection of soft piping noises like shepherds used for sheep, tuneless but with an odd cadence. If anything he was further away now, drawing away from him entirely, but his voice was still two foot close. It occurred to Percy he’d never heard it any other way. Just like he’d never heard anyone ask him to repeat himself.
