Nate's Last Tango

A NineStar Press Publication

www.ninestarpress.com

Nate’s Last Tango

Copyright © 2017 Kevin Klehr

Cover Art by Natasha Snow ©Copyright 2017

Edited by: Jason Bradley

Published in 2017 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, NineStar Press, LLC.

Nate’s Last Tango

Nate and Cameron, Book 2

Kevin Klehr

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

About the Author

Dedication

First off, this is dedicated to the characters in this book, who demanded I continue telling their story.

But most of all, this story is for my loving partner, Warren, who has shared many adventures with me, across the cities I write about. You inspire me to keep writing. You inspire me always.

Chapter One

I’m nervous, I said. But my boyfriend, Cam, didn’t hear me. Fortunately, his butler, Roger, did.

Here you go, Nate. The loyal servant placed a garishly green cocktail in my hand, complete with a little umbrella. This will make you so chilled, the next few hours will feel like a hippie folk festival.

If only that were the truth. I was about to meet Cameron’s parents for the first time, and both he and Roger were busy preparing canapés. They insisted I was as much of a guest as the others were, so I wasn’t to help with the catering.

Instead, I gazed out the window of my boyfriend’s swish New York apartment, trying to imagine what a middle-aged couple who had made their fortune in the funeral trade would be like. My first thought was something as creepy as an older Gomez and Morticia from The Addams Family.

And with that vision came a list of odd relatives I hadn’t met yet. Perhaps a short hunchback that rang church bells. An older brother who slept in the basement during the day and showed off his unusually sharp fangs to unsuspecting women at night. Or a haggard stepsister who kidnapped the neighborhood pets and offered them to pagan gods during midnight rituals.

I watched my boyfriend. He was trying to make art out of smoked salmon and flatbread, but somehow he kept adding too much mayo. The result was something that looked like a squeezed pimple rather than anything you’d put in your mouth. As always, Roger was at his side to fix his creations, and as a pair they worked well.

Through his chic designer glasses, Cam scrutinized what Rog was trying to show him, and he understood until his butler tucked, folded, or did whatever was necessary to make my boyfriend’s attempts look presentable. Although my man wasn’t perfect, that was the very reason I loved him. He’d try. And he had enough people around to support him. His parents had to be equally as supportive, surely.

Any moment they’d swan in the front door, having just flown in from Paris, where they had stayed the night because they’d decided to eat dinner in that romantic city on a whim. His mum, or mom as these Americans say, would offer me her hand adorned in a teal glove and wait for me to kiss it.

His dad would check me out, and while he shook my hand all businesslike, it wouldn’t be until later that his real nature would come out. He’d pull out a joint and tell us about his wild days; of wearing a leather jacket, having wall-to-wall lovers, and the heavy rock band he fronted with regular top-ten hits.

Would you like another cocktail, Nate? Roger asked.

No, I’ve hardly— My glass was empty.

Your mind is preoccupied. Let me get you another.

No. I don’t want to be drunk before they arrive.

Have a cocktail, said Cam as he ran his finger under a tap after burning it on poached chicken. If I was in your shoes, I’d be nervous as well.

Roger took the glass out of my hand and promptly made me another green drink. With the first sip, my mind wandered even more, back to last month.

Cam and I were in Barcelona. We were walking through a crazy unfinished church whose spires were so high, peeping toms could hide in their countless platforms and spy on this city of love. I kissed my man in what seemed to be an alien octopus’s lair. White arms reached down from the roof with glass eyes attached to their joints. White pop-art flowers littered the roof, while Jesus swung from a jellyfish just above the altar.

My mind thinks it’s on acid, but my body knows better, said Cam.

Imagine if Sydney’s Opera House was built around Gaudi’s time, I pondered.

There’d be a dragon’s mouth as a stage in the main concert hall, and the seats would be tiered on its tail.

No. That sounds too normal.

Okay then, what would the Opera House be like if Picasso designed it?

Picasso wasn’t an architect.

Work with me, Nate.

No one would be able to sit on the seats. They’d be jagged and uncomfortable.

And what if Tom of Finland drew the initial sketches?

There’d be pillars in the shape of— I chuckled.

And the stage would look like a giant open, you know, after—

Not a place for high art. I grinned.

He nodded and took my hand.

Where are you, Nate? my boyfriend asked. He was now heating sugar to make caramel.

Back on our trip.

Were you at that street party?

No. I was at Gaudi’s church.

He smiled as he kept carefully stirring the pot of toffee. Meanwhile, my thoughts wandered back to Barcelona.

There were so many narrow side streets that had to be discovered. So we strolled, losing ourselves in the clothes and assorted gifts that beckoned us from the shop windows.

What do you think of this one, Nate? Cameron held what looked like a mini lime-colored school bag.

It will be hard to match with an outfit.

Maybe I’m going through a new phase.

What phase is that? Ultra-camp?

Very funny, my sarcastic Australian. No, I meant I’m discovering color.

That’s not color. That’s someone’s idea of a joke.

What about this one? He pointed to a red bag.

That would work better in New York.

Nathan, the green one would also work in New York.

The tall shop assistant finally butted in. Can I help you with anything, gentlemen?

Just looking, I replied.

May I suggest—he took a cardboard box from behind the counter and opened it—this one!

It was still a miniature school bag but one that demanded respect. Its distressed black leather and oversized tarnished zipper had us drooling like men in a sex club.

Oh yes! I said. This is the one, Cam.

I’ve gone to bag heaven, he replied. We’ll take it!

As the assistant was tapping on the computerized cash register, my boyfriend was stroking his purchase like a pet that needed calming. Soon we were out of the store, our feet taking us in the direction of several hipster cafés. When we agreed on which had the best-looking waiter, we took our seats.

I’m in love, said Cam.

I know, I replied.

With my bag.

I know. I owe that shop assistant a heap of gratitude. Trust me, Cam, if you bought that green one, it would have sat in the wardrobe forever wondering why it had been banished.

I’m glad we’re doing Barcelona.

Because of the shopping?

No, Nate, because of us. Yeah, we had Tokyo and it was fun. Two scallywags on vacation.

Scallywags? Since when did you become an upper-class British pirate?

Roger referred to us as scallywags before we left for the airport. It’s a word.

Lime-green bags and scallywags? Bring back my boyfriend!

The waiter arrived to take our orders. I asked for a bottle of wine before we checked the menu. He was quick with a recommendation, then left us to peruse.

We got the sexy one to serve us, I stated. And see how calm he is?

Nate, we’re not having this debate again, are we?

Not a debate, just an observation.

I get it. He’s not underpaid like American waiters. You’ve said it over and over again.

It’s criminal. Imagine if I worked as a waiter in your home country—

Nate, it’s your home country as well at the moment.

I’d never make a decent wage. I’d never have backpacked with my friends to Europe. I’d never have met you in Prague.

I know, Nathan, I know. Now, can we drop this subject once and for all?

Our waiter returned with our wine and promptly filled our glasses. We apologized for not looking at the menu yet, so he quickly ran through some of the specials. We ordered from his suggestions, then toasted each other after he left.

"Before your rant about American wages and scallywags, I was talking about how nice it