on Wrigley Field.”
Bythos’s eyebrows rose. “Wrigley Field?”
“Never mind. So your dad and Medusa had sex,
Athena got pissed off and turned Medusa into a Gorgon for it. How does this
involve your mom?”
It was Aphros’s turn to wince. “Apparently
she was rather fond of Medusa. When she found out that Father’s lust had driven
Athena to turn the girl into a monster, Mother became so furious that she left
him.”
Ian remembered some of the more
spectacular divorces among his friends and family members. Mythological
monsters aside, Poseidon and Amphitrite’s fight seemed right in line with them.
“And now Medusa’s been reincarnated as a guy, who just happens to be renting a
cottage here this summer. I call bullshit on ‘coincidence’.”
Bythos grunted agreement. “Hence Father’s
decision to go talk to the Fates. Hopefully he can find out why this is
happening now.”
And just what kind
of trouble it’s going to cause , Ian didn’t add.
****
In a green cottage down the beach, Griffin
Moore lay in bed and chased sleep. It had been a very long day getting from Palm
Beach International Airport to Olympic Beach (including getting used to driving
on the wrong side of the road), collecting the keys for the cottage from the
formidable Ms. Kuttner at Atlantic Rentals, and then finding Olympic Cove. He
had actually driven past the turnoff twice before finally noticing the tiny
street sign.
To his surprise the cottage turned out to
be perfect, a bit big for one man but clean and welcoming. He’d dropped his
bags in the master bedroom, crawled onto the blessedly comfortable bed, and
gave in to jet lag and the frailty of his own weakening body.
He probably would have slept through the
night if his neighbor hadn’t knocked on the door and invited him to a cookout.
But the bloke seemed friendly enough and the smell from the grill reminded Griffin
that he hadn’t stopped off at a local supermarket yet. His oncologist had
warned him that it was important to eat something on a regular schedule even if
he didn’t feel hungry. Not eating meant that he’d land in the hospice a lot
sooner than he wanted to.
He stared into the darkness. Don’t think about it. For two weeks, you’re
just going to enjoy yourself. Think about something else.
Like that
handshake from the big ginger bloke. Griffin had half-expected a bone-crushing
grip from someone who looked like he played Rugby Union. What he got was like
touching a live wire and seeing his life flash in front of his eyes at the same
time, topped by a big whopping dose of sexual need that was so strong it was
almost painful. Poor bastard doesn’t know
how close he came to getting snogged.
Which was good, because getting his arse handed to him on his first night in Florida was not on
Griffin’s schedule. Then again, that probably wouldn’t have happened, seeing as
he was apparently living next to two sets of gay households that were happily
carrying on in ménage relationships. Not quite the all-American beach
experience he’d expected when he rented the cottage, but they all seemed like
nice blokes. As long as they don’t expect
me to attend any underwear parties, it’ll be fine.
He chuckled. Then again, who knows? I wanted to climb that big ginger like a tree,
didn’t I? Little late in the game for a sexual identity crisis, but that’s the
least of my problems right now. Turning over, he punched the pillow to
fluff it up, then settled down determinedly to sleep.
Just as he drifted off he heard someone
calling his name, tugging him out of sleep. He sat up reluctantly with a small,
weirdly squeaky groan and started to rub the sleep out of his eyes.
Then froze, staring at his hands. They
were small and delicate, nothing like the tanned, masculine hands he actually
had. Looking down at himself, he saw a slim, feminine body nude under a thin
blanket.
After a beat the situation dawned on him. I’m dreaming. Huh. And I’m a woman in this
dream. He
Ron Roy and John Steven Gurney