How To Flirt: A Gay Sci-Fi Romance Read online

  How To Flirt

  A Gay Sci-Fi Romance

  Troy Hunter

  Published by Books Unite People LLC, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 by Troy Hunter

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. All resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Editing by: Jo Bird & Sandra S.

  Beta Reading by: Melissa R.

  Contents

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  Prologue – A Memory

  1. Dale

  2. Cliff

  3. Dale

  4. Cliff

  5. Dale

  6. Cliff

  7. Cliff

  8. Dale

  9. Dale

  10. Cliff

  11. Dale

  12. Cliff

  13. Dale

  14. Cliff

  15. Dale

  16. Cliff

  17. Dale

  18. Cliff

  19. Dale

  20. Dale

  21. Cliff

  22. Dale

  23. Cliff

  24. Dale

  25. Cliff

  26. Dale

  27. Cliff

  28. Dale

  29. Cliff

  Epilogue

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  Prologue – A Memory

  Dale

  It was 1958 and Danny was looking good. His leather jacket sat squarely on his shoulders over his black, no-frills t-shirt. His hair was carefully combed and held in place with a judicious layer of pomade. The Lucky cigarette in his mouth, unlit at the moment, hung at just the right angle.

  If only his phone would stop going off.

  “Hey, Mike,” said Dale, straightening the lapels of the other young man’s jacket. “Would you mind unplugging for just a little while? It’s the late ‘fifties, after all.”

  The ersatz Danny Zuko rolled his eyes. “All right, all right, don’t have an episode,” he protested, but fished his cell phone from his jacket pocket all the same and thumbed it to silent. “It’s not like I’m going to take a call in the middle of a scene.”

  There was a startling array of anachronisms on display in this little corner of 1958. Other greasers in leather jackets cruised by, hunched over their phones, texting. Girls in poodle skirts and cardigans sipped from takeaway Starbucks cups. Modern music blared from the speaker parked on top of the prop jukebox near the end of the stage.

  Dale was proud of the juke he’d scavenged from a dusty warehouse, despite the groveling he’d had to do to the members of the football team, whom he’d had to approach to move the damned thing across town to the high school auditorium. He was proud of the entire set, in fact. He had every right to be, as he’d personally had at least a hand in every aspect of its construction, from painting to lighting to even hammering nails. It occurred to him more than once that his commitment to detail had gone unhampered by any kind of social life, but you couldn’t argue with the results: the artificial environment could well have rivaled the original 1971 musical’s.

  Wade, who was tricked out as Danny’s chief henchman Kenickie, ambled over and tugged on Mike’s sleeve. “Come on, man, we’re up,” he urged. He began to lead him away, but Dale called to them to wait.

  “What, Spielberg?” Mike asked, exasperated.

  Dale produced the switchblade he’d procured the day before and passed it to him. “Give this to Cliff, would you?”

  “Are you kidding?” Mike said, making no move to touch it. “Where the hell did you get that thing?”

  “Joke shop.” Dale pushed the button on the handle and a comb flipped up from the side.

  “Some joke,” said Mike.

  “Come on, this was high humor back then,” Dale insisted. “Plus, it was in the movie.”

  “Yeah, for about a second and a half.”

  “Little details…”

  Mike looked skyward again. “‘Make the big picture,’ I know, I know. Jesus, dude, what are you going to do with yourself when this show wraps?” He snatched the “knife” and hurried off with Wade to go through their scene. Wade looked pityingly back at him once, then most certainly forgot about him altogether as they joined the rest of the T-Birds center stage.

  “Well,” Dale said to no one. “I keep trying to get them to agree to put on Phantom.”

  An hour later, Dale was blending a bright blush powder over his friend’s cheeks. “You take a lot of abuse for your trouble,” Kate observed.

  Dale shrugged. “Saw that, did you?”

  “Hard to miss, especially when it happens every two seconds. You should sit out a production. Then, when they’re reduced to acting against a brick wall with cardboard props, they’ll see what they’re missing and treat you with a little more respect.”

  “Can’t sit on my hands while the program goes to hell, Kate,” he replied, touching up her eyebrow liner. “It’s all I’ve got to keep me grounded and sane.”

  Kate brushed a strand of her blonde wig, indistinguishable from a real hairdo, thank you very much, from her cheek and regarded him. “You need to find some interests other than science and scenery.”

  “I have other interests,” he said. “Just no practical ones.”

  She half-smiled. “Oh, yeah? Name one that doesn’t involve something that happens in the lab or on the stage.”

  Dale snapped the makeup case shut. “All done.”

  Kate was still looking at him expectantly. “Can’t do it, can you?”

  Dale fiddled with the clasp on the case, considering. “Not in this particular instance, no.”

  “Because you’re a reclusive hermit? I love you, Dale, but you know it’s the truth.”

  Dale took a deep breath. “No, it’s because it happens to be on stage at the moment.”

  Kate looked around. “No!” she breathed. “Who?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said.

  “It does so matter. Now, who is it? Don’t make me go down the list of cast members until I get it right.”

  “Just drop it, okay?”

  “Fine, we’ll do it the hard way.” She scrutinized the assembled actors. “It’s not Danny, I’m sure. Probably not Putzie, either, no one would be into Putzie…”

  “Will you please stop?” Dale protested.

  “And Kenickie’s out, too, I guess. Sonny might be…”

  “I’m serious, stop it!”

  Kate’s eyes widened. “Wait, I got it, didn’t’ I?” She goggled at him. “Cliff? You’re crushing on Cliff?”

  Dale sighed and closed his eyes. “Let it go, Kate.”

  “For how long?”

  “Long enough to know that it’s not going to happen.”

  Kate was quiet for a moment. “Dale…”

  “Why is it that every time you use my name, it’s to line me up for a reality fastball?”

  She would not be dissuaded. “Dale, I’m pretty sure Cliff’s straight.”

  Dale didn’t think he could have gotten more deflated about his prospects with Cliff, but apparently there was room for more let-downs. “Well,” he covered. “It’s not like it matters, because it never would have happened anyway, anyhow.”

  “That’s crap!” she said angrily. “I hate it when you run yourself down like that. You have so much to offer, a pers
on would be lucky to have you into them.”

  “Except in this particular situation, it seems.”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “Look around at where you are. This is a place of action.” She made a wide gesture with her hands. “So, act, for god’s sake. Don’t throw away your time and effort on something that isn’t going to happen and stay open to something that will.” She turned and was gone in a swirl of skirt, leaving him with his thoughts.

  * * *

  The show had gone off without a hitch, or at least none that the audience could see. Though to the untrained eye, it had been a swimmingly wonderful production, down to the last “rama lama ka dinga da dinga dong,” there were a hundred missteps that Dale would analyze to no end later that evening. For now, however, he was focused solely on the cast party. He, like everyone else involved, was expected to be there, and had been threatened with vague yet sincere reprisals by Kate should he duck the event.

  And so it was that he found himself in a sea of whooping and ecstatic bodies, completely out of his element. He quickly found a corner to tuck himself into while he nursed his Coke and tried to gauge how many people had seen him to justify to Kate that he’d actually been there, so he could slip away.

  There was a fresh burst of cheering and applause as Mike and his cohorts entered the backstage area together. It was exactly as though a triumphant Danny Zuko and his fellow T-Birds had made the scene.

  Cliff was following in Mike’s wake, and all thoughts of leaving the party left Dale’s head. The former had a dark, handsome quality that shone through even the admittedly corny getup he still wore from the show, and he moved with an easy grace that Dale envied. It was almost a detachment, as though he didn’t feel a part of the events around him but wasn’t made to feel awkward by them, either. He simply went his own way.

  There were toasts made, some ragged, impromptu speeches and more cheers. Through it all, Dale stayed in his corner and stared at Cliff, ready to flick his eyes away the instant the other man felt himself being so closely watched.

  Or so he thought. Dale realized Cliff was, in fact, looking back at him. He’d gone into his back pocket and brought out the switchblade gag prop Dale had sent him earlier. Bringing it up, he popped out the comb portion and waggled it in the air good-naturedly for Dale to see. More importantly, Cliff smiled at him and nodded.

  Dale started to smile back, then lost his nerve and dropped his eyes. When he looked up again, Kate was there, shorn of her Sandy wig and regarding him with impatience.

  “Don’t be a schmuck,” her look said.

  He looked away, suddenly very interested in the inspection tag on the wall-mounted fire extinguisher. When he looked back up again, Kate was right in front of him, still sending him the silent message loud and clear: “I mean it!”

  Dale pressed his lips tightly together and gave her an intense glare.

  She glared right back at him, raising a threatening finger.

  Summoning every ounce of his willpower, Dale pushed himself off the wall and started walking toward Cliff and his friends.

  “It’s your funeral,” Kate whispered, swatting his ass as he went by.

  It felt to Dale like it took two weeks to cross the room. Was he sidestepping so many revelers out of necessity or to give himself time to think of what to say? He didn’t know. All he knew is that he probably wouldn’t be able to say anything with the dry sandbox his mouth had become, but he had momentum now and he kept moving.

  “Hey, hey, Spielberg!” crowed Mike, apparently feeling magnanimous enough to include him in the festivities. “Didn’t expect you to be here.”

  Dale just stood there, trying to peel his tongue from the roof of his mouth to say something witty as a comeback and having no luck.

  “Kleiser,” said Cliff.

  “What?” asked Mike. “Bless you, I guess.”

  Dale laughed a parched little chuckle, just enough for Mike to see and glower at him.

  “What’s so funny?” he demanded.

  “Not Spielberg,” Dale said. “Randal Kleiser. He directed ‘Grease’ in ’78.” His voice sounded all right to him, so he ventured to Cliff, “Good one.”

  Cliff smiled and nodded at him. “Thanks. And thanks for the extra touch.” He mock-combed his hair with the switchblade prop. “How does it go? ‘Little details…’”

  “‘Make the big picture,’” Dale finished. “Yeah, they do.”

  “Oh, man,” exclaimed Mike to Cliff. “You sound just like him. I can’t stand around and listen to you get converted into the Loyal Order of Shakespeare.” He stalked off, taking the remaining T-Birds with him.

  There was a long, awkward silence between Dale and Cliff before Dale said, “You were great tonight.”

  “Thanks,” Cliff replied. “I don’t think the whole thing hinged on the exploits of Sonny, but I guess I did okay. You did an amazing job on everything. The set, the costumes, the makeup, everything.”

  “Well, it wasn’t just me…”

  “Yeah, right. If it hadn’t been for you, we would’ve been forced to put on our hundredth production of Our Town, because an empty stage would’ve been all we had to work with. You saved us from minimalist hell.”

  Dale fought for something to say in response but was having a hard time concentrating, what with the din of his fellow party-goers. Cliff seemed to see this and cocked his head at the door. “You want to go outside for a minute, get some air?”

  “Yes, air,” Dale affirmed. “Air would be good. I like air. It’s my favorite breathable gas.”

  He realized as soon as he’d said it how much like an android he sounded and immediately regretted it. Cliff was unfazed, though, and merely beckoned him out the door and into the night.

  * * *

  They started walking under the amber streetlights by the parking lot and gradually drifted down toward the football field. The nighttime desertion of the wide-open space added to their feeling of separation from the raucous party going on back in the auditorium. It was late enough in the year that there were no crickets to break the stillness, but not so late as to make it uncomfortably cool out. It was, Dale decided, a perfect night for a walk.

  “So, ten years,” Cliff said. “Where do you want to be in ten years?”

  “You say that like you have your own life planned out already,” answered Dale.

  Cliff laughed. “You remember that career aptitude test they got us to take back at the beginning of the year?”

  “Oh, yeah. It said I was suited for the library sciences. How about you? Did it get you right?”

  “Actually, it did. It was almost spooky.”

  Dale waited for him to say more, and when he didn’t, he said, “Come on, give—what path did it say you should follow?”

  Cliff smiled. “That’s pretty appropriate phrasing.” He paused. “What would you guess I’m suited for?”

  Dale hesitated. He was bad at guessing games. He was much better, he felt, at analyzing empirical data.

  So analyze the data you have, genius, the Kate inside his head chided him. You’ve done plenty of observing, so draw some conclusions from it already.

  Dale took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. “Okay…you like being outdoors, so not a life in a cube farm.”

  “Right so far.”

  “And you’re not a loner, but you’re not a social butterfly, either, so nothing on a traditional team. Or at least, not anything where you’re around lots of people all the time.”

  “Dash it all, Holmes, how do you do it?” Cliff asked in a stuffy British accent.

  “I just call it like I see it,” Dale answered. He was secretly flattered at being compared to Sherlock Holmes, whom he considered one of his personal heroes.

  “You see a lot,” Cliff said. “You must do a lot of looking.”

  Dale shrugged noncommittally. There was a line between coming across as Sherlock Holmes and a creepy stalker. He didn’t want to shoot across that line carelessly.

  “So,
what’s the verdict?” Cliff prodded. “What do you see me doing? I mean, since my skills on stage aren’t likely to carry me very far.”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say something with the forestry service.”

  Cliff stopped walking and stared at him. “Okay, now that’s spooky!”

  “What?”

  “You basically got it dead center. The test pegged me for a park ranger. How’d you do that?”

  “Would you believe it was just a lucky guess?” They started walking again.

  “Some luck. As soon as I saw the words ‘park ranger’, it was like something clicked into place. I just feel better when I’m outdoors. More at home.” He glanced at Dale, as if expecting him to scoff or laugh. He seemed glad when Dale did neither.

  “Nothing weird about that. Everyone has turf where they feel most comfortable. Mine’s the lab.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Dale thought for a moment. “It’s the environment where everything lines up. Everything can be measured, weighed, documented…where everything can be explained.”

  Now it was Cliff’s turn to have the good grace not to scoff, although he clearly disagreed with Dale’s point of view. “Science can’t explain everything.”

  Dale shook his head. “If it can be observed, then it can be studied. Even if science doesn’t have all the answers, it can at least point us in the right direction.”

  “And what direction is that?”

  After taking a look around, Dale pointed. “That way.”

  “The fifty-yard line?”