Listening to Dust by Brandon Shire Read Free Book Online Page B

or some nutter that had wanted to tie him up and spank him. He definitely didn’t need either of those on this day.  
    “Going home, mate,” Stephen answered over his shoulder.  
    “Can I come?” Dustin called back.  
    Stephen felt the accent crawl into his head and stopped, turning back to really look at him. Dustin wore a crooked smile and stood there grinning and holding his balloons as he wavered back and forth like a puppet, as if the balloons had replaced the support of the taxi and held him upright against the ruffle of the wind. He was shorter than Stephen by a good three inches, had beautiful, though short, auburn hair and was lighter by at least two stone, possibly three. His eyes were crystal blue, though a bit heavy from the drink. With the freckles and a bit less weathering on his face, he could easily have been taken for a teenager; though if he had to guess, Stephen would say early twenties. But he also looked completely drunk, and that held Stephen back from an immediate and affirmative reply.  
    He had to ask himself if he really wanted to drag another drunk back to the flat. Hot Yank or not, he’d replayed this scene over enough that even his very straight, but busy bodied neighbors commiserated and were trying to hook him up with someone sane.  
    “What are the balloons for?” Stephen asked.  
    Dustin glanced up as if surprised to see them and opened his hand. They both watched as the balloons drifted away before he turned to look at Stephen again. “I.... can’t remember.”  
    His response was light and unburdened, and Stephen laughed and gestured for him to follow with a quick jerk of his head. What the hell , he thought. He might be fun for a shag or two.  
    Stephen watched him out of the corner of his eye as they walked to the flat and felt the unusually close proximity of his body. It was odd because most American blokes had an exaggerated sense of personal space that seemed to stay fully intact right up until the moment they hit the edge of the bedroom door. More than once he’d been suddenly tackled from behind upon entering his bedroom when coming home with a Yank, and he had grown cautious about who went in first. He assumed it came from their primitive American views on sex and public affection, but had wondered, when doing a research piece for a client, if it didn’t also come from the wide expanses of their country. But this bloke was different from any American he’d met before; he hovered right next to Stephen as if daring him to pull him in closer; as if he needed more than the occasional bump of their shoulders made by his drunken missteps.  
    “So what’s your name?” Stephen asked.  
    “Dustin. Dustin Earl.”  
    Unusual , Stephen thought, but he liked it, liked the way it curled on his tongue and all the imagery it brought up in his mind. “Military?” he asked.  
    Dustin shot him a suspicious glance. “Was, I’m out now,” he answered cautiously.  
    Tossed out? Stephen wondered. “The haircut gives it away,” Stephen said, watching Dustin’s misgivings retreat a bit. “Most Yanks go right back to the States,” he said, reframing his curiosity a bit.  
    Dustin shrugged. “I’m acting as a foamer. Well, for my brother anyway.”  
    “Foamer?” Stephen asked.  
    “Train spotter,” Dustin explained. “My little brother really likes trains. I thought I might spend a little time bouncing around Europe getting pictures and engine numbers for him before I go back.”  
    “That’s very generous. Are you a ... foamer too?” Stephen asked.  
    “No.” Dustin answered firmly and without further explanation. “What do you do? I mean for a living,” he asked Stephen.  
    “I’m a writer.”  
    Dustin paused slightly mid-step. “Living an Orwellian existence?”  
    Stephen glanced at him with a quick reassessment. This was no ordinary bloke at all. “No, I’m a ghost writer,” he answered. “I’ve been lucky enough to forego the