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Chest
The only light comes from the kitchen and it makes shadows and highlights on Albert’s chest. Lincoln watches the shapes morph and reconfigure as Albert breathes. He doesn’t know if he’s ever seen anything more beautiful.
It wasn’t easy getting Albert to take off his shirt and lie down like this. He was so upset. He believes he’s hurt Lincoln irrevocably.
Irrevocable. As in ‘can not be revoked’.
Nonsense.
Albert did nothing of the sort. But try telling Albert that. Stubborn man.
It can’t be easy for Albert, having a clone for a boyfriend. They can’t fill in the silences with childhood remembrances or idle gossip about celebrities. Lincoln had no childhood, and he gets this blond with large breasts hopelessly confused with that blond with large breasts. It’s not like there’s a shortage of either. And Lincoln’s not even interested in breasts. Not of the female variety.
It’s not like Albert is about to talk about his childhood either. What’s he going to do? Hold up his hand and tell Lincoln exactly how it felt when they branded him?
Albert does not talk about celebrities; they are all potential clients.
Lack of small talk is not the problem anyway. Lincoln is always finding new things to learn about and talk about. That is the problem. Everything relevant to the world out here he learned in less than a year. How dull for Albert. Everything is exciting and new for Lincoln, but Albert has to explain the simplest things from scratch. Over and over. Not too many times. Lincoln is smart. But he still can’t figure out how the postal system works, or the difference between ale and lager, or a million other things.
Albert is almost always patient and helpful, even when Lincoln is being really dumb about something.
Like Merrick, for example. Lincoln was terrified at first. As the day wore on, and Albert found out about what Merrick knows and who he knows and how he came to be here, Lincoln thought differently about Merrick. Lincoln believed Merrick when he said he wanted to be a new person, his own person. He happily complied when Merrick asked for a new name to symbolize his new start. He was willing to be Merrick’s friend, no matter what Albert thought. Right up until they were saying goodnight.
Not only that, Lincoln had been mad at Albert for insinuating that Merrick being a clone would automatically make him different. Because Lincoln was too dumb to realize that it wasn’t Merrick’s clone-ness but his Merrick-ness that worried Albert.
Then Lincoln realized it was Lincoln who had been unreasonable, because when Merrick was leaving he shook Lincoln’s hand, and held it a little too long, and when Lincoln looked in Merrick’s eyes, he saw that Merrick’s friendly smile did go all the way up to his eyes, but it didn’t go into them.
Albert was right to be so suspicious. Merrick is not to be trusted. He doesn’t connect with people normally. Even for a clone.
And so Lincoln, because he is a clone and inexperienced and even naïve, does need to be taken care of, and Albert is the best person in the world to take care of him. Right?
He could just come out and say that, like that girl in the movie the other night singing about how she needed her seventeen year old boyfriend to take care of her, but it would be hard to admit he was wrong. He’s still not sure he’s all the way wrong. Merrick has had a very odd life, and he can’t be expected to be normal. He’s been lied to on a personal level all his life. No worse than Lincoln was lied to, but Lincoln’s had months of Albert not lying to him, so he’s in way better shape. Lincoln is sure that Merrick can be helped, that he can be shown how to get along with people and in the outside world. He’s pretty sure he can help Merrick.
Lincoln’s also sure that it’s a good thing for Merrick to stay with Talia for a while.
Talia is tough. She’s strong. She takes shit from no one. And she’s an expert in martial arts that Lincoln can’t even pronounce. If anyone can keep Merrick in line, it’s Talia.
Talia wasn’t around when Albert met the real Merrick. She was still in the hospital then. Lincoln knows that Talia and Albert first met during a mission a long time ago, when Albert was still with the GIGN. She was with an agency she says it’s best not to identify. They worked together well, so as soon as Albert heard she was a free agent, he hired her. But first he had to get her to the States and get the medical care she needed. The transition to free agent from just plain agent had been a bit traumatic for Talia.
She was the first employee of Albert’s new company. And she figures she owes Albert her life, so she’s fiercely loyal.
The first time Talia and Lincoln met, she’d told Lincoln she was happy to be working the security side of the business, and that defence was cool. Protection and security were a good business to be in. Then she ran her hand over the bulge of her shoulder harness and said, “But there’s nothing quite like the offensive power of my favourite Sig Sauer.”
Talia scares Lincoln a little; he’s glad she’s on his side.
He hopes Merrick will stay on her good side. He’d like to help Merrick. But if Merrick angers Talia, there’s be no identification papers to worry about, no paper trail, and no mourning relatives to go to the police and file a missing person report.
Lincoln is pretty sure Albert knows that.
He’s not going to worry about hat now. Merrick found Lincoln, so he’s probably smart enough to do whatever Talia tells him to do.
Lincoln has to worry about himself. He has to convince Albert everything is okay. That won’t be any easier than it was to get Albert to relax and lie down like this, with his shirt off.
Actually, that hadn’t been all that difficult. All Lincoln had to do was push Albert over and tug a little on his shirttails. Lincoln suspects he is the only person Albert has ever been this easy for, which makes it all that much more important that Lincoln put things back the way they were.
Lover’s quarrel. Lincoln thinks about everything he’s ever learned about how to make up with a lover. Sex is the usual method. That would be good, unless Albert would think that sex was trivializing things.
Albert wouldn’t think that, would he?
Lincoln looks, really looks, at Albert. Albert is flat on his back on the rug in front of the couch. He’s looking up at Lincoln. Cautiously. As if he’s afraid Lincoln is going to hurt him.
Lincoln has already hurt him by making him think he hurt Lincoln. Albert did hurt Lincoln. Except Lincoln now realizes that Albert was right in the first place, which might hurt even more.
Lincoln must find a way to make all this hurting stop.
In movies, sex solves everything.
But on the talk shows, they say sex is shallow and avoiding the real issues and doesn’t solve anything.
Lincoln looks down at the shape of Albert’s chest. Broad and well defined, with huge muscles that feel really good when they flex. The nipples look small, or rather compact, compared to the pecs. Smooth, dark, gorgeous skin. All this swells up above thick, hard, toned abdominals. Dizzyingly toned abdominals. And the chest is beneath shoulders so wide they make Lincoln feel puny. And safe. He loves to hold them. Cling to them. Especially when he’s sitting on Albert’s lap. Naked. Like last night.
Lincoln decides that he prefers movies to talk shows.
Endurance
Merrick Alpha Zero sits in a plain, uncluttered room off the main cavern of the warehouse the woman Talia calls home. He knows the entire building is fortified. He can’t get out, and no one can get in. This is as solid and secure, if not more secure, than any prison.
He does not blame Talia or Laurent for putting him here. They are only being cautious. Zero Alpha is a complete unknown. The unknown should be treated with caution. He does not resent it.
He will sit it out. Stay put. Endure their suspicion until it dissipates, which is inevitable, although the time frame is uncertain.
He is certainly not going to defy Talia. She is not one to be toyed with. She’s lethal. And she carries weapons, at least one knife strapped to her calf, as well as whatever is in the shoulder holster. She’s not bothering to hide them. And since Zero Alpha knows next to nothing about weapons, he’ll steer well clear of them.
Eventually, they’ll all come to understand that he is harmless. Or at least believe he’s harmless. As long as he doesn’t come off as too smart for his own good, it shouldn’t take too long. He’ll be a good clone and check out this Facility to see if he can benefit from its services. He doubts it. He would learn more by hanging out with Lincoln and Laurent.
Lincoln is the clone success story. It’s not only that he’s functional – he’s the guy who figured it the whole thing out. He thought way outside the box, literally and figuratively. Lincoln was capable of conceiving of something that went entirely against all his training and carefully-constructed beliefs.
Not only that, but he got himself hooked up with Albert Laurent.
Albert Laurent fascinates Zero Alpha. To start with, he’s big and mean. Even bigger than the bodyguard they had posing as Zero Alpha’s nurse when they went out on excursions. And meaner than anyone. Correction – he has the potential to be meaner than anyone Zero Alpha’s ever encountered.
But Lincoln seems to have tamed him. Fascinating.
Interviews work both ways, and even though Laurent was remarkably guarded, Alpha Zero managed to glean enough information to generate a keen interest in what makes Mr. Laurent tick. He wonders if he could get Laurent that interested in Zero Alpha.
Not Zero Alpha. Zee. He must make and effort to use the nickname Lincoln suggested. Lincoln suggested it in a friendly way. As a way to leave the past behind. Zero… Zee must remember to use it. It will make him seem less harmful. It will bring him closer to Lincoln, and to Laurent.
What a triangle they could make.
Only One
There is a square of light on the floor, falling from the transom above the door to Merrick’s room. Still up. Still thinking. Still plotting.
Talia doesn’t like it one bit. This one is too smart for his own good. Merrick is also charming, suave and handsome.
Talia does not like charming, suave, handsome men.
She fingers the scar on her right cheek. It’s not enough to disfigure in a horrific way, but it’s enough to remind her.
Charming, suave, handsome men are not to be trusted.
Albert is okay. He’s very suave, and extremely handsome, but he’s not charming. He can be seductive when he wants to be, but charm is too shallow for him.
Talia adores Lincoln. He’s so not-suave it isn’t funny. He’s not so much charming as adorable. He’s got a brilliant, open smile that could fell an ogre, but he doesn’t use it as a weapon. It only appears when he’s genuinely happy. Talia has seen it two or three times, always directed at Albert.
It’s a bit disconcerting, the way Lincoln has domesticated her boss. She hadn’t thought it possible, from the moment she met Albert, that he could fall head over heels in love with anyone. But the more she gets to know Lincoln, the more she realizes that Lincoln is the only one. The only possibility.
Talia has a deep respect for Albert, a respect that his foolish devotion to Lincoln can’t touch, even if it is almost laughable at times, the way Lincoln can get Albert to let down his guard. Dangerous. But understandable. Adorable Lincoln, with his sunshine smile and his tousled hair and his really nice ass. She just hopes he won’t be Albert’s kryptonite.
Her respect is intact because when Talia was in need, Albert was there. He paid the bills and made sure she got the best care possible and never once blamed her for anything that had put her in the hospital. He understood that things happen. Beyond that, he understood that things can be overcome. And when he got tangled up in the whole, botched clone job, she stood by him, as well as one can stand by someone when one is in traction.
She’s long out of traction now. She’s in peak condition. She’s fast, she’s healthy, and the scars have only made her stronger. Nothing can get past her.
Albert and Lincoln were very tense tonight. She’s certain it’s Merrick’s fault. All the more reason to keep her eye on that one.
As Talia sets up her perimeter alarms, she watches Merrick’s light go out.
Nipples
A wet circle shines around Albert’s left nipple. The circle around the right one has already dried. Both nipples are now erect. Little peaks of arousal with which Lincoln loves to play.
Lincoln’s taking his time.
Albert tried to stop him. Not terribly very hard, but he did try to accuse Lincoln of using sex as a diversionary tactic. That line of argument did not last long. Not once Lincoln latched his lips onto Albert’s right nipple and started sucking gently.
Albert’s words disappeared pretty fast after that. Now he’s quiet.
Or at least the noises he’s making aren’t words.
Bear
Lincoln is determined to make Laurent pass out. That’s the only possible explanation for this slow, delectable torture. Lips and tongue meandering all over Laurent’s body. Upper body. Nothing has been done to the lower body yet, something that makes no sense at all. Sure, his shirt is off, but his pants are still on, blocking all contact. Except for where the button is undone.
Lincoln just undid it.
With his mouth.
And his lips and teeth and a bit of his tongue, and now the tongue is flicking down and doing little circles on his belly.
Lincoln is obviously trying to keep him from talking about what happened earlier. That’s fine with Laurent. This is better than talking. This is… this is disorienting. Laurent is normally not this easy to disorient. Must have something to do with the way Lincoln is breathing over his skin, hot and moist and teasing.
Lincoln’s mouth appears above Laurent’s cheek. Suddenly. Shockingly. Laurent can’t be snuck up on, normally.
“You can’t fuck me tonight. I’m still a bit sensitive from last night.”
That was predictable. The way Lincoln was sitting on Laurent’s cock would make anyone a little tender for at least a day or two. Not so much sitting as riding, with his arms under Laurent’s arms and hands coming up the back, clutching Laurent’s shoulders. Ahhh. Just thinking about it makes Albert so hard.
And he was hard already, after being subjected to Lincoln’s mouth for so long. He’s not even sure how long it’s been. He’s lost all sense of time and space. He’s on the floor, on his back, right? So why does he feel as if he’s floating? And why is he on the floor? And why is Lincoln the only one who gets to taste?
They should be together. And do it together. He wants to give as much as he’s receiving. He’s got a hunger so strong it sings.
“Lincoln,” he manages to say, “get up here.”
Lincoln shakes his head and drags Laurent’s zipper down with his teeth. His hot breath makes the air shimmer around Laurent. His lips are grazing Laurent’s cock. In seconds, they’ll be around him.
“Lincoln, your cock. I just want your cock up here. Please. You can leave your mouth where it is.”
Seems a ridiculous thing to have to say, but Lincoln wouldn’t think of such a thing. He doesn’t have enough experience.
He will after tonight.
Lincoln starts to shuffle sideways, taking his ass further away at first, but then bringing it closer. Laurent thinks about lying on his side, with Lincoln lying, facing him. They could take their time. Be lazy about it. Taste and suck and lick in peace. But he wants Lincoln on top of him, straddling his face. He’s got to get Lincoln’s clothes off. His own pants are down past his hips already. He needs Lincoln’s off to resolve the inequality of the situation. Laurent grabs Lincoln by the belt loop and hauls him the rest of the way around. Better. Now he’s right way round. Wrong way. The way Laurent wants him.
The fucking belt is a nuisance. Damn. Why did Laurent ever talk Lincoln out of the tracksuits? They were so convenient. One tug and they were down. Now he’s got to deal with buckles and buttons and zippers. Fumbling with a belt and pants like he’s a virgin.
He is a virgin, of sorts. Never had Lincoln sit on his face before.
Laurent yanks down Lincoln’s pants. Perfect moon. In this light, just enough to catch on Lincoln’s pale skin and make it glow, Laurent would like to take the time to study the shape of Lincoln’s bottom, especially when he’s bent over like that. Hands and knees. With his mouth on Laurent’s cock. Laurent ignores his cock. He’s fascinated by the dark crease between the firm pale globes of Lincoln’s ass. Dark and mysterious. And widening, as Lincoln struggles out of his pants. All the way out of them. Laurent grabs the closest knee and lifts it over his head.
“What? Mpphf,” he hears as his lips cradle Lincoln’s balls and Lincoln gets a mouthful of cock. Ah, faster learner, Lincoln is. He sucks the head of Laurent’s cock and backs up, raising his hips, so Laurent can pull Lincoln’s cock down and put it in his mouth.
There’s something tremendously comforting about the bulk of Lincoln’s cock in Laurent’s mouth. The hardness assures him that Lincoln wants this. Very much. The position is one Lincoln would not attempt if he did not trust Laurent. Very comforting to know. And the little pulses of Lincoln’s hips, uncontrollable need for more, involuntary flexes, give Laurent the delicious and dirty sensation of being used for Lincoln’s pleasure. He wants Lincoln to use him like that very, very much. The best part is the way Lincoln is licking him, and sucking him, and almost deep-throating him gives him the idea that Lincoln would very much like to be used that way as well.
Mutual use. It’s not making love, but it’s the next best thing.
But it is making love, because love has to be the thing that’s making his heart feel as if it will explode in his chest.
Laurent creeps his hands around Lincoln’s hips, up to his ass. Fingers into the cleft, hot and a little sweaty. Tight tight little puckers of Lincoln’s asshole. Tight, in part because it’s an asshole, and that’s one of the wonderful things about assholes. Also tight because the whole opening is a little… Albert wouldn’t call it swollen, because swollen implies an injury… and he wouldn’t call it inflamed, which sounds harsh and impersonal. Tender. He would call it tender. Sensitive. Over sensitive. Lincoln jerks over him and moans around his cock.
Laurent imagines a feedback loop. Energy flows from his mouth to Lincoln’s cock, up Lincoln’s spine and throat, around and into Laurent’s cock, swirling around his balls for a moment before it shoots up Laurent’s spine and back to his mouth. Amplifying with every completion of the circuit.
He only has to press his fingertips inside the slightest bit to feel teeth on his cock and come down his throat. The teeth are replaced by fingers, and Lincoln’s open mouth hovers over him. Open and waiting. All Laurent has to do is come. And that’s not difficult to do, when Lincoln brushes his fingers over Laurent’s tight balls and scratches a nail on Laurent’s inner thigh, and sways his hips so his balls brush across Laurent’s lips. All he has to do is let himself go over the edge. And he does. Forever.
“You can’t lie on my floor like that.”
Laurent turns his head toward the voice.
“Albert, you have to move.”
Laurent nods. He’ll do whatever Lincoln wants. He’s not going o make a scene. He’s not going to be an asshole. He won’t like it, but he’s already been enough of an ass. “You want me to go now,” he says, unable to stop his voice from cracking.
Lincoln’s arms are around him, and Lincoln is on top of him, warm and naked. “Silly Bear. You’ll get a sore neck sleeping on the floor like that. And you’ll get cold. Come up to bed. I’ll keep you warm.”
Bed?
“You want me to go to bed with you?” Voice still cracking.
Lincoln’s lips are soft against his, and they taste like come. Laurent’s come. “I’m not sleeping with you on the floor, Albert. I don’t care how tired you are. Up. To bed. Now.”
Now.
Yes.
Bed.
Wait. Did Lincoln just call him “Bear”?
Funny. Laurent doesn’t care at all.
Pet Star
Lincoln can see a single star through the bedroom window. It’s very far away, as are all stars, but Lincoln is sure he could reach out and grab it, hold it in his hand and feel its glow. He could look at it whenever he wanted. It could be his pet star. He only has to reach out.
But he won’t.
Because that would mean disentangling his arm from Albert’s arm, and Lincoln doesn’t want to do that.
The star will just have to shine out there, as brightly as it pleases.
Lincoln will stay here. Inside. With Albert. Entwined.
Lincoln’s Card Party
How in the name of God, Allah, Jehovah, Odin or any other deity one might care to invoke did Lincoln ever talk Laurent into this?
It will never cease to amaze - what a little pout and a suggestive flick of the tongue and a promise that “they won’t be any trouble at all” can do. Laurent growls as he pours salted peanuts into a bowl.
Peanuts! Lincoln read it somewhere. Peanuts are a traditional snack at card parties.
A card party! A clone card party.
All part of the socialization process. A chance for Merrick Zero Alpha to meet other clones and gain experience in social interaction. Practice at being human.
There’s no way in hell Laurent is going to leave Merrick alone in a room with Lincoln, even with two other clones and Talia present, so Laurent has had to go along with the whole scheme.
Lincoln has been studying the rules of the game, and the customs of card playing. He’s excited about having people over to visit. Looking forward to being a host. He looks good.
Really good.
Laurent decides to stare before the guests arrive so he’ll be inured to Lincoln’s charms by the time the party gets underway.
Laurent stares.
It’s no good. No amount of staring will render Lincoln harmless to Laurent.
Lincoln’s wearing a pair of smooth dress trousers, flat front and bereft of ornamentation. Dark grey. Very dark grey. They make his stomach look completely flat. No one is that flat in front. Not even Lincoln. But the navy knit t-shirt with it’s v-neck and long, snug sleeves does nothing to tarnish the illusion. When Lincoln walks, the clothes hug him like an anatomy lesson.
Lincoln looks up from the table and gives Laurent a sunny smile. He is so pleased Laurent offered to be here to help teach the others how to play.
Lincoln’s not stupid. He probably realises that 96 percent of Laurent’s motivation is security. He’s probably concentrating on the 4 percent. Hopefully that will lead to 100 percent enjoyment after all this is over.
Lincoln’s hair is standing up in little blond spikes. He’s been at the hair gel again. He knows Laurent hates the feel of product. It’s probably Lincoln’s way of hinting that he wants Laurent’s hands elsewhere.
Like on those sinfully sinuous hips.
Laurent gives up. He has completely lost it. Lost everything. His self-control, his independence, his mind, his soul, his heart. They all belong to Lincoln now.
When the door buzzer sounds, Laurent leans down and gives Lincoln a kiss. Soft, yet searing, with just enough tongue to make Lincoln grab Laurent’s forearm.
Just a reminder.
Laurent is not worried about Lincoln taking a fancy to anyone else. He’s not being a possessive cave man, claiming his territory, marking his man. Not really. He’s simply… reminding Lincoln that while the card party might be fun, it won’t be nearly as fun.
He eases up on the kiss when Lincoln starts to whimper.
Lincoln has a slightly dazed look in his eyes, lips red and swollen enough to give him a debauched air. The look of a ravished virgin.
“Are you going to get the door?” Laurent prompts him.
Lincoln’s not quite so flat in front when he gets up. And he’s anything but flat in the back. He probably has no idea how beautifully those pants hug his ass. Or maybe he does.
Laurent was never this much of an ass man, not before he met Lincoln. He’s not surprised that the curves of that particular ass have converted him.
He is a little surprised by how quickly Lincoln took to having his ass fondled and… other things. Lincoln may have faced some difficulties in the first part of his life, but inhibitions have not been among them.
Lincoln also took to fondling Laurent’s ass (and other things) pretty fast. He claims he can’t get enough of it, which suits Laurent fine, because Laurent can’t get enough of the way Lincoln explores his body like it’s a mysterious island only Lincoln can find. Lincoln goes over every inch, examines him, tastes him, mines him, claims him, takes possession.
He makes Laurent feel…
Beautiful.
Laurent’s thoughts are rudely interrupted by the arrival of Merrick Zero Alpha. Suave little prick, Laurent thinks.
But Merrick is on his best behaviour. He’s charming and friendly. He brought a bottle of very good scotch. He’s dressed in dangerous dark colours.
He’s shadowed by his dangerous dark-haired bodyguard.
Talia nods to Laurent and takes up her position in the corner of the room, from which she can see everything and intervene if required.
Talia never takes time off.
Merrick seems to have adjusted to her constant presence. He does not directly acknowledge her unless required, and makes no effort to hamper her line of sight. Clever man. But then, that’s why he warrants the scrutiny. And then some.
Jones and MacNeil arrive shortly after Merrick. They’ve come together, from the Facility. MacNeil does the driving. Jones will likely never be able to operate heavy machinery. It’s doubtful Jones will ever fully adjust to life on the outside. But Lincoln and MacNeil have remained friends with him, and they include him whenever possible.
Jones is now over some of his stuttering, but not his conspiracy theories. It’s therapeutic for him to spend the evening with Merrick. Occupational therapy. He can’t remain cosseted and sheltered at the Facility forever.
Jones is uncertain, but willing to go along with it as long as Lincoln is there. He’s always trusted Lincoln. And MacNeil, who has adopted Jones, in a way.
MacNeil is tall and strong and ridiculously good-looking. She swings her long limbs around with ease and has no problems with life on the outside at all. Her decision to remain at the Facility is a personal one, and has more to do with a somewhat suspect relationship with a certain doctor than to a need for guidance. MacNeil and the doctor pretend there’s nothing going on. And who know? Maybe there isn’t. Maybe it’s all rumour.
MacNeil works outside the Facility. In fact, she works here, sometimes. She is Lincoln’s new housekeeper. The work, Laurent thinks, is beneath her abilities, but she enjoys it, and she’s much safer than any of the other housekeepers Lincoln tried out.
MacNeil returns to the Facility at the end of the day, and does not complain about the odd night spent sleeping a chair next to Jones, comforting him after nightmares. Cheerful, helpful. The Girl Scout of clones.
MacNeil gives Merrick a stern look. Don’t fuck with me, she seems to say.
She gives Laurent a friendly look. She likes Laurent. He’s good to Lincoln, and he taught her how to use the GPS on her car.
She gives Talia a long look. Up and down. From head to toe. Her smile is devastating, to those susceptible to smiles from women.
Talia gives her a curt nod.
Undeterred, MacNeil sits at the table and picks up the deck of cards. “Okay. How do you play this game?”
Jones’ Question
Jones is still a bit skittish around women, having been brought up in the sex-segregated, repressive environment of the Merrick Institute. And he’s also skittish of Merrick, for those and even more reasons. But he knows, intellectually at least, that Merrick Zero Alpha is not Doctor Merrick, and he’s coping admirably.
Talia, of course, gives Jones the shakes. She’s ominous and very female and not a clone and a bit scary. It’s that scar on her face. Jones can’t stop thinking about who might have put it there. And why, when a scar like that would make anyone else look, well, scarred, it makes Talia look really, really… well… hot.
MacNeil’s presence balances all these unbalancing forces, because she is the one Jones trusts most. She won’t let him fall into bad company. She’ll keep him safe. And when he whispered to her about the scar, MacNeil smiled and said, “Because she is hot, Jones. She’s smokin’ hot, Jones. Now, pull yourself together.”
Laurent sees and hears all this and is amused. Jones is so far removed from Laurent’s experience, it’s as if they are of different species. Laurent feels a certain responsibility for Jones. Jones is a helpless sort. The sort men like Laurent have always had to protect. Plus, he is one of Lincoln’s good friends, so Laurent feels obligated to like him, even if he is so damn weird.
The party is going well. Everyone understands the basic rules, and Laurent has them play a few open hands so they can get the gist of taking tricks and counting points and remembering what is trump. Half of any game is to learn the lingo, so Laurent takes the time to teach that.
Of course, there’s an argument. Clones don’t take anything at face value. They always ask questions.
A few days ago, Laurent would have felt guilty, making such a generalization about clones. But then Lincoln sat him down for a blunt talk.
“We are different,” Lincoln said earnestly. “I can see that, now. We had a different upbringing, and we had to learn everything faster than most people, and we were sheltered from a lot of things. We behave differently. So do you. You didn’t exactly grow up in the suburbs, Albert. Point is, there’s nothing wrong with us being different, as long as you don’t think of us as less.”
Laurent can hear Lincoln’s voice in his head right now, saying those words. And he can see Lincoln’s eyes, clear and blue-grey, looking into his eyes, drilling the point home.
And he can taste Lincoln’s lips on his. The kiss Lincoln gave him after that little speech had been truly spectacular. The kind of kiss you remember your whole life.
Wholesome, in a way, clones are. Their every move is not tainted by past experience. When they do something for the first time, it really is for the first time. There is no cultural knowledge, no connotations from things they might have witnessed as a child. They were never children. Yet they are children. Perpetual children, in some ways. Even Merrick. Although in a brattier way.
Merrick is baffled by Jones’ concerns about the lingo.
“Why?” Jones asks for the third time.
“That’s the way euchre goes,” Laurent tries to explain. Laurent has been so patient to this point, but he can feel himself wearing thin. His only compensation is that Lincoln is sure to reward him if he keeps his temper in line. “It just is.”
Merrick sighs dramatically. “If diamonds are trump, the jack of diamonds is the highest card. The other red jack, the jack of hearts, is the left bower and second highest. It’s simple, Jones.”
“I know that. I just want to know why right is higher than left. Automatically. Without question.”
It is, actually, quite extraordinary that Jones is asking Laurent these questions. But then, Laurent has never done anything to harm Jones. In fact, he directly saved Jones’ life. Jones associates Laurent with safety.
“Well, it isn’t without question, is it? You’ve been questioning it for five minutes,” Merrick says through gritted teeth.
Jones jumps, because Jones does not associate Merrick with safety.
“Because the right jack is worth more than left?” Lincoln suggests.
“What Jones wants to know is not why the jack of the trump is worth more, but why right is assumed better than left. It’s a matter of language, not rules,” MacNeil says.
“Exactly!” Jones exclaims gleefully. “Left is considered lesser than right. Why is that? There is an historical element, a cultural reason. Left is seen as evil, as well. Do you know the word sinister refers to left-handedness?”
Merrick rolls his eyes and Talia straightens up in her corner. Fast reflexes, that woman has.
“I’m left-handed, you know,” Jones says.
“You are not,” Merrick scoffs. Merrick loves an argument.
“I-I-I was trained to be right-handed, just like everyone else, but I favour the left side. Which means I’m in my right mind, actually.” Jones’ giggle at that is nervous.
Merrick shakes his head.
Talia narrows her eyes.
Merrick notices. And becomes immediately conciliatory. “Okay,” he says. “You’ve discovered an age-old bias against the left-handed.”
“I hardly discovered it,” Jones clarifies. “It’s historical fact. Well-documented. I’m merely bringing it to Mr. Laurent’s attention.”
“Jones, get over it,” MacNeil says. “That’s the was it is and we’re not going to change anything.”
“I’m merely—”
“You want me to start in on the queen being higher than the king?” MacNeil asks.
“No, no,” Jones backs down fast. “It’s no big deal. We should play the next match.”
“Hand,” Merrick corrects him.
“Hand,” Laurent agrees, “and you’re free to question anything you like, but if you want to play the game, we should accept them as they are and continue. You’re also free to deal with your left hand.”
There. That should please Lincoln. Laurent is keeping things moving quite smoothly. He’s even starting to enjoy himself.
Not quite. Laurent isn’t entirely happy. He’s a bit tense. In fact, he’s grinding his teeth a bit. It’s going to make his jaw sore if he keeps it up much longer.
After everyone leaves, Lincoln will notice, and he’ll help Laurent relax. Lincoln will face Laurent, straddling his thighs, and tell him to rest his head on the back of the couch. Then he’ll put his hands on either side of Laurent’s jaw and gently massage the sore joint. He’ll rub where jaw meets skull, ease Laurent’s mouth open, making sure to keep the muscles relaxed. Laurent will let his mouth fall open so Lincoln can slip his tongue inside and massage him from the inside.
“Lincoln!” MacNeil says.
Laurent brings the game into focus. The cards are on the table, but Lincoln hasn’t picked them up. He’s been staring at Laurent.
Of course. He could tell what Laurent was thinking about. Or something close to it.
Lincoln looks at his hand.
Laurent moves behind and peers at Lincoln’s cards.
He’s got both red bowers and the ace of diamonds.
The nine of diamonds is turned up in front of Jones.
“Pick it up,” Lincoln says with a smile.
Laurent has taught him how to play the game.
Merrick’s Hand
“M-m-merrick,” Jones stutters, although not as badly as he once might have. “I believe it’s your deal.”
“Indeed,” Merrick says, smooth as the front of his muted green shirt, which Laurent happens to know cost as much as Jones’ entire outfit, including the running shoes.
Merrick deals the cards smoothly and turns up the ten of clubs.
Jones shakes his head. Lincoln studies the cards in his hand carefully. Laurent sneaks a look at them. Lincoln’s got the nine and the left bower. Not enough. Not for an inexperienced player.
Merrick is staring at Lincoln, daring Lincoln to order him up. His stare intensifies. Laurent is on the brink of saying something about table talk, when Lincoln says, “Pass.”
Laurent’s not sure whose idea it was to have Lincoln partner with Merrick, but he’s regretting it. Deeply.
MacNeil orders Merrick up. Laurent can’t see any of her cards, but she must have the right, ace and king, or why would she take such a chance?
But then, she’s a clone and she’s never, as far as Laurent knows, played euchre before.
Jones leads with the ace of hearts. Good move. But then, he is the clone of a multi-millionaire merger and acquisitions genius. It’s an easy trick, but Jones hesitates for his next move.
“Need help?” Laurent asks.
Jones shakes his head. “Need to think for a second.” He lays down the king of hearts.
Jones won’t take the trick. Lincoln’s already used up his only heart. Lincoln trumps with the nine of clubs. There is one heart unaccounted for. If Merrick has it, he has to play it. If MacNeil has it, Merrick will be free to throw off, unless he’s forced to play the ten he picked up. Or the other heart could be buried. In which case, Merrick will have to be able to overtrump MacNeil.
Merrick scowls when MacNeil plays the king of clubs, which takes his queen of hearts, as well as Lincoln’s nine trump. Merrick doesn’t like to lose. Not even one trick.
MacNeil leads with the ace of diamonds. Only Jones and Lincoln can follow suit. Merrick trumps with his ten. He gives a tight smile. Merrick prefers to be in control.
It’s not a disaster for MacNeil, if she’s careful, and she’s got the cards. Merrick is a little too smug when he lays down the jack of clubs. The smug disappears, of course, when Lincoln has to follow suit and waste his left bower. MacNeil gives a little chortle as she tosses the queen on the pile.
She has to be holding the ace. How could she have made trump with only the king and queen? Especially when it was obvious Merrick wanted Lincoln to order him up.
Laurent is not surprised when Merrick’s ace of spades is washed out by MacNeil’s ace trump.
Jones meticulously records the score with the two red fives lying on the table at his elbow.
Lincoln doesn’t seem to mind at all, but Merrick is visibly unhappy.
Talia is alert.
It’s going to be a long night.
MacNeil’s Deal
Laurent has a bit of trouble figuring out what MacNeil’s deal is.
She’s the clone of a world-famous talk show hostess. Not the person who does the interviewing, but the hostess of the show. It’s a new thing on the net. She greets the guests and shows them to their seats and engages the actual host in what passes for witty banter.
The clone MacNeil was very ordinary at the Merrick Institute. Lincoln can barely remember her from back then. She blended with all the other young, good-looking women in white tracksuits. Quiet. Docile. As she’d been trained to be.
But now MacNeil does not blend. She’s loud and a bit aggressive at times. She laughs without any coyness as she orders Lincoln up and makes spades the trump. She got a confidence about her, a conviction that she is right, that makes her scary to a lot of people. Mostly men.
She refuses to wear make-up or dress up. She wears shocking colours or pitch black, and she hacked off her world-famous blond hair, and she sparked up that controversial romance with the psychiatrist at the Facility.
The female psychiatrist.
All that, along with being Lincoln’s new housekeeper.
The first two housekeepers had turned out to be clone groupies. The third had been an older lady who had been quite put off when she found Laurent’s underwear behind the bean bag chair.
MacNeil is perfect. She wouldn’t care if she found Laurent in the bean bag chair wearing nothing but his underwear. In fact, if she were to be dusting the baseboards or vacuuming the rug and came across Laurent and Lincoln, in the bean bag chair, both naked and engaged in carnal activity, she would probably ask them, in her low, slightly throaty, world-famous voice, to avoid getting any body fluids on the carpet and did they want her to empty the dishwasher before she went home?
MacNeil knows no taboos.
And MacNeil, since the day of her birth, shown no interest at all in the male of the species.
Which makes Laurent very comfortable.
And, naturally, made the real Jessica MacNeil very nervous. That she could spend millions of dollars on a clone of herself, and end up with an allegedly perfect copy that turned out to be so very absolutely and uncompromisingly lesbian was a matter of grave concern to the talk show hostess.
Since the studies into clone sexuality have begun, MacNeil is a star in academic circles.
MacNeil’s sexual preference is of no concern to Laurent or Lincoln, other than the convenient side effect of her having no interest in either of them. All in all, it makes for an ideal situation, in spite of MacNeil’s demanding nature.
Her time out in the real world quickly convinced her that the Merrick Institute, aside from the desexualization and rigid behavioural codes and that little “being harvested for your body parts” issue, had one distinct advantage over everyday life.
It had been spotlessly clean.
So when Lincoln rebelliously left his clothes, or Laurent’s, lying around on the floor, he is guaranteed a severe ‘tsk-tsk’ from MacNeil.
And when he left the handle of the fridge smeared with peanut butter, she joked about giving him a time out.
As Lincoln gets more careless, MacNeil has more to do. It makes her happy. She’s up to three days a week now. Lincoln enjoys her company. And he loves having someone else do the cleaning.
He’d been fascinated by cleaning, for a little while. It had been a mystery at the Institute. He might never have developed the curiosity to explore the forbidden hallways if he’d not first been curious about who cleaned his clothes and put them away so neatly. When he’d moving into Tom Lincoln’s place, he’d bought every cleaning product imaginable. And tested them all.
MacNeil threw most of them away. Except for the ones she had to take to the toxic waste dump.
Now Lincoln watches and MacNeil cleans. Sometimes MacNeil comes when Lincoln is out with Laurent, but Laurent is busier now with work. He still spends every second he can with Lincoln, but there are less of them in the day. MacNeil keeps Lincoln company. They talk, Lincoln says. About everything. Sports and motorbikes and fashion and what they saw on the net. And probably Laurent.
But not the intimate details. Lincoln says that if he mentions penises or balls, MacNeil makes a face and calls him boring. But Lincoln admits that he’s talked to MacNeil about his relationship with Laurent. He says he needs to talk to someone, since he has so little experience with these things.
Laurent can’t see how talking to someone with no experience will help, but Lincoln says MacNeil is wise.
Laurent can’t figure her out.
Why would someone with those looks and that will to achieve and that wisdom settle for cleaning houses?
Unless she’s not just cleaning houses.
Maybe she’s learning about people. Or about Lincoln in particular.
Maybe the Facility sent her.
Maybe it’s not such a good idea after all, to have her here with Lincoln, who trusts her so much and talks to her about every little thing, except for the penises and balls.
And maybe Laurent’s getting paranoid. He blames Merrick for that. Merrick has been nothing but worrisome since he turned up on the doorstep two weeks ago.
MacNeil obviously does not like Merrick. But that could be an act.
Laurent sidles over to Talia.
“What do you see?” he asks.
“Four relatively intelligent, completely socially-inept clones trying to play a stupid card game,” Talia whispers back. “Where the hell did you learn this?”
“Canada,” Laurent answers.
Talia nods, as if that explains everything.
Jones’ hands are flapping in the air with excitement. “Oh, oh, that’s mine. My trick,” he yelps. “Euchre!”
Merrick slams his glass on the table with a scowl.
MacNeil laughs and gives Jones a high five across the table.
Lincoln tries to look appropriately upset. After all, he just got euchred and the game is over. But it’s clear that he’s happy for Jones and MacNeil. And that he never really cared about winning the game. He just wanted to have a card party.
“MacNeil,” Laurent says quietly.
Talia studies MacNeil with dark eyes.
MacNeil runs her hand over her close-cropped hair and grins at Jones.
Talia shakes her head decisively.
“She’s not watching Lincoln?”
“Paranoid much, Albert? She has no interest in Lincoln.”
“No. I just… I can’t suss her out. I want to know if she’s a threat.”
MacNeil gets up and stretches her long arms high over her head. Her red t-shirt rides up to expose a toned stomach.
“Only to my heterosexuality,” Talia says with a quick breath out.
Jones and Merrick watch MacNeil’s shirt bunch up under her rather substantial breasts.
Lincoln takes advantage of the distraction to look over at Laurent and Talia. He seems a bit perturbed to see them huddled so close together in Talia’s corner. He soon relaxes when he realises the intensity with which Laurent is staring at him. He smiles in a way that might even threaten MacNeil’s sexuality, if he were ever to direct a smile like that in her direction. Which he would never do.
He only smiles like that at Laurent.
“No threat to you at all,” Talia murmurs.
“I meant, is she watching Lincoln for the Facility?”
Talia pokes Laurent in the ribs. “You’ve been watching too many spy movies. MacNeil is harmless. It’s Merrick you have to worry about, boss.”
Laurent watches Merrick rise, go to the counter, refill his glass.
“That’s why I put you in charge of Merrick. So I don’t have to worry about him.” Laurent sips his scotch. “Do I have to worry about Merrick?” he asks.
Talia smirks. “No.”
“Good. I have more important things with which to concern myself.”
Lincoln gets up and Laurent moves, so they meet halfway between the table and the corner. Laurent gets to watch Lincoln walk across the room. More of a slink, actually, in those pants.
Lincoln puts his hands firmly on Laurent’s waist and moves close. “I told you this party would be fun,’ he says.
Laurent doesn’t know about fun, but it sure has been interesting.
Lincoln’s fingers squeeze lightly, make little circles. They skirt the waistband of Laurent’s pants, slide under half an inch.
Laurent looks down and sees coarse chest hair peeking out of the neck of Lincoln’s shirt. He has the sudden, visceral desire to feel it rubbing across his back.
Fun party; Laurent can’t wait until it’s over.
Next: 51-60 Island100
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