Morning sunshine slanted into the kitchen. Brian admired the curve of Tristan’s ass covered by a pair of well-worn blue plaid flannel pajama bottoms as Tristan was loading the coffeepot. The pajama pants were the only thing he had on. Brian could still see the fading remnants of the deep bruises on his lover’s body. There was a knock at the front door.
“I’ll get it,” Brian said. Who would be knocking at Tristan’s front door the day after Christmas? Good thing he’d put on his slacks from yesterday, otherwise he’d be answering the door in his boxers.
Brian opened the door to face an unfamiliar older woman in a long fur coat. “Who are you?” she demanded, looking amazingly startled. “And what are you doing in my son’s house?”
“Um…My name’s…” is all he got out before the woman pushed her way
