After the Dance

By Sydney Blackburn

Frank loves Charles, but they're both men. And Frank is just a mechanic while Charles is the boss's son.

 

When Charles's parents throw a ball to find their only son a wife--whether he wants one or not--Frank dons a frock at the urging of his roommate to attend. One time, one dance in the arms of the man he loves, one memory to cherish forever. He doesn't count on Charles's choosing Frances, his female alter-ego, for a bride. Knowing it can never be, he confesses to not being a woman, and flees.

 

He doesn't expect Charles to connect Frank to Frances. He doesn't expect Charles to prefer--and pursue--Frank. But the obstacles between them are real, regardless of what either man wants. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Half Past Three Publishing
• Release date: Apr 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393116158

Sydney Blackburn

SYDNEY BLACKBURN writes stories of love and emotional connection in a variety of settings from contemporary to fantasy to sci-fi to historical. If you enjoyed this short, you may enjoy Syd’s other stories. Authors today live and die by reviews, so please take the time to review an author you like!

Book preview

✩✩✩

FRANK DIXON FROZE ATOP his ladder when the footsteps and commentary of his employer’s tour entered the control room of the airship gondola. This, gentlemen, is the control room. It will be accessible from the keel of the ship by way of a Duralim shaft, said George Quinn to a coterie of well-dressed gentlemen. The D101 utilizes pinpoint precision controls to ensure the smoothest flight experience.

Frank knew in advance that Mr. Quinn was giving some investors a tour today, but he’d hoped they’d bypass the control room. After all, apart from the panel he had open in the ceiling, there wasn’t much to see that was any different from a dozen other airship control rooms.

He glanced down. Although everyone in the room must have been aware he was up there, no one so much as glanced upward. Why would they? He was a labourer. Cobalt blue eyes suddenly met his as one person did look up: Mr. Charles Quinn, son of the owner of Dominion Air. Frank stared a fraction too long into those crystal clear depths. He jerked his gaze away and tried to appear as if he was working. He didn’t dare to actually try—knowing his luck, he’d drop a wrench on someone’s head and lose the best job he’d ever had. He fixed his gaze on the junction box before him and waited for the group to leave.

Now, if you’ll just follow me this way, the senior Quinn said, and Frank breathed a silent sigh of relief. One by one, the presence below him dwindled until it was just him and the steering controls. He slid a grease jar aside and traded his wrench for a caliper.

That’s the steering mechanism, isn’t it?

Frank dropped the caliper and teetered on the ladder. Shit, he swore. The ladder suddenly steadied, and Frank glared down.

I didn’t mean to startle you.

It was him. Charles Quinn. The subject of Frank’s perverted fantasies since Frank had first set eyes on him. Three months and two days ago when Frank had been promoted to the D101 project. Charles Quinn was talking to him.

They were of similar height and build, but any resemblance ended there. Where Frank cleaned up into what his friend called a golden boy, all straw-yellow curls and pale-honey skin—a description Frank wasn’t certain he should be flattered by—Charles was milky pale with midnight hair neatly parted on the side and swept over his head in a wave with a small curl on the opposite temple. His eyebrows were like wings feathering over the most beautiful eyes Frank had ever seen, and a neat, trim moustache graced his upper lip, as if drawing attention to his mouth and how kissable—stop.

Frank took him in anew, from his perfect hair to his perfectly tailored suit. Surely such perfection was meant to be gazed upon. Not by you.

He tore his gaze away. He shouldn’t be staring. He was a working-class mechanic, and Charles Quinn was society. Not to mention, men who fancied other men kept it to themselves if they wanted to retain gainful employment. Charles Quinn was so far beyond his reach he might as well be on the moon.

Frank climbed down the ladder in search of the dropped tool, keeping his back to Charles Quinn.

It is, though, isn’t it? The junction box for the steering mechanism?

Frank stared down at the fine adjustment tool in his dirty hands. Yeah—yes, sir.

I’ve seen the designs, of course, but it’s not the same as seeing the actual thing, is it?

Frank grunted. Say something. Not much to see, just cables.

I thought it was all going to be encased in that new shock-absorbing gel.

Nah. I mean, no, sir. I mean, some of the pulley linkages will be, but it’d add too much weight doing the whole thing. He bit the inside of his mouth so he wouldn’t say more, like he knew more than the owner’s son. You should go pester, um, talk to the engineers. His poor word choice had his cheeks taking on a blush.

Quinn laughed. Believe me, I have.

Uncertain if he should shrug or nod, he attempted both simultaneously, feeling quite the fool. Mr. George Quinn didn’t like it when the