Maybe You're Meant to be Mine By Tinnean

Harry Ellison walked into Frenchy's café. He had spent the day with his client trying to find where the big sailfish ran but the only kind of luck they had had was bad.

Johnson had skinned his knuckles on the heavy reel and lost the rod overboard. The sea had gone from bathtub calm to downright nasty in the blink of an eye. Ellison's senses had kicked in when Johnson lost his lunch all over his very expensive, mainland shoes, and he had a tough battle with his own stomach.

Now, here he was, back on Martinique. Johnson telling him he'd pay him tomorrow. Eddie (Simon) Banks, his first mate, whispered, "I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today!" The black man winked slyly.

"G'wan, Eddie, go tell Frenchy I said you could have a drink."

"Thanks, Harry!"

Ellison wrapped his hand around Johnson's shirtfront. "Be here tomorrow with my $800 bucks or I'll come after you and you won't like that!" His pale blue eyes promised to do horrible things to the stocky businessman.

Johnson blanched and scurried away to his hotel room.

Cricket, the piano player, was starting the opening bars of the latest song he had written. Harry went to the bar and Frenchy poured him a bourbon. They talked of the war overseas, and the men who were being imprisoned on Devil's Island.

And then a husky voice began to sing, his vocal cords wrapping around Ellison's cock and yanking it to attention.

Maybe you're meant to be mine.
Maybe I'm only supposed to stay in your arms awhile,
As others have done.
Is this what I've waited for? Am I the one?
Oh I hope it's so, in spite of how little we know.

Frenchy saw Ellison's interest. "You like my new singer, yes? His name is Blair..."

"I know what his name is." Ellison pushed away from the bar and walked to where the young man stood by Cricket's piano. "Hullo, Slim."

The singer tossed back his riotous auburn curls. "It's been a long time, Jim."

"Oh, you're mistaken, Blair," Cricket said around a toothpick. "His name's Harry Ellison."

"He calls me Slim, I call him Jim." Blair looked into the blue eyes he had never been able to forget. "You want me, Jim, all you have to do is whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you? You just put...your lips together...and blow!" Slim's mouth made a perfect moue, and it was all the other man could do not to haul him into his arms and put his brand on him.

"We've got to get out of here, Slim. The Gestapo will be coming after me for helping the Free French. It may be a long time before we get back to Martinique."

"And it may be never. If you want me, Jim, well, I'm hard to get."

"Yeah, Slim?"

The curls bounced as he nodded and Ellison's sense of smell almost overwhelmed him with the lush scent of Blair's shampoo. He leaned into the older man, licking at his lips.

"All you have to do is ask me."


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