Feet of Clay - 1 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and 

incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or 
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, 
locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely 
coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the 
publisher. 

Feet of Clay 
HIGH BALLS 

An imprint of Torquere Press Publishers 
PO Box 2545 
Round Rock, TX 78680 
Copyright © 2011 by 

Amanda Steiger 

Cover illustration by Alessia Brio 
Published with permission 
ISBN: 

978-1-61040-225-5 

www.torquerepress.com 

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce 

this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except 
as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information 
address Torquere Press. Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 
78680. 

First Torquere Press Printing: May 2011 
Printed in the USA 

Feet of Clay - 2 

Chapter One 

When Galvin arrived in Dr. Stein's office, she was 

sitting at her desk, writing in a small, leather-bound 
book. He poked his head in through the half-open door. 
She looked up, adjusted her glasses, and said, "Hello, 
Galvin. Come in." 

Dr. Stein was a calm, silver-haired woman, prone to 

wearing knitted sweaters and very large earrings. Today, 
a pair of gold cats dangled from her ears. "How has the 
new medication been working out for you?" 

He shifted in his chair. "Okay, I guess." 
She peered at him over the top rims of her glasses. 

"Any side effects?" 

"The nausea is worse than usual." He'd eaten a piece 

of toast that morning and kept it down, but he hadn't 
dared try anything more substantial. 

"That should subside, but if necessary I can prescribe 

some anti-nausea medication. And how has your mental 
state been, overall?" 

He hesitated. "Not great, honestly. But it's that time 

of year again. I mean…it's getting close to November 
13

th

." He gave a strained smile. "After ten years, you 

wouldn't think it would still affect me like this." 

"I'd be surprised if it didn't, actually." She tilted her 

head. "Do you want to talk about it?" The tone was one 
of concerned, polite interest, as if she was asking an 
acquaintance about some minor mishap. 

"Not really." 
Dr. Stein was a nice woman, but officially, she wasn't 

his counselor. He couldn't afford a counselor on top of 
his medications, and if it had to be one or the 
other…well, the pills were a necessity. She just wrote 
out his prescriptions. Even when she invited him to talk 

Feet of Clay - 3 

about his problems, he always felt in some vague way 
that he was bothering her. 

"You're sure?" she asked, in that same polite, neutral 

tone. 

He forced a smile. "I'm all right. I can't stay long, 

anyway." 

"Work?" 
He nodded. 
"I'll just get you set up with a refill, then. Give it 

some time. Another week, and you'll start to feel a 
difference." She wrote out a prescription with quick, 
practiced ease. 

*** 

Galvin couldn't sleep, but that was nothing new. 
These days, the pills did little more than blur his 

thoughts. He'd spent far too many nights in that foggy, 
half-dreaming state, eyes still open, staring at the 
vaguely dragon-shaped water stain on his ceiling. 

Rain trickled down the window, a steady drone 

mingled with the occasional rumble of thunder that his 
mp3 player couldn't quite drown out. 

It had been raining that night, too. His gaze strayed to 

the calendar on his wall. November 13

th

 was just a few 

weeks away. Just a day, he thought. But somehow, it 
never got any easier. 

He pulled out his earbuds and sighed. He had work 

tomorrow. He needed sleep. But reminding himself of 
all the reasons he should be asleep inevitably just made 
it harder…and when he closed his eyes, memories 
flickered through the darkness behind his lids.  A 
motionless form on the bathroom tiles, glassy eyes 
seeming to stare at him… 

Feet of Clay - 4 

Finally, he rolled onto his side and reached for the 

book on his nightstand. Its edges were worn, its spine 
was faded and creased from being read and reread 
countless times. 

Smoke. Spike Radcliff's first novel. 
On nights like this, when the hours stretched into a 

lifetime and the loneliness became unbearable, he often 
found himself reaching for that tattered paperback, the 
same copy he'd found in a used bookstore five years 
ago. By now, reading it was like slipping into an old, 
comfy sweater. Kind of a strange way to think about a 
book that dealt with such dark subject matter, but then, 
all Spike's books were like that. They were harsh. Ugly, 
sometimes. But despite all the blood and mud and dirty 
needles, there was always a shining thread of hope 
running through them, the promise that someone could 
go through hell and come out again, wounded but alive. 

Galvin stretched out on his bed and opened the book. 

The opening lines were already branded into his 
memory, but he read them anyway: Sammy stepped off 
the bus and breathed in the hot, moist night air. In his 
pocket, he had two hundred dollars and an address 
scribbled on a folded piece of paper, worn and damp 
from the caresses of his sweaty fingers. It had been 
almost a full day since he'd eaten or slept, but he was 
filled with a crazy, burning excitement. He had escaped. 

Galvin had always identified with Sammy -- with his 

desperate hunger for a place to belong, for the arms of 
someone who would make him feel safe and wanted. 
When the story started, he'd just fled his abusive home 
to live with a friend in New Orleans, but the address 
turned out to be an empty building. And then he was 
alone, nearly penniless, and stranded in a place he knew 

Feet of Clay - 5 

nothing about. Before long, he was sleeping in alleys 
and doorways. 

Galvin felt a pang of recognition at the stark 

descriptions of loneliness, of being the outsider -- doors 
slamming, people turning away and hurrying past -- and 
the longing for someone, anyone, to stretch out a hand 
and offer some simple kindness. When someone finally 
did, Sammy was too relieved to feel the jaws of a trap 
closing around him. His new friends had pills and 
needles filled with sweet poison that kept him coming 
back again and again, even after he realized they weren't 
his friends, even after they started renting him out. 

Galvin found himself skimming ahead to his favorite 

scene, the one where Sammy finally found a true friend: 
a quiet, stammering, tender-hearted poet who literally 
found him in the gutter and took him in. 

The idea of rescue had always been seductive to 

Galvin. His first shrink had recommended that he write 
the words No one is coming to save you on a piece of 
poster board and hang it on his wall. 

He hadn't. 
He knew she was right. Waiting for a rescuer was 

counter-productive and childish. But even so, he 
couldn't help clinging to the hope that someday, when he 
most needed them, there would be a pair of strong and 
loving arms waiting to enfold him. And then, finally, he 
could relax, he could surrender to this soul-deep 
exhaustion and just breathe. 

Galvin kept reading. 
Sammy fell in love with his rescuer, of course. But 

happy endings were never that easy. There followed a 
cycle of rehab, relapses, grim, determined struggles, and 
finally light at the end of the tunnel. Sammy got clean 

Feet of Clay - 6 

and stayed with the man who, by that point, had become 
his lover and his best friend. 

It was like a fucked up fairy tale, complete with 

happily ever after. Or at least, as close to happily ever 
after as real life ever got. 

Galvin closed his eyes and held the book against his 

chest. 

The first time he'd read it, he'd stayed up all night, 

too -- dry-mouthed, gulping, turning pages, almost 
wanting to stop reading because he was certain it would 
end in despair and darkness. The next day, he'd gone out 
and bought the sequels, Dust and Blur. 

He turned the book over and stared at the black and 

white author's photo on the back cover. Spike was 
standing outside, clad in a long, black coat, his dark hair 
windblown, a cigarette between two fingers. He was 
looking off to the side, as if unaware of the cameraman. 
The picture was small and grainy, but still, something 
about it always made Galvin stare. From reading articles 
about Spike Radcliff, he knew that Spike had an almost 
superstitious aversion to cameras. This was probably 
one of the few photos of him in existence. 

And Galvin liked looking at it…probably more than 

he should. He reached out and lightly ran a fingertip 
over it. 

Spike was handsome, but it was more than that. 

There was some indefinable quality about him that held 
Galvin's gaze, like a light shining from deep within him. 

Galvin didn't need his psychiatrist to tell him that this 

wasn't normal, that forming such a powerful fixation on 
someone he had never met and would likely never meet 
was unhealthy. But knowing that did nothing to dim the 
intensity of his feelings. 

Galvin closed his eyes. 

Feet of Clay - 7 

His fantasies about Spike had started when he was 

fifteen, soon after he first read Smoke. They were just a 
way to pass the time when he couldn't sleep, to stave off 
the ache of loneliness. But those imaginary 
conversations had done what no sleeping pill had yet 
accomplished; they had calmed him enough to let him 
drift off. 

The details of how he and Spike "met" were hazy, but 

the scenario always ended the same: with Spike sitting 
next to him on a bench or the edge of his bed as Galvin 
talked about his problems. And Spike would understand, 
would hold him and stroke his hair and talk to him. 

In his fantasies, Spike was always calm, gentle, wise 

and loving. And it was so easy to just melt into his arms 
and… 

He'd told himself he would stop doing this. An 

obsession with an actor or a famous singer would have 
at least been understandable. But a writer? It was just 
weird…especially when he had nothing to base it on 
except Spike's books and one grainy photo. 

He glanced at the window. Pale sunlight trickled in 

through the blinds and fell across the floor in narrow, 
slanting beams. The clock told him it was past 7:30. 

He gently set the book on the nightstand, slid out of 

bed, and headed into the bathroom to shower. 

*** 

Later, he sat on the El, watching the buildings of 

Chicago blur past through the window. His hand was in 
one pocket of his jacket, fingers curled around the 
smooth contours of a pill bottle. He'd picked up his refill 
on the way to the El stop. Now, he pulled the bottle out 
and tilted it back and forth, watching the pills roll 
around inside. They were pretty. Round and red, like 
little drops of blood. 

Feet of Clay - 8 

In the past two years, since moving out of his mom's 

house, he'd managed to scrape together a passably 
normal life for himself. Every morning, he woke up and 
showered and had coffee and toast. He rode the El to 
work. He paid rent, though he usually had to dip into the 
money his father had left him, and that would probably 
run out within the year. After that, he wasn't sure what 
he'd do. He didn't make nearly enough at his job. But 
still, he was functioning…even if it all felt fragile, like a 
dandelion puff that could be blown away by the first 
strong gust of wind. 

The last line of Smoke echoed in his mind: He awoke, 

safe in his own skin. 

Safe in his own skin. 
It wasn't real; he knew that. Just words on a page. 
But he needed those words. 

Feet of Clay - 9 

Chapter Two 

The Underground's readership consisted largely of 

academic circles and beatnik, coffee house crowds. Its 
pages were usually filled with short stories, poems, and 
reviews of arty films and obscure theatrical productions. 
Its office was a single large room on the top floor of a 
dilapidated brick building. Galvin walked up the cement 
stairs and opened the door. 

Shelly, his boss, was leaning back in her chair, heels 

propped up on her desk and a cup of coffee in one hand. 
A fringe of sapphire blue hair hung over her left eye. 
"Hey." She glanced up at him. "'Nother sleepless night?" 

He rubbed the back of his neck, self-conscious. 

Though Shelly knew about his sleeping troubles, she 
didn't know what caused them. Didn't know about the 
nightmares. He didn't want anyone to know about those. 
"Is it that obvious?" 

She blew steam from her coffee. "Those dark circles 

under your eyes are starting to seem like a permanent 
fixture. Tried valerian root? My cousin says it works for 
him." 

Galvin shrugged out of his jacket. "I've tried just 

about everything." He forced a slight smile. "Well, 
except knocking myself out with a sledgehammer." 

Shelly chuckled. 
"So, what's on the schedule today?" he asked, 

hanging his jacket up. 

"An interview." She sipped her coffee. Her eyes 

twinkled at him, a strange, knowing expression. "I've 
been wanting to interview a Chicago author. Guess who 
I found?" 

Galvin sucked in his breath swiftly. "You mean -- " 
"Yup. Spike Radcliff. I finally got a hold of him." 

Feet of Clay - 10 

He realized his jaw was hanging and snapped it shut. 

Spike had never done a real interview, never talked 
about his work. Or himself. Galvin knew, since he'd 
scoured the internet for information about him. "He said 
yes?" 

"Surprisingly." 
He took a deep breath, trying to bring his racing 

heartbeat under control. "Who'll be interviewing him?" 

"You, of course." 
Galvin felt dizzy. "Me?" 
"I figured you'd be the best person to do it. You'll 

know the right questions to ask." 

"Oh." It was the only word his brain would produce. 

His thoughts were stuck in a loop. Spike Radcliff. An 
interview. And he, Galvin Cloud, was going to conduct 
it. "I, uh -- so what time do I call him?" 

"You don't. It's at his place." 
"Wait -- he agreed to be interviewed in person?" 
She shrugged. "Said he doesn't like talking on the 

phone." She plucked a sheet of paper off the desk and 
held it out to him. "Here's his address, along with 
directions." 

Galvin stared, mouth dry, palms moist with sweat. He 

took the paper with a hand that wanted to tremble and 
looked at the directions. It was a printout from an online 
map site. "What should I ask him?" 

"Well, that's up to you." Her brow furrowed. She slid 

her feet off the desk and sat up straighter. "Hey, you 
okay? You're pale." 

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." He gulped. "I just…didn't 

expect this." 

"Well, you've still got four hours to write up some 

questions. But if you're not up to it…" 

"I can do it." How could he possibly refuse? 

Feet of Clay - 11 

She relaxed into her chair and smiled. "Great." She 

handed him a small, black tape recorder. "You'll need 
this. And be prepared." 

"For what?" 
"I did some research on him. His people skills are 

awful, to put it mildly. The last time someone tried to 
interview him, they say it ended with him throwing a 
half-eaten bagel at the guy and storming out of the 
restaurant. Apparently, he thought the questions were 
too personal." She rolled her eyes. "What did he 
expect?" 

Galvin said nothing. He'd heard about the bagel-

throwing incident. It had achieved urban legend status 
among Spike's tiny fan following, but Galvin wasn't sure 
whether to believe it. 

"Anyway, I just wanted to give you an idea of what 

to expect," Shelly said. She drained her coffee cup with 
a gulp. "If he rips you a new one, don't take it 
personally." 

*** 

Galvin spent the next four hours sitting at his desk, 

typing questions on his computer, his mind still floating 
in a haze of shock. He stared at the rows of questions, 
deleted them all, and started over again. But everything 
he came up with sounded trite. 

How old were you when you started writing? Where 

do you get your inspiration? What are some of your 
favorite books and movies? 

They were the sort of questions you might ask any 

writer in any interview. Spike Radcliff wasn't any writer. 
Galvin highlighted everything and hit the delete key 
again. 

Feet of Clay - 12 

Galvin leaned back in his chair and stared at the 

blank screen. Panic fluttered in his chest. He needed to 
stop worrying and just come up with something. 
Anything. But he couldn't think. His head was buzzing 
with a sensation that might have been elation or terror, 
and there seemed to be a gaping emptiness where his 
stomach usually was. 

He had never expected to meet Spike Radcliff face to 

face. Even if Spike had ever done a book signing --
which he hadn't -- Galvin probably wouldn't have had 
the courage to go. Fantasies were safe. If he actually met 
Spike… 

When he tried to think about it seriously, his mind 

played out all kinds of humiliating scenarios. 

The clock's second hand ticked around and around, 

each tick reverberating through his skull. The minutes 
and hours slipped away. 

He glanced at the clock again and flinched. The 

interview was in just twenty minutes, and it would take 
him that long to get there if he took the El and walked 
the few remaining blocks to Spike's apartment. "Fuck," 
he muttered, and grabbed a pen from the desk. He kept a 
tiny notebook in his pocket for jotting down ideas, 
though the pages were mostly empty. He'd just have to 
write down some questions on the way there. 

He grabbed his jacket and dashed out of the office. 

*** 

Sitting on the El, his insides in knots, he stared at the 

notebook page, which was covered with scribbled out 
sentences. He groaned, shoulders slumping. This was 
hopeless. 

Feet of Clay - 13 

He wished he had at least some idea of what to 

expect. But no one really knew what Spike had been 
doing since Blur, his last novel, had been published. 
There'd been that aborted attempt at an interview, then 
nothing, as if he'd vanished off the face of the earth. 
Among his handful of remaining fans, there'd been 
whispers that he'd had some kind of mental breakdown 
immediately following the publication of his last novel, 
but the people who said that had nothing to back it up; 
Galvin had always dismissed it as baseless speculation. 

Breathing had become a battle against the invisible 

iron bands around his chest. Don't think. The more he 
thought about what was about to happen, the more the 
bands tightened. His breath whistled in his throat. 

The man sitting next to him shifted and asked 

uneasily, "Hey, you okay?" 

He mumbled something about an allergic reaction, 

slipped a hand into his pocket and discreetly thumbed 
open the breath mint tin where he kept his Xanax. He 
placed one under his tongue and let it dissolve. Four 
sounded better, but showing up to the interview stoned 
off his ass on sedatives seemed like a bad idea. 

When the train stopped, he got off and walked up the 

stairs out of the underground subway tunnel into the dim 
grayish sunlight of a cloudy afternoon. He walked down 
the sidewalk, squinting at the page of directions. His 
hands refused to stop shaking. 

At last, he spotted the place, a rundown, brick 

apartment building standing between a deserted 
playground and a pawn shop. That's where he lives. It 
looked…desolate. 

He looked at the row of numbered buttons outside the 

door to the lobby, took a deep breath, and pushed the 
buzzer labeled 514 RADCLIFF. There was a pause. The 

Feet of Clay - 14 

speaker crackled, and he heard something that might 
have been muttering.  He opened his mouth to introduce 
himself, but before he could, there was a buzz and a 
click as the main door unlocked. He entered the small, 
shabby lobby and took the elevator to the fifth floor. 

The doors opened on a narrow hallway with patchy, 

threadbare carpet and mysterious stains on the walls. He 
found door number 514 and stood stiffly, mouth dry. 
Steeling himself, he raised a trembling fist and knocked. 

Feet of Clay - 15 

Chapter Three 

Seconds ticked by. A minute passed, and no one 

answered. He gulped and tried again. 

Another fifteen seconds, then he heard the rustle of 

movement behind the door. A lock clicked, and the door 
opened. 

Spike Radcliff stood there in a black robe, squinting. 

His dark hair was mussed and disheveled, his jaw 
shadowed with stubble. He scratched his head. "You 
aren't the pizza delivery guy," he muttered in a deep, 
gravel-filled voice. 

Galvin stared. 
Spike blinked at him. "Did I even order a pizza?" 
Galvin didn't reply. What could he say to that, really? 

Dimly, he was aware of himself trembling. His thoughts 
skipped like a broken record. This -- this -- this is --

"Who are you?" Spike asked. 
Galvin opened his mouth, but only a tiny squeak 

emerged. 

He had always imagined Spike as cool and slightly 

aloof. Spike's single photo conveyed a sort of careless 
elegance which, he'd thought, suggested a man who was 
always in control without even really trying. 

This Spike stared at him with unfocused, bloodshot, 

dark eyes. He was gaunter than he'd been in his photo, 
sharper, as if time had whittled him down to his bones. 
He looked like a man who'd been shipwrecked on a 
deserted island and had been living alone for the past ten 
years, hunting monkeys for food and talking to trees and 
coconuts. And he looked at Galvin with bewildered 
suspicion, as if unsure whether his visitor was real or an 
apparition produced by his fractured mind. 

Feet of Clay - 16 

Finally, Galvin found his voice. "My name is Galvin 

Cloud. I -- I came here for…" He swallowed, his mind 
fumbling. "Interview. For The Underground." 

Spike palmed his face. "Fuck," he muttered. "Forgot 

about that." 

Galvin stood frozen, sweat trickling down his sides. 

His heartbeat filled his ears like thunder. "Is it a bad 
time?" 

He sighed. "No. Just give me a minute." He turned 

away from the door, giving Galvin a view into his living 
room. The floor was strewn with clothes, takeout 
containers, and empty beer bottles. Heavy, black 
curtains covered the picture window, allowing only thin 
trickles of light through, and the ceiling lamp was 
dimmed. "Make yourself at home." Spike waved 
vaguely toward the few pieces of furniture; a couch and 
armchair, both upholstered in black faux-leather. 
Between them stood a scarred wooden coffee table 
covered with overflowing ashtrays. 

Galvin hesitated outside the door. He could turn 

around if he wanted. Just go back to The Underground 
headquarters. Say that Spike hadn't been home. It 
seemed safer. Nothing would have to change. He could 
keep his fantasies intact, keep clinging to them, safe in 
his own apartment… 

Alone. 
No. He wasn't going to flee for the sake of some 

imaginary construct of Spike inside his own head. He 
was here to do an interview. 

He stepped in, clutching his tiny notebook to his 

chest like a shield. Spike turned toward him again. 
"Sorry about the mess." The top half of his robe had 
slipped open, and Galvin glimpsed a V-shaped wedge of 

Feet of Clay - 17 

chest, a sprinkling of dark hair. "I don't have guests very 
often." 

Receding footsteps echoed through the apartment as 

Spike walked out of the living room, disappearing down 
a hallway. 

Galvin stood stiffly, looking around at the scratched 

wood floor, the faintly yellowish walls. An antique 
typewriter sat on a rickety table in a corner, and a pile of 
messy papers lay on the floor, some covered with 
typing, others with longhand. Many words, sometimes 
entire lines, had been violently scribbled out with black 
ink. Some of the pages were crumpled. Before he even 
realized what he was doing, he found himself trying to 
read the words, but he couldn't make out enough of them 
to string together anything coherent. 

He was still standing there, clutching his notebook, 

when Spike returned several minutes later wearing a pair 
of faded jeans and a rumpled, long-sleeved, gray shirt. 

Spike ran a hand through his messy hair, making it 

stand up even more, and glanced at Galvin. "Well? Sit 
down." 

Galvin looked at the couch, walked over and slowly 

sat. The faux-leather creaked. 

Spike vanished into the adjoining kitchen. There was 

the snap of a bottle being opened, followed by the fizz 
of carbonation. He reappeared with a beer in hand. 
"Want one?" 

"N-no thank you." Galvin's voice emerged 

abnormally high-pitched. He considered pointing out 
that he wasn't twenty-one yet, then decided not to. 

Spike flopped into the armchair and leaned back. He 

peered at Galvin through his bloodshot, shipwreck 
survivor eyes and swigged beer. "So. You work for the 
magazine." 

Feet of Clay - 18 

"Yes." His hands were fisted in his lap. His notebook, 

filled with scribbled out questions, rested between them. 
And he remembered, with a flash of panic, that he didn't 
actually have any questions. He'd rejected everything 
he'd come up with. He was sitting here in Spike 
Radcliff's apartment, about to do an interview, and he 
had absolutely nothing to say. 

Galvin fished his little black tape recorder from his 

jacket pocket. He didn't know what he was planning to 
do, but maybe if he just went through the motions, 
something would come to him. He hesitated. "Is it okay 
if I tape this?" There was that squeaky voice again. 
Damn it, he sounded like a cartoon mouse. He cleared 
his throat. "I mean, so I can transcribe the interview 
later." 

Spike looked at the tape recorder with a frown, as if it 

was some bizarre alien artifact. But he shrugged and 
said, "Sure." 

Galvin's hand trembled as he thumbed the RECORD 

button and set the device on the coffee table between 
them. "So…" He lapsed into silence, his mind a blank. 
Spike stared at him with inscrutable, black eyes, waiting. 
Think. He opened his notebook and leafed through it. 
There had to be something here he could use. The 
silence stretched on, and his cheeks blazed. He could 
feel Spike's gaze on him like a physical weight. 

Just say something. Anything. "Um, I notice you've 

got some -- " He waved an arm toward the pile of papers 
in the corner. "Is that the rough draft of a new book?" 

Spike gulped more beer. His shoulders slumped, as if 

someone had just dropped an enormous weight on his 
back. "Yeah." 

Galvin waited, but he didn't seem inclined to say 

anything else. "What's it about?" 

Feet of Clay - 19 

Spike turned his head to stare at the window -- or 

rather, at the curtains blocking the window. The 
movement drew attention to his neck, which was just as 
long and pale and elegant as it had appeared in his 
photo. Galvin swallowed, fiddling with his notebook. "I 
don't talk about my books before they're finished." 

"Never?" Galvin's own voice seemed to be coming 

from the end of a long tunnel, and all his sensory 
impressions seemed slightly off, as if they were filtering 
in through a wall of fog. "You don't go to writer's groups 
or have someone critique it for you or anything like 
that?" 

"No." He pulled a package of cigarettes and a lighter 

from his jean pocket, lit one of the slender, white 
cylinders, and took a slow drag. He exhaled a cloud of 
smoke into the air. 

His fingers were very long. Galvin stared at them, 

then averted his gaze. "So, um…" Sweat dampened his 
palms, and a cold lancet of fear slipped through the gray 
haze in his brain. "What's your process? I mean, how do 
you go about writing?" 

Spike shrugged, looking off at a point somewhere 

above Galvin's left shoulder. "I just sit down and write." 

"You don't -- you don't have any special routines, 

or…" 

"No." 
Galvin's hands curled into fists, nails digging into his 

palms. He scraped around in his brain for another 
question. "Your books…" He hesitated, staring at the 
notebook in his lap. Maybe if he asked something more 
specific, something which proved he'd actually read 
Spike's work -- that he wasn't just going through the 
motions -- he'd get an actual response. But he was afraid 
of revealing how much those books meant to him, afraid 

Feet of Clay - 20 

that Spike would think he was some kind of creepy, 
obsessive fan. Which, he supposed, was exactly what he 
was. 

"Why do you write?" he finally asked. "I mean, what 

drives you to do it?" 

He voiced a hoarse chuckle. His smile was a thin, 

bitter line. "Why? It's my bread." He shook his cigarette, 
and a bit of ash fell off into the tray. "Or was, anyway. 
Stale bread now." 

Wires tightened in Galvin's chest. Breathe. "There 

must be some other reason." 

"That's all there is." He rested his elbows on his 

knees, cigarette dangling between two fingers of his left 
hand, right hand buried in his hair. "Everyone's got to 
make a living. Whether it's selling hot dogs or selling 
words." 

Galvin's mouth had gone dry. His lips worked 

soundlessly for a moment. "But people find meaning in 
your books." 

"People find meaning in sidewalk cracks. People see 

the face of God on tortillas." He stared at the floor, 
ground out his cigarette in the ash tray, and folded his 
arms across his knees. When he spoke again, his voice 
was so soft that Galvin had to strain to hear it. "I'm full 
of shit." 

Galvin couldn't move. Couldn't think. The man 

whose books had been his lifeline to sanity had just told 
him that those books didn't mean anything. That it was 
all empty. All lies. "Why?" he whispered. 

Spike looked up, blinking. "What?" 
"Why would you say something like that?" 
He shrugged. "Just the truth. You asked me why I 

write. Well, there you go." 

Feet of Clay - 21 

Galvin stared down at his hands. He wanted to be 

angry. He wanted to feel hot rage swelling in his chest, 
to stand up and say, You asshole, you played with my 
heart. You dangled hope in front of me and then ripped 
it away. He reached for that anger, but there was none; 
his chest was numb and empty. He felt small and foolish 
and childish for believing the lies, for being so desperate 
that he'd cling to an empty shell for comfort. His vision 
blurred. A drop of water fell onto his notebook. Then 
another, and another. 

"Hey." Faux-leather creaked as Spike shifted. "What 

-- " 

"How could you be so cruel?" His voice emerged 

small and pleading and confused, the voice of a child 
who'd been slapped for no reason. He hated how weak it 
sounded. More tears spilled down his cheeks. "I believed 
in you." 

"Jesus," Spike whispered. He sounded stunned. 
Galvin couldn't stay there. Didn't want to look at 

Spike's face, didn't want to see his reaction. Galvin's 
throat swelled, and a line of ripping pain blazed down 
the center of his chest. Blinded by tears, he lurched to 
his feet, turned, and walked stiffly toward the door. 
There was nothing in his head but the need to get away. 

Footsteps sounded behind Galvin. Spike grabbed his 

wrist, and he froze, not breathing. Spike's fingers were 
warm and hard against his skin. "Let me go." His voice 
trembled. 

"Wait, I…" 
Breathing raggedly, Galvin clawed at the hand on his 

wrist. His nails raked down the back of Spike's hand, 
leaving four long scratch marks. 

Spike's breath hissed between his teeth. The fog 

cleared from his wide, stunned eyes as blood welled up 

Feet of Clay - 22 

in beads from the scratches. And still, his hand remained 
wrapped around Galvin's wrist, an unrelenting pressure. 

"Oh, God," Galvin whispered. What had he done? He 

raised a trembling hand to his mouth. "I'm sorry. I didn't 
mean -- please, I just -- please let me go, I'll go away if 
you want, I just -- " 

Spike wrapped warm, lanky arms around Galvin, 

dragging him into a rough embrace. His muscles 
stiffened in shock. 

"I didn't know," Spike whispered hoarsely. "I didn't 

know it was like that." His arms tightened around 
Galvin. 

Galvin couldn't move, couldn't breathe. His mind 

whirled in confusion. Spike Radcliff was holding him, 
and he didn't know what to do, what to think. 

He lay a hand on Galvin's hair, holding Galvin's head 

gently against his shoulder. Spike's clothes smelled like 
cigarette smoke. And faintly of cinnamon and cloves. 
"You poor kid," he whispered. 

Galvin remained tense, afraid to trust this. "I don't 

understand." His voice wavered. He didn't dare relax 
into the embrace, but he couldn't bring himself to pull 
away. 

"I didn't see…didn't realize.  Couldn't see you.  Not 

‘til now." 

Galvin drew in a slow, shaky breath. "You said…" 

He swallowed, his throat tight. "You said your books 
didn't mean anything. That you just wrote them for 
money. Was that a lie?" 

At first, Spike didn't reply, and Galvin's unsteady 

breathing echoed through the silence. "Yes," Spike said 
at last, softly. "That was a lie." 

"I just…I don't understand. Why?" 

Feet of Clay - 23 

Another silence followed, and Galvin wondered if 

asking had been a mistake. Spike sighed softly, arms 
slipping away, and a part of Galvin wanted to cry out in 
protest, but he didn't. 

"I had a rough night," Spike said. "That's all." He 

stood awkwardly, one hand in his pocket, the other 
rubbing the back of his neck. Then he raised his gaze 
and studied Galvin's face. "You okay?" 

Galvin noticed a damp spot where his tears had 

soaked through Spike's shirt, and his cheeks burned. 
"Yeah." He wiped his eyes. "I'm sorry, I -- " 

"Don't worry about it." He glanced at the couch and 

cleared his throat. "You, uh…you want to sit down?" 

Galvin cautiously obeyed. 
Spike sat in his armchair and laced his fingers 

together, studying Galvin's face. "What did you say your 
name was, kid?" 

"Galvin. Galvin Cloud." After a brief pause, he 

added, "I'm twenty." 

"Don't take offense." He smiled with one corner of 

his mouth. Something had changed; he seemed calmer, 
more centered. More like Galvin had always imagined 
him being. "To an old geezer like me, you twenty-
somethings all look like kids." 

"Thirty-eight isn't old." 
Spike quirked an eyebrow. "How'd you know how 

old I am?" 

Galvin hesitated. "Well, it says on your Wikipedia 

entry." 

"Wiki-what?" 
Galvin scanned Spike's expression for a hint that he 

was joking. He found none. "Um…you know. 
Wikipedia. The website." 

Feet of Clay - 24 

Spike's expression was somewhere between puzzled 

and uneasy. "I never use computers. Wouldn't know." 
He cleared his throat, and his gaze focused on Galvin, 
his dark eyes suddenly inscrutable. "So, you've read my 
work." 

He nodded, feeling suddenly, painfully shy. It was 

disconcerting, being the object of that gaze.  Like having 
a bright light shone on him. "That's why I wanted to do 
the interview." 

"I see." 
Galvin wondered how much he should say. A part of 

him wanted to retreat behind his shields, to cover up his 
feelings. He still felt raw and shaky. But then, his 
reactions had already revealed how much the books 
meant to him. What good would it do to hide it now? "I 
read Smoke for the first time when I was fifteen." He 
stared at the floor, his face warm. "Of all your books, 
that one is still my favorite." 

Spike scratched his dark hair again. He crossed his 

legs, then uncrossed them, fidgeted, slumped, as if he 
didn't quite know what to do with his long, lanky body. 
"Thanks," he said at last. 

Galvin didn't know what to make of Spike’s 

discomfort. And again, he found himself wondering if 
he'd done or said something wrong. He had the urge to 
apologize -- though for what, he wasn't sure. 

"I've been having trouble with my latest book. As you 

might've guessed." Spike waved at the pile of papers in 
the corner, lit another cigarette, and placed it between 
his lips. "Been working on it for about six years now. 
Not much progress. Doubt I'll ever finish it." 

"You will," Galvin said. 
Spike's dark gaze focused on him. Again, Galvin had 

that feeling of being pinned by a spotlight. His heartbeat 

Feet of Clay - 25 

quickened. That look made him aware that in spite of 
everything -- the messy apartment, the disheveled hair 
and rumpled clothes, the beer bottles and disorientation -
- this was Spike Radcliff. Behind those dark eyes lay the 
same fierce intelligence that had created Smoke. 

"What makes you so sure?" Spike asked. 
"I believe in you." 
Spike's eyes drilled into Galvin's. Then he dropped 

his gaze, studying his sock clad feet. "Never expected to 
meet someone like you," he murmured, so softly the 
words were almost inaudible. He took another drag on 
his cigarette. "You smoke?" Before Galvin could reply, 
he continued, "Don't pick it up. Ugly habit." He 
regarded the cigarette dangling between his first two 
fingers. "So, you going to school?" 

He shifted. "No. I, um. I'm still sort of figuring out 

what I want to do with my life." Hell, just staying sane 
was a full-time job for him. But he couldn't tell Spike 
about that -- about the nightmares, the pills, the black 
clouds of despair that left him paralyzed for weeks on 
end. A part of him wanted to. A part of him wanted to 
spill it all out, to bare his soul, as he had in countless 
fantasies. But that would be crazy. "I guess someone my 
age should be in college, shouldn't he?" 

"Nah." Spike raised the beer bottle to his lips and 

drank. "Never went, myself. Never much liked school. 
In fact, I'm pretty sure high school is that circle of 
Dante's Inferno between the people buried in feces and 
the river of boiling blood." 

"Yeah, it was kind of like that for me, too." Galvin 

cracked a weak smile. "To be honest, I'm not doing 
much with myself right now. I mean, The Underground 
is just a part-time job." 

Feet of Clay - 26 

Galvin's gaze strayed to the scratches on Spike's 

hand, then darted away. And suddenly, he had no idea 
what to say. Should he try to continue the interview as if 
nothing had happened? No, he couldn't, not after that 
breakdown. He didn't know what he'd turn in tomorrow, 
but at the moment, that was the least of his concerns. 
This was all too much. In the space of a single 
afternoon, he'd met the object of his fantasies, had his 
expectations shattered, his heart ripped open and then 
clumsily mended. But something inside him was still 
sore and cautious. He needed time to think, to sort 
through the confused tangle of his emotions. "I, um. I 
should go. I've already taken up too much of your time." 

Spike shrugged. "Not like I'm doing anything else." 

His expression had gone blank. "You need to get back to 
work?" 

Galvin hesitated. He wasn't expected back in until 

tomorrow. He could lie, he supposed. A part of him 
wanted nothing more than to flee back to the safety of 
his apartment -- the safety of solitude -- and curl up 
under the covers for awhile. But another part of him 
desperately wanted to stay, to ask Spike all the questions 
he'd always wanted to ask, to reach out and touch him, 
just to make sure he was real. 

"I don't -- I mean, not really," he murmured. "I just 

thought…you know. You must have things you need to 
do." 

Spike was silent a moment, tilting the beer bottle 

back and forth, staring into space. "This job of yours. 
They paying you enough?" 

Galvin blinked. It was the last question he'd expected. 

"Not a lot. It's barely more than minimum wage, but the 
work suits me." 

"Money's not an issue, then?" 

Feet of Clay - 27 

Galvin winced. "I wouldn't say that." Rent was due 

soon. And he hadn't bought groceries for that week yet, 
either. Then again, with how little he ate these days, he 
wondered if he should bother. 

"None of my business, I guess." 
"It's okay." He lowered his gaze, feeling a twinge of 

embarrassment. "To be honest, money's been tight for 
awhile. But I'm surviving." 

"You feel like earning a little on the side?" 
Galvin blinked. "What do you mean?" 
"Nothing weird." He stared at the wall, scratching his 

stubble-shadowed cheek with a finger. "Can you use 
computers?" 

"Well, sure." Apart from books, computers had 

always been Galvin's primary haven from the world, a 
place he felt safe. Back in high school, before his stint in 
the institution, he'd taken an extracurricular class on 
video editing at the local community college. Those 
afternoons spent in the computer room after all the other 
students had gone home, wearing a pair of headphones 
and bathed in the glow of the screen, had been the 
closest to content he'd felt since before the incident. "I'm 
pretty good with them." 

"That's all I need." Spike shrugged. "Like I said, I 

never touch the things myself. I use that." He pointed a 
thumb at the typewriter on the rickety table, a huge, 
black metal antique. "But these days, everything's 
electronic. So I need someone who knows that stuff." 

"For what?" 
"Typing. Keeping things organized. You know. Just 

odd jobs." 

"Like a secretary?" 
"Yeah, kind of. You interested?" 

Feet of Clay - 28 

Galvin felt his lips moving without his mind's 

permission: "Sure." His heart was beating too quickly. 
Sure, sure, sure. That seemed to be all he could say. He 
still wasn't clear on what he was supposed to do, but 
there was nothing he wouldn't do if Spike asked it of 
him. He wondered if that realization should scare him. 

Spike rolled a cigarette between two fingers. "Okay, 

then." He cleared his throat. "When can you start?" 

"Today." The word fell automatically from his 

mouth. "Now, if you want." 

"You sure?" 
Galvin nodded and swallowed, his tongue sticking to 

the roof of his dry mouth. "So, um…you have a 
computer?" 

"Yeah, bought one a few weeks ago. The guy tried to 

show me how to use it, but it all went right over my 
head. Not a gadget person. I used to work on cars, but 
that's different, you know? You can see all the parts and 
what they do. You look inside one of those gadgets, and 
you don't know what the hell you're looking at." 

"They're actually kind of fun," Galvin said shyly. "If 

you like, I can teach you..." 

"No thanks. You know what they say about old 

dogs." 

Galvin resisted the urge to tell him, again, that he 

wasn't that old. He was barely even middle-aged. And 
Galvin was still trying to wrap his head around the idea 
that Spike had never heard of Wikipedia. Just how 
isolated was he? "Then what should I do?" 

"To start, just type up my latest manuscript. Or what I 

have of it, anyway." He dropped his half-finished 
cigarette into the ashtray and stood. "It's set up in my 
bedroom. This way." 

Feet of Clay - 29 

Galvin's mind barely had time to digest the notion 

that he was about to enter Spike Radcliff's bedroom 
before Spike began walking, and he followed, feet 
sweeping him numbly down the hall and into a spacious 
but mostly bare room. The curtains were drawn, letting 
only a hint of sunlight in. A bed stood in the corner, 
covers and sheets so dark a blue they were almost black. 
In the opposite corner stood a desk and a black office 
chair, the only other furniture, with a sleek, brand new, 
black PC sitting on the desktop. The monitor was a huge 
LCD screen with a curved, ergonomic keyboard. 
Galvin's own cheap Netbook paled in comparison. 

He sat at the desk, ran his fingertips over the 

keyboard, and looked up at Spike uncertainly. 

"Go ahead." 
Galvin booted up the computer and lay a hand over 

the mouse. There was something comforting about the 
cool, smooth plastic. He opened a new Word document. 
"Anything else I need to know first, or should I just get 
started?" 

Spike grunted. "Let me get my manuscript. It's sort of 

all over the place." He left the room. For a few minutes, 
rustling and shuffling echoed through the silence, then 
he returned carrying a thick stack of papers. He dropped 
it on the desk. "That's the first part." He dusted off his 
hands. "It's going to be a long book." 

Galvin looked down at the first page, which was 

covered with cramped, densely packed handwriting. 
Lightly, almost reverently, he touched the edge of the 
paper with his fingertips. 

Spike had said earlier that he never showed anyone 

his work before it was done. What did it mean, then, that 
he'd handed over his manuscript to Galvin? 

Feet of Clay - 30 

The thought made his pulse quicken. "Thank you," he 

said quietly. 

"You don't need to thank me." He looked down at the 

floor for a moment, hands in his pockets. Then he 
reached out and lay a hand on Galvin's shoulder. "You 
sure you're okay?" 

The unexpected warmth of that hand on Galvin's 

shoulder made his breath catch. He looked at it resting 
there and found himself noticing, again, how long and 
graceful the fingers were. Warmth rose into his cheeks. 
"Yeah," he said breathlessly. "Fine. Sorry about earlier. I 
just -- lost it a little. But I'm fine now." 

Spike's hand lingered there a moment longer, and the 

skin beneath it began to tingle. Galvin was mortified to 
feel his cock stiffening. He gulped and hunched over, 
trying to curl into himself. 

Abruptly, Spike let go and averted his gaze. He 

opened his mouth, as if he was about to apologize, then 
closed it. "I'll be in the living room if you need anything. 
I'm going to do some writing." He turned and walked 
out. 

For a few minutes, Galvin just sat there, staring 

blankly at the screen. He could still feel the warmth of 
Spike's hand on his shoulder. His mouth had gone dry, 
and his pulse drummed below his jaw. 

He shook his head, trying to clear it. Focus. 
He picked up the first page. A tingle raced down his 

spine as his gaze glided over the first line. I couldn't see 
through the blood in my eyes. Spike's novels weren't 
usually in first person. 

Galvin lay his fingertips against the keyboard and 

began. 

Feet of Clay - 31 

Chapter Four 

I couldn't figure out why I was still alive. There was 

too much blood. It was on the tiles, in my hair, all over 
my hands, warm and sticky. I didn't feel pain; I just felt 
cold, and I knew I was slipping away. But the fear had 
gone, replaced by the most incredible sense of relief. 
The farce was over. 

Death, after all, is the most natural state of being. It 

is coming home, embracing that great big nothing 
beneath the flimsy paper screen of reality. And just 
letting go felt better than I ever expected. 

Galvin finished the first few pages and stopped, 

staring at the screen. He wasn't sure what to think, or 
what he was supposed to think. The narrative was 
rambling and disjointed…like jagged, bloody shards of 
glass scattered on the floor. Nothing like Spike's other 
work. 

He shook his head and took a deep breath. He was 

just here to type. If he started getting distracted, 
wondering what it meant, he'd never finish. 

Galvin quickly fell into a rhythm, reading a few lines, 

then typing them, double checking to make sure he'd 
gotten it right before setting the page aside. Soon he'd 
accumulated a stack of finished pages, and several hours 
had slipped by. The novel had shifted into what seemed 
to be a flashback, in which the narrator -- Jack, he was 
called -- was expelled from high school. After that, he 
bounced from menial job to menial job, drifting through 
life. Galvin couldn't tell where the story was going, but 
there was something addictive about it, anyway. 

He could hear Spike in the other room, pacing and 

muttering to himself. Every so often, the pacing and 
muttering would stop, and Galvin tried to visualize what 

Feet of Clay - 32 

he might be doing. Sitting at his desk, maybe, filling 
more pages with that cramped, sharply slanting cursive. 
Or just staring into space. 

And Galvin couldn't help wondering…what had 

Spike been doing in the years since Blur was published? 
Surely, he'd done more than just sit in his apartment 
working on his next book. 

Sometime in the afternoon, Galvin's stomach began 

to growl, but he kept working. A few minutes later, he 
heard the creak of footsteps, and cigarette smoke tickled 
his nose. He stopped, turning. 

Spike entered the room, a cigarette hanging from his 

mouth. In one hand, he held a plate with two 
sandwiches, in the other, a glass of milk. He set them on 
the desk, and Galvin looked at him in surprise. "For 
me?" 

He nodded. "Ham and cheese. Nothing fancy. If you 

want anything else, you can help yourself to whatever's 
in the kitchen." 

"Thank you," Galvin said, surprised. 
"No problem." He stared at Galvin for a moment 

longer, then left the room. 

Galvin picked up a sandwich and cautiously nibbled 

the crust. 

He'd made it about halfway through the sandwich 

when the nausea started. These days, just about anything 
irritated his stomach. But he hadn't eaten anything since 
the toast this morning. If he didn't have something 
substantial now, he wouldn't have the strength to make it 
through the evening. He kept eating, grimly ignoring the 
way his stomach churned and clenched. He'd managed 
to finish an entire sandwich before a spasm of nausea 
seized him. He pressed a hand to his stomach, shaking. 

Feet of Clay - 33 

Then he bolted for the bathroom, dropped to his knees 
and retched. 

After a few heaves, he lifted his head, panting, and 

flushed. The remains of his dinner vanished down the 
toilet. When he looked up, Spike was peering in through 
the half open bathroom door, brow furrowed. "You all 
right?" 

Galvin winced and lowered his gaze, embarrassed. 

"Yeah," he murmured. "Just got a little sick." 

Spike opened the door fully, staring at Galvin with 

puzzled concern. His thick, dark brows knitted together. 
"Was there something in those sandwiches you're 
allergic to?" 

"No, it's not like that." He stared at the bathroom 

tiles. "I take some medication that makes me nauseous. 
That's all." He stood, knees wobbling. They 
buckled…and Spike was there by his side in an instant, 
one arm around his waist, supporting him. 

He led Galvin into the living room, and Galvin 

leaned against him, dizzy -- too dizzy even to think 
much about the fact that he was leaning against Spike 
Radcliff. Carefully, Spike lowered him to the couch. 
"Let me get you some water." He studied Galvin's face. 
"When's the last time you ate anything?" 

"I had some toast this morning," he murmured. 
"No wonder you can barely stand." His hand lingered 

a moment on Galvin's brow. "Would you have an easier 
time keeping down soup?" 

"Probably, but -- " He realized what Spike was 

offering and shook his head. "I'll be fine. I'll try having 
that other sandwich in a little while. I just have to eat 
slowly." 

"I'll make you some chicken noodle soup." 
"Oh no. I couldn't ask -- " 

Feet of Clay - 34 

"You don't have to ask." He walked out of the room. 
Galvin heard Spike moving in the kitchen, heard 

water running, pots clanking. The idea that Spike was in 
there making him soup was so strange that Galvin 
wondered, for a moment, if this was an exceptionally 
long and vivid dream. This situation was like something 
out of his fantasies. Well, except that the floor wasn't 
usually this messy in his fantasies. And maybe Spike 
wasn't exactly like he'd always imagined. Okay, 
definitely not like he'd imagined. Still, it was Spike, and 
just knowing that made him dizzy. 

But beneath it all was a cold, hard knot of fear, a 

feeling that something had to go wrong, that any 
moment now some metaphysical debt collector would 
arrive and demand payment. 

Spike entered the living room carrying a bowl of 

steaming soup, which he offered to Galvin. "Careful. It's 
hot." 

Galvin took it, blew steam from a spoonful of soup, 

and sipped. Spike sat in his chair, hands on his knees, 
watching while Galvin ate in silence. Once he'd scraped 
the bowl clean, he set it down. His insides shifted 
uneasily, but the soup remained in his stomach. It was a 
remarkably satisfying feeling just to have food in his 
belly again. "That was good. Thank you." 

"No problem. Oh, and here. Before I forget." He 

pulled a checkbook and pen from his pocket. "How 
much strikes you as a fair amount for today?" 

Galvin blinked. "You're asking me?" 
He shrugged. "I'm a little out of touch with things." 
"Um…really, I don't know, either. Anything is fine. 

It's easy work." 

Feet of Clay - 35 

"Yeah, but you have to put up with me while you're 

here." His lips quirked in a smile. "That's a job in and of 
itself." He wrote out a check and held it out to Galvin. 

Galvin stared at the check and felt his eyes growing 

wider and wider. "I can't take this much! I've hardly 
done anything." 

"People get paid more for doing less. Take it." 
Galvin stared at the rumpled slip of paper. He 

moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. It was more 
than he deserved. He knew that. He shouldn't accept 
this. 

But the truth was, he needed the money. He was 

scraping the bottom of his inheritance. The combined 
expenses of rent and psychiatric treatment far 
outweighed the pittance he made working for The 
Underground. If his savings ran out, he'd have to move 
back in with his mom, and that would be disastrous. 

Galvin pocketed the check, unable to meet Spike's 

gaze. "Thanks." 

"No problem." He studied Galvin's face. "You look a 

little peaked. Maybe you should go home and rest." 

He wanted to deny it, but by now his exhaustion was 

glaringly obvious. "Maybe. When should I come in 
next?" He'd have to work his schedule for The 
Underground around this, but Shelly was pretty flexible 
about hours. 

"Tomorrow at, uh -- around three in the afternoon. 

That's about when I usually wake up." 

Galvin wondered what sort of life this man was 

living, but all he said was, "Three is fine." He hesitated, 
looking up at Spike. He wanted to ask about the new 
book, wanted to ask what had been going through 
Spike's head when he wrote it, wanted to know if it 

Feet of Clay - 36 

ended in death and nothingness or if there was hope. But 
he said nothing. 

*** 

That night, in his own apartment, he replayed the 

tape, intending to transcribe whatever he could of the 
interview. He'd been so overwhelmed with everything 
that had happened, he'd almost forgotten about it. 

As he listened to his own voice break and quiver, he 

squirmed with embarrassment. He remembered the 
warm pressure of Spike's arms around him, and heat 
rose into his cheeks. 

There probably wasn't much here that he could 

actually use, but he typed up the first part of the 
interview, complete with Spike's brusque responses, 
ending with, I'm full of shit. 

He paused, his fingers resting lightly against the keys 

as he stared at the words on the screen. Spike had said 
he hadn't meant it, but it still bothered Galvin. Why 
would he say that about his own work? About himself? 

*** 

"This is it?" Shelly sat at her desk, staring at the few 

typed lines on the page that Galvin had handed her. 
"This is the whole interview?" 

Galvin studied the scuffed tips of his shoes. "That 

was all I could get out of him." He hoped she wouldn't 
ask what had happened after that. 

She sighed. "What a mess. We can't use this." 
He wondered if he should have tried harder, should 

have kept asking questions, even after his embarrassing 
breakdown. Of course, at the time he'd been too 

Feet of Clay - 37 

overcome with confusing emotions to even think about 
issues like what he was going to turn in at work the next 
day. He felt like a kid who'd blown off his homework. 
"I'm sorry." 

"It's not your fault. I kind of expected it, given his 

reputation. Honestly, I think he only agreed to the 
interview because he was half-asleep when I called him. 
Or possibly drunk." She shrugged. "Don't worry about 
it. We'll just pick a few more poems out of the slush pile 
and run those instead." 

He cleared his throat. "I can try again, if you like. I'm 

going back there anyway. Later today." 

She blinked. "What?" 
Galvin smiled self-consciously. "He offered me a 

job." Somehow, he felt awkward admitting this to her, as 
if he'd just been given a promotion that she'd wanted. 
"Well, not really a job. I'd just be typing some stuff for 
him. He doesn't use computers, so -- " 

"Wait. You mean he has a new manuscript?" 
"Yeah. I don't think it has a title yet." 
"I didn't think he'd ever write anything again." She 

leaned forward slightly. "What's it about?" 

Galvin shifted his weight. "I don't think I'm supposed 

to talk about it." 

"Did he tell you that?" 
"No. But if he hasn't told anyone else about it, there's 

probably a reason. He probably doesn't want anyone to 
know until it's ready." 

She waved a hand. "He just hates talking to people. I 

mean, look at this interview." She laid it on the desk 
between them -- a few lonely lines floating in a vast sea 
of white. "What does he have to gain by keeping it all 
secret until the last minute?" 

Feet of Clay - 38 

"I'll ask him if I can talk about it," Galvin said, "but if 

he says no, I won't." He was surprised at the firmness in 
his own tone, but he couldn't compromise on this. Spike 
had entrusted him with something, and he wasn't about 
to betray that trust. 

Shelly stared at him for a long moment, a cool, 

assessing look in her eyes. Then she nodded. "Fair 
enough." She folded her hands. "Out of curiosity, what's 
he like?" 

Galvin thought for a moment. About the bitterness in 

Spike's voice when he said, I'm full of shit. About his 
whispered apology afterward, the gentleness of his 
fingers running through Galvin's hair, the warmth of his 
embrace. "He's…complicated." 

Feet of Clay - 39 

Chapter Five 

At three o'clock sharp, Galvin arrived at the door to 

Spike's apartment and knocked. He stood, mouth dry, 
pulse drumming in his throat. 

Yesterday felt like a half-remembered dream. All 

morning, fragments of his conversation with Spike had 
been replaying in his head. A part of him still had 
trouble believing that it was all happening. 

He waited, counting his heartbeats. He was just about 

to knock again when the door opened. 

Spike wore a rumpled, navy blue jacket over a black, 

button-down shirt, the top two buttons undone, the rest 
done unevenly. Galvin's gaze moved over his 
collarbones, pale against the dark shirt, and the bit of 
exposed chest -- then lower, over dark jeans that 
accentuated his long, lean legs. He had a cup of coffee in 
one hand, and he leaned an elbow against the doorframe 
as he studied Galvin's face. "Hey." He stepped back and 
beckoned Galvin in. 

Galvin entered and moistened dry lips with the tip of 

his tongue. "Hey." 

"You had breakfast yet?" 
"Um…I had some cereal this morning." 
Spike shoved his hands in his jean pockets and 

looked away. "I was gonna order a pizza, but I figured 
the grease might be hard on your stomach, so I started 
making oatmeal instead. If you want to get to work, I'll 
bring some to you when it's done." 

Galvin blinked in surprise. "You don't have to -- " 
"Don't worry about it." 
So Galvin went into the bedroom, sat down in front 

of the computer, and began typing. He heard Spike 
puttering around in the kitchen. His mind kept drifting 

Feet of Clay - 40 

back to that glimpse of Spike's chest, the curls of dark 
hair, the sharply defined collarbones…and those long 
fingers, the tips stained with ink and graphite, shiny with 
calluses… 

Galvin took a deep breath, pushing the images aside, 

and tried to focus on his work. 

He was on chapter four. Jack had gotten a job as a 

mortician's assistant and was currently having a one-
sided conversation with a dead body as he pumped its 
veins full of embalming fluid. 

Jack was different from Sammy -- harder, sharper --

but he was just as much an outsider. That seemed to be 
the running theme in all of Spike's books. 

Galvin's awareness of the world slowly faded as he 

slipped deeper into the story. 

*** 

Over the next few days, Galvin fell into a routine. 

Weekday mornings, he worked at The Underground. 
Then, every afternoon at 3:00, he'd go to Spike's and 
type while Spike, in the living room, tried to write. The 
new book was ridiculously long, but Galvin was making 
rapid progress, and Spike wasn't making any progress on 
his rough draft, if the mountains of crumpled up papers 
around his writing table were anything to judge by. 
After another few sessions, he'd probably be done. And 
then what? 

Already, he'd come to look forward to these hours in 

Spike's apartment. There was something calming about 
hearing him in the other room…even though he was 
usually pacing around, muttering to himself like a 
madman. The periods of silence, Galvin had figured, 

Feet of Clay - 41 

were bursts of writing -- often followed by a crackle as 
he crumpled yet another sheet of paper. 

On his third day there, he tried to stall by showing 

Spike how to set up a blog. "These days most authors 
have one," he said. "And it's really easy. Here, watch, I'll 
create an account." 

Spike squinted at the screen with a baffled 

expression. Galvin kept trying to explain, but after 
awhile it became clear from Spike's expression that he 
wasn't actually listening, just watching the cursor move 
around on the screen as if it was a fascinating insect. 

Galvin had once owned a cat who did the same thing. 

He couldn't help smiling. 

Later, when Galvin was shrugging into his jacket, 

getting ready to leave, Spike remarked, "Yesterday I 
picked up a copy of that magazine you work for. I saw 
one of your articles. The one about cross-genre fiction." 

Galvin tensed. "Oh." He wondered what Spike had 

thought of it, but he didn't quite dare to ask. 

"You've got a lot to say," Spike said. "And you're 

passionate about your subject. I can tell." 

Galvin looked down, fiddling with a button of his 

jacket. "Thank you." 

"You ever tried your hand at fiction?" 
"Well, I -- " Galvin stopped, biting his lip. "Nothing 

publishable. I mean, it's just a hobby." 

Spike crossed his arms over his chest and leaned 

against the wall, his gaze suddenly sharp and 
penetrating. "What have you written?" 

Galvin swallowed, his mouth dry. "A few short 

stories. And I'm working on something longer. It's sort 
of…well, not really a memoir, but not really a novel, 
either. A lot of it is fictionalized, but it's based on real 

Feet of Clay - 42 

experiences." The words tumbled out of his mouth too 
fast, and immediately he wished he hadn't said so much. 

"You mind if I take a look?" 
Galvin's heart jumped into his throat. "You'd do 

that?" 

"I would." 
Elation and terror shot through him like a bolt of 

electricity. For a moment he wanted to say no. Just 
meeting Spike and being here was more than he'd ever 
expected. Almost too much. The idea of showing him 
that… 

Spike's brow furrowed. "You okay? You look a little 

pale." 

"I just…" He swallowed, his throat dry. "I never 

show people my work. I even feel self-conscious about 
the articles I write. I thought about using a pen name 
when I started working for the magazine, but Shelly 
encouraged me to use my real one." 

"Why's that?" 
"She said that I shouldn't be afraid of recognition. 

That if I'm proud of my work, I shouldn't mind having 
my real name attached to it." He looked down at his 
shoes. "It probably doesn't matter. I mean, the 
magazine's readership is so small, it's not like anyone I 
know is likely to see my articles. But I guess the idea of 
exposure makes me nervous." 

"Of course it does." Spike smiled without showing 

teeth. "A writer has to stand naked before the world. If 
you're writing anything that means anything to you, 
that's what you do -- you strip yourself naked again and 
again, down to your soul. And it's fucking terrifying." 

Galvin bit his lower lip. Was that what it was like for 

Spike? "Then why do you do it?" 

Feet of Clay - 43 

"Why do we do it, you mean? Because we have to. 

It's what we are. We write because we have a truth 
inside us that needs to be told." 

Galvin shifted his weight. "I don't know if it's like 

that for me. I mean, I don't know if my reasons are that 
noble." 

Spike chuckled. "Well, if you're in it for money 

you're in the wrong business." 

"It's not for money, either." 
"Then what?" 
"I guess I just…I need to do something, and writing's 

one of the only things I've ever been any good at. 
Without it, what's left?" 

No response. He could feel Spike's gaze on him. 
His hands curled into fists, thumbs hiding in his 

palms. "Are you disappointed in me?" he asked, unable 
to bear the silence anymore. 

"Why would I be?" Spike's tone was unreadable. 
Galvin's fists curled tighter, nails digging into the 

meat of his palms. "Well, it's a pretty pathetic reason, 
isn't it? If that's how you feel, I couldn't blame you." 

"And why do you care what I think?" Still, his tone 

revealed nothing. 

"Because I love your work. Because I -- " He fell 

silent, biting his tongue. 

Spike smiled again, a bitter twist of his lips. "Look 

around you, Galvin. Look at this place. Look at me. Do 
you really think I'm the sort of person you should be 
listening to? Do you really think my opinion is worth a 
shit?" 

"It is to me." 
For a long moment, Spike just stared into Galvin’s 

eyes. Then he gave a small nod. "Bring some of your 
work in tomorrow." 

Feet of Clay - 44 

Galvin hesitated. But Spike hadn't offered a choice --

he'd given a flat out order. Somehow, that made it 
easier. He didn't have to make the decision, because it 
had been made. Still, his insides clenched with anxiety. 

What if Spike didn't like it? 
What if he did like it? And why was that thought 

almost as intimidating? Heart pounding, he turned away. 

"Galvin." 
He hesitated, looking over one shoulder. When he 

met Spike's gaze, he was struck all at once by the 
overwhelming sense of being seen. Spike was looking 
straight into his eyes, consciousness focused on him like 
a beam. He stared back, unable to breathe. 

Galvin drifted through his day to day life trying not 

to attract attention. He was the sort of person that other 
people instantly forgot, a small, pale blur of humanity 
who slipped through others' awareness without leaving a 
mark. Yet Spike looked at him as if seeing and 
understanding every particle of his soul. As if 
memorizing him. 

"I'm not disappointed in you," Spike said. 
Galvin's breath caught. He stared a moment longer, 

then gave a tiny nod and whispered, "Okay." 

*** 

The next day, Galvin arrived at the usual time with a 

bundle of pages clutched in one sweat-damp hand. He 
didn't have a printer; he'd had to use one of machines at 
work. Luckily, Shelly hadn't asked him about it. 

Spike met him at the door and glanced at the bundle 

of pages. "That one of your short stories?" 

"My novel. Well, what I have of it so far. You don't 

have to read all of it, of course, I just thought -- " 

Feet of Clay - 45 

Spike sat on the couch and held out a hand. "Let's 

have a look." 

Galvin sat across from him and handed him the 

pages. 

He waited, gripping his knees, heart thumping as 

Spike removed the rubber bands and began reading. 

Spike’s gaze moving back and forth. He turned one 

page, then another 

Galvin swallowed, fingers tightening on his knees. 

His throat felt as if it was full of grit. He'd expected 
Spike to read five or ten pages at most. He wouldn't 
have asked for more than that. But Spike kept turning 
page after page. 

Galvin's hand strayed to the tin of Xanax in his 

pocket and thumbed at it absently. He considered 
slipping one under his tongue. Would Spike notice? His 
pulse thundered in his ears as the minutes stretched on, 
and he wondered if he should just be sitting here or if he 
should be using this time to type up more of the 
manuscript. That would probably be less stressful than 
waiting and wondering what Spike was thinking. But he 
couldn't move. He trembled, frozen to the spot. Paper 
rustled as Spike turned another page. 

Galvin wanted to break the silence. To ask Spike to 

say something. Somehow, he held his tongue. 

After more than an hour of reading, Spike finished 

the last page, set the whole stack down and met Galvin's 
gaze. For a long moment, he just studied Galvin’s face, 
his fingers laced together. 

Unable to bear it anymore, Galvin asked, "What do 

you think?" 

"You want my honest opinion?" 

Feet of Clay - 46 

Dread coiled in his stomach. When people said that, 

it usually wasn't a good sign. But he needed to know. 
"Tell me." 

"When I read this, I see you bound and gagged." 
Galvin stared, mouth open slightly, not sure how to 

respond. His first panicked thought was that somehow 
Spike knew. But of course he couldn't. That was 
impossible. Galvin had never told a soul about those 
dreams, not even his counselor. "You -- what?" 

"You're holding back," Spike said. "You're 

restraining yourself with every word, silencing yourself, 
censoring your own thoughts. This isn't your voice; it's 
some amalgam of teachers and critics and editors in your 
head. They're binding you, controlling you with guilt 
and fear, and you're letting them do it." 

Galvin stared down at his hands. He wanted to 

protest that Spike couldn't know that, couldn't possibly 
know what had been going on in Galvin's head when he 
wrote this. But at the same time, he knew Spike was 
right. He felt vaguely ashamed, as if he'd been caught in 
a lie. 

Of course, he thought. What had he expected? "I'm 

sorry." 

"What are you apologizing for?" 
"I don't know." 
"Look." Spike sounded impatient now, and a little 

uneasy. "You obviously know how to write. I'm not 
going to waste time telling you things you already know. 
But you're doing this all by the rules. You need to dig 
deeper." He leaned forward, still looking straight at 
Galvin. "You've got to stop listening to that little voice 
that tells you to hold back and hide because other people 
won't understand." 

Galvin's breath caught in his throat. 

Feet of Clay - 47 

How could Spike know that? How could he say it 

with such certainty, so casually, as if it was as plain as 
the color of Galvin's eyes?  "I want other people to like 
it," Galvin said quietly. "I want them to understand." 

"Everyone wants that. But if you write something 

dishonest, it'll torment you for the rest of your 
life…even if it becomes a bestseller, even if critics 
salivate over it and call it a masterpiece, if you know it's 
fake, all that is worthless." 

Galvin couldn't meet Spike's gaze. This had been a 

mistake. He shouldn't have --

Springs creaked as Spike rose from his chair. Warm, 

gentle fingertips touched Galvin's chin. His breath 
caught, and his heartbeat quickened as Spike's thumb 
brushed the corner of his eye, sweeping away the 
moisture that had gathered there. The touch was so light, 
so soft, that he could almost believe he'd imagined it. "I 
wanted you to like it," Galvin whispered. 

Callus-roughened hands framed his face and lifted it 

until Spike met his gaze. "Galvin. Look at me." Dark 
eyes blazed with a strange intensity. 

Galvin stared, wide-eyed. He felt suddenly, terribly 

exposed. His lashes swept downward, hiding his eyes. 

Spike's grip on Galvin's face tightened, thumbs 

pressing into his cheeks. "Look at me." 

Galvin raised his gaze to Spike's, and Spike leaned 

closer, until their faces were barely an inch apart…like a 
lover coming in for a kiss. Those dark eyes drilled into 
his. "What are you afraid of?" Spike asked. 

"I'm afraid I'm not good enough," Galvin said quietly. 

"That I'm just…not enough. It's why I never showed 
anyone this. I was afraid they'd say that I don't have 
what it takes and that I should give it up." 

Feet of Clay - 48 

"And you'd believe them? You'd believe any random 

asshole who wanted to stomp on your soul and leave his 
boot prints all over it? God damn it. Can't you see 
yourself?" 

Galvin gulped, staring into Spike's eyes. Their 

foreheads were almost touching. "I…" 

"You need me to tell you? Fine. You're good. You're 

too damn good to not know how good you are, and 
you're too good to give a damn what a washed-up, old 
bastard thinks about your work. Let go of your fear. Rip 
yourself open and let it all pour out. Show me your 
guts." He squeezed Galvin's face between his hands, 
almost hard enough to hurt…then released it. 

Galvin blinked, dizzy. There were two tingling spots 

on his cheeks where the pads of Spike's thumbs had 
pressed against his skin. His heart had jumped into his 
throat. He tried to swallow it, but it wouldn't go down. 

Spike picked up the pages and handed them back to 

him. Galvin took them numbly. "Write that again," 
Spike said. "And this time, don't think about what 
anyone else will think of it. Even me." 

He stared at Spike, his mouth dry, then looked down 

at the packet in his sweat-dampened hands. He drew in a 
deep, shaky breath and whispered, "Okay." His heart 
was beating far too fast, and his mind reeled. 

A long, awkward silence stretched between them. 

Spike shifted, rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze 
darting back and forth. He opened his mouth, then 
closed it and cleared his throat. He seemed suddenly 
fascinated with the pattern of wood grain on the coffee 
table. "Look -- " he began. 

At the same instant, Galvin said, "I -- " 
They both fell silent. Galvin waited. "You first," 

Spike said. 

Feet of Clay - 49 

"I, um -- I should probably get started," Galvin said. 

"On my work." 

Spike studied his face for a long moment, then 

nodded once, averting his gaze. "Sure." 

Feet of Clay - 50 

Chapter Six 

Galvin sat in front of the computer in Spike's 

bedroom, his thoughts still spinning. He glanced at the 
stack of handwritten pages next to the computer --
Spike's unfinished, untitled novel -- picked up the top 
page, and attached it to the clipboard he'd propped up 
next to the monitor. He tried to work, but his thoughts 
kept drifting back to the pressure of Spike's hands 
against his cheeks, the intensity in Spike's voice, the 
way Spike had leaned in. So close. 

Spike had said that he knew how to write. That he 

was good. 

He shook his head, trying to clear it. Had to 

concentrate. 

He started typing and soon lost himself in the dance 

of his fingers over the keys. For once, he couldn't focus 
on the words themselves, but it didn't matter. His hands 
moved automatically. He worked for hours, blazing 
through page after page. 

He paused and listened for the now familiar sound of 

Spike pacing in the other room, but there was only 
silence. When he finally glanced at the clock, it was 
almost ten. Far later than he usually stayed. 

He thought of his small, cold, lonely apartment. He 

didn't want to go back, but he was lucky just to be here, 
to have Spike as a part of his life. He shouldn't push his 
luck. 

Galvin rose and walked into the living room, where 

Spike was standing, arms crossed over his chest, staring 
out the window. 

Galvin cleared his throat, and Spike looked at him. 

"Um -- I should probably get going. It's late." 

Feet of Clay - 51 

Spike nodded. "It is." He sounded strangely 

preoccupied. 

"When should I come in tomorrow?" 
"Same time." 
He fetched his jacket from the wall hook, shrugged 

into it, and looked at Spike. "Are you okay?" 

"Fine." 
Galvin toyed with a button on his sleeve and studied 

the scuffed tips of his sneakers. 

"What about you?" Spike asked. His voice sounded 

uncharacteristically uncertain, almost nervous. 
"Everything okay?" 

I don't want to go home. I don't want to leave. "Fine," 

he muttered. He stood awkwardly, knowing he should 
probably leave, but unable to take the final steps toward 
the door. "Can I -- " He stopped himself, biting his 
tongue. 

"What's that?" 
"Nothing." How could he even think of asking for 

that? His cheeks blazed. He could feel Spike's gaze on 
him, studying him. After a moment, he forced himself to 
look up. "Really, it's nothing." 

Spike cleared his throat and slipped his hands into his 

pocket. "I have somewhere I need to go now. But you 
can stay the night if you want." 

Galvin's eyes widened. Had Spike known what he 

was about to ask? "Y-you'd be okay with that?" 

"Well, I kept you pretty late. Being out this late isn't 

safe. And I won't be back ‘til dawn anyway, so you 
could just use my bed." 

A night in Spike's apartment, thought Galvin. Spike 

wouldn't be there, but still…there was something both 
thrilling and intimidating about the thought. He bit his 
lower lip. 

Feet of Clay - 52 

"Stay," Spike said. 
"Okay." He hesitated. "Spike?" 
"Hmm?" 
"Where are you going?" 
"Nowhere. Just out." 
"But you will come back, won't you?" It was a silly 

question, but he couldn't help it. 

Spike’s gaze softened. "Yeah." He laid a gentle hand 

on Galvin's shoulder and squeezed. "I promise." His 
thumb brushed against the side of Galvin's neck -- a 
touch so light, so brief, Galvin almost wondered if it was 
real. 

Galvin's skin tingled, and heat coiled low in his belly. 

He swallowed, mouth dry, still looking into those dark 
eyes. They were warm, gentle and knowing. Then a 
shadow of pain passed across those eyes -- a mixture of 
guilt and regret and other things too complex to name --
and the hand slipped from his shoulder. 

"There's a spare toothbrush in the bathroom. And 

some extra t-shirts and boxers in the top drawer of my 
dresser, if you need something to wear." He turned and 
walked out. The door closed, leaving Galvin alone in the 
apartment, which suddenly seemed very big and empty. 

Galvin stood awkwardly for a moment. Then, not 

knowing what else to do, he went into the bathroom and 
brushed his teeth. 

In the bedroom, he opened the top drawer of Spike's 

dresser -- it felt presumptuous, even though Spike had 
given him permission -- and looked at the mass of 
clothes stuffed inside. After a moment of staring, he 
changed into a black t-shirt and black cotton boxers and 
slid beneath the covers. 

He was in Spike's bed, wearing Spike’s clothes. 

Feet of Clay - 53 

He closed his eyes, heart thumping, trying not to 

think about the fact that these same covers had touched 
Spike's skin. He rolled onto his side and buried his face 
against the pillow. When he breathed in, a scent of 
smoke and light sweat filled his nostrils, mingled with a 
hint of something else. Something spicy, like cloves and 
cinnamon. Spike's scent. 

A blush rose into his cheeks. He closed his eyes and 

tried to just focus on breathing, but his mind kept filling 
with thoughts of Spike in this same bed, maybe naked, 
skin against sheets. 

His hands drifted to his cheeks, fingertips brushing 

against them. He remembered the heat of Spike's hands 
against his skin, the burning intensity in those eyes. He 
lay his hands over his own cheeks, trying to recreate the 
feeling, but it wasn't the same. 

Spike had said he was good. 
He knew he wasn't supposed to care what Spike 

thought. He was supposed to be writing for himself, but 
he couldn't help cherishing those words. He closed his 
eyes and replayed the memory. It was embarrassing, to 
feel so much relief and gratitude over being called good. 
Only when he tasted the salt of tears on his lips did he 
realize he was crying. 

He shouldn't need someone else to tell him he was 

worth something, but Galvin knew from long experience 
that should and shouldn't didn't help anything; they just 
made him feel guilty on top of everything else. He could 
fill a book with a list of the things he should be but 
wasn't. 

Galvin's gaze strayed to the stack of pages -- the 

opening chapter of his own novel -- which he'd left on 
the desk, next to the computer. He walked over, picked 
it up, and skimmed through the opening paragraph, 

Feet of Clay - 54 

which he had edited and rewritten and polished and 
tightened more times than he could count. He'd chosen 
each word with painstaking care, all with an invisible 
critic watching over his shoulder. 

You need to dig deeper, Spike had said. Show me 

your guts. 

Easier said than done, but he supposed there was no 

harm in trying. He wasn't nearly exhausted enough to 
sleep yet. 

He sat down at the computer and brought up a new 

Word document. For a long moment, he just stared at 
the blank field of white. Then he began to type. At first 
the words trickled out slowly, interspersed with long 
pauses. 

Then something broke, and words poured out of him. 

He filled page after page. 

When he finally stopped and read back over what 

he'd written, bands of panic tightened around his chest 
and stomach. 

Ropes pressed into his skin. His heartbeat quickened 

at the realization that he couldn't move, that he was 
helpless, at the mercy of the man who now stood before 
him, staring at him with calm, dark eyes. His head 
buzzed as if he'd downed a glass of wine on an empty 
stomach as the man reached out to caress his leg, one 
rough palm sliding along his thigh, over his knee and 
calf, until the fingertips came to rest against the sole of 
his foot. 

Galvin gulped, his eyes devouring paragraph after 

paragraph of his most intimate fantasies. And of course, 
the man in his imagination looked like Spike. The 
descriptions – shaggy, black hair, dark eyes, long, lanky 
build -- made it obvious. 

Feet of Clay - 55 

He couldn't show this to anyone. The idea of 

someone else reading this -- of Spike reading this --

He deleted it all, closed Word, shut down the 

computer, slipped into bed, and curled up beneath the 
covers. 

But he couldn't sleep. Spike's scent clung to the 

covers and the pillow, intoxicating and distracting. He 
kept remembering those hands on his face, the warmth 
of Spike's breath on his lips… 

He pulled the sheets aside and stared at the hard on 

tenting his boxers. With a groan, he let his head fall to 
the pillow. 

Galvin stared at the ceiling. His eyes slipped shut, 

and he imagined Spike's lean, lanky body curled up in 
bed next to his, long fingers smoothing his hair, warm 
arms enfolding him and holding him close. He wrapped 
his arms around himself, trying to simulate the 
sensation, but it wasn't the same. 

He remembered the pressure and heat of those hands 

against his skin, the way that heat seemed to linger 
afterward, as if Spike had branded Galvin with just the 
touch of his fingertips… 

Galvin gulped. He couldn't resist any longer. The 

harder he tried not to think about it, the more he thought 
about it. 

His heartbeat drummed in his throat as he reached 

down, into his boxers, and curled his fingers around his 
cock. His teeth pressed into his lower lip as he began to 
stroke himself. He tried to imagine Spike's fingers in 
place of his own. His breath came in little huffing pants 
as he thought about the strength of those hands, the 
intensity in those dark eyes… 

He came with a small, choked gasp and went limp, 

chest heaving. He pulled his hand out of his boxers and 

Feet of Clay - 56 

watched the come sliding down his palm. His cheeks 
burned. 

He'd just masturbated. In Spike's bed. And he'd 

gotten some of his come on Spike's boxers. 

What would Spike think if he knew? Would he be 

creeped out? Repulsed? 

Galvin's heart rate began to climb. Shit. He did the 

breathing exercises that Dr. Stein had taught him, but it 
was no good. He couldn't focus. He picked up his 
clothes off the floor and rummaged through the pockets 
for his Xanax until his fingers finally closed around the 
mint tin. He placed one beneath his tongue, letting it 
dissolve, and curled up on the bed. After a few minutes, 
the tightness in his chest loosened, allowing him to 
breathe again. 

God, this was ridiculous. Here he was, having a panic 

attack because his fantasy had come true; he was 
working for his idol, the man he'd always dreamed of 
meeting. But a fantasy was safe. In his imagination, he 
was in control. 

But then, maybe that was why those fantasies had 

never quite satisfied him. 

Galvin pulled off the sullied boxers, took them into 

the bathroom, and did his best to rinse off the stain. 
Then he opened the doors to Spike's closet and found the 
laundry basket. He deposited the now soaked boxers in 
them, changed into a fresh pair from the drawer, and slid 
back into bed. He knew he couldn't fall back asleep, 
though. Not like this. 

He tossed and turned for awhile. His mind churned, 

restless, and he wished he could hear another human 
voice, if just for a few minutes. He'd brought his cell 
phone -- it was still in his coat pocket -- but who could 
he call, really? His mom? 

Feet of Clay - 57 

Even if she was awake, talks with his mom never 

seemed to end well. They always started pleasantly 
enough, then at some point -- for no reason he could pin 
down -- things always took a bad turn. Sometimes she 
would make accusations, sometimes she would say 
things like, it's all my fault, everything is my fault, and 
sooner or later, one or both of them would start crying. 

He and his mother should have been a source of 

comfort to each other. After all, they had only each other 
to rely on. But it seemed that their pain only worsened 
when they were together. 

After a few minutes, he walked into the living room 

and turned on the lights. He surveyed the messy papers 
and overflowing ashtrays, then turned his attention to 
the mountain of dishes in the kitchen sink. The Xanax 
had started to kick in, and his thoughts felt soft and 
foggy…but he knew that it wasn't enough. If he lay 
down, the nervousness would start to close in on him 
again. 

While living at home, Galvin had done most of the 

cooking and cleaning, since his mother worked full-
time. He'd never minded. Something about cleaning 
soothed his restless insides. Maybe it just made him feel 
useful. 

He went into the kitchen, rolled up his sleeves, and 

turned on the water. He found a bottle of dish soap and 
squirted some onto the sauce-encrusted plates. He 
scrubbed, drifting through the familiar task, his mind 
still floating on a cushion of drugs. 

An hour later, the dishes were drying in the rack, the 

ashtrays in the living room had been emptied and the 
papers had been gathered into stacks. Exhausted, he 
returned to the bedroom, collapsed into bed and fell into 
a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep. 

Feet of Clay - 58 

*** 

Galvin woke to soft morning light creeping in 

through the curtains. He sat up, rubbing sleep from his 
eyes, and glanced at the window. Faint, gray dawn light 
bled through the blinds. 

The creak of a door opening reached his ears. A 

moment later, it closed with a click. Someone had just 
entered the apartment. 

"Spike?" he called. No response. He slid out of bed, 

eased the door open, and crept down the hall, into the 
living room. 

Spike sat on the couch, shoulders slumped, head 

bowed, face buried in his hands. 

Galvin's breath caught. He had the clear sense that he 

wasn't supposed to be seeing this. Heart pounding, he 
started to back away -- but Spike called out in a thick, 
slurred voice, "Galvin? ‘Zat you?" 

He froze…then crept forward, into the living room. 

"Hi." 

"I didn't expect you up this early." His brow 

furrowed. His eyes were cloudy, unfocused, and his 
voice sounded distant, as if a part of his mind wasn't 
there. "Couldn't you sleep?" 

"I got about six hours." Which, for Galvin, was a lot. 
"Oh." Spike looked around the apartment. The furrow 

in his brow deepened. "Did you…clean?" 

Galvin shifted his weight. "I woke up during the 

night and couldn't fall back asleep, so I figured I might 
as well get something done." 

Spike scratched his head. "You didn't have to do 

that." 

Feet of Clay - 59 

"It relaxes me." He hesitated. "Sorry. I should have 

asked you first." 

"No, it's fine." His expression was faintly bewildered. 

"I mean -- you didn't have to. But it's fine. Thanks." His 
eyes, Galvin noticed, were raw and red. As if he'd been 
crying. 

"Spike?" 
"Hmm?" 
"Where were you?" 
He shrugged. "Nowhere. Just walking." He stood. His 

movements were slow, sluggish, like someone in a 
trance. "I'm going to get some sleep. Can you get home 
all right?" 

"Sure. I'll take the El, like always." 
Spike nodded without looking at him. "See you 

later." 

*** 

"So," Shelly said, her boots propped up on the desk, 

"how are things going with Spike?" 

Galvin looked up from the article he'd been typing. 

He blinked a few times, trying to make sense of the 
question. He hadn't slept well last night, and there was a 
dense wall of fog wrapped around his brain. It took a 
few seconds for the meaning of words to filter through. 
"Huh?" 

"I mean your work with him. His new book." 
"Oh," he said. "It's going okay." 
She rolled her eyes. "That's all you ever say." 
He shrugged, staring at the screen. The words 

blurred, doubled. 

"Hey." Fingers snapped in front of his eyes. 

Feet of Clay - 60 

He blinked and looked up. Shelly was standing over 

him. He didn't recall hearing her move. "Huh?" 

"You need to see a doctor about this insomnia of 

yours. You've been really out of it lately." 

"I know." He lowered his gaze. His throat knotted, 

and he swallowed. "Sorry." 

"Hey…you all right? You, um…" She sounded 

suddenly uncertain. "You want to talk about anything?" 

"It's nothing, really." 
"You sure?" 
The concern in her voice was genuine, and for a 

moment, he almost broke. Almost told her his actual 
thoughts. I can't sleep, and I've stopped writing 
completely because when I don't filter, I'm scared by 
what comes out. And I think I'm in love, but it's not that 
happy fuzzy warm feeling that everyone talks about. It's 
more like obsession and need mixed with terror. I'm 
terrified that it's going to go wrong and that I won't 
survive his rejection. Yes, I'm that fucked up. 

But that would be a disaster. People who invited him 

to talk about his problems had no idea what they were 
getting into, because they assumed his problems were 
normal and solvable. And in the end, Shelly was just a 
coworker. Subjecting her to the unfiltered contents of 
his brain would be cruel. "I'm okay," he said, forcing a 
smile. "Really." 

Feet of Clay - 61 

Chapter Seven 

Spike sat at the bar, staring down at the sweating 

glass of whiskey in his hand. Ice cubes clinked against 
the sides of the glass. He took another swig, feeling the 
burn as it slid down his throat. A vision of Galvin’s face 
flashed through his mind. 

Let him go. You know you have to. 
But he couldn’t. His fingers tightened on the glass. A 

TV blared in the corner of the bar.  Sometimes it was 
easier when he came here; the noise blotted out his 
thoughts, but suddenly he couldn’t stand to be seen by 
anyone. He slid off the stool and walked to the door, 
wobbly-legged, leaving the last few swallows of 
whiskey in the glass on the bar. 

Outside, it was raining, and gray morning light shone 

through gaps in the clouds. He’d stayed out all night 
again. 

He’d heard somewhere that every drink killed a 

thousand brain cells. If that was true, he should have 
drowned a few memories by now. Yet night after night 
of pouring drink after drink down his throat hadn’t done 
shit. He still remembered every. Fucking. Thing. The 
creak of the stairs as he walked up them. The threadbare 
carpet in the hallway. The pattern of ugly yellow flowers 
on the peeling wallpaper. The moment when he opened 
the door and saw the limp form sprawled on the bed, 
those brown eyes staring at him, empty as a doll’s. 

Sammy had still been warm when Spike found him. 

*** 

Spike slept through the morning and woke in the 

afternoon, head throbbing dully. He stood out on the 

Feet of Clay - 62 

balcony of his apartment, looking out over the city and 
smoking a cigarette. 

It was almost 3:00. Galvin was supposed to be here 

soon. He'd been coming to Spike's apartment every day 
for almost two weeks now, staying a few hours each 
afternoon, typing up the pages of Spike's manuscript, 
making changes or corrections when Spike requested 
them…though he hadn't brought in any of his own 
writing since that first time. And yesterday, he hadn't 
showed up, calling at the last minute to say he was sick. 

Spike snuffed out the cigarette, folded his arms on 

the railing and rested his chin atop them, staring out over 
the city. After a few minutes, he retreated back into his 
apartment, sliding the balcony door shut. 

He shouldn't be doing this. It was dangerous, getting 

this close to someone. Especially someone as vulnerable 
as Galvin. He needed to end this soon, before it went 
any further. 

Someone knocked on the door. He answered -- and 

froze. 

Galvin was even paler than usual. His cheeks were 

more hollow, his eyes sunken a little deeper in their 
bruised sockets, wide and glazed, pupils huge. He had 
the look of someone who'd been roughly lobotomized, 
enough to fuck him up, not quite enough to turn him into 
a zombie. 

"Hey, kid…Galvin…you okay?" 
"Fine." Galvin smiled in Spike's direction, just a 

tightening of his lips. "May I come in?" 

"Sure." Spike stood aside, and Galvin entered. He 

wore the same oversized, gray camouflage jacket as 
usual. Spike wasn't sure he ever wore anything else. "Let 
me take your coat." 

Feet of Clay - 63 

"Thanks." Galvin shrugged out of it, revealing a 

black, zip-up hoodie beneath. He moved like a 
sleepwalker. While Spike hung up his coat, Galvin 
drifted into the next room and sat down in front of the 
computer. 

Spike followed. He stood in the doorway, leaning 

against the frame, and crossed his arms over his chest. 
"You want to tell me what's wrong?" 

"I'm fine." He sat, hunched over the keyboard. His 

fingers trembled on the keys. "Just haven't slept well 
these past few nights." 

"Maybe you should lie down." 
Galvin shook his head. "I'm fine." He forced another 

smile, but Spike could see his shoulders shaking. 

He approached in slow steps. "Galvin?" He kept his 

voice low and gentle. "Look at me." 

The muscles of his throat worked as he swallowed. "I 

-- I'm really -- " 

He gently placed a finger beneath Galvin's chin, 

lifting it. Galvin went stone-still, looking up at him with 
those wide, bruised eyes. "You don't have to pretend," 
he said quietly. "And I don't want you forcing yourself 
to work if you're not well." 

His gaze strayed toward the computer screen. "I 

already feel like I'm stealing from you," he whispered. "I 
mean, you're paying me so much for such an easy job. If 
I can't even do that -- " 

"The job can wait. I'm not in a rush. Tell me what's 

wrong." 

Galvin stared down at his hands, still resting on the 

keyboard. "I've been thinking about what you told me. 
About how I hold back…how I'm afraid to write 
anything that means anything to me. And you're right. 
It's not just my writing, either. I've always hidden my 

Feet of Clay - 64 

real feelings from other people, because I'm afraid of 
how they'd react if they knew what I'm really like. I keep 
trying to rewrite that first chapter, to force myself to 
stop filtering, but whenever I do, I -- I just -- " His lower 
lip trembled, and he bit it. "It's gotten to the point where 
I can't even look at my computer without breaking into a 
sweat." 

Spike stared at Galvin, his eyes widening. "I didn't 

mean to make you feel that way." 

"It isn't your fault. It's me." He gave another strained 

smile. "Forget I said anything." 

For a long moment, Spike was silent, wrestling with 

himself. If he pushed too hard, there was a risk that 
Galvin would clamp shut. But Galvin was plainly 
desperate. This was eating him up inside. 

And it was Spike's fault. "You want to talk?" 
Galvin tensed. "About what?" he asked, avoiding 

Spike's gaze. 

"About this." 
His breathing quickened. "I can't -- I shouldn't." 
"Why not?" 
"Because. I just can't." He gripped his knees, 

knuckles white, and hunched his shoulders. 

Spike's gaze focused on Galvin's lips. There was a 

thin line of blood on his lower lip where he had bitten it, 
rust-red against the pale shell pink. Spike pulled his gaze 
away. 

He'd been looking at those lips more than he should. 

He'd been noticing other things, too -- like the fringe of 
soft, brown lashes around those eyes, the faint dusting of 
freckles on the bridge of that nose, or how smooth and 
soft that skin appeared. He'd been insisting loudly to 
himself that he wasn't attracted to Galvin, that Galvin 
was too young for him, just a kid for God's sake. And 

Feet of Clay - 65 

anyway, Galvin was working for him and obviously 
needed the money. It would be wrong to take advantage 
of that dependence. Not to mention the fact that the kid 
obviously worshipped him. Too much power imbalance. 
Too much potential for hurt. 

But even now, exhausted and pale and shaking, 

Galvin was beautiful. And Spike wanted him. Trying to 
deny and repress that desire was becoming exhausting. 

Spike should pull away now, while he still could, but 

he couldn't just leave Galvin alone in obvious pain. 
"Please talk to me." 

Galvin was silent, staring at the floor. His Adam's 

apple bobbed as he swallowed. "I should get to work," 
he whispered. 

Spike stared, feeling helpless. A part of him wanted 

to probe harder, but he had no right. He knew that. 
Galvin was working for him, and prying into Galvin’s 
personal problems would be crossing a dangerous 
boundary. 

He turned and left the room. 

*** 

The clack of keys echoed from the bedroom while 

Spike, in the living room, sat at his writing desk and 
stared at a blank sheet of paper. 

Galvin had been making rapid progress through his 

latest manuscript, and Spike had failed to write anything 
worth a damn since Galvin's arrival here. Once Galvin 
finished typing up what he'd written, Spike had no 
excuse to keep him here. He'd hoped that once Galvin 
started rewriting his own work, it would give him 
another reason to come back, but that hadn't gone 
anywhere. And the more time went by, the more Spike 

Feet of Clay - 66 

realized just how personal and invasive his critique had 
been. No wonder it had made Galvin uncomfortable. No 
wonder he was eager to finish his work and be gone. 
And maybe that would be for the best. 

Spike bowed his head and buried his hands in his 

hair. 

He heard the creak of footsteps and looked up to see 

Galvin standing in the entrance to the living room, biting 
his lower lip. "I'm finished." 

"You mean…" 
"I finished typing up your manuscript." 
"Oh." Spike cleared his throat. "Well…that's good. 

I'll write you a check for today." He paused. Should he 
tell Galvin to come in again the same time tomorrow, 
even though he had no more tasks to offer? 

But that would be selfish, and he knew it. 
Spike wrote out a check and handed it to Galvin. 

Awkwardly, he slipped his hands into his pockets. 
"Thanks for all your help. I appreciate it." 

Galvin stood staring at the slip of paper in his hand as 

if it was a warrant for his execution. The tip of a pink 
tongue crept out to moisten his lips. "I…" His lips 
quivered, and he pressed them together. 

Spike stared, uncertain. "Galvin?" 
Galvin took a deep, shaky breath and met Spike's 

gaze. "If I write something tonight, can I come back here 
tomorrow and show it to you?" 

"I -- sure," Spike said, surprised. "Of course." 
His fingers clenched on the check. "I won't 

disappoint you. Not this time." And before Spike could 
respond, he turned and walked out. 

*** 

Feet of Clay - 67 

He woke in darkness, naked. He could feel soft cotton 

sheets beneath his back. When he shifted, they rubbed 
against his skin, sending pleasant shivers through him. 
His whole body felt strangely sensitive, every nerve-
ending tingling. He shifted again, and velvet rubbed at 
his wrists. 

He was bound. And the darkness filling his eyes was 

a blindfold. When he blinked, his lashes brushed against 
cloth. Wires tightened in his chest. His breathing 
quickened, and he began to struggle. 

Warm hands, the palms rough with calluses, framed 

his face. The scent of cloves filled his nostrils. 

He strained to control his breathing, to keep the 

panic at bay. He recognized the scent.  A tremor ran 
through him. "Why -- " He gulped. "Why are you doing 
this?" 

The hands slid down, over his chest, thumbs brushing 

lightly over his nipples. Warm lips grazed his ear. 
"Because this is what you need," whispered a deep, 
rough voice. Those hands were touching him, stroking 
him everywhere, running along his sides, his waist, over 
his thighs. 

His tongue crept out to moisten dry lips. He tugged, 

but the ropes held. He was helpless. He couldn't stop 
trembling, and his breath came in little panicky gasps. 

"You've been aching for this," said that deep, rough 

voice. "Haven't you." It wasn't a question so much as an 
order. 

A low, helpless moan escaped his throat. "Yes," he 

whispered. 

"Then just relax." A thumb brushed against his inner 

thigh, and his hips twitched. "You're all sealed up inside. 
So tense. So guarded. It's exhausting, isn't it? Holding 
everything in. Your heart is about to crack open from 

Feet of Clay - 68 

the strain of holding in all those feelings." The thumb 
slid lower, along the crease of his buttocks, and brushed 
against his rim -- the lightest ghost of a touch. The ring 
of muscle contracted and pulled inward 
reflexively…then slowly relaxed. "Good," the voice 
rasped. 

Dizziness washed over him. It was too much. Unable 

to move, unable to see, he was reduced to his senses of 
hearing and touch, and that made everything all the 
more potent. 

Warm lips pressed against his in a soft, gentle kiss. A 

hot tongue touched his lips, teased them, parted them, 
and dipped into his mouth. He panted as long fingers 
curled around hard, throbbing flesh. His hips twitched 
upward, pushing into the touch. Warm hands settled on 
his thighs, pushing them down. 

A little sound, half a moan and half a whimper, 

escaped his throat. He squirmed in frustration. 

A low, rough chuckle reverberated in his ears, 

sending shivers through him. "You're beautiful when 
you're desperate." Those long, graceful hands slid up 
the length of his body, over his chest. They left his body 
for a moment, and he cried out in protest. A moment ago 
he'd been shaking with terror at being touched like this -
- now, he was terrified that it would stop. 

"Shh." Firm lips silenced him with another kiss. 
Spike looked up from the pages. Galvin sat on the 

couch, his hands balled into fists in his lap, his breathing 
unsteady. His face was pale, but there was a glint of 
determination in his eyes. 

Spike swallowed, his mouth dry. His gaze returned to 

the page, skimming over some of the lines. The smell of 
cloves. Deep voice. Rough, callused hands. 

Feet of Clay - 69 

This couldn't possibly be what it seemed like, could 

it? 

He looked up again, meeting Galvin's gaze. "This 

is…" Spike cleared his throat, his cheeks growing 
warmer. 

"You told me to stop filtering." Galvin's voice was 

very soft, but it carried. "To write what I really wanted. 
What was inside me." He stared straight at Spike. "What 
do you think?" 

Spike looked down at the words, and his heartbeat 

quickened. He tried to tell himself he was reading too 
much into it, that this was just a scene from Galvin's 
story, that these were just two fictional characters. 

But he couldn't believe that. Looking into Galvin's 

eyes, seeing the complex tangle of emotions there, he 
couldn't believe that this meant nothing. 

Was this what Galvin wanted? To be restrained, 

overpowered? To have control taken away from him? 
And what did it mean, that he was showing this to Spike 
now? 

A vision flashed through his mind: Galvin stretched 

out on the bed, wrists bound to the posts, a ball gag in 
his mouth. 

Spike swallowed again, palms damp with sweat. You 

know he's too good for you, whispered a voice in his 
mind. And he doesn't know what you're really like. If he 
did, he wouldn't want this. And after what had happened 
to the last person Spike had loved… 

Galvin was still looking at him, not moving, not 

breathing. 

To acknowledge what this was really about would be 

dangerous. He knew that. Officially, Galvin had come to 
him for critique on a piece of writing. So that was what 
he'd give. 

Feet of Clay - 70 

Spike set the pages down and laced his fingers 

together. "It's an improvement. I think you could bring 
in a few more sensory details…but there's not enough 
context for me to really give you a proper critique. I 
mean, a big part of what makes a scene like this work is 
what leads up to it. You need to flesh out the characters, 
make them your own -- " He stopped. 

Galvin's expression had shifted from confusion to 

dismay. The look in his wide eyes was one of utter 
devastation. Utter rejection. "Oh," he whispered. Slowly, 
he lowered his gaze. 

Spike's chest constricted. "Galvin?" 
Galvin gave him a strained smile, eyes glazed and 

unfocused. Panic-stricken. "I'm fine." 

Spike stared. He'd promised himself from the 

beginning that he wouldn't let this get out of hand, that 
he wouldn't take advantage of Galvin. So why did he 
suddenly feel like a piece of shit? "Galvin -- listen, I -- " 

"I'm fine," Galvin said again. His breathing had 

quickened. "I -- I need to go." He lurched to his feet, 
turned and walked toward the door. 

Spike should just let Galvin go. He knew that. 
Hell, Spike should have let him go the first time he'd 

tried to walk away, the first time Spike had hurt him. In 
the end, it seemed, Spike couldn't do anything but hurt 
him. It would be better to do nothing. 

But he couldn't. 
Spike rose after him and caught his arm. "Galvin, 

wait -- " 

"No!" Galvin pulled and twisted his arm, breathing 

hard, trying to free himself from Spike's grip. "Do you 
just feel sorry for me? If that's what this is about, I don't 
want it." 

"That's not what this is about." 

Feet of Clay - 71 

"Then what?" He stared at the floor, his shoulders 

trembling. "I can't do this," he whispered. A tear dripped 
to the floor. "You keep pushing me away and pulling me 
back. Stop playing with me." He raised his gaze to 
Spike's and glared, tear tracks shining on his cheeks. "If 
you don't want me, let me go." 

Spike looked down at his hand, still wrapped around 

Galvin's wrist. If he let go now, he knew, Galvin would 
disappear and wouldn't come back. His grip tightened as 
he stared into those pain-filled, gray eyes. 

He'd be better off if you let go, whispered the voice in 

the back of his head. Was that true? Or was it just the 
voice of his own guilt and self-pity? 

Galvin gripped Spike's hand, breathing hard. 

"Please." 

Let him go. 
If you do, he's gone. 
If you don't, you can't hide anymore. 
If you do, you'll destroy him. 
If you don't, you'll destroy him. 
Spike couldn't take it anymore. 
He pulled Galvin closer, wrapped his arms around 

him, and kissed him. Hard. Their teeth clanked together, 
and Galvin's breath caught. His muscles stiffened…then 
all at once, the tension ran out of him. He went limp in 
Spike's arms, boneless, a string-cut marionette. Spike 
clutched him tight, lips pressing fiercely against 
Galvin's. He raised his head, breathing raggedly, and 
stared into dazed, half-focused eyes. "Don't go." His 
voice emerged deep and rough, ragged. Pained. 

Galvin stared up at him with wide eyes. 
Spike hugged him close, eyes closed, face buried in 

Galvin's soft, brown hair. 

"Stay," he whispered. 

Feet of Clay - 72 

Galvin's breath caught. Spike felt more than saw him 

nod. 

Feet of Clay - 73 

Chapter Eight 

For a long time Spike just held him, one hand 

smoothing his hair. Spike could feel the rapid thump of 
Galvin's heartbeat, the way he trembled. 

Guilt twisted inside his chest. Ever since they’d met, 

it seemed, he couldn't do anything but hurt Galvin. 

Galvin leaned his head against Spike's shoulder. 

"You want me to stay?" he whispered. 

"Yes." He held Galvin tighter. 
Galvin's arms slowly slipped around Spike's waist, 

hugging him. 

Eventually, Galvin pulled back, wiping his eyes with 

his sleeve. His gaze darted up, meeting Spike's briefly, 
then lowered, as if he was embarrassed. They stood in 
awkward silence for another moment. Spike wasn't sure 
what to say. At last, he cleared his throat and said, "You 
want to sit down?" Standing so near the door made him 
nervous -- as if Galvin might suddenly decide to bolt 
again. 

Galvin nodded. 
They sat side by side on the couch. Spike fumbled for 

something to say, some way to break the silence. He 
rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm sorry." 

"For what?" Galvin asked quietly. 
"Hurting you." 
"It's okay." Galvin sat with his fingers tangled 

together, his gaze still downcast. "I mean…I came in 
asking for feedback, didn't I?" 

"But it wasn't about that. Was it?" 
His breath caught. "No," he murmured. With the tip 

of his tongue, he moistened his lips. "Would you believe 
that's the first time I've ever been kissed? I had a couple 
of dates in high school, but they didn't go anywhere. It 

Feet of Clay - 74 

was never right. And after that…" He stared down at his 
hands. "I was always afraid." 

"Of what?" 
"I don't know. Of rejection, I guess. Of not being 

good enough. And it seemed unfair to other people. I 
mean…" The muscles of his throat worked as he 
swallowed. "My head is a mess. You've probably 
figured that out by now." He knuckled tears from the 
corner of one eye. "I guess that's why I always identified 
so much with Sammy. Why that book meant so much to 
me. I still remember the day I found it. It was in the back 
of an old used bookstore, in the bargain bin. And when I 
touched the cover, I felt something. Like it was calling 
me. Reading it made me feel, for the first time, that there 
was hope…that someone like me could still…" 

Spike gently touched Galvin's cheek, turning his face, 

and looked into his eyes. 

His thumb traced the curve of that soft lower lip. 

Galvin's breath hitched softly. "You don't know, do 
you?" Spike asked. "You have no idea how beautiful 
you are." 

"I'm not," he whispered. 
Spike framed Galvin's face between his hands, 

holding it firmly. "You are." 

Galvin's eyes were wide, shiny with tears, the whites 

tinged pink. Spike's thumbs stroked his cheeks. Never 
been kissed. He'd gotten the feeling Galvin didn't have 
much experience, but he'd never imagined he was that 
innocent. Completely untouched -- which meant he had 
nothing to go on, no normal experiences to compare this 
to. 

If he'd known, he would have done it differently, 

chosen a better moment, been slow and gentle. You only 
got one chance for a first kiss. It was supposed to be 

Feet of Clay - 75 

special. Spike had just grabbed him and rammed his face 
against Galvin's. He hadn't even shaved that morning, 
and he'd probably tasted like beer and coffee and smoke. 
"I want to try that again," he said, still holding Galvin's 
face between his hands. 

Galvin blinked. "What do you mean?" 
"I mean…can I give you another first kiss? A better 

one?" 

A flush rose into Galvin's cheeks. He nodded. 
Spike leaned down and softly, very softly, pressed his 

lips against Galvin's. They trembled slightly, then parted 
under the gentle pressure. He moved his own lips 
against them, wondering if the scrape of his stubble 
against that soft skin was uncomfortable. Galvin tasted 
clean and fresh as rain, with a faint hint of spearmint 
toothpaste. 

No one else had ever done this, Spike thought. And 

Galvin's lack of experience was plain; he didn't seem to 
know what to do with his lips. At first they remained 
motionless, passive, and accepting. Then they began to 
move slowly, clumsily copying Spike. 

Spike touched the very tip of his tongue to those 

parted lips. A part of him wanted to deepen the kiss, to 
see if Galvin's mouth was as hot and silky and wet as 
Spike imagined. A vision flashed through his mind 
before he could stop it; Galvin's lips wrapped around his 
cock in a moist circle, those cheeks drawn inward, 
sucking… 

He withdrew, heart pounding. Galvin's eyes opened 

slowly. They were unfocused, heavy-lidded. He looked 
drunk -- or maybe drugged. Languid. As if he'd agree to 
anything Spike suggested. God, if he reacted that way to 
just a kiss, what would he do if… 

Feet of Clay - 76 

Spike derailed that train of thought before it could go 

any further. He licked his lips. He could still taste that 
warm, sweet mouth on his. 

"I don't understand," Galvin murmured. "If you feel 

like this, why did you push me away?" 

Spike felt a bitter pang somewhere inside his chest. 

He still wondered if that would have been better for 
Galvin, in the long run. "I was trying to protect you." 

"From what?" 
His lips tightened in a mirthless smile. "From a dirty, 

corrupt old man." 

Galvin's brows knitted together. "But you're not. Why 

would you think that?" 

"I was ready to give up on that manuscript. Was 

thinking about burning it. I'd bought the computer 
hoping it might push me to start working on the thing 
again, but I gave up on that idea fast. Then you came 
along." His hands balled into fists. "I knew I should just 
let you go. That getting involved with me would be bad 
for you. But I couldn't bear to let you slip away. I told 
myself that I just needed to be close to you a little 
longer, just to hear your voice and look at your face and 
remind myself that there was still light in the world. But 
I kept thinking about…and I wanted." His throat 
tightened. "You've got this idealized picture of me in 
your head. You don't know what I'm really like." 

Spike averted his gaze. "I'm not a good person." 
For a long moment, Galvin didn't move, didn't speak. 

His soft breathing filled Spike's ears. Then gentle, warm 
hands touched Spike's face, lifting it. "You're wrong," 
Galvin whispered. 

A tremor ran through him. 
Galvin trailed his fingertips over Spike's stubble 

shadowed jaw. Spike’s pulse thundered in his ears. He'd 

Feet of Clay - 77 

told himself that he could resist, but now, staring into 
those wide, gray eyes, he ached for it with every particle 
of his being; ached to feel Galvin's warmth beside him, 
to feel that soft breath against his neck. 

Again, he imagined soft lips wrapped around him, the 

wet heat of Galvin's mouth. A soft groan escaped him as 
his dick stiffened, straining against jeans that suddenly 
seemed a size too small. He would let you, whispered a 
voice in his mind. He would welcome it. "If you stay 
with me, I'll end up hurting you," he murmured. 

"I don't understand why you think that. You saved 

me, Spike. If not for you, I would have given up by now. 
You showed me that happiness was possible. If I can't 
trust in that…" 

Spike curled his fingers around one thin wrist. He 

could feel the blood drumming hot and fast below the 
surface. "I'm the wrong person to put your trust in." His 
voice emerged rough and hoarse, and Galvin tensed. 

"Why?" 
"Because I…" He looked away and raked a hand 

through his hair. "Damn it, it's just…complicated." 

"Help me understand. Please." 
"I have a bad track record of taking care of the people 

I care about." 

Galvin touched the back of his hand. "I don't know 

what you've been through, but whatever it was, it doesn't 
have to happen again." 

"What else can I do?" He voiced a hoarse, broken 

chuckle. "I'm nothing. I'm a bad joke. A writer who can't 
write." 

"But you can," Galvin said. "Just because you're not 

writing now, that doesn't mean you never will again. I 
mean, there must be some reason why you're having 
trouble. If you can just find out why -- " 

Feet of Clay - 78 

"You want to know the reason?" He smiled, a hard, 

tight expression. "I'm a hypocrite. I told you to stop 
filtering, to write what's inside you, but I'm scared 
shitless of what will happen if I open myself up again. 
I'm a coward." 

"I don't believe that. A coward couldn't have written 

something like Smoke." 

He averted his gaze. "It's just a book." 
"Why do you do this? Why do you trivialize 

everything about yourself?" His jaw tightened as he 
stared at Spike. "No matter what you say, I won't stop 
believing in you. I can't. Because I need you. If you 
don't want me around, then just tell me, and I'll leave, 
but please stop saying those things about yourself." 

Wires tightened in Spike's chest. "People close to me 

die, damn it. When Sammy -- " He fell silent. 

"Sammy?" Galvin whispered. 
A long silence. 
Spike curled one hand into a fist. "I could've saved 

him," he said, his voice low and hoarse. "If I'd gotten 
there sooner, I could've saved him." 

Galvin stared at Spike, wide-eyed and open mouthed, 

as the blood drained slowly from his face. "He was 
real?" 

Spike's chest ached; his whole being ached. He'd 

never meant to reveal this much, but it was too late to go 
back now. "Yeah. The details were different…the 
places, the names. But he was real." 

"But in the book, he…" 
Spike closed his eyes. "In the book, after he 

overdoses, his lover finds him and takes him to the 
hospital. Except that's not how it happened." He ground 
the heel of one hand against his forehead. "After he died, 
I relived that night over and over in my head, thinking of 

Feet of Clay - 79 

all the things I could have done differently. Thinking 
that if I'd gotten there even ten minutes sooner, 
everything would have been different." 

"Spike…" Galvin's voice was soft, broken. 
He ground his palms against his eyelids. "Do you 

understand now? How contemptible I am? I was lying to 
myself, creating this fantasy world where everything 
worked out, and I never meant to show anyone, but 
things happened, and… and even then I never expected 
it to be accepted, and making money off it felt so filthy, 
like selling pieces of his memory. Selling my own pain 
and self-delusion." He stared at the floor dully. "It was 
fake." 

Galvin gripped his hands. "That isn't true," he said. 

"Even if it was just your fantasy when you wrote it, it 
became real when it reached other people." 

Spike shook his head. "I lied to you. To everyone. I 

wrote a story where everything turned out okay at the 
end, but everything isn't okay. There no such thing as 
happily ever after. There's just death. Sammy's gone." 

"No." Galvin's voice trembled, and his hands 

tightened on Spike's. "If you still love him, he's not 
gone." 

"I tried believing that for awhile, but in the end that's 

just another lie I told myself. I have memories. Pictures. 
Old letters. Those things aren't him. They're just his 
ashes, just his shadows." He stared at Galvin's hands, 
still fiercely clutching his. "My love couldn't save him, 
and it can't bring him back. What good is love if it can't 
even save one life? It's nothing." 

Galvin stared at him, eyes wide and stricken. "Do you 

really believe that?" 

Spike's throat constricted. "I don't know," he said, his 

voice choked. "I don't know what I believe anymore. I 

Feet of Clay - 80 

just miss him so damn much." A tear dripped onto their 
joined hands. "We were supposed to live together. I 
promised him I'd take him to the ocean. We were 
supposed to have so many memories, we were supposed 
to live, but now he's just gone and there's nothing I can 
do." 

"You saved me!" Galvin cried. His chest hitched as 

he clutched at Spike's hands. "Isn't that worth anything?" 

Spike stared into his tear-filled eyes. "Why aren't you 

disgusted with me?" he whispered. 

"What happened to Sammy wasn't your fault. And 

your book isn't a lie. Your words kept me alive even 
when I wanted to die. How can you say that's not real?" 

"That was you. You kept yourself alive." He looked 

away. "You're strong enough, even if you don't know it. 
You don't need me." 

"How can you say that? How can you know that?" 
"In the end, we're all on our own." 
"If that's true, then I don't want this world or anything 

to do with it," he whispered. "It's too painful." 

"Galvin…" 
"I just don't understand." He swallowed. "Why is it a 

bad thing to need? I need lots of things. I need food and 
water and a place to live, and I need to go for walks and 
watch the sunset over the lake, and sometimes I need to 
cry. I need books and I need my computer and I need to 
write and feel like it means something. I need three 
different kinds of pills a day just to keep me sane. Why 
am I not allowed to need your words?" 

"Because I'm not…" His throat knotted. "I don't trust 

myself not to fuck this up." 

"You don't have to be perfect. I'm not asking you to 

do anything for me. I just need you to be you." 

Feet of Clay - 81 

Spike met Galvin’s gaze. His hand drifted to Galvin's 

face, and his knuckles grazed one soft cheek. He 
wondered who'd sent this angel to him and what he'd 
done to deserve it. "I'm scared. I'm scared that I'll hurt 
you, that I'll lose you. I can't go through it again. Even 
after all this time, I…I still can't…" His voice broke. 
"I've been wasting my life, hiding away in this 
apartment. So many years…and even if you say it's not 
my fault, I know he'd be alive if I'd just done things 
differently." His hand dropped to his side, and he looked 
away, chest constricting. "Do you know what that feels 
like?" 

Silence. 
"Galvin?" 
Galvin stared into space, hands resting on his knees. 

His fingers tightened. "Do you know what today is?" 

"What…" 
"It's November thirteenth." 
Spike's brow furrowed. "What about November 

thirteenth?" 

Galvin drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his 

arms around them. "It's the anniversary of the day…" He 
rested his chin on his knees, curling in on himself. "The 
day my dad killed himself." 

Spike drew in his breath swiftly. 
He'd known -- maybe from the first day they met --

that there was some wound deep in Galvin's being, some 
reason behind the dark circles under those eyes, the 
tremor in those hands, the pain behind that smile. "I'm 
sorry." The words felt hollow, but he didn't know what 
else to say. 

Galvin turned his head and stared at the wall. He 

wiped the back of one hand across his eyes. "It was a 
long time ago. Ten years. You'd think after all this time, 

Feet of Clay - 82 

I'd have gotten over it or at least learned how to start 
living again." 

"You don't get over something like that." 
Galvin's unsteady breathing echoed through the 

silence. Spike laid a hand over his and gently squeezed. 
"I'm sorry," he said again. 

Galvin curled in on himself, resting his chin on his 

knees. "We -- our family never had much money. And 
as a kid I was sick a lot. My parents were always 
arguing about what doctors to take me to and how much 
money to spend and whose fault it was that I was so sick 
in the first place. And I knew that I was the reason they 
were fighting, the reason they were so miserable and 
angry all the time. I started to think their lives would've 
been better if I'd never been born. But I was there, and --
" He drew in a deep, shaky breath and let it out slowly. 
"By the time I was ten, my dad was working three jobs 
to pay my medical bills. He couldn't handle it. He started 
drinking more and more, and then…" He trailed off, 
clutching Spike's hand. "I found him." A tear slid down 
his cheek. "He tried to make it look like an accident, but 
everyone knew what had happened." 

Spike just held Galvin’s hand. He didn't know what 

to say. There was nothing to say, no words that would 
lessen the pain. 

"My mom never blamed me for it. Not out loud. But 

she changed. She wouldn't look me in the eye. In my 
junior year of high school, I had a breakdown, and she 
sent me away to an institution for a few months." He 
wiped his cheeks with the back of one hand. "It was 
easier for her, I think…being apart from me. When I 
finally came home, she seemed better, calmer, but after 
a few weeks of us living together, she was back to 
pulling her hair out and drinking too much. She tries. 

Feet of Clay - 83 

But dealing with my pain on top of her own is too much 
for her. And…" The muscles of his throat worked as he 
swallowed. "And I remind her of what happened. Of 
him. So I moved out as soon as I could. I started living 
off the money from the insurance. It wasn't a lot, but it 
was enough for rent and groceries and medicine. But 
now it's almost gone, and when it runs out, I don't know 
what I'm going to do. I can't go back. I can't." 

Spike wrapped his arms around Galvin. "You poor 

kid," he whispered. His arms tightened around him. 

Galvin hid his face against Spike's shoulder. He 

quivered, tense as a bowstring. 

"You don't have to keep holding it in," Spike 

whispered. 

Galvin's breath hitched. He shuddered…then a soft, 

choked sob slipped from his throat. Spike stroked his 
hair as he cried -- softly at first, then louder, sobs 
pouring out of him as if they'd been stored up in his 
chest for years. The sounds were raw, jagged and 
broken, as if they hurt coming out. When at last they 
trailed off, he lay in Spike's arms, limp with exhaustion, 
and Spike cuddled him close, chin resting atop Galvin's 
hair. 

"It's okay?" Galvin whispered. "That I told you all 

that?" 

"Yes." Gently, he cupped one cheek and turned 

Galvin's face to look into those eyes. "It's okay." 

Galvin turned his face to nuzzle into Spike's palm. 

"Before I met you…I used to think about this sort of 
thing," he whispered. "I used to have fantasies that we'd 
meet and I'd tell you everything, and you'd hold me. 
And somehow, you'd make it better. Like once I was in 
your arms, all I had to do was let go. Like you could 
reach inside me and take out the pain." 

Feet of Clay - 84 

"I wish I could." 
"In my fantasies, you were always perfect." 
Spike voiced a hoarse, rusty sound that wasn't quite a 

chuckle. "Sorry I'm not." 

Galvin laid a hand over Spike's and held it against his 

cheek. "I like this better." 

Feet of Clay - 85 

Chapter Nine 

Warm, gold sunlight slanted in through the window, 

catching Galvin's eyes and bringing out faint undertones 
of green in the gray. Judging from the angle of the light, 
it was late afternoon, inching toward evening. Spike had 
been sitting here on the couch, cuddling Galvin, for 
hours…though until now he hadn't noticed the stiffness 
in his shoulders and back. 

He smoothed Galvin's hair. "How do you feel?" 
Galvin leaned his head against Spike's shoulder and 

murmured, "Self-conscious." 

"About what?" 
"Well…everything. I don't really talk about that kind 

of stuff with anyone. It's a lot to suddenly unload on 
you." 

"It's a lot to keep locked up inside," Spike replied 

quietly. "And I don't mind listening." 

"I feel weird about what I showed you, too. I 

mean…" Galvin's gaze darted to the stack of pages still 
on the coffee table, and a pink flush rose into his cheeks. 

Spike cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his 

neck. "It's okay." 

It must have taken a lot of courage for Galvin to bare 

his private desires like that, not knowing how Spike felt 
about him. And Spike wondered why he'd chosen to 
reveal those desires as a story -- if it had even been a 
choice, or if it was just the only way Galvin knew how 
to do it. 

For a moment, Spike wasn't sure what to say. The 

silence stood between them like a wall. "Mind if I take 
another look?" he asked at last. 

Galvin's blush brightened, but he nodded. 

Feet of Clay - 86 

Spike picked up the stapled bundle. The edges were 

still crinkled from where he'd gripped them earlier. 

The first time, he'd been distracted, wondering what 

this meant and if this could really be what it seemed. 
Now, he focused his whole mind on the words 
themselves. 

The character in the pages were Spike and Galvin, 

that much was obvious. But even so, the Spike in 
Galvin's fantasy seemed much more confident and in 
control than Spike himself would be in this situation. He 
had only a passing familiarity with BDSM. He'd never 
tried it. 

But now, as he read, he imagined himself doing those 

things -- binding Galvin's wrists, touching that smooth 
skin, taking gentle control. He swallowed, trying to 
banish the dryness in his mouth, and raised his gaze to 
Galvin's. "You think about this sort of thing?" He knew 
the answer, but he needed to hear it anyway. "You think 
about me doing this to you?" 

Galvin's teeth caught on his lower lip. "Yes," he 

murmured. 

Spike's heartbeat quickened. He gently laid the pages 

on the coffee table and reached out to touch Galvin's 
face. His palm slid down Galvin's cheek and neck. His 
thumb brushed the soft skin, lingering over the place 
where the pulse drummed hot and fast beneath the 
surface. 

Galvin stared at him with wide eyes, not breathing, 

lips parted slightly. 

Spike had spent so long chasing after the ghosts of 

his past, obsessing over what he couldn't change. Hell, 
he hadn't had a real lover since Sammy's death over ten 
years ago, just a couple of desperate, drunken one night 
stands that had left him with nothing but a hangover and 

Feet of Clay - 87 

a lot of self-hatred the next morning. Despite all his talk 
about Sammy being dead and gone, Spike had been 
clinging tight to those memories, unable to let go, 
unable to accept it on some deep gut level. 

Galvin was here now, alive. His heart was beating. 

And he wanted this. Needed it. 

Spike wondered why he'd hesitated for so long. He'd 

known -- maybe from the very first day. He'd seen the 
way Galvin looked at him, hope and hero-worship and 
uncertain, shy desire all mixed together. 

Spike leaned toward Galvin, hands coming up to 

frame his face, and kissed him. A shiver ran through 
Galvin. He relaxed into the kiss, letting Spike take 
control as if it was the most natural thing to do. 

Velvet lips parted, and Spike slid his tongue inside. 

He kissed Galvin deeply, thoroughly, his tongue 
exploring the slick heat of Galvin's mouth. A small, 
hungry moan escaped Galvin’s throat. 

Need slammed into Spike, hot and violent. Every 

nerve in his body was suddenly on fire. 

He pulled back, gulping air. Galvin's tongue crept out 

to wet those plump lips, making them glisten, and 
another hot jolt of lust shot through Spike. All that pent-
up desire welled up, seething under the surface, eager to 
burst free. And knowing Galvin would let him just made 
it harder to hold back. To feel his control slipping, after 
so long, was both heady and frightening. 

He kissed Galvin again, fiercely. He devoured those 

lips, sucking and nibbling the lower, then the upper. 
When Spike finally pulled back, they were both panting, 
and Galvin's eyes were wide and dazed. 

He wanted this. God, how he wanted it. But he had to 

be careful. It would be too easy to hurt Galvin without 

Feet of Clay - 88 

meaning to. "Tell me what you want," Spike said, his 
voice low and hoarse. 

Galvin's breathing grew heavier. "What I want?" 
"I need to know how far you're ready to go. I need to 

know when I should stop." Spike's hands slid down 
Galvin's sides to rest against his slim hips. Spike could 
feel him trembling. "We can take this slow, if you like. 
If you need some time to get used to…" 

"I want everything." 
At those words, Spike's breath caught. "You sure?" 
He stared up at Spike, his eyes hungry. "I need this." 

His voice was soft, pleading. 

Spike's pulse raced as he touched a thumb to Galvin's 

lips -- lips still wet and swollen with kisses -- and they 
parted under the gentle pressure. He rubbed his thumb 
back and forth across them. 

A small moan escaped Galvin's throat. His eyes went 

soft and unfocused, and his tongue pushed forward to 
lick the pad of Spike's thumb. 

Spike gulped, trying to swallow his heart, which had 

climbed up into his throat. 

Galvin seemed to notice his reaction. He licked 

again, soft and slow, and looked up uncertainly, as if 
asking whether he'd done it right. "Feels good," Spike 
whispered hoarsely. 

Galvin's lips parted wider, and Spike's thumb slipped 

between them to trace their inner surfaces in a slow 
circle…then moved deeper, found the wet velvet of his 
tongue and rubbed against it. A shiver ran through 
Galvin, and his eyes slipped shut. His lips closed around 
the knuckle, and he sucked, flushed cheeks pulling 
inward. 

Spike stared stupidly, hypnotized by the movement 

of Galvin's mouth, the wetness, the heat, the tugging. 

Feet of Clay - 89 

And his lips were so soft. An expression of relaxed bliss 
had slipped over his face, as if there was nothing he'd 
rather be doing more in that moment, as if he'd sit there 
happily sucking for the next hour if Spike let him. 

Spike’s dick twitched…and again, his mind filled 

with an image of Galvin's lips stretched around that hot, 
hungry flesh. With Galvin sucking his thumb like that, it 
was all too easy to imagine. 

Spike gulped. His thumb slipped out of Galvin's 

mouth, over that full lower lip. Galvin's eyes opened 
slowly, hazy trance-eyes. 

Mouth dry, Spike slid a hand slowly beneath Galvin's 

t-shirt -- it was loose, slightly oversized -- and ran his 
palm over the inward curve of Galvin's waist. He let his 
fingertips skim along Galvin’s ribs and over his chest, 
until he encountered one tiny, flat nipple. Gently, he 
brushed a finger over it, and the nipple stiffened, 
pushing upward into his touch. Spike traced a tiny circle 
around it, then slid his hand out from under the t-shirt. 

Spike's lips grazed the side of Galvin's neck as one 

finger traced his shirt collar. "May I take this off?" 
Galvin hesitated, and something tightened inside Spike's 
chest. "Is this too much? Do you want to stop?" 

"It's not that," he murmured. "It's just…I'm too pale, 

and I don't have any muscle definition, and…it's just 
embarrassing." 

The tightness in Spike's chest relaxed. "It still 

boggles my mind that you can't see yourself." He lifted 
Galvin's shirt off, baring his slim upper body, and placed 
a gentle kiss against his chest. He could feel Galvin’s 
heart racing. "You're perfect," he murmured, lips 
moving against his smooth skin. 

Galvin's breath caught. Spike kissed one pale 

shoulder, kissed the delicate hollow between his 

Feet of Clay - 90 

collarbones. Spike’s palms slid down Galvin's sides, 
then up over his chest, along his back, following the 
curve of his spine. Galvin's breathing quickened, and his 
arms slipped around Spike. 

Spike nuzzled into the hollow between his neck and 

shoulder, then paused, lips resting against his ear. "You 
want to go into the bedroom?" 

A soft intake of breath. "Yes." 
He took Galvin's hand. 
Spike's dick was pulsing urgently, clamoring for him 

to take advantage of the moment before it slipped away. 
He ignored it. He couldn't afford to lose control, not for 
an instant. 

Galvin was inexperienced -- but more than that, he 

was incredibly vulnerable, his self-esteem shaky, his 
heart filled with wounds that had never properly 
healed…and even now, with all Spike's flaws and ugly 
scars exposed, Galvin still plainly idolized Spike. A 
harsh word, a disappointed look, would crush him -- and 
Galvin himself knew it. He wouldn't say no to anything, 
even if he was uncertain. Even if he was scared. 

They sat together on the edge of the bed. For a 

moment, Spike didn't move, didn't speak -- just sat, 
holding Galvin's hand. 

"Spike?" 
Spike took a deep breath and reached up to frame 

Galvin's face between his hands. "If I do anything that 
makes you uncomfortable, I want you to let me know. I 
only want to go as far as you're ready to go." 

"Okay," Galvin said, but his gaze was downcast, his 

eyes hiding from Spike's. 

"Galvin? Look at me." 

Feet of Clay - 91 

Slowly, the veil of his lashes lifted, and Spike looked 

deep into his eyes. "If you want it to stop, you'll say so," 
he ordered. "Promise me." 

Galvin's teeth caught at his lower lip, but he nodded 

and said, "I promise." 

"Good." The tension eased out of Spike’s shoulders. 

He pulled Galvin into his arms, and they lay down 
together. He could feel Galvin's erection pressing hard 
and hot against his hip. His own cock was flush up 
against Galvin's stomach. He suppressed the urge to rub 
against it and just waited as Galvin's arms slipped 
around him, hugging him close. 

Then Galvin's hand came up to rest against his chest. 

Galvin fiddled with the first button of Spike's shirt --
then froze, looking up at him. 

Spike gave him a nod. 
Galvin undid the button, then another, exposing pale 

skin and dark curls of chest hair. Once the last button 
was undone, Galvin gently tugged the shirt off and 
placed his hands against Spike's chest. His thumb 
rubbed over one nipple, and a low groan escaped Spike's 
throat. 

Galvin froze again. "Is this all right?" 
"Yes," he whispered hoarsely. He trembled, 

struggling for control as Galvin traced circles around his 
nipple. It was amazing, he thought, how such a soft 
touch could feel so intense. He bit his lower lip, his 
body shuddering under Galvin's cautious explorations as 
he struggled to control himself. 

Feather-light fingertips drifted over his stomach, and 

the muscles contracted. The fingers strayed lower…then 
stopped just short of the hard bulge in his jeans. 

"Go on." His voice was tight, strained. 
Galvin touched it. His breath hitched. 

Feet of Clay - 92 

Galvin's tongue crept out, pale pink and catlike, to 

wet his lips. He cupped the bulge in Spike's pants and 
rubbed it in slow circles. Spike's hips pushed forward 
into the touch. 

Another rub, and Spike's already frayed control 

snapped. He gripped Galvin's wrists and pushed them to 
the mattress, breathing raggedly. Galvin looked up at 
him with wide eyes. "You keep that up, I'm gonna 
come," Spike whispered, his voice rough and raw. 

"Sorry." 
"Don't apologize." His hands lingered on Galvin's 

wrists. Galvin didn't move, didn't try to pull free, just lay 
there looking up at him with those big, gray eyes, cheeks 
flushed pink, kiss-swollen lips parted. 

Spike's thumb brushed over the soft skin of his inner 

wrist and felt the pulse drumming hot and fast. Was this 
what Galvin wanted? What he craved? 

Spike's heartbeat thundered in his ears. There was 

something thrilling about the feeling of power -- of 
knowing that Galvin was his, that this beautiful boy 
would give him anything, anything at all. Slowly, he 
straddled Galvin, fingers still curled around those thin 
wrists, and pinned them to the bed over Galvin's head. 
"You like this?" 

"Yes." The word escaped as a tiny, breathless 

whisper. 

He leaned down, and his lips brushed against Galvin's 

neck. Galvin let out a soft gasp and gave a start. Spike's 
lips grazed his ear. "Tell me what you like about it." He 
spoke firmly, leaving no doubt that it was an order. 

The muscles of Galvin's throat constricted as he 

swallowed. "I like feeling your strength. It makes me 
feel…safe." 

Feet of Clay - 93 

He searched Galvin's eyes with his. "Having your 

wrists bound, being blindfolded and helpless, unable to 
see or move…that would make you feel safe, too?" 

"Yes." He shifted. "I know it doesn't make sense. I 

don't know if I can explain -- " 

"Try." 
Galvin's breath hitched. "I trust you," he whispered. 

"I trust you enough to give you that power." 

Spike stared into his eyes a moment longer. His 

fingers tightened on Galvin's wrists. He guided them to 
the bed's headboard, wrapped Galvin's fingers around 
the curling metal bars, and released them. "Keep your 
hands there. Don't move them unless I tell you to." 

Galvin's eyes widened, and his pupils dilated. 

"Okay." His fingers clenched on the headboard. 

Spike kissed one nipple, then the other, and trailed 

kisses down Galvin's smooth stomach. Spike’s hands 
slid down Galvin's sides, coming to rest on his hips as 
Spike trailed kisses back up his chest, over his clavicles 
and neck. He drew one nipple into his mouth and gently 
sucked, and Galvin let out a little moan. His fingers 
twitched and clenched harder, knuckles whitening, but 
his hands remained where they were. 

Spike paused, staring. Galvin's arms were stretched 

over his head, fingers gripping the metal bar of the 
headboard, head tipped back, throat bared. The pose was 
so submissive, so open, and something about the glassy, 
drugged look in Galvin's half-open eyes made Spike 
realize that this wasn't a game; this was about trust and 
power and need. Galvin was offering himself 
completely. The knowledge made Spike dizzy, sent 
thrills tingling through his nerves, but there was 
something unnerving and oddly humbling about it, as 
well -- like being handed some priceless, incredibly 

Feet of Clay - 94 

fragile work of art, something that would break if he 
gripped it too hard. 

Spike leaned down and kissed Galvin's exposed 

throat, marveling at the softness of that smooth skin 
against his lips. His hands slid over Galvin's chest, 
palms brushing his nipples, then down along his narrow 
hips, until his hand hovered over the bulge in Galvin's 
jeans. He paused, checking the emotional weather in 
Galvin's eyes. Then he laid his hand over it and rubbed. 

Galvin gasped, and his hips arched upward into the 

touch. 

Slowly, Spike undid the buttons and tugged Galvin's 

jeans down, along with his boxers. His cock was 
flushed, straining upward, a bead of precome glistening 
at the tip. Lightly, Spike stroked one finger along the 
shaft. It twitched under his touch. He paused, checking 
Galvin's expression again, but he couldn't read it. When 
he laid a hand against Galvin's hip, however, he felt 
trembling. 

And still, Galvin's hands remained where they were, 

fingers threaded through the metal headboard. "Can I --
" Spike stopped, then started over, keeping his voice 
firm and gentle. "Tell me what you need." 

Galvin's eyelids flickered. "Please…"  His voice was 

soft and breathless. His chest heaved.  "Touch me." 

Spike's fingers curled slowly around him, and Galvin 

moaned again, his body arching off the bed. 

"Relax." Spike dropped another kiss on Galvin’s 

stomach, curled his hand more firmly around the hard, 
hot column of flesh and slid up and down its length, 
stroking it from base to tip. His other hand settled on 
Galvin's thigh, and his thumb ran gently along the edge 
of Galvin’s balls. He massaged them in slow circles, 
feeling Galvin's cock jerk in his grip. 

Feet of Clay - 95 

Spike hesitated. "Tell me how you want this." 
Galvin blushed brighter, but held his gaze. "I want 

you in me." 

Vertigo swept through Spike. He closed his eyes, 

collecting himself, and took a deep breath. "Okay." 

One finger slipped further back, between the smooth 

cheeks of Galvin's buttocks, to brush against the tight 
ripple of flesh concealed there. He pressed lightly. If 
Galvin hadn't already confirmed his own lack of 
experience, the amount of tightness and resistance 
would have given it away. 

Lube. They needed lube. Did he still have any? In the 

past, he'd always kept a bottle in the top drawer of his 
nightstand, but it had been so long. Biting his lower lip, 
he opened the drawer and rummaged until his fingers 
closed around smooth plastic. He pulled out a clear 
bottle of massage oil. That should work. 

He flipped open the cap. "You ready?" 
"Yes." 
Spike curled his fingers around the hard, hot shaft, 

feeling Galvin's pulse inside. More precome oozed up 
from the tip. His thumb caressed the head, smearing the 
clear fluid over it. With his other hand, he stroked 
Galvin's hip; a steady, calming, repetitive motion, like 
petting a cat. 

Spike slid his fingers up and down the length of that 

stiff cock. All the while, he kept his gaze on Galvin's 
face. He listened to the soft hitch of his breath, watched 
those kiss-swollen lips part. 

Galvin's fingers clutched the metal bars on the 

headboard as his teeth pressed into his lower lip. And 
still, he hadn't once moved his hands -- as if he couldn't 
let go, couldn't disobey -- as if something within his 
mind had switched off and something else had switched 

Feet of Clay - 96 

on and his will was no longer his own. Even without 
rope, Spike had bound him. 

Spike wondered, again, what he had done to deserve 

this perfect trust -- what it meant that Galvin was willing 
to let go so completely, to make himself this vulnerable. 

Spike's hands trembled slightly as he squeezed the 

cool, slippery oil onto his fingers, then gently pushed 
them between Galvin's buttocks. He ran his fingertip 
over the puckered flesh, coating it with oil…then 
pressed, testing the resistance. His gaze locked onto 
Galvin's. "I'll start with just one finger." 

"Okay," Galvin whispered. 
"And you'll tell me if it hurts." 
"Yes." 
Slowly, he worked his fingertip inside. He paused, 

letting Galvin adjust to the feeling. Then he pushed, and 
his finger slid in up to the knuckle. 

Galvin's parted lips drew into a tiny o of surprise. The 

ring of muscle contracted around Spike's knuckle, 
gripping him. God, Galvin was so tight. Just the thought 
of what that heat would feel like around his cock… 

Not yet. 
Galvin's breathing quickened, and his eyes closed. 
"Keep them open," Spike said. 
Gray eyes snapped open wide. He stared, unblinking, 

his hands still fisted on the sheets. 

"You're allowed to blink," Spike said, giving him a 

tiny smile. "I just need to see you." He stroked Galvin's 
hip again. 

Galvin exhaled softly. His eyelids fluttered, and his 

death-grip on the sheets relaxed. "Sorry. I'm a little 
tense. I just -- I've never -- " 

"It's okay." Spike kissed his forehead. "How does it 

feel?" 

Feet of Clay - 97 

He hesitated, fidgeting. "It's…different," he 

murmured. "It feels funny, but not in a bad way." 

"Remember what I said. This can stop anytime you 

want." 

"Okay," came the soft, breathless response. 
Spike kissed his forehead again and shifted, curling 

an arm around him, pulling him closer and holding his 
gaze as Spike moved the finger inside his body. 

It had been awhile since he'd done this. He felt 

painfully awkward and out of practice, poking around 
blindly inside of Galvin, searching --

And there it was. Deeper than he remembered, just 

barely reachable with the tip of his finger, smooth and 
round and slightly yielding to pressure. 

Something shifted in Galvin's eyes; a flicker, a slight 

widening. They started to close…then snapped wide 
open again. 

A little more pressure. Carefully, carefully, he 

massaged the smooth node. A tiny sound escaped 
Galvin's throat, and his eyes rolled up and back -- his 
lids quivered, closed briefly, then flew open again. He 
panted, fingers twisting in the sheets as he stared up at 
Spike through pupils grown huge and fragile. 

Spike kissed the curve of Galvin's jaw, the corner of 

his mouth, tasting the salt of his sweat. Spike’s tongue 
traced the delicate curve of Galvin's ear and dipped 
briefly inside. Then he placed his lips against it and 
whispered, "Are you ready for another?" 

"Y-yes." 
Carefully, he worked his middle finger past that oil-

slicked rim, into Galvin's body. Galvin's breath hissed 
softly between his teeth, and Spike froze. "You're really 
tight," he murmured. He moved his fingers, and Galvin 
tensed as if in pain. Shit. He was fucking this up already. 

Feet of Clay - 98 

Though it might be easier if he could see what he was 
doing. Carefully, he withdrew his fingers. "Can you roll 
onto your stomach for a minute?" 

Galvin froze. His brows knitted in confusion, and 

distress flickered in his eyes. At first, Spike didn't 
understand the reaction. Then realization hit; Galvin's 
hands were still locked in place, gripping the headboard 
as if glued there. 

Spike touched his wrists lightly and said, "You can 

move again." 

Galvin exhaled a soft breath of relief. His hands 

slipped off of the metal bars, and he rolled onto his 
stomach. 

He took those orders so seriously, Spike thought. It 

would be so easy to abuse that power without even 
meaning to. 

And God, why did it excite him so much? 
With his thumbs, Spike separated Galvin’s buttocks, 

exposing the puckered dimple of flesh between them. 

He slid his finger in again -- the sight of it 

disappearing into Galvin's body sent a ripple of lust 
through him -- inserted another, and opened them in a 
scissoring motion, stretching the tight ring of muscle, 
slowly loosening it. 

Galvin panted, and his hips moved, grinding against 

the sheets. His skin glistened, damp with sweat. 

After a little while, Spike slid his fingers out. Unable 

to resist, he placed his hands on Galvin's buttocks and 
squeezed them, enjoying the way the smooth flesh 
bulged between his fingers. Then he separated them 
again and lowered his head. 

When the tip of his tongue touched Galvin's rim, 

Galvin gasped, body jerking in surprise. 

Feet of Clay - 99 

Spike froze. Sammy had always liked this sort of 

thing…but then, even when Spike had first met him, 
Sammy had been more experienced than Galvin. It 
occurred to him that someone who wasn't familiar with 
it might find it really weird, even repulsive. He cleared 
his throat. "Sorry." 

"No, I just -- what was that?" 
"My tongue." 
"You licked me?" His voice squeaked a bit on the 

word licked. 

"Um. Yes. But I won't do it again if you don't want 

me to." 

Galvin looked over one shoulder. Spike couldn't quite 

read his expression, but it wasn't disgust. "Doesn't it 
taste bad?" 

"Not really." 
"Oh." He hesitated. "I don't mind. It just surprised 

me." 

"You don't mind?" 
He shook his head. 
Spike looked down at his hands, still resting on 

Galvin's cheeks, holding them open. He lowered his 
head and licked the pink ring again, adding the slickness 
of saliva to the lubricant already coating it. By now, it 
had loosened enough that he could slip his tongue inside 
just a bit. The taste was faintly bitter, faintly salty, 
mixed with the oily but not unpleasant taste of lube, and 
he could feel the muscles clenching and relaxing against 
his tongue. 

Galvin shifted, hips twitching and shivering and 

pushing back and forth, grinding his cock into the 
sheets. Soft, hungry little sounds escaped his throat; he 
didn't seem to be conscious that he was making them. 

Feet of Clay - 100 

Spike licked him again, long and slow and wet, then 

withdrew his tongue and inserted his fingers once more. 
Galvin's breathing echoed through the room, heavy and 
ragged, and he wanted so much, wanted to hold Galvin 
down and just take him…but still, he continued, coating 
his fingers with more lube and sliding them back inside, 
stretching them open, giving himself a brief glimpse of 
the dark, reddish flesh inside Galvin. 

At last, he withdrew. Kneeling on the bed, trembling 

with the effort of controlling himself, he began to 
unbutton his jeans. His cock felt like it was about to 
burst as he tugged his jeans and boxers down. 

He wanted to see Galvin's eyes while he did this, 

wanted to be looking right into them when Galvin came. 
"Roll on your back." 

Galvin obeyed. He stretched out, propped up on his 

elbows, his cock sticking straight up. Then his gaze 
locked on Spike's erection. The tip of his tongue crept 
out to moisten his lips, and the sight sent a wave of 
weakness through Spike. 

Galvin started to reach out, hesitated, and looked up 

uncertainly at Spike, silently asking permission -- as if 
Spike wouldn't have let him do anything, anything at all. 

"Go ahead," he whispered hoarsely. He could hold 

out a little longer, he thought. Just a little longer. 

Slim fingers lightly, tentatively touched his cock and 

slid along its length. Spike's jaw clenched, and the cords 
in his neck stood out. His balls throbbed, tightening as 
come pooled inside them. He bit his tongue and focused 
on the pain. Not yet. 

Galvin's fingers curled around him. He sat up and 

leaned forward, lips parted, his breathing soft and 
unsteady. His gaze lifted. "I want to." 

Feet of Clay - 101 

Spike's heart slammed against the wall of his chest. 

Breathless, he nodded. 

They shifted around on the bed until Spike was 

sitting with his back against the headboard and Galvin 
was stretched out on his stomach, his lips -- still red and 
swollen and wet from kisses -- hovering over the tip of 
Spike's erection. They touched the head of Spike's cock, 
then parted and engulfed him, and oh God that mouth 
was so soft, so wet, so hot. 

A low groan rose up from Spike's throat. His hips 

pushed forward, deeper into that inviting wetness, and 
he watched hungrily as those moist lips stretched around 
the girth of his cock and Galvin sucked, those smooth 
flushed cheeks pulling inward. 

Galvin pulled back, licking his lips. "Does this feel 

good?" His voice was soft, uncertain. 

"Yes," Spike whispered back roughly. 
Then his lips were around Spike's cock again, sliding 

up and down its length, his eyes lust-glazed and heavy-
lidded, his mouth tugging and sucking. His teeth grazed 
too-sensitive flesh, and Spike bit his lower lip to hide 
the pain, afraid that if he showed it, Galvin would stop. 
His fingers twined into Galvin's hair, gripping, and he 
looked down into those dazed eyes -- the eyes of 
someone lost in a deep trance. 

Spike had done that somehow -- had switched off the 

outer layers of his consciousness, leaving the raw 
architecture of his id exposed. And apparently Galvin's 
id wanted to suck and suck and suck him like a giant 
piece of candy. 

Spike's hands fisted in silky, brown hair, gripping 

tighter as Galvin's tongue swirled over the head of his 
cock. This had to be wrong somehow, he thought. It 

Feet of Clay - 102 

--

couldn't be allowed. It felt too good. He didn't deserve it 

Then Galvin's tongue rubbed against the underside of 

his cock, scattering his thoughts, and he groaned, 
trembling. He was seconds away from coming, despite 
all his efforts to hold back. But he didn't have the 
recovery time of a younger man, and he wasn't ready for 
this to be over yet.  He pulled back, panting, and Galvin 
looked up at him with enormous eyes, his expression 
stricken, as if asking silently what he'd done wrong to 
make it stop. Spike managed a reassuring smile. "You 
said you wanted me inside you." 

Galvin's breath caught, and something flickered 

across his expression. Excitement or fear -- Spike 
couldn't tell. "How should I -- " 

"Hang on." Condoms, he thought. He'd been tested 

awhile back and was clean, as far as he knew, but he 
kept a box in the nightstand anyway. He yanked the 
drawer open, rummaged through, and fished out one of 
the foil-covered packets. 

Galvin waited, watching uncertainly as Spike 

fumbled and finally rolled it on. "Okay," he said, 
panting. 

Galvin's gaze darted to the bottle of massage oil. 

"Can I…?" 

"Yes." Spike's heartbeat thundered in his ears. 
Galvin drizzled oil into his palm. He spread it over 

Spike's erection, coating it from base to tip. Spike's hips 
twitched, pushing forward into Galvin’s hand. He 
planted both hands on the bed, bracing himself, his arms 
trembling. He couldn't hold out much longer; the frayed 
remnants of his control were stretched thin, ready to 
snap. 

Feet of Clay - 103 

Spike gripped Galvin's thighs, hoisting them slightly 

off the bed, and looked down into his eyes. "Are you 
ready?" Please say yes, please. 

"Yes," Galvin whispered. 
Spike inched his hips forward until the round, blunt 

head of his cock was pressed between Galvin's cheeks, 
against the puckered opening. He pushed. 

Galvin's slicked hole blossomed open, stretching as 

the first few inches of Spike's cock entered him. Galvin 
tensed, and Spike stopped, panting, engulfed by a wave 
of vertigo. Galvin was so incredibly tight, so hot and 
slick, and all of Spike's instincts demanded that he thrust 
forward into that welcoming heat…but he held himself 
motionless, giving Galvin time to get used to the feeling. 

Galvin remained tense, trembling slightly, and Spike 

whispered into one ear, "It's okay." His hand smoothed 
soft, brown hair, tucking errant strands gently behind 
Galvin's ears, and cupped one soft cheek. "I won't hurt 
you." 

"I know," came the soft reply. 
Slowly, the tight muscles loosened around him, 

enough for him to slide his cock forward another inch, 
then another, until he was fully sheathed within that 
tight body. 

Galvin stared up at Spike. That look -- the look that 

was both rapt and dazed, entranced -- hadn't left his 
eyes. "You're in me," he whispered. 

"Yes." 
Slowly, Spike began to move inside him. 
Galvin clutched Spike’s shoulders. A tiny sound 

escaped his throat. Spike kissed his neck, his cheek. 
Spike hesitated over Galvin's lips, remembering where 
his own mouth had been a moment ago. 

Feet of Clay - 104 

Galvin pressed his lips firmly to Spike's. If he minded 

the taste of himself at all, he didn't show it. 

Spike felt his control slipping. He couldn't stop it --

with a groan, he bowed his head and let instinct take 
over, thrusting harder, deeper. Galvin's head fell back 
against the pillow, mouth open in a gasp. 

Spike reached down to curl his oil-slicked fingers 

around Galvin's cock, and Galvin's fingers tightened on 
his shoulders, digging into his skin. 

Galvin’s hips arched off the bed. Come spurted from 

the tip of his cock, splashing across his stomach and 
chest, and his walls clenched tight around Spike. 

He'd been just barely holding onto himself, and the 

pressure tipped him over the edge. With a choked gasp, 
he came…then went limp, panting, his face pressed 
against Galvin's chest. Slowly, he raised his head and 
met Galvin's wide, unfocused eyes. One hand cupped his 
face. "Are you okay?" 

Galvin didn't reply, just stared at him with wide, 

dazed eyes. His lips moved, as if he was trying to speak, 
but no sound emerged. 

"Galvin?" 
He blinked. Slowly, his eyes focused. "Spike?" 
"I'm here. Are you okay?" 
"I…yes," he whispered. The muscles of his throat 

worked as he swallowed. "Everything's spinning." 

Spike pulled out and tugged off the condom. His 

insides went cold when he saw the thread of blood, red 
against the white latex. Galvin's blood. Just a little, but 
still -- it had been too much, too fast. He stretched out 
beside Galvin and wrapped him in a tight embrace. "I'm 
sorry," he whispered. 

"Why?" Galvin whispered back. 
"I was too rough with you." 

Feet of Clay - 105 

Galvin shook his head slowly. He gazed up at Spike, 

his expression drowsy and open. One hand wandered up 
to play with Spike's hair, winding the dark strands 
around his fingers. "You weren't." He smiled, his eyes 
soft and heavy-lidded. He looked drugged, out of it…but 
perfectly relaxed, languid, at peace. His head came to 
rest against Spike's shoulder, and he curled against him, 
nestling into his chest. "I love you." 

Spike's breath caught at those words. His arms 

tightened around Galvin…then he kissed Galvin's 
forehead softly. "I love you, too." 

Feet of Clay - 106 

Chapter Ten 

When Spike finally looked up, it was dark outside the 

window, and his right arm -- now pinned under Galvin -
- was numb. Galvin had drifted off, and his soft 
breathing echoed through the room. 

Spike stared at Galvin's sleeping face, and a knot in 

his chest tightened. 

He'd promised himself he wouldn't let this happen. 

Throughout the days he'd spent with Galvin, he'd 
reminded himself over and over that Galvin was too 
young for him. Too innocent, too trusting, too good. 

But in spite of that, he hadn't been able to let go. He'd 

kept Galvin with him, telling himself that Galvin needed 
the work, telling himself it was okay just to look, that 
just having this beautiful, sweet young man around a 
little longer wouldn't hurt anything…like an addict 
telling himself that just one more pill or one more drink 
wouldn't hurt. 

And of course, in the end, he hadn't been able to 

control himself. 

He'd do anything for you, whispered a dark voice in 

his head. And you knew it from the beginning. That's 
why you offered him the job, isn't it? Sure, you told 
yourself you were just helping him out, but all along you 
were thinking about it. Even if you wouldn't admit it to 
yourself, somewhere deep down in your id, you were 
thinking about his lips wrapped around your dick. You 
wanted to fuck him. And you got what you wanted, didn't 
you? All you had to do was snap your fingers and he fell 
into your bed. 

But then, didn't Spike always fall for the vulnerable 

ones? Sammy had been the same way -- a lost, lonely 
soul without a penny or a friend in the world. Maybe 

Feet of Clay - 107 

that was what he craved. Someone to need him, 
someone who would look to him as a savior. But in the 
end, he always failed. Everything always went sour. 

Spike eased his arm out from under Galvin and sat 

up. For a moment, the arm remained limp and numb, 
then began to tingle with pins and needles. 

Galvin stirred, awakened by the movement. His eyes 

flickered open, soft and drowsy. When they focused on 
Spike, he smiled…but the smile faded almost 
immediately. "Spike?" 

He drew in a slow, shaky breath. "Listen, Galvin, 

I…" He stopped, biting his tongue. 

Fear flickered in Galvin's expression. He sat up, the 

sheets gathered against his chest, and stared at Spike 
with wide eyes. "What's wrong?" 

He could hide behind a smile. Could try to swallow 

the lump burning in his throat and pretend that it was all 
okay. But what then? How long could he keep doing it? 

Someday, Galvin would realize that he'd put all his 

eggs in the wrong basket, and the basket was rotting and 
falling apart -- that Spike was a broken, pathetic wreck 
of a man -- and what then? What happened when that 
trust was ripped out from under Galvin's feet? 

"Nothing is wrong," he said, and the words sounded 

unconvincing even to his ears. 

Galvin bit his lower lip. "Are you sure?" 
He swallowed, his fingers clenching on the sheets. 

And he knew he couldn't pretend, couldn't hide it. "I 
took advantage of you." 

Galvin stared, mouth open. "What are you talking 

about?" 

The hurt in those eyes burned him. Spike looked 

away. "I pushed you into this. I took advantage of your 
trust." 

Feet of Clay - 108 

"No, it -- it wasn't like that." His breathing 

quickened. "I wanted it. I wanted you." 

Spike stared down at his hands and said nothing. 
"I don't understand." Even now, he didn't sound 

angry; just bewildered and hurt. "Why does it have to be 
wrong?" 

"I'm poisonous. I keep hurting you." He buried his 

fingers in his hair, head bowed. "I keep telling myself 
I'll stop. That I won't let it happen again. But I keep 
doing it. Like a record skipping. I can't stop." 

The look on Galvin's face went through Spike's chest 

like a sharpened icicle: pale, wide-eyed, brows pinched 
together, lips trembling. And he wanted to take it back. 
He wanted to rewind time and just keep his mouth shut, 
swallow the poison in his throat before it could come 
out, but it was too late now. He'd already fucked this up 
too badly. 

His fingertips dug into his scalp. 
"Is it something I did?" Galvin asked softly. "Is that 

why you're -- " 

"No. It isn't you." 
Galvin looked away. His eyes had glazed over, as if 

he wasn't quite there. "Do you want me to go?" he 
asked, his voice soft and subdued. 

Spike's chest tightened. He knew he should say yes. 

He should let Galvin go now, before Spike could make 
this any worse…but he couldn't bear the thought, and 
the word burst out before he could stop it. "No!" 

"Then what? Tell me." 
Spike took a deep, shaky breath and ground the heels 

of his hands against his forehead, trying to focus, to 
think, but it was no good. His thoughts were a chaotic 
mess. 

Feet of Clay - 109 

"Tell me what to do," Galvin whispered forlornly. He 

looked small and lost, huddled in a ball on the bed. 

"I…" Spike's mouth worked, but nothing came out. 

His throat had closed up. And he realized it was fear; he 
was afraid to speak, afraid of what might happen, what 
might come out. 

Words were funny things. They could heal someone 

or destroy someone. Spike had made his living with 
words -- he should know what to say in a moment like 
this, shouldn't he? -- yet at the worst possible moments 
his own words seemed to turn into nets that entangled 
him, or jumble together in his throat until they choked 
him, or sharpen into jagged shards that cut someone 
else's heart. 

And Galvin believed everything he said. That made it 

all the more dangerous. 

In his mind, Spike saw the empty whiteness of a 

blank page, and himself groping for words that wouldn't 
come. But it wasn't merely a lack of inspiration; he 
knew that now. It was terror of the unpredictable power 
and danger of words -- the power that had drawn this 
young man to him, which had sunk deep inside Galvin 
and blinded him to Spike's failings. And now a single 
sentence -- I took advantage of you -- had crushed him. 
Used carelessly, words were more dangerous than 
knives. 

He hid his face in trembling hands. Paralysis crept 

over him, numbing him. He was falling into himself, his 
thoughts crumbling and collapsing. 

"Spike?" Galvin's voice was soft, uncertain -- but 

something in it had changed. 

Say something. Anything. 

Feet of Clay - 110 

The silence stretched on, the seconds swelling. He 

wanted to say, I need you. He wanted to say, Help me. 
But the words wouldn't come. 

Galvin's hands touched his -- warm, gentle -- and 

pulled them away from his face. Spike's breath caught, 
and his hands trembled. Galvin squeezed them, and he 
looked up. 

Galvin was still pale, but when he spoke, his voice 

was strangely calm. "After my dad died…everyone told 
me that it wasn't my fault, but I didn't believe them. I 
kept thinking that I could have stopped it. That if I had 
just been a little stronger, a little better, he'd still be 
alive. I thought I must be a terrible person. That I didn't 
deserve anyone's love. And no matter how many 
counselors I go to or how many pills I take, a part of me 
still believes that I killed him." His fingers curled slowly 
around Spike's. "I know what it's like. That feeling. 
Sometimes it comes suddenly, and I can't move. 
Because I'm afraid that whatever I do, whatever I say, it 
will be wrong, and everything will come crashing 
down." 

Spike swallowed, his throat tight, watching through 

tear-blurred eyes as Galvin's thumbs stroked his palms. 
"I -- I don't -- I didn't mean -- " 

"It's okay," Galvin whispered. He reached up to touch 

Spike's cheek, fingertips sliding over the rough stubble. 
"You don't have to say anything." 

He closed his eyes, a wave of gratitude washing over 

him, so sudden and strong it made him dizzy. Galvin 
had seen. He didn't know how, exactly, but it had 
happened. He laid his hand over Galvin's, holding it to 
his cheek, savoring the coolness of smooth skin against 
his own. 

Feet of Clay - 111 

"You don't have to keep punishing yourself," Galvin 

said. "I know you're not perfect. I'm not perfect, either. 
I'm broken and fucked up and scared. I'm scared that this 
will go wrong, that I'll do something to ruin it. But I 
want to try. I want to do everything I can to try to make 
it work." 

Spike nodded. The lump was still lodged in his 

throat, cutting off air and voice, but the tears prickling at 
the corners of his eyes were tears of relief. He hadn't 
realized, until that moment, how much he'd needed to 
hear those words. 

End this now, the darkness inside him suddenly 

hissed. He flinched. You'll only hurt him. People close to 
you die, remember? 

But Galvin wasn't Sammy. And Spike's life, until 

now, had been one long penitence for Sammy's 
death…because he couldn't let go, couldn't stop loving 
Sammy, and if he continued to hate and punish himself 
for Sammy's death, it meant there was still a connection 
between them, however dark and perverted it might be. 

But he couldn't. He couldn't keep doing it. 
I'm sorry, Sammy. I've been doing this for so long. 

But I have to let you go. 

He wrapped his arms around Galvin and hugged him 

close. 

And he knew -- he knew this was right. Inside him, 

something uncoiled and relaxed. 

For so long he had been clinging to the shame and the 

self-hatred, feeding it, nursing it, needing it. Self-hatred 
was an addiction -- he knew that all too well -- and 
trying to break the addiction became a self-feeding loop, 
because everything he did to escape that feeling made 
him hate himself more. Maybe Galvin knew that, too. 

Feet of Clay - 112 

The darkness would come back. It wouldn't be 

vanquished that easily. It would return with more 
seductive whispers and lies. But he couldn't afford to 
keep punishing himself, not when those punishments 
hurt Galvin. He would fight. Fight for himself, for both 
of them. 

"We'll make it work," Spike said softly, hoarsely. 
Galvin leaned his head against Spike's shoulder. He 

closed his eyes and turned his head, his lips brushing 
against Spike's ear. "Tell me to stay," he whispered. 

Spike rested his chin on Galvin's hair and held him 

tighter. "Stay." 

Galvin melted into Spike’s embrace. His fingers 

twined into Spike's hair, and Spike felt the wetness of 
tears as Galvin pressed his face against Spike's neck. 
"Okay," he whispered. 

The End 

Feet of Clay - 113 

If you enjoyed this, try these other stories by Amanda 
Steiger from Torquere Press! 

Flight 

Kell is nineteen, becoming a man. His best friend, 

Ash, has already grown his wings and crossed the 
threshold into adulthood. The Change is a time of rapid, 
violent transformation, both physical and emotional, and 
with these changes come mysterious new desires, 
culminating in the ritual of the mating flight. 

Too bad Kell isn't ready to grow his wings and leave 

the simple pleasures of youth behind. Despite Ash's 
encouragement, he fears the unknown and the loss of his 
old life. But the Change comes to all, whether they want 
it or not... and when Kell finally grows his wings, he 
finds himself flooded with powerful and confusing new 
feelings for his friend. 

Virgil Unplugs 

Shy, reclusive Virgil spends most of his time in a 

virtual fantasy world known only as “the game.” When 
he meets Kiren there, a playful, kind-hearted elf with 
entrancing golden eyes, he remembers what it feels like 
to truly connect with another human being. He wants to 
meet Kiren in real life. 

But for some reason, Kiren insists that they can’t 

meet, that a relationship between them would be 
impossible outside of the virtual world of the game. 
Determined to find out why, Virgil searches for Kiren 
himself. Can a virtual love survive reality? 

www.torquerebooks.com 

Feet of Clay - 114