Mistleton and Other Men

As usual, Linda Applecrisp, Julian Vex’s housekeeper, showed up bright and early on Monday morning for her biweekly service call. She let herself in—Vex taught an early morning class on Mondays—and quickly covered her nose with one of her cleaning rags, trying to block out the sickly-sweet, sulfurous odor that permeated the apartment. She glanced around for signs of Vex’s presence but found none. As she moved deeper into the apartment, the beeping of Vex’s alarm clock echoed through the stillness. Slowly, she opened the door to his bedroom—and discovered his dead, decaying body on the floor.

Once they arrived, the police cordoned off an area bounded by the living room on one end and the study at the other end of a long hallway, confining Linda to the kitchen while they assessed the body and checked for any signs of foul play. To take her mind off the horrific scene she’d just witnessed, Linda did what she knew best—and what Vex had hired her to do: She started cleaning up the kitchen. She tossed the empty praline box and hid the unopened one at the bottom of her tote bag, beneath her cleaning supplies. True to her last name, Linda had a sweet tooth so strong she’d even steal evidence from a crime scene to satisfy it.

Finding no signs of struggle, injury, or drug use and satisfied with Linda’s witness statement (which conveniently left out any mention of the pralines), the police classified Vex’s death as natural.

After documenting the scene, they arranged for the removal of the body, carefully noting Vex’s position and the condition of his surroundings. Aware of Vex’s history of heart disease—he’d had an emergency catheterization and stent placement in two coronary arteries three years prior—the medical examiner, after a brief review of the case, opted to forgo an autopsy and toxicology tests. With no obvious signs of foul play and given the clear medical history, the examiner listed cardiac arrest as the official cause of death.

With no poison thorn to speak of, and no viral social media posts to stir intrigue, Julian Vex’s death didn’t become the stuff of local legend like Stella Stiles’s. For those who knew him well, especially his students, Vex’s unexpected demise was a major shock that left them feeling, temporarily, vulnerable to forces far greater than themselves.

Remarkably, in almost no time at all, Noah had recovered from the shock and deftly maneuvered his way into the chairmanship of the local history museum that Vex’s death had left vacant. He also managed to secure a position as Vex’s replacement in the creative writing program at the community college. He said, often lowering his voice and tilting his head while still staring his audience directly in the eye, that he felt duty-bound to honor the memory of his mentor by continuing his work.

Meanwhile, Mistleton’s newest business venture was taking shape. Struck by Sharon Needles’s interest in his gourmet market concept during Thanksgiving, he brought her on to manage the business’s social media accounts and—much to Woody’s consternation—the marketing.

“I’m just giving her a chance to develop her skills,” Mistleton insisted when Woody pressed him on the matter. For the first time in their relationship, Woody didn’t fully believe him. He wondered if he was being shut out.

He and Mistleton hadn’t shared an intimate moment in bed together since the hand job, and they hadn’t had sexual intercourse in even longer. If what Mistleton ultimately wanted was a companion, Woody could somehow learn to live with that—though the thought of letting go of the romance and physical intimacy saddened him. At the same time, he was still far too young to make such sacrifices and forsake physical pleasure, especially when so much of his life was still ahead of him.

One solitary Saturday afternoon in December—Mistleton was on his bike again—an image flashed in Woody’s head, catching him off guard. It was of him bent over hay bales with Hunter behind him—naked except for a cowboy hat—mercilessly pounding him. No way, he thought to himself. Too risky. But at this point in their relationship, if Mistleton ever found out… would he even care? He might even want to join them. Woody felt himself swelling in his pants.

Curiosity finally got the better of him, and Woody decided that instead of lounging around the house or heading down to the Vine and fantasizing, he’d take a stroll around the farm—just in case he might, by chance, run into Hunter. He hadn’t explored the farm very much up to this point, and besides, the exercise would do him good.

As if to convince himself that he wasn’t on the hunt for a hook-up, he headed first to the old washhouse, where—just as at Des Chêsnes—Mistleton had set up a small laboratory, and where Woody knew he wouldn’t find Hunter. The building was well suited for reuse as a chemistry lab, with a large wet sink and good ventilation. A sturdy workbench on one side provided ample space for beakers, flasks, and a hot plate for evaporation and crystallization. Wooden shelves lined the side wall, stocked with airtight containers of raw materials and reagents, including potassium hydroxide, hydrochloric acid, and even a bag of ordinary table sugar—proof that Mistleton’s experiments often straddled the boundary between the mundane and the arcane. Safety goggles and other protective equipment were neatly arranged, and his Paris-Baclay lab coat hung from a nail on another wall, a reminder of his formal training in far grander facilities.

Woody spotted him at his next stop—an old pump house outfitted as a small gym. Hunter was working out. The door was ajar, wide enough for Woody to stand out of view and observe him without being noticed.

Hunter lay back on the bench, his broad chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. His caramel brown chest hair, which followed the contours of his muscular frame, caught the light as he lifted. Each push sent a ripple through his chest and shoulders, the muscles tightening as veins stood out slightly along his forearms and biceps. A sheen of sweat highlighted his powerful build, emphasizing the lines of muscle beneath his skin. He exhaled in controlled bursts with each lift, his gaze focused, intense. A low grunt escaped as he powered through the final rep, his abs tensing, giving him an almost effortless aura of strength.

Woody stood frozen, transfixed by the rhythmic power of Hunter’s lifts, unable to look away. Hunter’s chest and arms flexed with each press, the sweat glistening under the raking light. His sculpted legs, firm and steady, anchored him to the bench, adding an undeniable sense of control to his every movement. The fit of his shorts revealed the strong, defined lines of his physique, hinting at the strength and masculinity that extended beyond his muscles. Without breaking his rhythm, Hunter’s voice cut through the silence, calm and even.

“Need something, Woody?” His eyes never left the barbell, his focus unwavering as if he’d known all along that Woody was watching him.

Need? Want? Woody thought to himself, wrestling with the difference. Need was undeniable. Want was a choice, a leap. Say it, a voice urged, state it plainly. Yet fear gripped him, whispering of the risks.

Woody opened the door a little wider but stayed rooted in place, fingers tightening on the edge of the frame. “Um, hey, Hunter. Sorry to disturb you during your workout,” he said, his gaze fixed on Hunter’s firm grip as he lifted and lowered the barbell. I’m just looking for Bush.” As the name left Woody’s mouth, his gaze landed on the jeans and shirt Mistleton had worn that morning, draped carelessly over a chair.

“He’s out for a ride,” Hunter replied, his voice steady as he maintained the measured cadence of his lifts. “You know him.” More than ever, Woody found himself questioning if he truly did.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Woody replied, the words coming out almost automatically. He knew full well that Mistleton was out for a ride, but he couldn’t help acknowledging Hunter’s response, even if it and Mistleton’s clothes on the chair left him with more questions than answers.

Hunter sat up after his last rep, breathing steadily as he wiped his hands on his thighs. With a slow, deliberate spin on the bench, he turned to face Woody, his gaze steady and unwavering. For a moment, neither of them spoke, and then, without breaking eye contact, he patted the bench beside him. “Wanna try it out?” he asked, his voice calm but charged, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. The offer hung between them, a mix of challenge and invitation. Woody stood motionless, feeling the weight of Hunter’s steady gaze.

After a few seconds of hesitation, Woody stepped toward the bench.