Glass Tidings

by Amy Jo Cousins

  Being awake for half the night gave his brain plenty of time to come up with some messed-up backstories for the lanky man down the hall, unfortunately. By the time dawn rolled around, Gray had imagined everything from a traveling serial killer—hey, Gray wasn’t the only one who could have been Dexter in this situation—to a drug lord on the run.

  The drug lord thing seemed a stretch, but drug dealer or drug mule sounded pretty reasonable, actually.

  Which was why he was sneaking down the hall to his guest room, turning the doorknob slowly enough to minimize its squeak, and creeping into the darkened room on stocking feet.

  He’d brought Eddie’s clean clothes—slightly wrinkled from having sat in the dryer overnight—with him as an excuse for his total lack of class. And manners. And legal behavior, because going through someone else’s stuff had to be illegal, right?

  The overwhelming feeling of being a total asshole was a sign he probably ought to turn back, but Gray spotted the duffel bag pressed against the wall under the window and then it was too late. He dropped the clothes on the empty dresser top and crouched down next to the bag, flinching at the zzzzz noise as he eased the zipper open.

  He stuck his hand in the bag.

  The hoarse voice rumbling from under the covers rocked Gray back on his heels.

  “Morning.”

  He yanked his hand out of the bag as if he’d accidentally thrust it into a fire.

  “Um. Morning.”

  Like that was a useful thing to say when you’d been busted snooping.

  The low mumble got more articulate, teasing almost. “Most of the time, if someone comes in without knocking, they just come right into the bed.”

  Gray’s face heated. “I was . . .” He didn’t know how to finish.

  Eddie’s face popped up over the edge of the duvet. His hair was a tangled mess, flat on one side of his head and knotted on the other. “Wondering if you’d offered a room in your home to a serial killer?” he rasped, rubbing his throat like it ached.

  “Of course not,” Gray scoffed.

  Busted.

  “Or a thief? Or drug dealer?” Eddie’s eyes stayed locked on his.

  Gray knew his flinch at the words drug dealer gave him away. Plus, he couldn’t hold Eddie’s gaze, and the twist to Eddie’s mouth said he knew why.

  The shadow that crept into Eddie’s eyes made Gray’s heart hurt.

  Eddie shrugged. “No worries. I get it. I don’t exactly look like a sterling citizen. Rummage away, but be careful, please. There’s some fragile stuff in there I can’t afford to replace.”

  And with that, Eddie leaned back against his pillow, giving a permissive wave at his bag and leaving Gray awkward and nonplussed.

  He’d braced himself for an argument. For push back. Eddie’s easy submission to Gray’s nosy demands unbalanced their dynamic, putting Gray in the position of feeling the need to apologize, when he was operating under the assumption that Eddie was the possible wrongdoer. It felt weird to mutter, “Sorry,” as he knelt by Eddie’s duffel to check for . . . bad stuff.

  Gray wasn’t even sure he’d recognize “bad stuff” if he saw it. He’d never seen any drug other than marijuana in person. And having nightmares years later about some of the scenes from Requiem for a Dream didn’t mean he’d recognize coke or heroin or whatever if he saw it. Besides, how in depth was he prepared to go with this search? Was he going to turn all of Eddie’s socks inside out? Go through all the pockets of his pants? Paw through his wallet?

  For some reason, that last thought really threw him. It seemed an egregious invasion of privacy to go through another man’s wallet. Like reading his journal or email.

  But before his internal tizzy of a debate could set him spinning further, the problem resolved itself.

  A cursory search of the mess of tools and something that looked like a blowtorch was all his sense of decency would allow him, even with permission, but the first thing his hands bumped into was a glasses case that made a sound it absolutely should not make.

  “Umm, I think something is . . . rattling. That shouldn’t be.”

  Eddie was out of the bed and crouched next to him on the floor faster than Gray could blink.

  Naked Eddie.

  Naked Eddie with dark hair on his ropey forearms as he ripped the box from Gray’s fingers.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit. Motherfucking shit.” The chanted words rose in volume as Eddie carefully opened the case and then tilted it over his hand.

  Translucent blue shards spilled into Eddie’s palm, tinkling against one another.

  Gray lunged as Eddie’s fingers closed, grabbing the man’s hand before he could do real damage to himself.

  “Be careful,” he snapped, pulling Eddie’s fingers open until the man came to his senses. Gray dumped the shards back into the case, then snapped it shut and set it down.

  “Fuck.” Eddie sat on the floor with a thump, knees falling as his legs crossed like a child’s. Grief carved lines on either side of his mouth.

  “What’s wrong? What broke?”

  Digging the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, Eddie muttered to himself for a moment and then answered. “My glasses.”

  “You wear glasses?” Eddie hadn’t been wearing them the night before.

  “Not for seeing. They’re didymium glasses. I need them for glasswork, so I don’t burn my retinas out. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

  None of this made any sense to Gray, but Eddie was clearly distraught. “Can they be replaced?”

  “Sure. You can get ’em on Amazon. But those were a hundred-and-twenty-buck pair. I don’t exactly have that kind of dough sitting in my bank account. Fuck.”

  Gray didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t rich, but if he needed something that cost a hundred bucks, he bought it. He might be annoyed if he was replacing something that should have lasted longer than it had, but it wouldn’t push him to the edge of tears.

  “Well, fuck a duck.” Eddie let out a heavy sigh.

  Gray nearly smiled at the silly curse, but the moment clearly didn’t call for smiling.

  “Maybe they have them cheaper at Home Depot?” was all Gray could think to suggest. Eddie had mentioned last night to Christine that he’d been traveling from Chicago. Everything in the city was insanely expensive, in his opinion. “I could take you. But not until tonight, after work.”

  Eddie cocked his head like a baby bird, mouth open in surprise.

  Grayson wasn’t sure himself what had prompted his impulsive offer. Maybe this would make it even clearer that Eddie didn’t have to prostitute himself for a place to stay, his offering to do Eddie an additional kindness? See? Look. I’m such a good guy, I’ll take you to run errands before you leave town.

  “They’re probably cheapest on Amazon.”

  Gray shrugged, trying not to show how disappointed he was by that statement.

  Why am I disappointed?

  “Maybe. Might be worth checking though.” No pressure.

  “Maybe.” Eddie’s whole body slumped with unhappiness.

  Gray racked his brain for ideas. Did he know anyone who would use something like this? Who would have a spare pair lying around? Clear Lake had its fair share of quirky artists, sure. The woman who used an old-fashioned loom to weave tapestry wall hangings. A painter who’d spent too much time admiring Seurat’s Sunday Afternoon at La Grande Jatte, and turned that obsession loose on local subjects. Pointillist red barns and brown cows and fields of corn and soybeans.

  They’d all tried to tack Christmas clichés onto their work and convince Gray to buy them for his shop, but he’d mostly resisted. He liked buying from catalogues online, keeping a fine distance between himself and the vendors whose stock he bought in spring and summer for the two months of business that capped his year.

  None of the artists he knew needed safety glasses for their work.

  “Shit!” Eddie dove back into his duffel with the muttered curse, pawing through the jumble of objects that took up more space than th
e few clothes Gray could see. Sitting back on his heels, Eddie cradled a small, corrugated cardboard box in his hands, plucking at its lid with gentle fingers.

  “What’s wrong?” Grayson asked automatically. No misreading the anxiety in Eddie’s voice.

  “Nothing.”

  Which was clearly a lie. But maybe the kind of polite lie everyone engaged in when trying to conceal their panic from acquaintances. Gray wasn’t even certain he qualified as an acquaintance, although it seemed as if spending the night together under his roof ought to bring him some kind of half step up from total stranger.

  The box open, Eddie tugged the contents out, peeling away crumpled pages of old newsprint like petals from a flower. The inky paper looked as if it had been wrapped and unwrapped so many times the pieces were starting to fray and split around the round curve of the sphere inside. Finally, the object itself sat cradled in Eddie’s palm.

  A Christmas ornament.

  Gray huffed a laugh, raising his open hands in apology when Eddie’s head whipped around so he could glare at Gray. He hadn’t meant to laugh as if it were silly for Eddie to have been worried for the beautiful glass ball. It had just struck him as funny that his job should have popped up in his home like this.

  There was a reason Gray didn’t have a single wreath or strand of lights or sprig of mistletoe on display at home. He hadn’t put up a tree in years. There was something unutterably pathetic about decorating a home for the holidays only to spend every night sitting in front of the tree, under the sparkling lights, by himself. At home, Gray didn’t acknowledge the season at all.

  As if I don’t spend these eight weeks surrounded by everything Christmas every year . . .

  He didn’t begrudge other people their holiday traditions and rituals. He’d just given up entirely on his own.

  Apathy didn’t mean he was blind to artistry, however.

  “That’s beautiful.” Gray wanted to ask if he could see it up close, but Eddie was cradling the ball in two hands as if afraid to let it go, so he kept his wish to himself. “Is it a family heirloom?”

  He bit his tongue on the rest of the question about why anyone would travel with something so obviously precious to them in such precarious packaging. Cardboard and tissue paper were no match for the kind of wear and tear he imagined a cross-country bus ride would take on luggage.

  “No.” Eddie’s answer was curt. “I made it.”

  “Really?” Grayson said, knowing his voice radiated far more surprise than was polite.

  A withering glance was thrown his way.

  “Yeah. Really.” Eddie scowled at him. “I’m not actually a whore, you know. Or a druggie.”

  “I didn’t mean it like . . . You don’t look like an artist,” Gray fumbled out. Why did he keep saying the wrong things with this man? He wasn’t sure which way Eddie had misread his startled exclamation and was queasy at the idea that he’d come off like a bigot. “Not that you look like a . . .” God, this was getting worse with every word. He searched desperately for something to climb like a ladder out of this verbal hole. “I sell them. Ornaments. At my shop. I order them every summer by the case, but I’ve never met any of the artists who make them.”

  Eddie slashed a hand through the air, dismissing some part of what Gray had said. Or all of it. Who knew? “I’m no artist.”

  “Bullshit.” Gray felt his spine drawing itself up, his shopkeeper’s voice asserting itself, the one that kept small children from tearing through aisles full of breakable treasures. “I know art when I see it.”

  The lifted brow he got in return questioned his authority. Or his sanity. Eddie shrugged. “I don’t normally do stuff like this.”

  “What do you normally do?”

  “Unicorns. Fairies. Mermaids. Wands. Like, magic wands. Whatever’s hot this year on the Ren faire circuit and can be churned out a couple dozen at a time. It’s not art. I’m like one of those line machines in a factory, doing the same things over and over again.”

  Gray didn’t understand half of what Eddie was rattling on about, but he definitely got the sense Eddie wasn’t used to compliments. He still wanted to see the ornament up close: the blood richness of the red and the dull gleam of real gold swirling like a vortex to the decorative finial fixed beneath the fragile globe. But before he could ask, Eddie snatched up a page of crumpled newspaper from the pile and began to wrap it around the ornament.

  Gray couldn’t stop himself. He touched Eddie’s forearm with his fingertips. Barely a touch at all, really, though he had to pay attention to keep himself from stroking the warm skin. So much warmer than the night before when Eddie had been naked and cold in his bathroom, rubbing himself against Grayson.

  “It’s a beautiful piece of work,” he said, pulling his hand back when Eddie didn’t even glance up at him. “I’m not being polite. I see thousands of ornaments every year. Yours is special.”

  A delicate shudder ran through Eddie at his words. If Gray hadn’t been willing Eddie with his stare to look at him, he’d have missed it.

  After a moment, Eddie continued wrapping his precious globe, more slowly now. With his head down, the fall of his hair covered most of his face.

  “You sell Christmas stuff? Like, all year?”

  “No, just November and December.” Leaving him far too many free hours during the months he wasn’t preparing for the holiday rush or cleaning up after it.

  “So how come you don’t have any Christmas stuff around here? I thought maybe you were Jewish or something.” Eddie glanced at him, his expression easy to read: all “regular” folks had Christmas decorations up by now, at least if they were a part of the human race.

  Before Gray could come up with an explanation that didn’t involve reciting his entire life history, a five-note musical sequence of deep organ tones, played throughout the house.

  Eddie’s eyebrows pulled together, his shoulders hunching up. “What the hell is that?”

  “My doorbell.” The sound made Gray smile on the rare—very rare—occasions when he heard it. Brady had thought the recorded tones were dumb and had rolled his eyes every time it played.

  “Why the fuck does it sound like that?”

  “Close Encounters of the Third Kind?” The blank look on Eddie’s face was one Gray had become accustomed to when he was with Brady. All of Gray’s pop culture references were old school. He moved to the window and tugged the curtain aside to peer out. “Never mind.”

  “Who the hell is here at—” Eddie snagged his phone off the nightstand, thumbing it on “—half past the ass crack of dawn?”

  “It’s just Christine,” Gray reminded him. “The police officer from last night. I wasn’t expecting her this early, but she probably doesn’t want to put you out for any longer than she has to.”

  “Shit.”

  The curse got Gray’s attention. Eddie shoved his box deep in his bag and himself off the floor, running his fingers through his bed-messy hair and rattling off a long string of curses under his breath as he yanked jeans and a T-shirt over his naked body. He finished by shrugging into his hoodie, zipping it with an aggressively put-out tug.

  Gray considered himself a master of aggrieved irritation, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever gone from zero to pissed off with that kind of speed.

  Eddie whipped his hair through the twists of an elastic, leaving the dark length tangled in a knot at his nape that made Gray wince with discomfort.

  “Cops before coffee,” Eddie said grimly before stomping out of the room. “This is gonna be a fucking great day, I can tell.”

  Out in the hallway, Eddie forced himself to relax, loosening his clenched fists and slowing to a halt at the top of the stairs, choke-chaining the urge to bolt down them and out the front door.

  And go where? You’re not running from the cops. You’re not the one in trouble here. Settle down.

  Too many years of seeing the knowing looks when anyone in a position of authority found out he was “one of those boys” from the group home had fo
rever changed Eddie’s physical reactions, to the police in particular. Despite never having been arrested for anything—never having gotten more than a parking ticket, damn it—his knee-jerk defensiveness had his shoulders up around his ears if a cop so much as ended up behind him in traffic. Forget speeding. Eddie damn near had to pull off the road and let the cop pass before he could work up the nerve to dive back into traffic.

  And in case anyone hadn’t noticed? There were a fuck-ton of cops in the world. Forcing himself to relax all the time was exhausting.

  He’d been enjoying the early wake-up a helluva lot more when he’d been staring at Gray’s ass in sleep pants as the man crouched on the floor next to Eddie’s bag. A strange surge of desire had had Eddie slouching back in his pillows and thinking about extending a real invitation, something he hadn’t done in what felt like forever.

  The guest room door clicked shut behind him, and Gray’s footsteps neared. Eddie turned to face him, forcing a sheepish look onto his face, which was hard because he was fucking annoyed and a little scared and his face didn’t want to do its poor me thing.

  Gray eyed him neutrally, like he was wondering if Eddie was about to fly off the handle half-cocked.

  Shit. Time to smooth things over.

  “I don’t . . .” like cops. Which sounded like he spent a lot of time tangling with the law, and that wasn’t even true. Eddie’d been told by more than one boss and/or temporary lay that he had a problem with authority figures. He never denied it. He was smart enough to keep himself off everyone’s radar though. It was one of the best things about working the faire circuit: how removed they were from pretty much everything in regular life. Whatever. Now was not the time to come off like a troublemaker, especially if he didn’t want to get kicked out before breakfast, which Eddie was pretty much counting on Gray to offer.

  If he could talk his way into some eggs and bacon and toast or pancakes—and assuming the cop let him hit the road after making a statement—Eddie might only have to blow cash on one meal between here and Texas. Gray’s offer of a place to stay for a while had been strangely tempting, but now that he wasn’t all fucked in the head and covered in blood, Eddie needed to make tracks to Texas. Rhonda wasn’t going to hold his spot forever.