by Неизвестный
Fine. "Okay," I mumble. I let the phone slip from my fingers, I'm too dazed to hang it back up. Fine.
Luke takes the phone, thanks the officer, stands to hang up the receiver. Then his strong hands slip beneath my arms, help me to my feet. "It's okay," he tells me, brushing my hair up off my brow, but I feel my lips tug into an ugly pout and I'm just not so sure anymore. He could've been killed -- but he wasn't, I remind myself. He could've though, that's the thing, and I'm here with Luke and I shouldn't be doing what we were doing, I shouldn't be thinking what I'm thinking, he could've died ... "Marcus?" Luke asks, rubbing my back. It's such a comforting gesture, I can't help but lean into it. His arms come up around my shoulders and he kisses my cheek tenderly. "He wasn't hurt, right? So it's okay, he's okay."
"It's my fault," I murmur. I wasn't even thinking about him, I was too busy getting lost in Luke, and look what happened, I almost lost him. My fault ... "I should've gone with him today," I say, nodding when Luke shakes his head. "I could've been driving, this wouldn't have happened, it's my fault really --"
Luke's eyes flash with something I can't read, anger? Conviction? "You're not the one who makes him drink," he tells me. "No matter what he says, you hear me? You have no control over that."
I shake his hands off me, what am I doing? My lover sleeps in a holding cell tonight and I'm all over this other boy. Luke, I think, even as I extract myself from his embrace. "Maybe you should just sleep on the couch," I say, though we hadn't discussed it and I wasn't seriously going to offer him my bed, was I? I don't know. My voice is distant to my ears when I tell him, "I have some extra blankets --"
"Sure," Luke agrees. He touches my shoulder tentatively. When I don't pull away he rubs down my arm, comforting. "The couch is fine, Marcus, really." With a smile, he winks and adds, "Better than the barn."
When I give him a wan grin, he sighs. "He'll be home tomorrow, he's fine." I nod, yes, tomorrow, but then what? What happens to this sudden intimacy that's sprung up between Luke and myself when Kent is back? What happens to the kisses and the touches and my own adulterous thoughts? What then?
The couch. I think if we hadn't been interrupted, I might have taken his kisses and his hands into my bedroom, given myself to him and it's a damn good thing that phone rang, it is, because if he spent the night with me, what would Kent do when he came home to that? "Jesus," I mutter. What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
Blankets from the hall closet, a pillow off the bed -- I have several, I can spare one, and when Luke leaves, I'll bury my face in it and breathe deep the scent of his hair, and this isn't helping here, is it? I shouldn't think shit like this. "Here you go," I say, dumping the blankets and pillow onto the couch. He sits in Kent's recliner in just his boxers, his pants on the floor with his shirt, my shirt. He leans forward and watches me, and just to keep from looking back, I busy myself with spreading the blankets out along the cushions. I lay bed sheets down over the couch, then a thin comforter, folded up at one end so he can crawl under it easily enough, and I fluff the pillow as I set it at the other end. "There."
The open blanket looks inviting. If he lies down before I turn in, it's going to take all the strength I have not to join him, so I turn away as he stands. "You should be comfortable enough --"
He catches my wrist. When I look at him, I see in his eyes that he wants me in that makeshift bed with him, he wants my arms around him in sleep, he wants to hold me and kiss me and I shouldn't but I can't help it, I can't stop myself as I lean close and press my lips to his. A brief kiss, nothing much, no tongue, no open lips, but it's so gentle, so tender, that I have to squeeze my eyes shut against sudden tears. Tomorrow Kent comes back and this is gone.
"Night," Luke breathes.
"Night," I whisper. I stare into his face for a long moment, searing his image into my memory -- the exact shade of his eyes, the deep color of pansies; the shape of his eyelashes, his brows; the length of his nose and his wide mouth, his full lips; the milk-laced coffee color of his skin. I'll dream of him tonight, I already know it. I'll lie in my bed the way I do every night, alone, and it won't be Kent I ache for but this boy, Luke, asleep just a few feet away.
Tomorrow this all ends.
PART 2
I'm at the stove scrambling eggs for Luke when Kent comes home. I hear tires on the gravel and crane my neck to look out the kitchen window just as the truck pulls to a stop in front of the porch. Kent. I can see him through the windshield, that black cowboy hat pulled down low over his eyes, a scowl already in place on his lips. When he gets out of the truck and slams the door shut behind him, I forget how to breathe.
From here he's everything I want him to be, shirtless and tan, his face closed, his jeans tight across his ass. I can't believe I thought of cheating on him, I can't believe I let myself get carried away yesterday -- what the hell was I thinking? The women who visit our produce stand would kill for what I have, that man out in the yard, Kent, and I was all too ready to just throw him away. Luke asked if I love him and standing here by the stove, watching him lean into the back of the pickup for the groceries he bought in town, right this instant? I love him completely.
"He's home," I whisper, turning off the stove. When I glance at Luke, sitting at the table, I see those eyes like purple fire staring back and I almost hear my heart tear in two, it's an audible pain that clenches my chest and makes me wince because I love him, too. I do, I knew it last night, I fell for him between the handjob and his kisses, and I want him as badly as I want Kent when he's sober. My heart twists in half, one part held almost negligently in my lover's hands, the other fisted tight in this boy's palms. I don't want either of them to let go.
I hear heavy boots on the porch and Luke turns away, releasing me from the prison of his gaze. I hurry out the screen door and meet Kent just as he's reaching for the knob. "Hey," I sigh. This close the stench of alcohol makes me dizzy, so strong so early in the morning, and I have to lean back against the door to get some fresh air. I notice a cut on his forehead, half-hidden by the brim of his hat, and another one along his cheek, blood still beaded on his skin. Tentatively, I reach out to touch the scratch but he brushes my hand away. "Are you okay?" I ask, my fingers trembling as I curl them into a useless fist. "Jesus, you scared the hell out of me, do you know that? I didn't know what to think --"
"I'm fine," he mutters. Then he shoves the grocery bags into my arms and I stagger beneath their sudden weight. "You gonna give me some help here?" Before I can respond, he adds, "I don't want to talk about it."
"Okay." He means the arrest. Fine, I can understand that -- a night in jail, I don't think I'd want to talk about it, either. I juggle the bags as he heads back to the truck, and one slips from my arms as Luke opens the screen door to catch it. "Thanks," I say, keeping my voice low. He takes the other bag as well, then gives me a tight smile before he disappears into the house. I turn to find Kent standing at the side of the truck, two more bags in hand, staring at me.
At Luke.
Shit.
Despite the fact that I'm barefoot, I trot down the porch steps and hurry to him, careful to step mostly on the grass so I don't cut my feet on the stones. As I try to take the bags from him, he holds the handles tight. "Who the hell is that?" he wants to know.
A million answers flit through my head and disappear, leaving only the truth behind. "Luke," I tell him, like that should mean something.
"Luke," he echoes. Suddenly he lets go of the bags and I stumble away from him. Behind me the screen door slams. I don't have to look to know that Luke is on the porch watching us. "Who the fuck is Luke?"
"Kent," I start. I see the anger in his eyes and set the groceries on the ground. When I reach for him, he shrugs me off, he always does that. "Look, it's not what you think --"
"What is it then?" he asks. He looks from me to the porch and back again, his face hard lines, his mouth drawn down in a bitter scowl. I try to touch his arm but he slaps my hand away. "I'm gone for one night and come home to this?"
I cover my eyes with one hand and sigh. "It's not ..." What you think, I want to tell him, but that's a lie, isn't it? What exactly is he thinking, anyway? I'd give anything right this moment to find that out. "It's not that, Kent, trust me." I speak softly so my words won't carry to the porch, I don't want Luke to overhear me. "He's just a runaway, look at him. He's barely even twenty. I found him sleeping in the barn yesterday --"
"And you didn't call the cops?" Kent asks, but the edge in his voice is gone, and when I touch his arm again, he turns to get the other bags from the back of the truck. At least he doesn't push me away -- he lets me step closer, lean against him, press my face against the sweaty flat of his back, and I take shallow breaths so I don't have to smell him, I'm already woozy just being this close. "You didn't turn his ass out?" he asks, and I shake my head against the spot between his shoulder blades, wrap my arms around his waist. At least he's letting me touch him. Thank God for that. "He's not a dog, Marcus," he tells me, his arms flexing on either side of me as he hefts the bags from the back of the truck to set them on the ground at our feet. "You can't just keep him like a pet."
"I know," I murmur. "I was just being nice, Kent, that's all. I thought maybe give him a warm meal, a soft bed --"
"Yours?" he asks with a derisive snort. "Or mine?"
"The couch, babe," I say, rubbing his stomach. "He slept on the couch last night."
Kent turns in my embrace, drapes one arm around my shoulders, glares at Luke on the porch and I don't look up at the boy, I can't meet his gaze. "How long is he gonna stay?" Kent asks.
I shrug. "Few days," I say, unsure myself. Forever, my heart cries out, the half that Luke holds in his hands, but Kent's here now and whatever Luke and I did yesterday won't happen again. "He helped out with the market," I tell him, as if to prove the boy's worth. After Kent's remark, I feel like a child begging to keep a stray animal and I look up at him, trying to see beneath that hat to his enigmatic eyes. "Maybe just until he heads on, okay?"
Kent stares across the yard and now I look up to see Luke standing there on our porch like it's his home and we're trespassing on his property -- with his hands on his hips, my clothes on his thin frame, his purple eyes dark with shadows. He smells clean, I know because he hugged me first thing this morning, woke up and padded into the kitchen with just his boxers on, my boxers, and I was already at the stove cooking breakfast. He just wrapped his arms around my waist, kissed the back of my neck, hugged me close and whispered that he had the most wonderful dreams last night. "About you," he said, and when I looked at him, the next kiss landed on my lips. And that was just overnight -- Kent's been gone a full day and he hasn't kissed me yet. I love kisses, not drunken ones, sloppy and acidic, but Luke's kisses, heady and rich and sweet, I love those.
Pulling away from me, Kent shakes himself free and says, "It's getting hot, Marcus. Don't hang all over me, I'm right here."
Almost grateful, I step back. That's the difference between these men, isn't it? Kent doesn't want to be touched and Luke can't keep his hands to himself. Me, I'm caught in the middle, because despite the way I feel for one, I can't help but want the other.
The silence in the kitchen between the three of us is deadly. Luke sits at the table -- in my seat now, not Kent's, he plopped down there and the look my lover gave him was enough to make him switch chairs without a word -- and he shovels in his eggs, watching me as he eats like he's waiting for my lead. Kent puts the groceries away, storming around the kitchen with stiff steps, throwing cans into the cabinets and slamming doors shut, the look on his face curbing anything I might want to say. There's nothing to say, really -- the easy talk between Luke and me is gone, replaced with an unnerving tension that hangs over us like a funeral pall. Every time Kent brushes by me, I jump. I want to ask about the showerhead but don't, I feel his mood building like thunderclouds, I don't want his anger to rain down on me today. So I busy myself with the dishes, and I make a pot of coffee because I know he likes his java in the morning. When it perks, I pour him a mug and set it on the table to cool. Luke stares at me as I lean past him but I avoid his gaze. I can't look at him, not here. If I do, Kent will see the desire in my eyes, the openness in Luke's, and he'll know what happened yesterday, the tub, the kisses, he'll see it all in that one look.
So I avoid Luke's violet eyes and when I turn to the sink, I feel his hot gaze sear my back. What now? I want to know. What the hell happens now?
Kent doesn't ask Luke where he's from or where he's headed. I don't expect him to. Still, when I can't take the quiet any longer, I offer up the information. "He's from where did you say? Near San Angelo?" I glance over my shoulder at Luke, who has finished his eggs and picks through the strawberries now. I remember the one he dipped in sugar yesterday and fed to me. When he meets my gaze, he rims his lips with a piece of tender fruit and I know he's thinking the same thing. He tastes sweet like those berries -- I'd give anything to taste him again. Shaking the thought away, I ask, "Isn't that what you told me? San Angelo?"
With a shrug, Luke takes a quick look at Kent's back -- he's reaching into the cabinets above the refrigerator, ignoring us both -- and then winks at me. A thrill runs through me at that secret gesture. "Somewhere near there," he murmurs. His lips are red from the berries, and I love the way his throat works when he swallows the fruit down. He takes another strawberry, runs it around the sugar bowl until it's coated white, then eases it into his mouth, sucking at the fruit greedily, his eyes never leaving mine. This could be you, those eyes say, and I have to clench my hands in the dishtowel to keep from going to him, I want it to be me. His cheeks suck in, his lips work around the fruit, his tongue licks off the sugar and he's still watching me, I can't look away. I could do this to you. I see the promise in his face, his lips, his hands. I know you want me to, suck you like this strawberry until you come in a rush that I'll lick away like sugar. I know you want it from me.
I do. Oh sweet Jesus in heaven, I do.
But there's Kent, who reaches in front Luke for a strawberry to pop in his mouth, and the seductive spell is broken. "You're a good ways from home, kid," he says, chomping on the fruit. I watch his cheeks -- he chews twice, maybe three times, before swallowing. His throat doesn't work in that same mystical way Luke's does, and any sugar that clings to his lips he just brushes away with the back of his hand, he doesn't lick it down. Taking another piece of fruit, Kent wants to know, "So when are you leaving?"
"Kent," I sigh -- that's rude.
He gives me an unreadable look and shrugs. "Did you water?" he wants to know.
"I just got up," I tell him. He knows I don't wake up at the crack of dawn like he is -- he knows I don't water those plants. Still, I dry my hand on a clean towel and begin, "If you want me to ..."
"Nevermind." He kicks at one of the grocery bags and I hear the rattle of bottles inside. Beer. "Put the rest of this away," he says and I nod quickly, yes, I can do that. To Luke, he says, "I'm not taking on any freeloaders, kid. You want to eat my food, sleep on my couch, you best earn your keep. I've got vegetables out back ready to come in."
"I can do that," Luke agrees. Kent nods like it's settled, as if letting Luke stay was his idea, and I don't say anything. Let him think that, if it makes this easier. Let him believe that Luke's staying here just because Kent asked him to. It's me, I want to say but don't, I keep my mouth shut and don't say a word while Kent starts going over the plants he thinks are ready for picking. The peppers, another batch of strawberries, the onions and I know he's giving that to Luke just because he hates digging those bastards out himself. When he's finished, Luke nods, gives me another long look before he pushes away from the table and stretches. My pants fall down his hips slightly, exposing a flash of smooth stomach where my shirt pulls up. I ache to touch him, kiss him again, run my fingers across his belly and beneath his shirt, my shirt.
And I can't.
When Kent heads outside to start watering, Luke brings his dishes over to the sink. I don't move away from
the counter and his hip bumps mine playfully. "He's all heart," he jokes. Then, noticing my faint smile, he leans on the sink and frowns up at me. "You love him?"
I can't reply. Do I? That stoic man out there who didn't kiss me good morning, didn't say he missed me last night, didn't say he was sorry he scared the living hell out of me with that damn accident? This breathless fear that keeps me quiet, is that love? This hunger for a smile, a touch, a kiss, is that? "You know," Luke murmurs, sidling closer until his hip presses against mine, "if you were my boy, and that crap happened last night? I'd come home crying for you to forgive me, baby. I'd be so shook up, almost died? The first thing I'd do coming in that door would've been to lay you down and tell you I'd never, ever do that shit again."
If you were MY boy ... but I'm not, I think, and as if he hears that thought, Luke looks at his hands, folded and dangling in the sink above his dishes. "But if that was me?" he whispers. "It wouldn't have happened. I don't drink, and I can't imagine I'd ever want to sleep anywhere but with you." With a soft sigh, he adds, "If you were mine."
Through the kitchen window I watch Kent unravel the garden hose and hear those words again. If you were mine.
Luke disappears in the fields behind the house, one of the paper grocery bags in hand to gather the ripened vegetables. I finish putting away the rest of the things Kent bought in town -- the grocery store wasn't the only place he stopped, and I pretend I don't notice the bottles of Jim Beam and Mad Dog and Cuervo even as I put beneath the sink, I ignore the labels on the beer cans as I stow them on the lowest shelf of the fridge. I find the showerhead, hidden beneath rice and beef in one bag, and I consider putting it in myself but think better of it. Kent bought it, he'll want to play the man and install the thing, that's just the way he is. So I leave it on the kitchen table, fold the bags up and stash them in one of the cabinets, then straighten Luke's sheets on the couch. With no one to see me, I hug the pillow to my face, breathe deep the clean boyish scent that lingers, pick at the few hairs scattered across the surface. I'm alone in the house -- Kent out front and Luke out back, no one around, no one to see when I unzip my jeans and slip them down to my ankles, my boxers right behind them. I feel wicked and dirty when I slip between the covers on the couch, but the sheets are warm and soft on my naked skin and I tell myself it's Luke's body heat I'm wrapped up in now. Rolling onto my stomach, I bury my nose in the pillow and smell him again as my hand trails down to stroke at the hardness between my legs. I rise up on my knees, my ass in the air, my face still pressed in the pillow, the heady scent stronger than any alcohol on Kent's breath. My fingers knead my erection, squeeze my own balls, thumb along the flesh beneath them and I gasp into the pillow, stroke harder, pull at myself, thrust into my hand. The heavy blanket holding me down, that's Luke above me; the soft pillow is his body, I'm breathing him in with each gasp and I sigh his name when I come, a fast spurt that's been aching for release ever since he kissed me this morning.
