by Mary Calmes
Leaning in fast, he kissed my cheek, passed me the basket he’d been carrying, waved at the kids and Mitch, and then turned and left.
“So,” Mitch said as he walked up beside me, placed his hand on the small of my back, “we cooking at your place or mine?”
Chapter Seven
AS EXPECTED, the kids lost their minds at my house. The treehouse was a huge hit: the ladder up to the sunroom; the outside deck they could walk all the way around, feel the wind, and smell the ocean and the rain; the TV that came out of the wall; and weirdly, the compost toilet. They also liked Ed, who was the closest thing I had to a pet.
“He looks just like Hedwig,” Ryder gushed.
“Yeah, well, he’s not cuddly like her, so don’t go trying to squeeze him.”
“Can I pet him?”
Since I was outside grilling steaks, I cut a small piece off mine and put it in Ryder’s hand. “Okay, so you keep your hand open and he’ll take it off your palm.”
He nodded happily and walked slowly over to the adult snowy owl perched on the roost on the corner closest to the biggest redwood on my property.
I turned to look at Mitch. “I promise the owl won’t hurt him.”
“Did you hear me ask a question?” He grinned. “Because I didn’t. I trust you. I always have.”
I swallowed down my retort. The oh yeah would have been sharp and venomous—how dare he act like he knew me? How dare he treat me as though no time had passed?
I was hurt, angry, still eaten up by things I’d wanted to say but had never gotten the chance to. He’d left a hole in my heart that couldn’t be filled, and it had taken me so very long—through my time in the Army and after coming home—to find myself again. I was finally me without him, and the idea of taking even one step back was terrifying.
“You have something to say?”
“No,” I whispered before I turned back to watch his son as he reached Ed.
He held up his hand and the owl very slowly leaned down, took the morsel from his hand, and then lifted up to knock it back and down his gullet. He then regarded the boy and took a step closer.
“Okay, bud, now you can pet his chest, but be gentle.”
And with a deliberateness I didn’t think a six-year-old could have, Ryder pet the owl. Then it was Brandon’s turn to repeat the same steps. When they were finished, they leaned on the railing and watched the owl, and looked at the trees and the ground. I knew that until Ed took off for the night, neither boy was leaving his side.
Leaving Mitch outside to finish grilling the steaks, I went back to the kitchen to check on the mac n’ cheese, toss the salad, and mix the lemonade and ice tea everyone agreed they wanted.
“So how’d you get an owl?” Mitch wanted to know when he came inside ten minutes later with the steaks. He looked flushed from the wind.
“Fuckin’ assholes shot his mom,” I explained. “Since they nest on the ground, it makes it dicey sometimes. They were all laughing it up when I caught them.”
“They were on the preserve?”
I nodded.
“They’re lucky it was you. Your mom would’ve shot ’em.”
“Yeah, she would’ve.” I smiled. “There were three eggs, and I took all of ’em over to the wildlife center, but they said that Ed wasn’t growing inside his egg, so they were just going to dispose of it.”
“And so you brought the egg back home, of course.”
“Yep.”
“And put it under lights.”
“Hey, those heat lamps we used to grow pot with were finally useful.”
He chuckled. “And out popped your own owl.”
“I might’ve spent some time talking to an egg.”
His smile was huge. “Always were a softie for animals, just like your mom.”
I tipped my head in agreement.
“You’re not worried that he’s gonna let the wrong person touch him?”
“He only lets me—or anyone who’s here at the house—feed him. Anywhere else, he doesn’t get close to people.”
He grunted.
“What?”
“Sounds like someone I know.”
I did a slow turn to him. “That was subtle.”
“You’re telling me what, that the guy I knew in high school who didn’t let anyone close to him until me has changed? You’re a life-of-the-party kinda guy now?”
I did still spend the majority of my time alone.
“Do you or do you not resemble the owl?”
“I plead the fifth.”
Moving fast, he put the steaks on the table, grabbed the salad, and put it there too before rounding on me.
“Oh God, what?”
“The hell is with you not wanting to bottom?”
“Really? That’s appropriate dinner conversation?”
“No, but I want to know what the hell is up with that?”
“Why do you care?” I snapped, irritated that he thought he had the right to question me about personal matters.
“You know why.”
“There is no way in hell that I would—”
“Fine, not me,” he rasped irritably. “At least not yet, but—”
“Have you lost your mind?”
He waved a hand at me to get me to shut up. “You and me—that’s not the overwhelming issue here at the moment.”
“Oh?”
“No. The bigger issue is that you not bottoming in bed when it is something you love and crave is one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Make light of it, go ahead, but sure as shit you are fooling yourself.”
“I do plenty in bed that I enjoy, and just because you don’t like to bottom doesn’t—”
“Are you kidding?” He laughed at me. “Baby, I will bottom for you anytime you like. I just know how good you felt because you told me all the time.”
A throb of arousal rolled through me as I remembered what it had felt like being under Mitch Thayer and how I had met each rough, hungry demand with one of my own.
By the time he’d been ready to leave for college, the end of summer before my senior year, we had sex down to a science. What began with him hesitant and careful and me docile and undemanding had become him manhandling me, holding me down, and me insisting on harder and deeper and right the fuck now. I attacked him whenever I wanted—in the car, on the beach, climbing through his window in the middle of the night—and he always, always gave in because he’d wanted me as desperately as I’d wanted him.
He edged closer. “You need to tell me what the hell happened to change what you like doing in bed.”
I shook my head before going to the refrigerator to look for salad dressing. “What do the kids like on their roughage? I have ranch, but I’m not sure what else. Do you still like the peppery Italian kind?”
He walked up behind me, closed the door, and then clunked his forehead between my shoulder blades.
“What are you doing?”
“I want you to turn around and kiss me.”
Heart in my throat, exhilarated and terrified at the exact same time, I had no choice but to choke out my reply. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re not gonna do this again.”
“Just one, one kiss, and I won’t bug you again.”
Turning to face him, I was surprised when he reached for me, gently, reverently, one hand slipping around the side of my neck, thumb sliding along my jaw, brushing over my lips as his gaze locked with mine.
“I missed you,” he husked as he leaned in and captured my mouth.
I’d forgotten things—it was probably my brain trying to protect me so I wouldn’t go nuts remembering. But the moment his tongue slipped between my parted lips and my soft whimper escaped, his hands clutched at me and the familiar throb of possessiveness lit me up like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
He always kissed me like he meant it, like I was his, without question. His tongue drove inside and I
melted into the long, deep kiss, losing myself in his taste and heat, submitting, letting him lead, boneless in his arms as he moved me, turning, walking, pressing me back into the pantry in the dark.
“There now,” he said, the husky growl slithering through me, causing goose bumps. “There’s the Hagen I remember, demanding but submissive too.”
But I wasn’t who he remembered. That guy was gone, dead and buried. “No, I—”
“Kiss me again,” he begged before he took my mouth a second time, pushing against me, wedging his thigh between mine as I clung to those immense shoulders of his.
His mouth slanted over mine, nibbling on my lips, sucking on my tongue, his hands up under my Henley, on my skin, stroking, finally wrapping around me tight as the kiss became mauling and feverish, my pulse like a freight train in my ears as he took and took, and I gave back every drop of passion, of wanting, of screaming, rapacious need.
The whoop of triumph brought me up from the deep, but it was difficult, took long moments, and left me muzzy and drugged as Mitch stepped back and flipped on the light, facing his sons from between a wall of canned goods, assorted crackers and cookies, and lots of bottled water and liquor.
“What’d the owl do?” he asked, voice rough and thick with desire.
“Caught a mouse or something,” Brandon reported. “Awww, Dad, you shoulda seen it!”
“Ed ate its head off!” Ryder announced loudly. “It was so gross!”
“Well, wash your hands, ’cause we gotta eat.”
They ran off toward the guest bathroom and before I could move, he rounded on me.
“Tell me, do you kiss whatshisname like that,” he asked, taking a shaky breath.
“Ash.”
“Whatever.”
I swallowed hard, staring into his molten blue eyes. I could read the expression there clear as day. He wanted me, and not just for the moment. He had a more permanent thought in mind, and even though the very idea should have infuriated me, I found myself instead ready to revel in his desire like a cat soaking up the sun.
“You should see your eyes, Hage, all dark and wet.”
It was hard to get my voice to work. “You don’t want me.”
Slow, sexy grin. “No, I really do.”
“I’m not the same. I’m really kinda fucked up.”
He nodded. “I’m sure you have things to tell me, but I promise you that whatever it is will be better with me beside you than anybody else.”
“You don’t know that.”
“The hell I don’t.”
He turned to greet his boys and get them seated, and as I watched them all talk at once and marvel over the food, I realized Mitch had pushed me into the pantry, an even smaller space than the closet in the master bedroom. He’d had me in a small cramped area, in the dark, and not for a second had I been scared.
In his arms, under his hands, with his heart beating next to mine, with his hot mouth taking what he wanted, what I’d always given, the only things I’d been were wanted and safe.
I was really in a bit of trouble.
HALFWAY THROUGH dinner, I got up to pull the brownies out of the oven, and when I turned around, three faces were looking at me.
“What’s wrong?”
“You cook so good,” Brandon told me, smiling sheepishly.
I grinned at him as I sat back down. “Well, your dad helped.”
Ryder nodded. “Your house is awesome.”
“Thank you.”
“Can you make us one?” Ryder wanted to know.
“Well, buddy, I don’t know if your dad would want that.”
“Well, we can just keep coming to visit,” Brandon reasoned. “Can we sleep in the sunroom tomorrow night?”
“If you want, but keep in mind that in the morning that room gets really bright.”
They both thought that was hysterical, since it was a sunroom, after all.
I thought they’d go home after brownies and milk and another beer for me and Mitch each, but they settled in front of the TV, and after much discussion, decided to rewatch the third Harry Potter movie. Apparently, it was a favorite.
I did the dishes and Mitch helped, drying and putting away.
“How are you doing that?” I asked, marveling at the ease with which he stacked bowls and put baking pans in their home.
He shot me a look of disbelief. “I grew up in your mother’s kitchen at the old place, and this was her kitchen, too, for a time.”
“Yes.”
“Well, she had a system, right? Like her layout.”
I smiled. “She did.”
“She redid my mom’s kitchen after my dad had his heart attack, you remember that?”
“I do.”
He coughed. “They came, you know, my folks.”
“When?”
“To your mother’s funeral.”
“Oh, no, I know. I saw them. We had lunch.”
He nodded. “My mother said you were really hurt in the war.”
“Just my right leg.”
“No, she said it was a lot more than that.”
“It was mostly that,” I assured him, not wanting to get into the rest, ever, and certainly if ever, not now.
Closing the space between us, he was there, waiting. “What happened?”
“I was in a truck that was hit by an RPG.”
He was silent for a moment before he realized that was it. “No.”
“No?”
Hand down beside me on the counter, he stood there, solid and still. He was a picture of quiet strength, ready to be leaned on.
“Tell me,” he prodded.
“I—there’s nothing to tell.”
“Oh no?”
But I couldn’t, what was the point?
“The way I heard it, you were blown up and taken prisoner, tortured—and that’s where your leg got messed up—and then,” he continued, gaze locked on mine, “you were rescued, and during that clusterfuck you got hurt a second time.”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly?” he repeated. “In what way?”
I coughed. “I wasn’t—”
“Your mother told mine all that.”
“Yeah, but my mother made everything too simple and yours exaggerates.”
“That’s true,” he allowed.
“So?”
“So you tell me. What exactly happened to you?”
“You wanna hear the entire thing right now?”
“No,” he sighed, hanging up the dishtowel. “I want us to sit in the living room so you can tell me the whole story and not leave anything out.”
I gestured at the kids on the thick heavy rug in front of the TV, close to the fireplace, propped up on pillows, watching Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.
“They’re fading,” he assured me. “As would you, if you had the kind of day they did.”
“Speaking of,” I said, grimacing. “Are you okay? You had a helluva scare.”
“I had my freak-out moment at home,” he confessed, shivering. “Poor Bran, I cried all over him after I called Barb.”
“What’d she say?” I asked, resisting the urge to touch him, instead taking a step back, putting space between us.
“She wanted to make sure he was okay, and once she was sure he was absolutely fine, she started crying because she was worried about me.”
“Jesus, that’s nice.”
“I know,” he said, his eyes filling. “I would’ve probably blasted her and flown out there and done God knows what else.”
“So, you think what? That she doesn’t care?”
“Oh, no, no, that’s not what I’m saying. I just—Barb needs some space right now, and she loves them and she’s concerned, but she’s not in a place where she can be a mom.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She was Mrs. Mitchell Thayer for almost ten years, and she can’t be that anymore. And unfortunately that means that she can’t be mommy at the moment, either.”
“But
when you become a parent, isn’t that not your choice anymore?”
“Yeah, but all the time I was playing football, I wasn’t a parent.”
“Explain.”
He shrugged. “I was never around, and when I was, I was distant and—holy crap, I was a shitty father and the world’s worst husband.”
“I think world’s worst requires you to have hit her, and I know you never did that.”
“True,” he agreed with a sigh, “but emotionally distant is horrible too.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“I blamed her for hiding who I was, and that wasn’t fair. You have no idea how many guys I slept with the second the divorce was final, it was insane.”
“Went a little crazy, did you?”
He widened his eyes, nodding at the same time. “I might’ve gone a little nuts.”
“Lots of drunken debauchery?” I teased.
“Oh yeah. All those years of pretending sort of built up.”
“I imagine so.”
“I’m glad I got that all out of my system,” he said, flipping the dish towel over his shoulder as he stalked closer. “So I could come back here to—”
“Why did you stay married?” I interrupted, not wanting the topic to be “us” at all, just him, just his life.
He stopped moving and leaned against the counter. “It felt like if I wasn’t, then I was a failure, and if I came out on top of it… then it was all a lie to begin with, just another gay man with a beard.”
“Bi, right?” I corrected. “I mean, you slept with Barbara.”
“I did. Twice.”
It was painful to hear. “Oh, that’s awful. I feel sorry for her.”
“Don’t be on that account, she didn’t care.” He was certain, there was no question. “Sleeping with me was never something she missed.”
“It’s the intimacy, though, right? Not really the act itself that you’re missing. The closeness with another person is the good stuff.”
“I think it’s supposed to be both for me. Being hot for the person you love, who you’re making a life with—I mean, that’s the relationship you want.”
I wasn’t going to debate that with him. “So, did you ever love Barbara?”
“I did. I do. She was always supportive and I appreciated that.”
“Did she love you?”
