by Kim Fielding
Qay snorted and pushed lightly at Jeremy’s chest. “You have more sap than all these Douglas firs put together. C’mon.” He moved ahead on the trail.
As they walked farther, they encountered fewer people. A lot of folks just tromped around near Multnomah Falls, skipping the many smaller falls in the area. That was just fine with Jeremy, who enjoyed having the trail—and Qay—to himself. Sometimes he and Qay purposely bumped into each other, sometimes one of them tapped the other’s arm to point something out, and in a flat section where the trail widened, they walked hand in hand. They didn’t say much, and when they did speak, their voices were hushed, as if they were in church. Jeremy preferred to listen to the natural sounds around them—the drip of water, the rustle of leaves, the twitters and rasps of birds—and Qay either shared that preference or was willing to humor him.
They stopped at a trail junction and sat on big rocks to eat some of Qay’s food. It wasn’t fancy, but everything tasted better outdoors, especially after some decent exercise. And with good company.
“Feet holding up?” Jeremy asked.
“Not too bad. These boots are damned heavy, though.” He jerked his chin in the direction of Jeremy’s feet. “Yours look pretty snazzy.”
“There are some things I refuse to skimp on. Footwear is one of them.”
“And vehicles?” Qay asked, mouth quirked.
Jeremy’s cheeks heated. “It is, uh, kind of over-the-top. But I really do need four-wheel drive for the job, and the city got me a deal on it.”
“It’s comfortable. And big. Overcompensating?”
Jeremy threw a wrapper at him.
Qay ducked, laughed, and scooped the wrapper up. “No littering, Chief. You’ll make Smokey the Bear mad.” He threw the wrapper back, and Jeremy caught it.
“It’s Smokey Bear, no the, and he doesn’t give a shit about littering. He hates fire. It’s the stereotypical Indian who doesn’t like litter, and he doesn’t get angry. He just cries very majestically.”
With an incredulous expression, Qay muttered, “Nerdgasm.” But then he stood up and ran his palm across Jeremy’s short hair. Just a quick touch, but electrifying nonetheless.
They passed many waterfalls. Thanks to the recent rains, the falls rushed at full flow, spraying Qay and Jeremy with their mist and forming little rainbows in the cold winter sun. At one point, Qay stood with his toes at the edge of a drop-off, his face angled up to the falling water. Jeremy remained watching him from several yards back. He wondered at how beautiful Qay looked, and yet how vulnerable.
Near the end of their hike, they came to the big stone bridge that was so beloved of photographers and tourists. Qay leaned over the railing and gazed down at the pool between the upper and lower cascades of Multnomah Falls, and Jeremy pressed close to him.
“Don’t sweat it,” Qay said. “I’m not considering jumping.”
“Do you ever?”
At first Jeremy didn’t think Qay would answer. It had been an intrusive question, probably far too much for a second date, even though they’d already shared confidences. And maybe Qay wouldn’t want to reveal a weakness in himself. But then Qay shook his head. “Not anymore. I did for a long time after I left Bailey Falls. Tried a couple times when I was locked up in the booby hatch, and even after I got free…. Shit. I used heavily for years. That was hardly more than a really slow suicide.”
To reward Qay for his honesty, Jeremy leaned more heavily against him and dropped a kiss on the side of his head. Qay’s hair was damp, the gray strands shining like threads of silver, and he smelled deliciously of forest and coffee and herbal shampoo. Jeremy moved back slightly. “How did you stop?”
Qay tucked his hair behind his ears and rubbed his hands together as if he were cold. “I’m not sure. I didn’t have a grand epiphany. I just… I think I just got tired. It’s this fucking nasty circle, you know? I started using to dull the pain, but the drugs only caused more pain—and quitting was even worse. There’s only two ways out of that trap, and one of them is in a coffin. I didn’t have any big plans for myself or anything. Didn’t want to change the world. Still don’t, which you can pretty much tell. I guess I just decided staying alive for one more day was plan enough.”
Jeremy had to chew on that. He understood what Qay was saying. Hell, other people had told him similar stories. No big hallelujah moment—just a quiet determination to get dressed and get through the next twenty-four hours. And then the next. What Jeremy didn’t see, though, was how Qay had managed to come so far on his own. As far as Jeremy could tell, nobody had championed Qay’s cause or steadied him when he stumbled.
“I have a plan,” Jeremy said after a long silence.
“Oh?”
“Dinner somewhere nice. And according to my plan, first we stop at your place so you can clean up, then we go to the hotel for my turn to scrape off the dirt, then we eat.” It made sense because the restaurant he was thinking of was downtown, so they’d pass by Qay’s apartment first. And Qay didn’t work on Mondays, so they wouldn’t have to call it an early night. Jeremy was willing to lose out on some sleep.
Qay looked doubtful. “My place is a dump.”
“And mine is literally in shambles.”
“It’s my turn to pay for dinner.”
“Done,” Jeremy said, feeling victorious.
IT WAS pretty clear Qay would have left Jeremy outside his apartment if he could have. But Jeremy kept close on his heels as they went up the sidewalk, and when Qay unlocked the door and turned to look at him, Jeremy flashed his very best puppy-dog eyes. Qay rolled his eyes and gestured him inside. “I warned you.”
The door opened to a tiny landing with a worn vinyl floor and scuffed yellowish walls. Directly ahead lay another closed door, and a flight of stairs descended to the right. The stairs creaked as Jeremy and Qay walked down. Qay unlocked the door at the bottom.
The basement was dark and slightly musty, with mismatched thrift-store furniture and paneled walls. But what really struck Jeremy was the amount of stuff: little knickknacks of every description and hanging magazine pictures of landscapes and cats and underwear models. And books. Books everywhere, piled crookedly and splayed pages-down atop furniture.
“Told you,” Qay muttered, his cheeks red.
“Have you read all of these?”
“No. I… I find them. Sometimes they’re a dime each at the Salvation Army, or maybe a quarter at someone’s yard sale. Or in a giveaway box in front of a used-book store. I have a hard time just leaving them there.” He sighed. “And once I get them home, I can’t let them go. And— What?”
It was, perhaps, the most charming thing Jeremy had ever heard, and he couldn’t help his big, dopey smile. “That’s sweet.”
“It’s slightly pathological. I have a tendency toward anxiety disorders. I don’t want to end up one of those people who gets buried alive by his piles of old junk mail.”
“I’d dig you out.”
Qay gave him an inscrutable look. “I’m, uh, going to shower. Make yourself at home.” He waved vaguely before heading into what must have been his bedroom. A moment later he emerged with a stack of clothing in his arms, only to disappear again into his orange-tinted bathroom. He shut the door with a hollow click.
Jeremy ambled through the living room, picking things up, examining them, and putting them down. He couldn’t discern a theme to the things Qay had collected: figurines of animals, people, supernatural creatures, and vehicles; ashtrays, tiny ceramic cups, and wooden mushrooms. The books were mostly—but not all—fiction. The genres included westerns, spy thrillers, mysteries, chick lit, fantasy, sci-fi, historical, romance, and literature. Qay even had cookbooks, although anything much more complicated than a grilled cheese sandwich would clearly overtax the tiny kitchenette.
Just as Jeremy began to leaf through what appeared to be a young adult novel about a circus performer, he heard water running in the bathroom, and he froze. Qay was right there, on the other side of that flimsy door. Jeremy
could reach that door in just a few strides, could yank it open—he hadn’t heard a lock engage—and then he would see Qay naked, his lean body shrouded slightly in shower steam, his long black hair slicked back from his face. And then Jeremy could—
No.
Jesus God, that scenario appealed to him. He was pretty sure Qay would go along with it too. After all, Qay had spent the day flirting as openly as Jeremy had. He’d called Jeremy sexy and hot, and when they walked on the wider parts of the trail, Qay reached for Jeremy’s hand as often as Jeremy reached for his.
Jeremy could slip into the bathroom, strip off his clothes, and clasp Qay’s wet body to himself. They could fuck—Qay bent over the edge of the sink, maybe, or leaning up against the slick shower wall—and it would likely be spectacular. After all, Jeremy had practically come in his pants the first time they goddamn kissed.
But then where would that lead them? They were only partway through their second date, with a few little not-dates besides, but Jeremy possessed a firm conviction that they could have more. If he could only be a little patient, if the rest of his life would stop imploding, if Qay didn’t spook and run, the two of them could be something. Something a lot more important than a fast bathroom fuck.
He would wait.
Chapter Twelve
WHEN QAY got out of the bathroom, his hair still damp against his neck, Jeremy sat on the couch with a book in his hands. “Trapeze artist,” Jeremy said, holding the book up.
“Uh-huh,” said Qay, who didn’t know what the hell Jeremy was talking about. “Look, if you want to borrow it, go ahead. I have plenty of others to keep me busy.”
“I don’t read much,” Jeremy answered, looking abashed.
“You used to.” Back in high school, Jeremy would finish the work before anyone else, then pull out a paperback. Other kids gave him shit about it, but Keith had thought the books an improvement over his own classroom activities, which mostly consisted of doodling, fidgeting, and scowling into space. He hadn’t picked up the reading habit himself until the tedium of institutionalization forced it.
“Yeah. I just… I left that Jeremy behind, I guess. I didn’t kill off the little loser. Just, you know, locked him up in a trunk somewhere.”
“That’s too bad. I liked him.”
Jeremy looked thoughtful for a moment, then smiled slightly, stood, and tucked the book into his coat pocket. “Ready?”
“I guess. This is as dressy as I get.” He wore the same white button-down and new jeans from their first date, which was possibly a major relationship faux pas. But he didn’t have alternatives, and anyway Jeremy didn’t seem to mind.
“I’ve already shared my thoughts on formalwear. C’mon.”
As soon as Qay realized which hotel was Jeremy’s, he felt intimidated. Not that he expected Jeremy to stay in the kind of dump Qay had often called home, but the Marriott was big and shiny, with an aura of expense accounts and platinum credit cards. The concierge greeted Jeremy with “Evening, Chief!” as they passed.
Jeremy’s room daunted Qay as well. It wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t tiny like some of the cracker boxes where Qay had once lived. The bed was made up neatly with a crisp white duvet and piled with enough pillows for half the city. Stylish abstract art hung on the walls, the TV was a huge flat screen, and the window commanded a lovely view of the river. Jeremy had left little clutter lying around, and if he’d been messy, the maid had dutifully tidied everything up. But as Qay looked uneasily around, he realized that the room was missing any personal touches. Sure, it was only a temporary place for Jeremy to sleep, but even at his most nomadic, Qay had always had books and a few odds and ends scattered around. An interesting-looking rock, perhaps, or an advertisement he’d found appealing. Maybe just a few fast-food wrappers folded into shapes. Anything at all to mark the space as his and announce to the world that he existed.
“I’m gonna hop into the shower,” Jeremy said. “Need anything?”
“No. I think I’ll just enjoy the luxury for a few minutes.”
“It’s a nice bed. Feel free to bounce on it.” Jeremy winked at him before disappearing into the bathroom.
Qay didn’t bounce. He walked to the window and stared out, pretending he wasn’t imagining Jeremy stretched out on that big mattress, his long limbs just barely fitting. And God, what about Jeremy naked in the shower, all those bulky muscles in view, his pale skin dripping. He didn’t seem the type to wax, but his body hair would be pale. His nipples were probably pink, and his cock—
This was not a productive train of thought. The good thing about middle age was that he didn’t have to let his dick make so many decisions for him. He could wait.
When Jeremy emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped precariously around his hips, Qay very nearly abandoned that resolution. Jesus, he was every bit as gorgeous as Qay had imagined, with bulging pecs, a washboard stomach, and just the hint of a blond treasure trail disappearing beneath the white terry cloth. Most men in their twenties would have envied his physique; for a man reaching his midforties, he was nothing short of magnificent.
“Forgot my clothes,” Jeremy said.
“Holy crap.”
Jeremy blinked, then allowed a slow smile to spread over his face. “Yeah?”
“You were this tubby little kid.”
“I had a hell of a growth spurt. And I spend a lot of time in the gym.”
“And you have personal access to the Fountain of Youth.”
Jeremy shook his head. “I feel every damn year of my age.”
Qay decided that Jeremy was the human equivalent of his SUV: big and powerful, flashy, yet with substance behind the bling. On the other hand, Qay resembled a used car. Not the real clunkers that would die on you after a few hundred miles, but he’d been used, and used hard. He’d accumulated scratches and dents, his upholstery was a little stained, and his paint job had lost some shine. He was still reliable—still kept motoring away—but he was the kind of car you’d want to trade in as soon as you could afford something better.
“We could postpone dinner,” Jeremy said quietly. He prowled a few steps closer, so that Qay smelled the almond and citrus scents of his soap and shampoo.
Qay wanted to tear away the towel and press himself against all that bare skin. He wanted to feel Jeremy’s big hands on his shoulders, his back, his ass. God, it had been so long, and he ached to drown himself in human contact—nearly as much as he sometimes ached for a needle or a pill.
“What do you want from me?” he asked, his voice cool and even.
Jeremy didn’t hesitate. “Everything.”
Qay’s knees went weak, and he sat heavily on the bed. In a tiny voice, he said, “I’m not pretty. I have scars.”
“You’re…. I can’t take my eyes off you. Not since I first caught sight of you. But I don’t care what you look like.” He bit his lip. “I can’t tell you what it is about you. I mean, it’s not like I can break you into your components and say, ‘This is what gets me going. This piece right here.’ But you really do, Qay.”
Overwhelmed, Qay couldn’t respond at first. Then he pulled himself together. “You really want…. Look. If you’re trying to get into my pants, it’s not that big a challenge. I’ll unzip and bend over right now, and then we can go our separate ways. But don’t take me for a ride, okay?” He had no pride; he wasn’t above pleading.
Something seemed to set in Jeremy’s storm-cloud eyes. He’d made a decision. “The only place we’ll ride tonight is to dinner. I want…. Jesus. My life’s like a tornado lately and I’m discussing deep thoughts wearing nothing but a towel. Let’s give us some time. We’re worth it.”
Qay answered him with a smile.
THEY ATE at the kind of place Qay never would have chosen on his own: white tablecloths, man-bunned waiters, a menu full of phrases like “locally sourced” and “sustainable.” But the prices were surprisingly affordable and the food damned good.
“Do you know every restaurant in town?” Qay as
ked, spearing more coconut lime snapper with his fork.
“Nope.” Jeremy was midway through an elk burger, which Qay found absurd. Elk? “But I eat out a lot.”
“I guess you have to, living in a hotel.”
“Even before that. I can cook, but it hardly seems worth it when it’s just me.” Then he froze with his burger poised halfway to his mouth. “Thanksgiving.”
“What?”
“It’s next week. I’d forgotten.”
Qay shrugged. He paid little attention to holidays.
But Jeremy nodded resolutely. “You’re joining us.”
“Us?”
“Rhoda does a thing. Her son drives down from Seattle—with a date, if he’s seeing someone. And because it’s Rhoda, there’s always an interesting collection of other people. International students, newcomers to town, singles… whatever. I don’t know where she finds them all. We have a ton of food. And this time, I get to bring a date.” He beamed.
Qay had eaten institutional Thanksgivings—dry turkey and mashed potatoes from a box—and the ones served by shelters and soup kitchens. But the last time he’d had a home-cooked holiday meal had been in Bailey Springs, with the bird roasted perfectly and served on a garnished platter. And with his father sloshed before the second helping and his mother medicated nearly comatose.
“Rhoda won’t mind?”
“Mind? She’d probably drag you there herself. I’m sure she’d have asked you already if she’d seen you this week. She told me she was glad you didn’t kick me to the curb.”
Qay smiled. He’d missed her. “Should I bring something?”
“Dunno. We can ask her later.”
That settled, they finished their dinner.
Jeremy didn’t drive them back to the hotel after their meal. Instead, he took them straight to Qay’s place. They remained in the dark of the SUV, quiet and peaceful. Until Qay ruined it. “You’re meeting that cop tomorrow.”
