by Kim Fielding
“Hey, Wes? I don’t know how to ask this without maybe being insulting, but are you going to be okay with the medical bills?”
“I have insurance.” It had seemed like a good idea for someone who spent his days handling sharp tools and lugging furniture. “Thanks to Obamacare, my premiums are only appalling instead of stroke-inducing.”
Parker chuckled. “I’m glad. And thanks, Obama!”
“How about you? Money-wise, I mean. You’re missing a lot of work to babysit me.”
“I’m fine. I don’t need much. And I can rely on the Bank of Mom if necessary. I know I’m saying this from a place of privilege—Ptolemy’s lectured me on that point a lot—but I don’t care much about money. I mean, I want the basics like shelter and food—”
“And hair dye.”
“—and hair dye. But stuff isn’t important to me. People are.” He reached over and gently patted Wes’s leg.
“That’s a good attitude.”
“I’ve been told I lack ambition.”
“Maybe your ambitions don’t involve careers and paychecks. Doesn’t mean they’re unworthy.”
Parker’s smile lit up the van. “Thanks.”
“Are you ever going to tell me what you did to your hand?” Wes touched it gently. The bandages were off now, but the knuckles still looked swollen and bruised.
“Nope.”
They stopped at Rhoda’s house so Parker could pick up some clothing. Rhoda was at P-Town, but she’d left a bag full of nonperishable groceries and a note ordering them both to eat well and text her often. Parker rolled his eyes, but Wes could tell he was pleased.
“Do you want to go to P-Town and see her?” Wes asked.
“Nah. Let’s get you home.”
WES’S LITTLE compound looked dark and forlorn as they rolled up. It seemed like a thousand years since he’d been there last. But Parker made him sit in Morrison while he ran ahead to turn on the lights and get the wood stove going, and by the time Wes slowly made his way up the stairs and through the door, everything glowed.
“Straight to bed with you,” Parker ordered.
“I have to piss. And wash up.”
“I stole the urinal cup thing from the hospital, and I’m going to bring you everything else you need.”
“Bossy,” Wes said, heart full and warm.
“Yep.”
Parker found Wes’s favorite flannel sleep pants and softest old T-shirt and insisted on helping him get undressed, even though Wes could have done it himself. Then, as promised, he brought washing-up supplies—and didn’t wince at the urinal full of piss. That taken care of, he made and carried in tea and sandwiches and sat on the mattress beside Wes, eating and chatting happily.
“We’re getting crumbs in the bed,” Wes pointed out.
“You survived being tortured and shot. A few crumbs won’t kill you.”
“Hmm.” Wes decided not to argue, because Parker had finished his food, slipped under the covers, and snuggled close.
“Is this okay? Am I hurting anything?”
“No.” Actually Wes didn’t care that Parker was jostling him a little. The heat of Parker’s body was sinking into him, and his hair was nicely tickling his neck.
“My hair looks stupid,” said Wes, remembering. Then he yawned.
“We could pretend it’s a new fashion. Like a half Mohawk. I’ll dye it purple.” Parker chuckled, and Wes enjoyed the puffs of breath on his collarbone. “Or maybe we should just shave it all off and start fresh.”
“Okay.” Wes didn’t really care. Right now Parker was in his bed, and that meant all was right in Wes’s world.
Chapter Nineteen
PLAYING HOUSE with Wes was amazingly easy. It helped that the bus already felt like home, and Wes was pretty easygoing. For several days Parker did chores and fussed at Wes if he thought Wes was overdoing it. They had a lot of free time on their hands, but neither went stir-crazy. It was relaxing and comfortable to simply talk to each other, sit on the couch with music and books, take short walks to watch the ducks.
One afternoon when Wes’s shoulder was still too sore for him to take the wheel, Parker drove them into Grants Pass. They stopped at a drop-in clinic so Wes could get his stitches out. Then he bought a new phone, which was way more hassle than it should have been. The kid at the store had a hell of a time uploading Wes’s contacts and other information to the new device, but he managed it at last. In celebration of their day out, Wes insisted on treating Parker to dinner.
They ordered fancy burgers with sweet-potato fries and sat gazing at each other over the table. Wes kept running a hand over his head, probably because he still wasn’t used to his buzz cut. He seemed a little self-conscious when people did a double-take due to his scarred cheeks. Parker found Wes even more handsome than before, especially when a smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“Hanukkah,” Wes said suddenly.
“What?”
“Doesn’t it begin in two nights?”
Parker, who’d lost track of days, had to consult his phone. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“But you’re stuck here with me.”
“I’m not stuck anywhere, Wes. There’s nowhere else in the world I want to be right now.”
Wes looked at him gravely. “It’s a big world.”
“I know.” And because a shadow of unhappiness had passed over Wes’s features, Parker steered the conversation in a different direction. “Mom’s gonna love that shelf so much. I can’t wait to give it to her.”
“Glad you’re happy with it.”
Wes seemed to want to say more, but although Parker waited, Wes remained silent. The waitress brought their food, and they exchanged only a few words while they ate. “These are good,” Parker finally said out of desperation.
“They’re okay.”
“You’re not impressed?”
Wes shrugged. “You cook better than this.” Then he looked down at his plate as though his fries required all his attention.
“Who taught you to cook?” Parker asked.
That made Wes glance up. “Nobody. Grandpa could do a few things, but mostly I taught myself out of sheer necessity.”
“God, you’re amazing.”
“Because I can throw together an edible meal?” Wes looked genuinely puzzled.
“Because you’ve accomplished so much with zero support.”
“I haven’t sent explorers to Mars or won a Pulitzer Prize. I make furniture and I live in—”
“A bus. I know.” Parker smiled. “But I do not retract my statement. I know you, Wes. I know you. And you’re top quality, A1. You’re the bomb.”
Although Wes scoffed and threw a french fry at Parker, his eyes warmed. Maybe if Parker kept repeating these things, Wes would come to believe them.
Back home, Wes spent time playing with his new phone as Parker did some laundry and, while standing outside under the tarp, called Rhoda. She sounded a little distracted. “What’s going on, Mom?”
“Nothing. Today was Dina’s last day, but Larry and Padma both want some extra hours, so that works out fine.”
“And you’re okay about me missing the beginning of Hanukkah?”
“That’s fine, honey.” She hesitated a moment. “Any chance you’ll be back for New Year’s Eve?”
“Sure.” Since that was over a month away, Parker assumed Wes would have had enough of him by then, and Parker would return to Portland and nurse a broken heart. God, that was going to hurt. “You’re not planning another shindig, are you?” He didn’t think he’d be able to bear much gaiety at that point.
She cleared her throat, an act that was unusual and suspicious. “I was thinking of taking a little vacation, actually.”
“Oh?” To the best of Parker’s knowledge, she hadn’t gone anywhere since P-Town opened—unless you counted her numerous trips to Seattle to bail Parker out of his disaster du jour. On the few days out of the year when the coffeehouse closed, Rhoda was busy with her Thanksgiving extravaganza,
or she just stayed at home with her feet up, reading trade magazines. “Where to?”
“Vegas.”
“Really? That’s unexpected. Really cool, but unexpected.”
A long pause, during which Parker tried very hard not to enjoy the nearly unprecedented occasion of Rhoda’s embarrassment. “Bob thinks I might enjoy it,” she finally admitted.
Parker grinned widely, relieved that his personal drama hadn’t scared the guy away. “That’s great, Mom. Of course I can take over the shop while you’re gone.”
“Thanks, Gonzo. Love you lots.”
“You too.”
Wes smiled up at him when Parker returned to the bus. “Everything’s good?”
“Yeah. Mom’s planning a trip to Vegas with Bob. That’s huge.” Parker plopped down on the couch beside him. “Mom’s happy on her own, but I think being dragged away for a few days by a man will be good for her.”
“You like this guy?”
“I do. I wish you’d been able to meet him. He was over on Thanksgiving.” That gave rise to a distressing thought. “You never did get a chance to celebrate.”
“Sorry I stood you up.”
“Being kidnapped is a legit excuse.” And it was. But it meant Wes had missed his first opportunity in years to celebrate. And how many other holidays had he sat out, alone, over the years? Just thinking about it made Parker’s chest feel tight—until inspiration struck. “I need a few things. Is it all right if I take Morrison into town tomorrow?”
PARKER WOKE up fairly early, made breakfast for both of them despite Wes’s protests that he could do it himself, and afterward grabbed Morrison’s keys off the hook near the door. “Need anything while I’m there?”
“I have everything I need.”
Parker sang along with the Beatles for the entire drive to Grants Pass. He only had three stops to make—Target, a party supply store, and a supermarket—but he made an unplanned side trip to a bookstore as well.
When he returned, he found Wes standing under the tarp, eyeing a wooden plank he’d set on his work table. Parker came up behind him and tsked. “Really?”
“It only weighs a couple of pounds. And I’m not doing anything with it—just planning. Stupid shoulder’s still too sore for me to handle tools properly.” He stroked the wood grain lovingly.
“It’s really hard on you to not be working, isn’t it?”
“I guess. Being a carpenter—it’s what I do. Who I am.”
Parker had never defined himself by his jobs and found this a little hard to understand. But then, he had other rock-solid identities to fall back on, like being Rhoda Levin’s son. Wes had none of that. Parker squeezed Wes’s good shoulder. “You’ll be back at it really soon. In the meantime, maybe you have some tasks that you can catch up on without violating doctor’s orders.”
Frowning, Wes rubbed the stubble atop his head. “I’ve been thinking for a long time about building some kind of roofed structure for my kitchen and workspace. I get cold in the winters.”
“Why haven’t you done it, then?”
“Money, mostly. I can do most of the construction myself, but I’d have to buy materials, and I’d need help with plumbing and electric.” He sighed. “But I guess I can draw up some plans now. That’s free.”
“Do you need anything?”
“Just some measurements. Want to help?”
Parker spent about fifteen minutes holding a measuring tape in place while Wes scribbled numbers in a small notebook. It wasn’t strenuous activity, but Wes was limping more noticeably by the time they were done, and his face appeared drawn.
Parker gently confiscated the tape measure and hung it from its designated hook. “Go rest for a while,” he said with a pat to Wes’s butt.
“Jesus, I’m useless.”
“No, you’re healing. Go.” Another pat, this one slightly on the gropey side, which made Wes laugh.
As soon as Wes was back in the bus, Parker unpacked Morrison and got to work. After about an hour, he stopped and made Wes some tea but discovered him fast asleep on the couch with a spiral notebook on his stomach and a pencil on the floor. Parker set the tea and notebook aside, picked up the pencil, and managed to drape a fluffy blanket over Wes without waking him up. He resisted the urge to kiss him and went back outside to his tasks.
Thirty minutes later he was finished. He found Wes awake this time, sitting with the blanket on his lap and the tea mug in his hands.
“That tea’s cold,” Parker said.
“Won’t kill me.”
“Come out with me and I’ll make you some fresh.”
Wes stood, stretched, and winced, but he moved smoothly as he put on his boots and the coat that matched Parker’s. Carrying the mug, he followed Parker outside and then stopped in his tracks.
“What the…?” He gaped.
“Happy holidays!” Parker said brightly.
“But—”
“Presents first, then food.”
“I don’t….”
Since Wes remained frozen, Parker took the mug and set it aside. Then he grasped Wes’s hand and gave an impromptu tour. “The colored lights on your natural evergreens are for Christmas, of course,” he said, pointing. “And in the interest of multidenominationalism, I found a Hanukkah menorah. Which isn’t easy in Grants Pass. Those noisemaker things are for New Year’s. I got some champagne too; we’ll have it with dinner. The paper hearts are for Valentine’s Day, and those little US flags are for the Fourth of July. That cake is for your birthday—I don’t know when it is, but that’s fine; we’re celebrating today. It’s impossible to find Halloween decorations at the end of November, which is super sad ’cause it’s my favorite holiday, so I just got some candy instead. Turkey breast is cooking and will be served on turkey-print paper plates I got on clearance. And there will be latkes too. I love latkes.”
Wes blinked several times as if trying to wake himself up, then pointed at a wooden bowl filled with hard-boiled eggs. Parker had used a Sharpie to draw designs on the shells. “What’s that?”
“Easter, of course.”
“Easter’s in the spring.”
“Yeah, so’s Passover. It’s also impossible to find matzah in Grants Pass in November, by the way.” He kissed Wes’s knuckles. “We’re celebrating everything today.”
“Why?”
“Making up for a little lost time.”
Although Wes still appeared to be in a daze, he allowed Parker to tug him to the workbench, where a pile of gifts waited. Some were bound in Christmas paper, some in birthday wrap, and the rest in blue and silver that had to suffice for Hanukkah purposes. “Open,” Parker ordered.
Wes obeyed. Most of the gifts were an assortment of used books Parker hoped Wes would like: some novels, and travel guides to Venice, Tokyo, and Mexico City. But Parker had also bought him a blue knitted beanie to keep his shorn head warm when he worked outside, a bag of good coffee beans, and a vehicle air freshener shaped like Bigfoot.
“That one’s for Morrison.” Parker paused. “Do you like everything?”
Wes blinked rapidly, then rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Yeah,” he rasped. “I do.”
It would have been nice to eat outside, lit by the glow of Christmas lights. But Parker was worried about Wes getting a chill, so they ate indoors instead. Astonishingly, Wes had never eaten latkes, but he announced that they were now a favorite food. After they finished eating, he insisted on doing the meal cleanup, directing Parker to one of the lawn chairs under the tarp.
Before they went inside, Parker snagged one final box, unwrapped but hidden in one of Wes’s plastic bins of supplies. “How about we do this now?” he said, handing it to Wes.
Wes looked at the box. “A gingerbread house kit?”
“I figured we can handle that much construction tonight.”
“We can build a house together.”
Something in Wes’s tone and expression suggested he meant more than cookie construction. A lot more. Now it wa
s Parker’s turn to gape.
Then Wes shrugged and patted Parker’s butt, breaking the mood. “Let’s go inside.”
They set the box on Wes’s little table, and while Wes got the Eagles playing on the sound system, Parker removed the gingerbread components from the box. As they began assembly, however, it became clear neither of them had done this before.
“Building real things is easier,” Wes grumbled after a wall collapsed for the third time. “Is it cool if I just go get my nail gun instead?”
“I think frosting is easier to digest.” To illustrate his point, Parker squeezed a bit of white frosting from the bag onto a fingertip, then smeared it across Wes’s lips.
Wes’s brows shot up, and he licked the frosting away. Then he snatched the frosting bag and squeezed a dollop onto the tip of Parker’s nose.
“You bastard!” Parker laughed, reaching for the bag.
Wes hopped back, Parker tripped over the table leg and fell—still laughing—and Wes collapsed on top of him, frosting and all, pinning Parker flat on his back. For a split second Parker worried that Wes might have been reinjured, but before he could say anything, Wes was spreading frosting over Parker’s face. Parker tried to wiggle away, but that only resulted in Wes tickling him.
Between squirming and laughing, he managed to ask, “Is this a technique you learned in the academy?”
“Nope.” Wes licked Parker’s face and followed up with an interesting wiggle that chased the laughter away immediately.
Parker wrapped his arms around Wes, stilling him. “You’re still heal—”
“I’m healed enough for this. I’ll prove it.” He shrugged himself free, pushed up Parker’s shirt, and squeezed a line of frosting from the center of his chest to just above the top of his jeans. When he began to lick the path he’d made, Parker’s will to argue wavered. Then Wes unbuttoned and unzipped Parker’s jeans, and it evaporated completely.
“Oh my God,” he said when Wes adorned his cock with frosting. “That’s—”
