by Sean Michael
They laughed together and damn, but it felt nice, good. Normal. And, God forgive him, he was used to it.
They ate together, making small talk in between wolfing down the food. Russ was a damned fine dinner companion.
“I'll get the dishes,” Russ said when they were done, clearing the table and heading for the sink. He watched that sweet little ass for a second, before getting up to help.
“What's on the agenda for tonight, Yankee? Anything good on the cartoon network?”
“Same old, same old, but I think there's a couple of movies playing on that new mystery channel. We could make some popcorn and turn out the lights, get freaked out.”
He grinned and nodded. “Cool. Let me go throw some sweats on and it's a plan.”
Russ gave him a quick once over. “Okay.”
He opened his mouth to ask Russ if he liked what he saw, but shut it quickly and zipped down the hall. After washing his face and changing into his warm sweatpants—along with a very needed thump to his prick to make it lay down and be still—Trey felt more human and less like a hormonal teenager. “Okay, should I make popcorn?”
“Already in the microwave—all you need to do is hit the button,” Russ told him, turning that happy grin on him.
“Oh...” He gave Russ his best idiot redneck look. “Them there nukers are complicated ... There's buttons?”
Laughing, Russ reached over and swatted his ass. “Just give it your best shot, Cowboy.”
He was laughing, cheeks blazing, ass swaying as he started the popcorn and opened the fridge. “You need a coke, Russ?”
“Sure that would be great.”
Russ dried the last of the dishes and pulled out the popcorn bowl, working companionably alongside him. He could feel Russ looking at him now and then though, and there was a tension in the air that they usually were able to just ignore. Not that it was a bad tension...
He grabbed two cans and poured out the popcorn. “You ready to get comfortable and relax?”
God, that didn't sound as old man pervy and weird as he thought it did, did it?
Russ didn't seem to think so, smiling and nodding at him. “Yep.”
“Cool.” He settled on one end of the sofa, legs curled up beneath him, putting the popcorn beside him. He watched as Russ got the remote and started clicking until they found the movies.
Russ settled not quite at the other end, feet on the floor, legs sprawled. “We might as well leave the lights off—keep the atmosphere right.”
“Works for me.” Trey relaxed into the cushions, reaching over for popcorn every now and again, just watching Russ out the corner of his eye. Russ did his usual with the popcorn, eating one piece of popcorn at a time pretty steadily for about ten or fifteen minutes before giving it up altogether. Licking his fingers clean was always the cue that Russ was done. Russ sucked each finger into his mouth and they'd slide out with a little wet popping sound. Oh, God. He wasn't watching. Or listening. Or paying any attention. At all.
It would have been one thing if Russ was doing it on purpose, but he knew Russ wasn't, it was just a part of the popcorn-eating-movie-watching routine. A particularly intense moment happened on screen and Russ’ finger stopped just shy of his open mouth, the kid just frozen there as he watched. He swallowed his groan and reached down for his coke, settling the cold can between his legs. Down, boy.
Russ shivered and went back to sucking his fingers clean, wiping them on his jeans when he was done. “This isn't half bad, is it?”
“What's that?” He half turned, gave Russ a grin. “It's hard to screw up microwave popcorn.”
Russ chuckled. “I meant the movie, asshole. It's pretty sca—tense.”
“Sca-tense? Is this a some strange Yankee thing?” He tossed a piece of popcorn over.
Russ tossed the kernel back and muttered. “I was gonna say scary, okay? The movie is fucking scary.”
“Yeah? I hadn't noticed.” I was busy being fucking distracted by you licking your fingers.
Russ colored some and shrugged. “I guess I just scare easily...”
“Either that or I don't pay attention very well.” He offered Russ a grin. “I was watching you.” He snapped his mouth shut, eyes going wide. He didn't just say that.
Russ turned and looked at him, eyes just as wide as his own had to be. “Oh.”
They just sort of sat there, looking and blinking and quiet. Then somebody screamed on the television and they both jumped, looking at the screen. “Okay, it's a little scary.”
Russ laughed and grabbed a handful of popcorn, tossing it at him.
“Hey!” He retaliated, throwing one after another, pegging Russ each time. Before he knew it, they had a food fight on their hands, popcorn flying, both of them scrambling for the fallen kernels once the bowl was empty. He was laughing hard enough to make his side hurt, make him short of breath. He struggled to get his feet out from under him, ass sliding on the cushions, and he went ass over teakettle, ending with his head damned near in Russ’ lap.
Russ’ laughter faded off, blue eyes gazing down at him. Russ dropped the popcorn he'd been about to throw, hand ghosting over his head instead, fingers just touching his hair, before Russ drew them back and broke their gaze, clearing his throat. “I ... uh...”
“Yeah. Sorry.” He scooted up and off the sofa, ungraceful and clumsy and red-cheeked and embarrassed as fuck. “I'll grab the broom right quick.”
“No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have...” Russ's voice faded and when he brought the broom back, Russ was filling the popcorn bowl with the kernels from the couch. He swept up, quick and easy, then took the bowl that Russ handed to him to throw everything away. The tension was back in the air, but it wasn't the good kind—now it was harsh and unhappy and...
He sat back down, right beside Russ. “Don't know about you, but you pushed the scared right out of me.”
Russ nodded. “Yeah. Sorry, that was ... well fun, so I guess I'm not sorry about that. But ... just ... Shit, Trey, you're my boss and my friend and I should be more circumspect, I'm sorry.”
“Circumspect? Er ... Russ?” He waited until Russ met his eyes, then arched an eyebrow. “I was the one who landed in your lap.” Trey could feel his heart starting to race, beating hard.
Russ’ cheeks reddened up, but the kid kept his gaze. “I was the one who imagined all sorts of things and got hard when you did.”
Oh.
“I should have stayed there longer. I missed it.”
Russ’ eyes went dark and he licked his lips, cleared his throat. “Oh.”
Trey nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”
They just sat there for awhile, staring at each other, movie completely forgotten now.
“Is this a good idea?” Russ asked softly.
“Probably not. We work together, live together. We get caught, Marty will never let me live it down.”
Russ nodded and just kept staring at him. “I don't ... I don't know that I can stay and not ... I just decided earlier there was no way I could leave Chocolate. She means to much to me.”
“She's yours.” He let his hand fall, just touching Russ’ knee. “She loves you.”
Ross nodded, eyes on his hand now. “But this is the only place where I can keep her. I have a hunch...” Russ took a deep breath and looked him in the eye again. “I have a hunch my tour of America is finished—at least until I've got enough money saved up to be a horse owner and she's old enough to ride.”
He gave Russ a grin and reached for his soda, drinking it down. “There's worse places to wait for your mount to be ready for you, that's for damned sure.”
“Oh yeah, I love it here.”
“Good deal.” Trey gave them a little more space between them, settling in again, letting the cushions cradle him. “You fit in right nice, even if you are a Yankee.”
Russ chuckled. “And y'all have made me feel right at home, even if you do talk funny.”
“At least we drink our tea right and can handle our salsa.” He
shook his head, rolling his eyes playfully.
“Oh, sure, you can handle the red stuff, but you put it on everything. I'm surprised you don't put it on the table with dessert.” Russ was grinning easily at him again, eyes twinkling.
“Could be worse. Could be mayonnaise. That's just wrong.” He winked and turned back to the TV, the buzz of tension in his belly easing away. “Now, tell me, who's the little blond here?”
That made Russ laugh. “You really weren't paying attention, were you?”
“Not a bit, which is all your fault.” He pointed to the television. “Now, catch me up.”
“My fault? I was sitting here innocently watching the TV.”
“Uh-huh. Innocent, my ass.” He grinned as someone came up behind who he reckoned was the heroine with a big axe. “Someone's about to get chopped.”
“Nah, the little blond ones always live.” Sure enough, she screamed and got away. “Besides, she's about the only one left alive who can warn the town—she won't die before then for sure.”
They watched the movie through, then started the next, the room only lit by the flicker of the TV and the light above the stove in the kitchen. Every now and then he could feel Russ glance over at him and if they happened to catch each other's eyes, Russ would give him a shy smile. He found himself grinning back, unsure what to do next when the movie rolled to a close.
Russ went to turn off the television. “There anything you wanting to see?”
He shook his head and stretched. “No. Two's enough for me. That second one was odd. I thought the red-headed did it, sure enough.”
“Yeah, the first one was definitely the better of the two. Still, made for an entertaining night.” Russ didn't look much like he was ready for the evening to end. “You want to play a round or two of checkers or something?”
He nodded. He could handle that. He grinned, conscious of the jump and heat in his belly. “I'll make us up some coffee. You want some music?”
“Yeah, sounds great. And there's some of that peach cobbler you made left over, too—it would be really good warmed up with some ice cream.”
Russ had the TV off now and was setting up the card table, finding the checkerboard.
“Mmm ... yeah.” They were just like an old couple sometimes. Well, except for the not-sleeping together part and the not-kissing part and the not-fighting like cats and dogs part.
He grinned and pulled out the cobbler. Guess you couldn't have everything.
Chapter 6
It was never good news when the phone rang in the middle of the night. Never. He fumbled for the phone, knocking the receiver onto the floor as he hit the lamp and blinked at the clock. 2:14. Fuck.
“'lo?”
“I'm sorry to be calling so late. I'm looking for Russell Johnson.” The voice was a man's, low and gravely and serious.
“Russ? Uh ... yeah. Sure. Hold up a sec and I'll go wake him up.” Trey rustled around for a pair of shorts and yanked them up. He stumbled across the hall, phone in hand, and knocked on Russ’ door. “Russ. Man. You gotta phone call.”
Christ, he hoped it wasn't too bad. Couldn't be good though.
“Huh?” It was quiet for a moment and then there was a bump and Russ’ tousled head appeared around the door. “Wha?”
“Phone for you.” He handed the phone over like it was a snake or something.
“Thanks.” Russ took the phone and leaned against the door. “Hello? Whoa, Dad, slow down a minute, what are you talking about?”
“What?” Russ had gone pale, slowly sliding down along the door until he was sitting on the floor. “No ... no ... when ... is Mom? ... yeah. Yeah, I'll be there as soon as I can. Yeah, okay. You, too. Wait, Dad? I love you.”
Russ hit the off button and just kind of stared at the phone.
Trey sighed and shook his head. Never good news. Just ... Never. “I'll make coffee. Where do you need to be when?”
“What?” Russ blinked up at him, looking a bit stunned.
“You gotta go somewhere, yeah? Something happened?” He rubbed the back of his neck. Christ, he needed coffee.
Russ nodded, blinked again, eyes going kind of wet. “My sister. Ginnie ... she uh ... My dad said she was in a car accident.”
“Is she ... Is it bad?” Aw, shit.
Russ bit his bottom lip and nodded, arms going around his legs. “He said she was dead.” The words were whispered, a little bit broken, a little wild. “She can't be dead, Trey. She's only sixteen. She's gonna be a biochemist. Smart as anything.”
“Oh, fuck.” He sighed, kneeled down beside Russ, shaking his head. “I'm sorry, man. So fucking sorry.”
Russ nodded again. “There's a funeral and shit. No open casket though. She was ... they can't...” A broken sound came from Russ’ throat and he buried his head in his knees. He settled on the floor and pulled Russ into his arms. They could be all macho and shit later. After coffee. Trey sort of hummed, sort of murmured, just stroked and rocked and held and let Russ cry. Fuck, but God wasn't fair sometimes, not fair at all. Eventually the sounds faded, Russ just leaning on him. “I've got to get up there. Today. Shit, are you going to be able to find someone to replace me this quick?”
“I'll manage ‘til you get back, Russ. You don't worry about me.” He squeezed Russ. “Let me make some coffee and I'll make some phone calls and we'll get you a flight.”
“Thanks, Trey.” Russ hugged him hard for a moment and then got up, wiping at his eyes. “I'm gonna grab a shower, if you don't mind. Throw some things into a bag.”
“Where am I sending you? And for how long?” He got up, scratching his belly, eyes all gritty.
“Rochester, New York. I'm not sure how long.” Russ rubbed his face again, leaning against the wall. “A week? Maybe two? My mom's pretty out of it. I don't want to just leave after the funeral...”
“Okay, I'll take care of it.” He nodded and went to grab his wallet and log in to get Russ a flight out.
“Thanks, Trey. I really appreciate it.”
“Anytime. You go get cleaned up.” He shook his head. Damn it. Damn bad luck and bad phone calls and everything.
* * * *
It was unreal, like a bad dream he couldn't wake up from. To make it worse, there was nothing to do in the airports, on the plane, but sit there and think. He bought a book and tried to read, but he couldn't make the words make any sense. So he sat there and thought. Thought about Ginnie and how she wouldn't be there when he got off the plane. And she wouldn't be at home either, not when he got there, not later, not ever.
Oh man, that hurt him deep in his stomach, made him just ache. The ache like a stone—heavy and solid and just sitting there in his belly.
The plane droned and vibrated like planes did. Everything around him seemed so damned normal and it wasn't right, wasn't fair. It wasn't fair.
* * * *
His mother looked old. No, not old, she looked like a corpse. Like she had died when Ginnie was killed. His father just looked stern an Russ knew it was just his way of coping, but Russ couldn't help feeling like his father was mad at him, like Ginnie's death was somehow his fault. He wanted to tell them to stop looking like that, that it was okay to be sad, but not to be dead, but he couldn't get the words passed the huge lump in his throat.
Ginnie should have been sitting next to him, bouncing and chattering and driving him nuts. But she wasn't and she never would be again. He closed his eyes and tried not to think of anything while the car ate up the miles to the house where he grew up.
* * * *
Russ stood next to his Mom as every single person he'd ever known and plenty he didn't shook his hand and told him how sorry they were. A lot of the women hugged him. He didn't want to be here. In fact he wanted to be anywhere but here. He wanted to be back at the ranch, sleeping through the night after a hard day's work and teasing Trey about some cowboy expression or the other.
More than anything he didn't want to be so mad at Ginnie.
* * * *
Dam
n, he was getting old.
It wasn't really the work, that he could manage—and if the barn roof didn't get patched straight away, well, it sucked to be the goat in the stall, didn't it? And working with Pud was a joy and the cows were doing fine. Even Russ’ little filly was doing fine, running in the pasture with the rest of them, eating up the last of the green peeking through the grey.
And the weather? Well, it was late fall heading into winter, sure enough. The wind was ugly, the storms blowing in dark and wild, the rain filling the creeks and river, making the whole world muddy. Still, cold and wet? Pretty normal.
It was the evenings that were fucking forever long. TV was boring as hell. There was only so much solitaire a man could play, only so many stupid web sites a cowboy could blink at—although some of the things people *did* with their time? Just, damn.
He'd gotten used to cooking for two, gotten used to checkers in the evening. Gotten used to having somebody to laugh with, to bullshit with, to hang out with.
Trey fed the critters, got the horses in their stalls and the house locked up. He hopped in the truck and headed down to town. He needed groceries and laundry detergent and maybe he'd see if there was a new movie out at the Wal-Mart.
Something to make things less quiet at home, to make things easier.
'Cause maybe?
Maybe he wasn't used to having someone at home.
Maybe he was used to having Russ.
* * * *
Man, he was tired. Russ got off the plane and headed through to the airport exit. He'd called Trey the night before, told the cowboy when his plane was landing and been assured someone would be there to pick him up. He just hoped it wasn't Marty. It wasn't that he didn't like Marty, because he did, but he wasn't really up to dealing with Marty right now. He just wanted to get home and feed Chocolate, have some of Trey's chili and cornbread and hit the sack.
Death fucking sucked and he didn't want to have to do another funeral for someone he loved ever again. Ever.
He looked around for a familiar face.
“Hey Yankee. Welcome home.” Trey's voice called out, low and familiar, warm.
Oh. Yeah, thank you God. He headed toward Trey and summoned up a tired smile. “Hey, Trey. You sure are a sight for sore eyes.”
