Cinnamon Eyes

by Nell Iris

  My quivering lips against his bristly ones was all it took for my world to shift. It was the lightest touch, but still the most significant event in my life so far.

  I parted my lips and whimpered as he breathed into my mouth. Afraid I’d tumble off the couch if I didn’t ground myself, I grabbed his arm and squeezed hard. My tongue darted out and tasted his lips, his tongue, the roof of his mouth. I opened my mouth wider. As he moaned, his tongue vibrated against mine, and I drowned in his essence.

  We both panted as we parted. His chest heaved, and my entire body shuddered. His hand slid down my neck, over my shoulder, along my arm, until he reached my waist. He wound his arm around me, and I flung my leg over his and moved until I ended up straddling his lap.

  My eyes widened when my ass came in contact with his hardness. Even through two layers of sweats, I felt him throb, and I couldn’t help grinding against it.

  Asher hissed and pushed back. But after only a second, he stilled and tightened his grip on my waist to keep me from moving.

  “Honey, we’re not ready for that.”

  “I know.” Even to my own ears, I sounded disappointed.

  He freed his arms and reached up for my neck, caressing his thumbs back and forth on my cheeks. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Your beautiful cinnamon eyes are full of sadness. Like I just broke your heart.”

  “You didn’t.”

  Leaning forward, he brushed his lips lightly against mine. When he pulled back, I hid my face in his neck.

  “Did you mean it?” I asked after a few moments of silence.

  “I did,” he rumbled. “That’s what we both want, right? So we’ll date. See where this leads. And when we’re ready, we’ll talk more.”

  I pressed my lips against his neck. “Sounds perfect.”

  “Besides, I’m a good boy. I don’t get married on the first date.”

  I let out a chuckle that grew and grew until I couldn’t contain it in my body anymore. I had to let it go, laughing with my entire being. Tears streamed down my face and drenched his threadbare T-shirt, and my stomach ached from the unusual activity.

  Straightening, I looked at him, still laughing. His fingers ghosted over the laughing lines of my face, and he gazed at me with eyes full of fondness.

  “I needed that,” I gasped out when the laughter finally died down.

  “I’m glad I could help.”

  “You always could.” Another chuckle escaped, like an earthquake aftershock. Every muscle in my face ached, and I was too weak to stay upright. I hid my face in the crook of his neck again.

  “Tired?” he asked.

  “Mhm.”

  “Wanna go to bed?”

  “Mm, yes.”

  Reluctantly, I climbed off his lap. We turned off the forgotten movie, carried the dirty cups to the kitchen, and wandered up to bed, hand in hand.

  Chapter 9

  The next day, I went to pick up Mr. Cross at the hospital and drive him home. A faulty delivery and a no-show employee had messed up Asher’s afternoon, making him stressed and irritated. He’d run around, doing his best to be everywhere at once and still finish in time for him to pick up his father, but I’d known it wasn’t going to happen.

  So I’d pulled him to the side, asked for the car keys, and told him I’d take care of Pops.

  At first, he’d been reluctant, not wanting to subject me to his father’s grumpiness, but a loud crash coming from somewhere in the back had silenced his objections. He’d handed over the keys with eyes full of gratitude.

  I hadn’t been waiting long when Mr. Cross emerged from the hospital in a wheelchair, accompanied by the nurse driving him. I jumped out and jogged around the car to open the door for him. When I turned to them, he glared at me.

  His eyes were thin slits, his mouth set in a grim line, but the surliness and defiance from the day before were missing.

  “What are you doing here? Where’s Asher?” he asked as he let himself be helped out of the chair and into the passenger seat.

  “He had a situation at the bar, so I offered to drive you.”

  Mr. Cross grunted something indecipherable and gave the nurse a tired wave before she left. When he was settled, I drove away.

  He didn’t say a word on the entire trip; he didn’t even make the annoyed grunts and demeaning huffs he’d excelled at the day before. Instead, he closed his eyes and leaned against the headrest.

  Sitting next to me was a broken man. It was impossible, but he even seemed smaller. Whatever treatment he’d had—chemo? radiation?—must have been rough. I didn’t know how I would be able to leave him at his house like this.

  When I parked in his driveway, he opened his eyes. He lifted his arm to open the door, and it looked like it weighed a hundred pounds. Every movement was slow, and when he laid his hand on the door handle, he trembled.

  I unbuckled, threw open the door, and hurried to assist him. He’d managed to open the door when I got there and was sluggishly trying to lift his legs so he could get out.

  “Let me help you, Mr. Cross,” I said and held out my hand.

  “I can manage on my own,” he grumbled back, but it was without heat.

  “Mr. Cross. Don’t be so bullheaded. You can out-stubborn Asher, but you can’t do it with me.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. Take my hand. Let me help you.”

  He peered up at me. His green eyes that normally were a few nuances darker than Asher’s were watery and pale and shone with pain.

  “Please, Mr. Cross.”

  “All right.”

  “Thank you.” I kneeled beside him and carefully helped him lift his legs until his feet rested on the ground. As he shifted in the seat, I stood. “I’ll put my arms around you and help you get up.”

  “You don’t look tough enough for that.”

  “Looks can be deceiving.” I slid my arms around his chest. “I’ll count to three.” Bending my knees, I secured my grip, and on three, he got to his feet.

  It took us a second before he was steady. When I was certain he wouldn’t fall, I took a step back and made sure he followed so I could close the door behind him.

  I wrapped my arm around his waist, and we walked to the house. He handed over the key without being asked, and soon we were indoors.

  “Do you want to go to bed?”

  “Couch.”

  We made our way to the living room and the sofa, where I helped him lay down. I pulled off his shoes and spread the worn throw blanket I found in the arm chair over him.

  “I’ll get you a glass of water.” I hurried to the kitchen and stopped abruptly in the door.

  The sight before me was disheartening.

  What I’d seen of the rest of the house was fine and nothing like I’d feared, considering the state of the outside. A little messy, but nothing a good vacuum and a few rounds of laundry wouldn’t take care of. But the kitchen…

  “Shit,” I mumbled as I took in the mountains of dirty dishes, the table overflowing with unopened mail, and the dirty floor. But what broke my heart the most, was all the empty frozen food boxes.

  I wanted to cry, but now was not the time. Instead, I pinched my earlobe. Hard. And that finally got me moving. I found a clean glass—the last one—and filled it with water from the tap before returning to Mr. Cross.

  He was curled up on his side under the blanket, looking so frail, I wanted to wrap him up in my arms and protect him. I pulled the coffee table closer and put the glass within his reach.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled without opening his eyes. Deep lines, that hadn’t been there the day before, crisscrossed his face.

  “Are you in any pain?”

  “No. Just tired.”

  “There’s water on the table for you.”

  He acknowledged me with a wordless grunt.

  Bouncing on my heels, I looked around the room, my eyes flitting from object to object, until they landed on a picture frame i
n the bookshelf. I walked over to it and picked it up.

  It was a clip from the local newspaper about Broken Brick Bar and how Asher had completely transformed it. It wasn’t much, just a few lines about all the renovations and how a doomed building had become a vital part of the community. And there was a picture of Asher.

  The date was from a year ago.

  With a deep sigh, I put it back where I’d found it. Then I walked back to the sofa and crouched down.

  “Mr. Cross. I’m going to run an errand and then I’ll be back.”

  His eyes flew open. “Why?”

  “I’m going to clean your house. And you’re not going to object.”

  “I’m not?”

  Looking him straight in the eye, I shook my head.

  “You’re bossy, aren’t you?”

  “I can be,” I said.

  “I guess that’s why he likes you.”

  My eyes widened. “What did you say?”

  “Never mind.” He pulled the blanket closer around his body and closed his eyes. “You might as well take the key, then. Now, leave me alone.”

  Afraid he’d change his mind, I tiptoed out of the house and drove away.

  * * * *

  Forty-five minutes later, I was back at the bar. I’d stopped at a supermarket on the way and done some shopping, but I wanted to talk to Asher before I returned to his father’s house.

  When I entered the bar, Asher looked much calmer than before, and his face broke out in a smile when he saw me.

  “Cory! How did it go?”

  He strode across the floor, long legs eating up the distance quickly. When he reached me, he cupped my face, bent down, and brushed a soft kiss on my mouth. Before I had the time to respond, he straightened.

  My hand flew to my mouth, and I touched my tingling lips. My body had reacted, but my mind hadn’t had time to process what had happened.

  “Was that okay?” he asked.

  “Mhm.” I nodded. “Next time, give me a chance to respond.”

  “You bet. So how was he?”

  I looked over at the counter where Benji was stacking glasses. “Can we speak privately?”

  The smile disappeared, and he furrowed his eyebrows. “Sure. Let’s go into the office.”

  He led me down a corridor I hadn’t noticed before to a cramped office. He kicked the door closed and turned to me. “What happened?”

  I filled him in on the events of the afternoon. With every word I spoke, he grew more and more tense, and his frown deepened.

  “Is this normal?” I asked when I finished.

  “No!” He jammed his hands in his hair and rubbed his scalp so hard, I feared he’d go bald. “No, it’s not normal. He’s been tired, sure, but he’s always been his usual, angry self. Snapping at me like a rabid dog.”

  Reaching up, I untangled his hands from his hair and pulled them down, lacing our fingers together. “I’m going back, Asher. I want to keep an eye on him, and I’m going to clean up a bit.”

  “He probably won’t let you in.”

  “I’ve got his key.”

  “What?”

  “I told him I’d be back and it was no use for him to argue. So he said I might as well take the key.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “For what it’s worth, I think he was too tired to fight me. I fully expect to be properly chastised when I get back. I hope you’ll bail me out if I get arrested for breaking and entering,” I said, hoping to elicit a smile from him.

  “Oh, honey.” He leaned forward and kissed me again.

  This time, I was prepared. His lips were soft, but the surrounding stubble was prickly. I moaned. I wanted to grab him and throw him down on the floor and kiss until our lips were raw and our bodies ached. Instead, I reluctantly ended the kiss and stepped back.

  “I’d love nothing more than to keep kissing you, but I have to go.”

  “Take your phone,” Asher said. “Call me if he gets belligerent.”

  “I will.”

  “And hurry back.”

  I smiled. “I will.”

  “Now go before I change my mind.”

  “I will,” I said for a third time, rose to my toes, and gave him a quick kiss before I ran out the door.

  Chapter 10

  Mr. Cross was asleep when I returned. His glass was empty, he’d kicked off the blanket, and his face was more relaxed than before. Maybe he’d just needed to be home?

  I refilled his water, dumped all the cleaning supplies I’d brought in the kitchen, and wandered around the house, picking up laundry. When I got to his bedroom, I hesitated. He probably didn’t want me to go in there, but I wanted to change his sheets.

  “He’s gonna yell at you anyway, Cory, so you might as well give him a reason,” I mumbled and opened the door.

  It was the cleanest room in the house, but I stripped his bed anyway and carried the linen to the laundry room, where I got the machine going.

  Then I went back to the kitchen. I could tell he’d done his best to keep it clean. The dishes were at least rinsed off and nothing smelled bad, so I wasn’t worried about finding something nasty in the sink.

  My heart ached for him. I imagined him shuffling around, using up the last of his energy to make sure the place was clean enough and not hazardous.

  “Shit.” I grabbed a trash bag and got to work.

  A couple hours, two loads of laundry, floor-mopping, and what felt like all the dishes in the world later, I was starting to see the end of it. I was in the middle of scrubbing the countertops when Mr. Cross joined me.

  “Feel better?” I smiled at him but continued working. My energy started waning, and I wanted to be done so I could go home to Asher and crash on his couch.

  “Why are you doing this?” His voice was nearly as rumbly as his son’s, and I imagined this was how Asher would sound in thirty years or so.

  “Because I care.”

  “Why would you care about me?” He sat down by the now clean table—I’d sorted and stacked all the mail in neat piles—and looked around at all the sparkly surfaces. He inhaled through his nose, and a content expression spread on his face. Clearly, he loved the smell of a clean house as much as I did.

  “I care about Asher, and you’re his father. That’s why.”

  He grumbled a reply.

  “Can I get you anything to drink?” I asked.

  “Water, please.”

  I fetched his glass from the living room and refilled it for him. Then I joined him at the table.

  “How are you doing?”

  He grimaced.

  “Can you tell me about your treatment? Are you doing chemo? Or radiation? Or both?”

  Another grunt.

  “Mr. Cross. Asher is worried about you. You don’t have to tell me, but could you please talk to him about your treatment?”

  He shrugged.

  I narrowed my eyes and crossed my arms over my chest. “Stop behaving like a teenager. You’re a grown man, act like one.”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to take them back. Where had that come from? How come it was suddenly so easy for me to assert my fierceness around this grumpy man when I couldn’t do it with anyone else?

  I didn’t have to worry. He cackled out a laugh and winked at me. Winked! I almost died of shock.

  “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?”

  “When I have to be,” I muttered because that wasn’t really who I was.

  “Good. Good. Much better than that…prima donna…he had before.”

  My eyes widened, and I was surprised I didn’t fall off my chair. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t pretend you’re stupid when we both know you’re not.”

  My hand flew to my earlobe, and I tugged. “Fair enough.”

  “So you’re his new…boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “But you want to be.”

  I hesitated only for a second, knowing I could never get a lie past him. “Yes.�
��

  “You always had a thing for my boy.”

  This conversation grew weirder every second. Never in a million years would I have imagined it when I offered to pick him up from the hospital.

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  He nodded. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The silence invaded the kitchen, and I jammed my hands under my thighs to keep from fidgeting. Maybe it was time for me to leave?

  “The treatment isn’t going well,” he blurted out. “The doctor wants to try another drug, but the insurance doesn’t cover it.”

  My heart skipped a beat, and I wanted to jump with happiness that he’d confided in me. I dug my fingers into my thighs to keep the inappropriate smile off my face. “You should talk to Asher about it,” I said instead.

  “No.”

  “Why not? He would want to know. To help. He would probably pay fo—”

  “No! Don’t you see? I can’t let him do that.”

  “Why?”

  “It costs an arm and a leg! And he already works himself to the ground to provide for me and pay for my insurance.” His face got red, and he gestured with his hands. “I’m not gonna do that to him. I’m not!” He started coughing after yelling out the last word.

  I got to my feet, hurried around the table, and hunched down beside him. “Shhh, take it easy,” I murmured. I put my hand on his back and rubbed it in circles, doing my best to help calm him down.

  I frowned. This didn’t sound like someone who was disgusted by his son’s homosexuality. Mr. Cross seemed like a concerned—albeit gruff—father. It didn’t make sense.

  When his coughing stopped, he gulped down the water. I continued rubbing his back and didn’t go back to my seat until his breathing had returned to normal.

  “Better?” I asked, and he nodded. “I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

  He waved off my apology. Leaning back in his chair, he studied me. His eyes flitted over me, took in every detail from the top of my head and all the way down, as far as he could see. I had to sit on my hands again so I wouldn’t fidget under his intense scrutiny.

  “Why did you come back?” he finally asked, his eyes still glued to my face.