Pushing myself to get up, I shuffle to the side of the bed and sit on the edge, trying to get my bearings. My morning erection and the smell of sex lingering on the sheets isn’t helping, but I know I need to clear my head, prepare myself for whatever today brings. I can’t be sidetracked by the memories, or allow myself to forget the reality of the situation.
“No expectations,” I mutter, remembering what I’d said to Kyle. He probably thought I was telling him how it had to be, or maybe even asking a question. Really, I was warning myself, even before he’d confirmed he was in the closet. For so long I’ve filled my life with all kinds of activities to take my mind off the fact I’m lonely. Building a new life meant cutting myself off from all the people I’d thought of as friends, and it hadn’t been that hard. After being cut in that disastrous drug deal I’d moved to Windsor for a while, where I knew very few people, and just kept my head down. No one missed me, I’m sure. There’s little real friendship within a gang, unless you’re dealing with family. It was easy to fade out of the life, especially since I’d kept myself low–level and on the periphery.
Being with Kyle reminds me of what is missing in my life. I have a decent job, love my work with the dogs, am saving to buy a house. Everything is criss–and–curry, except for when I sit at home at night by myself, trying to fill my time with the role playing game Ring of Steel, TV and movies. But there’s no chance of building on the attraction I feel for Kyle, so it makes no sense torturing myself over it.
Scrubbing my hands over my face, I decide the best bet is to get up and then figure out what to do after that. It’s a little depressing to know Kyle didn’t even stick around until I’d woken up, but it just reaffirms I’m doing the right thing–getting ready to leave before he maybe kicks me out. If he hasn’t just taken off, leaving me to see myself out.
I grab a shower and put back on my clothes before heading downstairs. Glancing through the back door I see Kyle’s truck still in its place beside my SUV and, coming back into the kitchen, I notice a note on the counter.
Make some coffee if you like. Be back in a while.
Terse, not unlike Kyle’s usual persona, and far too short for me to read anything into it. On one hand, he might be saying, ’don’t leave until I return.’ On the other, he could be saying, ’I don’t care whether you stay or go.’
Kissing my teeth, I go into the kitchen and start poking around, finding the coffee in a cupboard above the coffeemaker and the mugs one cupboard over. Not surprisingly, it seems Kyle’s organized everything with ruthless logic, but he really needs better coffee. If I get a chance–if he’s willing to hook up/hang out again–I’ll bring him some Jamaican beans.
Leaning on the counter, I think about what to do with the rest of the day. I usually go down to the sanctuary on my days off or if I’m working a later shift to help Pat clean the place and do whatever else she has planned. I know she wanted to bathe the dogs this week, and I’d thought about working some more with Bongo, keeping his obedience skills sharp and maybe teaching him some new tricks. I’m kind of going on the premise that even if he isn’t pretty, his manners and abilities will more than make up for it. Perhaps his charm and obedience would win him a home.
Kyle had said I should take Bongo, but I can’t think about that any more than I can think about having more than one day with Kyle. Neither thing is possible, and letting myself dream about them will just depress me. I’m playing catch up career–wise, and in life generally. It means living in a tiny studio apartment, without access to a backyard, and working all the shifts none of the other supervisors want so as to make and save money. It would be a horrible existence for Bongo, being left alone for long periods of time and having nowhere to stretch his legs except for when we go for walks along the city streets. One day, when I’m settled and can afford a nice little house somewhere, I’ll have a dog, but not now.
Rass, that makes me feel even worse–empty.
The coffeemaker finishes gurgling and I pour myself a cup, hoping Kyle has cream. Nope. Not even milk. Some soy crap and, at the back of the cupboard, coffee creamer that looks like it’s been there since Moses was in short pants. At least it hasn’t hardened up and he has brown sugar in a jar. Health nut. Mind you, it’s paid off in a body that’s hard in all the right places…well, all over…at least some of the time.
I take a deep breath, trying not to let the memory of Kyle–hard–all–over sink too far into the front of my mind. My morning woodie has gone down, but I’m risking a new one if I get to thinking about holding Mr. Babylon down on his bed and fucking him long and slow, hearing him make those sexy sounds deep in his chest or call out my name as he came.
A gulp of coffee sears my tongue, palate and throat but does nothing to burn away the arousal growing in my belly and giving me another hoodstand. The back door bangs open, and I hear Kyle taking off his shoes although I can’t see him yet. I pull at the front of my shirt, making sure the growing bulge in my pants is at least disguised. When he steps through into the main part of the house and I see him in one of those skin–tight running outfits, sweaty and barefooted, all I can do is take another gulp of too–hot coffee to stop myself from doing something stupid. Like jumping him.
“Hey.” He gives me one of those quick looks, the kind that makes me feel as if he’s seeing right into and through me, then reaches up to open the cupboard where the cups are. “You’re up.”
“Yep.” I ease back to give him some room, unable to read him, wishing he was a little more expressive. “Later than usual.”
Kyle shoots me another look, and I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. I’m not fishing for a chance to bring up what’s happened between us, and I don’t want him to think I am. He reaches for the coffee pot, focusing on it as he pours. “Me too.”
Time to put some distance between us, because although I can’t see his expression, something in his voice makes me break out in goose bumps. Taking my cup, I go to the other side of the kitchen island and sit on a stool. Now there’s an expanse of counter between us. Not surprisingly, he takes his coffee black, blowing across the surface of the liquid before taking a sip. I try not to remember the sensation of his breath shivering across my body, staring down at my cup so as not to watch his lips.
The silence feels oppressive, and depressive, and I’m wondering if I should just abandon the rest of the drink and leave when Kyle says, “I think you might have a problem.”
Not, ’we have a problem’ or ’there’s a problem’. Apparently it’s all mine. I make my expression blank and look up at him. “Yeah?”
“I think you locked your keys in the car.”
“What? No, they’re…” Instinctively I reach down to feel my pockets but realize all that’s in them is some change I’d found littered on the floor at the foot of the steps when I’d come down to get my pants. I didn’t see my keys there. Did I put them in the basket when I came inside behind Kyle and saw him put his there? I search my memory. No…
Rass. I’d dropped the keys onto my lap in the rush to grab my wallet, with the offending condom sticking out of it, off the passenger seat after I’d parked the car. Did I really leave them in the SUV without realizing it?
“I noticed some keys in the foot well on the driver’s side of the RAV4 when I was coming back in.”
There’s no accusation in his voice, hardly any inflection at all. Back to Sergeant Kyle Pictou and that inscrutable expression. Yet a wave of embarrassment makes heat rise from the collar of my shirt. Does he think I did it on purpose?
“Crap.” I rub my face, wondering how much worse this morning could get. It’ll cost a bomb to take a taxi home and back, but I can’t let that be a consideration. It’s the only way.
“You have a spare set at home?”
“What?” I glance up at him, then away. “Yeah, I do. And luckily my upstairs neighbor has a spare key to my apartment. She’s retired and always at home. I’ll just call a cab and go get them.”
He snorts, and his still–f
ull cup makes a clack as he puts it down on the counter. “Don’t be stupid. I can take you.”
“Nah,” I straighten and force myself to look him in the eye. “Don’t want to put you out that way. I’ll manage.”
With curt shake of his head, he pushes away from the counter and heads for the stairs. “I’m sure you have better things to do with your time and money than cab from here into town and back. It’s not a big deal.” He pulls at the end of his shirt, making it tighten across his waist and ass. I blindly reach for my cup and tear my gaze away from his body. “Just let me get cleaned up and we can go.”
“Thanks. It’ll give me some time to get out to the sanctuary before Pat’s finished with the chores.” I’m rambling and purse my lips, making myself stop. Already on the first step, Kyle pauses to look back at me and I know I probably should smile, but can’t make myself to it. All I can manage is to say, “I appreciate it.”
He nods, then seems about to say something more but doesn’t. Instead he starts back up the stairs, taking them two at a time, leaving me torn between embarrassment and anger at myself for imagining joining him in the shower.
Kyle
Vincent lives in one of the older, slightly run–down areas of the city, a neighborhood inhabited by a mixture of middle– to lower–income people and college students on a tight budget. An area with a high frequency of police patrols, because of the number of calls that come into the station from it. This runs through my head as I drive toward the address he’s given me, but I remind myself that someone seeing me with a man in my truck at nine o’clock on a Monday morning isn’t going to automatically assume it’s because I’m gay. They can’t take one look at us and know we spent the day before screwing each other blind. Can’t look at me and know all I want to do is take Vincent back to my house and do it all over again.
There’s been little conversation between us, besides him saying he doesn’t mind listening to the country station playing on my radio and rambling on for a few minutes about how he grew up hearing country music as a child. When I said I didn’t know Jamaicans liked country music, he said they used to, especially in the rural areas, but reggae had taken over somewhere along the line.
He’s uncomfortable and, although I know it’s my fault, I won’t do anything to make it better. I can’t afford to. I knew it was a bad idea to take him home, and now I know why. Already the thought of my house empty of his company fills me with a dark, low sensation. With the least bit of encouragement I’ll invite him to come back, and that won’t work for too many reasons to even contemplate.
Turning into the short driveway he indicates, I realize he lives in a small house that’s obviously been converted into a triplex. Driving around to the back, I can see why he says he can’t take Bongo. The entire back yard has been paved over, with the exception of a tiny, patchy strip of grass along the back fence, where there are two old lawn chairs and a disused firepit. No room for a dog to run or play.
As soon as I put the truck into park, he’s reaching for the door handle, even though he can’t get out until I unlock it.
“I won’t be long. Just run in, get the spare key and grab some clothes.”
“Okay.” I flick the locking mechanism and shift down slightly in my seat, making myself comfortable. “Take your time.”
Vincent pauses with his hand on the handle. “I really appreciate this, Kyle.” His lips twist. “Not sure you realize how much.”
Then he’s out of the truck and heading for the house before I can answer. I watch as he knocks on a ground floor door and speaks to the elderly lady who answers. He disappears into the apartment and I lean my head against the headrest and close my eyes.
Instantly my mind goes back to Vincent and sex. Sex with Vincent. The best sex I’ve ever had. Probably the first sex I’ve had where I’ve actually, genuinely liked the person I’ve been sleeping with. My intimate life has been anything but intimate, and that’s the way I’ve liked it. The occasional trip to Toronto to visit a club and have a one–night stand has been enough for me. I’ve made it enough, because I don’t see an alternative. I can’t afford to get involved with anyone because it wouldn’t be fair. Suppose the other man gets attached, wants to be more than just fuck–buddies? I can’t offer that, so it’s better not to even start something.
Besides, it’s too dangerous. Eventually someone would figure it out, and then the secret’s out.
Would they?
I live out in the country. If we were discreet nobody would know. And if I made it clear from the get–go what I was looking for… That there could be, as Vincent himself said, no expectations…
Stop it.
But the thought sticks in my head, and I imagine being able to call up Vincent, ask him if he wants to come over. Imagine him pulling up outside, the sound of his car door slamming, while I’m inside waiting for him, ravenous for that long, sleek body, knowing it’ll be mine again in a matter of moments. I moan slightly, pressure building in my groin as I picture grabbing him, kissing him senseless, being ready for him.
“Shit,” I mutter, knowing I’m not going to be able to just walk away without exploring this a little more, feeling him out.
Or feeling him all over?
The truck door swings open, and Vincent climbs back in, slightly out of breath, a small duffle bag in his hand.
“You didn’t have to rush.”
I straighten, and he gives me one of those wry looks. “Don’t want to hold you up if you have somewhere to be, man.”
“I don’t.” Why did I admit that? “Actually, why don’t I just take you out to Pat’s place? It’ll save you a bunch of time, and I can give you a hand there then take you back to pick up your vehicle.” I didn’t really plan to say that either.
“Nah.” He shakes his head, but I know he’s assessing me, trying to figure out what I’m really suggesting. “That’s okay.”
“I want to.”
I’m using my cop voice again, and his eyebrows rise slightly. “Okay then,” he says slowly. “If you really want to. That would work.”
I don’t bother to answer, just start the truck and put it into reverse, pretty sure I’m on the verge of making another huge mistake but not able to bring myself to care.
Chapter Nine
Vincent
Kyle is cold as ice on the drive out to the kennels, and I wonder why he’s doing this. Why bother spending more time with me when it’s obvious it’s not something he wants to do? He doesn’t owe me anything, didn’t even owe me the drive to get the keys, and it kind of pisses me off. I don’t need him showing me bad–face for the rest of the day.
But it’s too late to change my mind now, so I slide down slightly in my seat and, looking out the window at the passing scenery, start humming along with the radio. Ignoring him as best I can.
Yet, once we get to the sanctuary he seems to relax. Getting out of the truck he stretches, then laces his fingers together and pretends to crack his knuckles. “So, what’s on the agenda?”
The bumboclaat man even has the nerve to smile. I just shrug, not ready to play nice with him yet. “Pat’ll decide.” Then I walk away, not waiting to see if he follows.
I have to appreciate how Pat pretends not to be surprised when she sees him with me and, before you can say ’who–dat?’ the two of them are acting as if they’ve known each other forever. I don’t know why it makes me feel so sour to see him laughing with her–maybe it’s because he’s been giving me the silent treatment for the last couple hours, making me feel like a cheap fuck and a nuisance. At least he thanked me for buying him breakfast, although it was done in such an off–hand way he might as well not have bothered.
For the first little while I just ignore them, cleaning out cages, Bongo following me wherever I go but periodically running to check and see what Kyle and Pat are up to. Eventually, Pat leaves Kyle hosing out a kennel and comes over to where I’m just replacing the bedding in one of the dogs’ sleeping areas.
“So, wha
t’s the story?” She gives a discreet nod toward where Kyle is, her eyebrows going up and down. It’s clear she’s dying with curiosity. “What happened? Why are you so mad at him?” She frowns. “Did he do something…”
“No.” I am annoyed with him, but there’s no way I’d give Pat the wrong idea. “He just made my monkey stand up.”
“He what?” It seems she doesn’t know whether to laugh or plug her ears. “What the hell does that mean?”
I can’t help laughing at her expression. “Sorry. It’s not like it sounds. I mean he made me angry.”
Her brows knit, and she glances back at him again. “I like him, Vincent.” Then she gives me one of those looks that only a friend who knows you well can get away with. One that reminds me of my granny, just before she told me off over some rudeness. “Don’t write him off after one day. And don’t start second guessing yourself, okay?”
She doesn’t want to come right out and say, “Don’t let that crap about the scar stand in your way,” but I know that’s what she means. “I won’t,” I mumble, brushing past her to move to the next kennel and start sweeping. “Promise.”
Pat goes off to do something else, thankfully restraining herself from saying, “I told you so” about Kyle being gay, and leaving me to my stewing. My scar is the least of my worries right now. Kyle’s made it clear it doesn’t bother him, both by saying so and in ways he doesn’t even realize. He looks right at me when I’m speaking, even when I’m smiling, and he’s the first man I’ve been with since I got cut who kisses me full on the lips. It took me a little while to realize it, but every other man I’ve kissed concentrated on the unscarred side of my mouth. One or two wouldn’t kiss me at all, although whether that’s just a personal preference–I’ve heard a few people say they feel kissing is more intimate than fucking–or because of the scar, I didn’t bother to ask. And one guy told me flat–out that he wouldn’t be able to get it up if he had to look at my face. I had enough pride to tell him where he could stick himself, since it wouldn’t be in me, but the experience had stayed with me. So, yeah, I’m sensitive about it, but there are bigger problems than that.
Brought to His Knees-Tough Guys Laid Low By Love Page 23
