by Sidney Bell
When they were stretched out on the sheets, she gave him that questioning, hopeful look that was clear as a neon sign. He smiled agreeably and kissed his way down her body. She parted her legs for him, moaning as the breadth of his shoulders eased her thighs wider, giving him more room. He breathed over the ample curve of her hip and stroked her soft belly, making her arch.
Allison tasted clean and rich, and while the act had never done much to rev his engine, he did like the way her voice got low and thick and appreciative. He couldn’t imagine any man not enjoying the mixture of warmth and gratitude in a woman’s eyes at a moment like this. He used his thumbs to gently spread her wide, then slid his lips and tongue over her, slow at first, then more quickly, listening to the noises she made for cues about what worked best, wondering if she’d want to come like this or if she actually wanted to fuck.
He got distracted when he caught a glimpse of the clock. He had the early shift in the morning and needed to be there to receive deliveries starting at six. He made a mental note to talk to the deck manager about the granite due to arrive next week.
Her thighs tightened around him, and he realized she was getting close, that his tongue was getting tired, and that he’d allowed himself to become so distracted that he wasn’t all that hard anymore.
“Miller,” she murmured, her fingers working through his hair, and she was warm and soft and wet and that was all fine. He worked his hips against the mattress, rubbing a bit to get his cock back in the game, because she was reaching for him like she wanted him inside her. He sat up, sliding the condom on quickly so she wouldn’t lose her momentum, then took hold of himself to get the angle right. She brought her knees up to clutch at his hips, and the smooth skin of her long legs was—well, that was fine too.
So he slid into her, making her sigh, and began rocking against her, slow and deep, trying to catch her clit. She felt good around him, and he didn’t have any trouble dragging it out until she cried out beneath him, and then, as her legs fell open and slack, he put his back into it, thrusting harder and faster. She rubbed his sides with her hands, murmuring to him, and he felt guilty about it, but he had to shut his eyes and tune her out. She... It didn’t help him get close, that was all. So he concentrated on the sensation of her pussy around him, tight and gripping, and lifted himself on his arms, preferring a little space between them—it was the bra, he didn’t like the feel of it against him—and that was better. And near the end, if he found himself thinking about stronger, faceless bodies, about harder shoulders and firmer thighs, well, that was because he liked really athletic shapes. He maybe thought of narrow hips and a taut, slightly hairy abdomen and further down, there was—
He came, and it was...satisfying. He slumped, panting, to the side, pulling out in the process, trying to be gentle. She cuddled up next to him, and though she was a little too warm and he was all sweaty, it was nice to hold and be held. She made a happy sound against his chest, and he stroked a hand through her hair, pushing away the disquiet.
“That was amazing,” she whispered.
He was exhausted. Don’t think, he told himself. Don’t think.
* * *
It wasn’t until he was at home, taking his keys and wallet and change out of his pockets to dump on the dresser, and found himself holding the business card that Allison had written her new work number on, that the phone call from that morning sank in.
He’d said yes. He wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking, because there’d been this roar in his head the whole time, a roar made up of things that Miller hadn’t thought about in five years. Things that he wished he could avoid thinking about for another five—or fifty—years.
Church was stubborn enough that if he hated Miller, he’d have stayed at Woodbury for another year before he’d ask a favor of this magnitude. So there was a chance, at least, that Church would accept Miller’s apology and they could go back to what they used to be. Friends, maybe even best friends, although the pathetic nature of a twenty-four-year-old man finding a best friend in a sixteen-year-old smart-mouth was not lost on him.
Miller knew he had some issues. Shelby said a nuclear weapon couldn’t get through his armor, but he couldn’t help being aware that the bonds between people were fragile, and nothing felt worse than having someone you cared about slip away. Human beings were work to begin with, even before you considered that Miller had one gear with people he wasn’t related to: awkward small talk.
He’d never had that problem with Church, despite his young age. Or maybe it was because he’d been so young. Miller hadn’t needed to watch himself, and there’d been zero pressure to be anything but what he was. Church was as unrefined as they came, and he’d been so damn eager for someone to see him that on those rare instances when Church had been combative, it’d been easy for Miller to avoid shutting down. It wasn’t personal. Church had been a teenager, and he’d had a rough go of it. He’d galloped heedlessly over any remaining barriers Miller had tried to put up anyway. For the first time, Miller had interacted with someone besides Shelby or Em without feeling like he had to watch every word to avoid revealing something he shouldn’t.
Yes, it was lame that Church had been Miller’s best friend back then. Didn’t make it any less true.
If only Church had let it stay that way. If only Miller had handled it better. If only he knew, for that matter, why he’d been so cruel to the kid that night.
But that train of thought brought the roaring back in his head, so Miller focused on the details instead. He’d have to put Church on the couch for the first couple days, since it’d take a while to clean out the second bedroom. He’d need to stop by the grocery store for some stuff. He wondered if Church would have toiletries and enough clothes. He’d probably need a phone. The kid’s parents were useless, but all Miller had was that single box of stuff that Church had left behind. It was in storage now, so he’d have to drive up and collect it.
He lifted a hand, pressed it to his right cheekbone where the worst bruise had risen. He remembered the words he’d said that night, hateful enough that it had shaken Miller’s very idea of who he was once he’d calmed down.
He wanted to go back to the beginning. Before Church made everything different, back when having Church in his life had been safe.
With his stomach in knots, Miller abandoned the idea of going to bed. He wouldn’t sleep like this anyway, loaded down with thoughts. Instead, he shoved his feet back into his shoes and went out to the big backyard shed where he kept all of his woodworking equipment.
Just unlocking and opening the door had his pulse slowing. He calmed further as he got his ventilation mask on and picked out a blank piece of wood to work on. The whir of the lathe’s motor starting was like a mother’s lullaby to her child. This was what he’d needed all day, to be alone with nothing more than his tools and the scents of warmed oak and astringent finish for company. He’d live in here if he could.
The only thing that marred his time in the shed was the knowledge that his life was still waiting beyond the half-open door.
Chapter Three
2010
The kid was scared to death, that much was clear, but his chin was lifted and his eyes met Miller’s nonetheless. Miller would be more impressed at the kid’s grit in facing down a guy with a baseball bat if it wasn’t 3:00 a.m.
And if the kid wasn’t in the process of trying to steal his TV.
The town house was dark around them, lit only by the streetlamp outside on the corner, and it was freezing with one of the living room windows open, letting January rush inside. Miller was only in his damn boxer-briefs, but he knew if he turned his attention away for the twenty seconds it’d take to get a T-shirt, the kid would rabbit. So they stayed as they were, Miller with the bat resting against one shoulder like he was next in the lineup, and the kid with one dirty sneaker resting on the windowsill while he struggled to hol
d on to the ancient TV with his skinny arms. He couldn’t be more than fifteen. His thick black hair stuck out all over the place, and he had some kind of mixed ethnicity, judging from his skin tone—part Mexican maybe, or South American. His dark eyes were huge and nervous in his awkward, midpuberty face.
Miller didn’t have the first clue what to do next.
“You drop that on your foot and you’re gonna break some bones. It’s a heavy sucker,” he said finally.
“No shit,” the kid snapped, adjusting his fingers. “How old is this thing?”
“Older than you.”
“Why don’t you get something new?”
“It still works.”
“It’s a piece of crap.”
“Yeah, but it’s my crap.” Miller rolled his eyes when the boy had the nerve to flash a grin. “Very mature.”
“What do you want? I’m a teenager.” The kid kept grinning. One of his eyeteeth was slightly crooked. Miller thought, He needs braces, then figured that was the least of the kid’s problems.
“Not gonna get much for it at a pawn shop.” Miller nodded to the TV. “Twenty bucks, max.”
“Get more for a flat screen.”
“Should’ve picked a better target,” Miller agreed. “Of course, that person probably would’ve called the cops by now.”
The boy’s eyes flickered toward the window, and he shifted the TV, moving like his arms were tired. “So why don’t you?”
“Still might. Haven’t made up my mind yet.”
“You worried about your insurance premiums?”
Miller lifted an eyebrow. “What do you know about insurance premiums?”
“I know it’s part of why it’s hard to get your car back after you drive drunk,” the boy said sourly. “Getting a ticket makes the premiums go up.”
Miller guessed the bad driver was probably a parent. “I can’t imagine a bump in my premiums would sway a criminal mastermind like yourself. Next time, though, you might want to go for the DVD player. Weighs less.”
“If I wanted to make money the easy way, I’d sell drugs,” the kid replied, sneering.
“Why don’t you?”
One skinny shoulder jerked in a shrug, and the TV jiggled alarmingly. “Drugs are all wrapped up in gangs, man. You know the kind of shit you gotta do if you get mixed up with a gang? Fuck, no. I’ll stick with TVs.”
Miller gave the kid a long once-over. There was pride in the gawky lines of his face, the collar of his T-shirt had holes in it, his tennis shoes had devils drawn on them in marker, and he was way too thin. A wrench of pity hit Miller in the gut, and even if that hadn’t made up his mind, the twin admonishments of his parents’ voices in his head would’ve been enough.
So Miller said reluctantly, “You want to eat?”
The kid blinked.
Miller swung the bat off his shoulder and dumped it on the couch before turning in the direction of the kitchen. The open floor plan meant only the breakfast bar stood between the kitchen and the living room, so the kid was never out of his sight. When he flipped the overhead light on, he squinted against the brightness as his eyes adjusted.
“Eat?” the kid mumbled. He scented the air like a hound dog at the mere mention of food.
“Well, I’d prefer to be sleeping, but since that’s not an option, I was thinking eggs and toast.”
The kid shifted his weight, gaze bouncing between the fridge and the open window. Miller waited, wondering if the hunger was severe enough to triumph over the fear.
“I’m not gonna let you fuck me for eggs.” The kid’s eyes were knowing and hard, but his mouth was soft and miserable. He obviously expected the promise of food to be withdrawn.
“It’s important to have standards,” Miller agreed mildly. He thought about saying that he didn’t have sex with children—or males, for that matter—but decided the kid wouldn’t believe him.
Miller opened the fridge and pulled out six brown eggs, butter, milk, ham and an onion. After another glance at the kid’s skinny frame, he added two more eggs to the pile. The kid watched this blankly at first, then with faint, dangerous hope.
“If you break the TV, you won’t get any money out of it,” Miller said. “You don’t have to come over here, but at least put it down before you drop it.”
“I could hold it all night,” the kid bragged, then set the thing down on the floor with the speed of someone on his last leg.
Miller got a couple slices of bread toasting and started a pan heating on the stovetop. “You’re welcome to eat standing up if that’ll make you feel better, but you can sit at the bar if you want. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The kid didn’t move, but he screwed up his face in thought. It made him look all of eight years old. “You’re not pissed I’m stealing your TV?”
“It’s still in the living room,” Miller pointed out. “So far you’re just rearranging my furniture.”
The kid snorted. “You’re something else, man. You one of those religious types? You after my soul or something?”
“Not sure what I’d do with it once I got it.” Miller pretended to consider it, even as he was amused by the kid’s interpretation of proselytizing. “What’s the going rate on one of those things these days?”
“I dunno. Sometimes those guys come to the shelters and tell us they’ll give us new shoes and shit if we’ll take a pamphlet and listen to a lecture. I figure if I need shoes, they can say whatever they want. Justice gets pissed, though. Justice said that makes it prostitution, only instead of selling my body, I’m selling my soul. He said real charity is when you give someone something for nothing, not even so you can feel good about conferring them.”
“Could have a point about that.” Miller was pretty sure the kid meant converting, but he let that go. “Justice sounds like a real thinker.”
“He’s high all the time,” the kid said helpfully. “He was high when he said it.”
Miller smiled as he started cracking eggs. “Doesn’t mean his logic’s wrong.”
The kid wiped his nose on his sleeve and eyeballed him for a second. “You sure don’t talk like a Jesus freak.”
Miller could sense his father’s disapproving glare on his shoulders as he said, “I’m not religious.”
The kid seemed skeptical. “Then why are you being nice to me?”
Miller’s hand paused midair as he was about to crack another shell. “Because I’m not a dick,” he said. “I don’t want anything from you.”
The kid’s expression said he wasn’t convinced, but he took his foot off the windowsill anyway. “Yeah, you say that now.”
“You don’t look like you’ve got anything to give me but lice, kid.” Miller went back to making breakfast. “And believe me when I say I’m okay going without.”
The kid scowled. “I don’t have lice. Not since second grade.”
“Good. Then I don’t mind if you sit on my couch. But if you spill anything, you’re cleaning it up.”
“Fair enough,” the kid decided. The couch was all of a foot from the window, so apparently it still counted as a safe distance from Miller.
“You got a name?” Miller asked, chopping up the onion and ham.
“Yup,” the kid said, then just looked at him, smirking.
“Very clever,” Miller replied drily. “You can make one up if you want. I’d like to be able to think of you as something other than the punk who moved my TV.”
The kid squinted thoughtfully. He had a very expressive face. Every emotion was revealed, every thought written clearly in those big eyes and that mobile mouth. He’d never be a professional poker player, that was for sure.
“Church,” the kid said finally, and instantly looked like he regretted it, so Miller decided it was his real name.
“Miller Quinn,
” he replied. “Good to meet you.”
The pan was warm enough, so Miller poured the eggs in, grabbing a spatula to scramble them properly. He was in the process of buttering toast when he heard a yelp.
The kid—Church—was staring down at his lap in disbelief, where Miller’s cat lay splayed out across his thighs.
“He likes you,” Miller said. “That’s a good sign. He’s a good judge of character.”
“I didn’t know cats could be zombies.”
“He’s a rescue.” Miller wasn’t fussed about Church’s reaction—the mangled black tom got that from everyone. It came of having one eye, half a tail and enough bald spots to suggest a midlife crisis was looming.
“Rescued from what? Hell?”
“Near enough. When he was a kitten, someone put him in a cage and tortured him. Cut off part of his tail, took out his eye, then lit him on fire.”
Church swallowed hard, tentatively stroking the cat’s back, fingers lingering in the places where the fur never grew back. “That’s fucked up,” he said in a small voice.
“Yes, it is.”
“How’d you get him?”
“My niece, Em, is friends with the daughter of the vet that fixed him up. Em put up a good argument.”
“She thinks you’re a sucker,” Church informed him. He continued petting the cat, whose purr started up like a rusty engine.
“Yes, she does.”
“What’s his name?”
“Francis Bacon.”
Church made a face. “That’s the shittiest name for a cat ever.”
Miller pulled down a glossy hardcover from the nearest bookcase before getting just close enough to the kid to toss the book on the cushion next to him. “Look him up in the index.”
