by Sidney Bell
They were friendly touches, yeah, never more than a clap on the shoulder or a light kick on the shin when Church said something rude, but it was touching all the same. His skin would be hypersensitive for hours afterward, like the imprint of Miller’s hand had been scorched permanently into his flesh. It reminded him of that hug-slash-whatever-the-hell-it-was on the day of their big fight.
It reminded him of all the ways Church wanted to touch him back, but didn’t dare.
Chapter Eight
Wednesday night was Halloween, and Miller shivered in the frigid darkness as he led the way up the porch steps to the front door after work, wondering if they’d get through dinner before kids started showing up to trick-or-treat. Church kept telling Miller to make twice-baked lasagna with homemade bread sticks from scratch because he was being a pain in the ass, and Miller was about to tell him where he could shove his twice-baked lasagna when he put his boot down on something that crunched.
He stopped short. The porch light was off, and the thickening evening gloom was useless, but as he shifted his weight, the sound was vaguely familiar.
“What the hell?” Church asked, pointing at the big picture window that overlooked the front yard. The upper half of the pane was gone—the remnants under Miller’s feet—and the lower half was jagged in the sill.
Miller unlocked the door and began to shove it open, but Church grabbed his arm. “Wait, dude.”
“My window’s busted,” Miller protested. “I’ve got to call the insurance company before it closes and get a damn claim started and find some plywood—Shit, Francis Bacon.”
He lurched forward and Church’s grip yanked him back again. “Let me go, Church, I’ve got to—”
“You’ve got to do what I say until we know whoever did it isn’t still here,” Church said in a low voice, and Miller blinked. In the past few seconds, his Church had reverted from the sarcastic loudmouth into the too-adult stranger, a stranger who was hardened in a way that Miller would never be. Church’s eyes were sharp and mean, his body coiled with energy, ready to strike. Perhaps eager to strike.
“Stay here.” Church eased Miller to the side with one strong hand, and for no good reason that he could think of, Miller let him.
“Wait,” Miller said under his breath. “If you think there’s someone—you’re not going in there.”
“You want to live out here from now on?”
“I want to call the cops. They’re the ones who’ll catch whoever did it.”
Church just snorted.
“Church—”
“I’ve got this,” Church muttered. His attention hadn’t strayed from the window; his weight rocked to the balls of his feet. “Baseball bat’s still in the hall closet?”
“Yes, but I’m coming with—”
“You’re going to stay the fuck here so I don’t fracture your skull by accident.” Church’s tone sounded so fierce that Miller couldn’t come up with a response. He slipped inside, leaving Miller alone on the porch. He heard the hall closet door open and—silence.
The wait felt interminable. He strained to listen as the seconds stretched, adrenaline flooding his body, his anger growing in tandem.
When Church returned, still hard-faced, the baseball bat at his side, he said, “Empty. Although there’s a nice big rock on the living room floor.” He eyed Miller, then swept his gaze across the yard like he expected trouble. “What is it?”
“Don’t ever fucking tell me to wait outside like the chick again.”
Some of Church’s edginess faded. “Tits have nothing to do with it. I made you wait outside because you’ve never been in a fistfight, dumbass. Most people, it takes getting punched a couple times before you figure out how to keep moving through it, and this isn’t the time for you to lie like a slab of beef on the floor or get in my way.”
“I’ve been in a fight,” Miller retorted. “With you, remember?”
Church had the audacity to laugh. “Yeah, and how many blows did you land before you went down? None, wasn’t it?”
“You think I was gonna take a swing at a kid?” Miller demanded. “You think the reason I didn’t kick your ass is because I couldn’t?”
Church’s laughter died, and now he looked apologetic, like he knew he was about to hurt Miller’s feelings. “I think I would’ve won, even if you’d tried, because you’re not...you’re not like that, Miller.”
“Oh. That’s great. This whole time you’ve been thinking I’m a pussy?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You’re a bad liar.” Miller gestured toward the house. “Can I go inside now? Or do you want to stand out here and humiliate me some more?”
“Hey.” Church grabbed at his arm as he started to stomp past. Church was stronger than he should’ve been with that lean body, and Miller couldn’t tug free.
“No, don’t run away,” Church snapped. “I don’t think you’re a pussy. It’s not...commentary or anything. It doesn’t make you less of a man that your first instinct isn’t to hit. You think it’s a bad thing that you don’t feel the urge to break people? Fuck, Miller, it makes you better, don’t you get that? I love that about you.”
He sucked in a breath, perhaps stung by what he’d said, and he wasn’t the only one—Miller’s pulse quickened. But Church recovered and said, “Look, it’s not about which one of us has the bigger dick. If Ghost were here, I’d have sent him in and hung outside with you, and there are teenage girls wearing glitter who are more butch than he is. It’s not about that. And while we’re on the subject, how d’you think it’d make Em feel to hear you assume it’s a chick’s job to hang back?”
“I get it.” Miller’s face felt hot, and he shrugged Church’s hand off. He tried not to picture his niece’s face, because Church was right. It would’ve hurt Em to hear him say that.
On top of that, part of his brain was still hung up on “I love that about you.” Church had said it so easily, like it was second nature to say something like that to another man.
“All right,” Miller muttered.
“I wasn’t trying to humiliate you.”
“Okay.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” Miller said hoarsely. “I promise I won’t be a jerk anymore if we can please talk about something else. You said a rock?”
“Yeah.” Some of the tension in Church’s shoulders dissipated. “Big one. Doesn’t look like anyone went in, though. You’ll want to check for stolen stuff, but I think it was probably random teenagers being assholes because of the holiday. Francis Bacon’s fine, too. He’s under your bed.”
Church called for a pizza after Miller was done wrangling with the insurance company, and they ate while they talked about how best to board the window up without ruining the frame. It was full dark by the time they trooped out to the shed to find something they could hang until Miller could get new glass installed. Miller kept a stack of cheap plywood so he could practice new techniques, so at least they didn’t have to go all the way back to the store.
The picture window was big. They’d have to jerry-rig a few different boards to cover the gap, and it took a few trips to haul what they needed. The last piece was the largest, so they carried it together, and as Church lowered his end of the plywood piece to the porch floor, the fabric of his T-shirt pulled across his chest and shoulders. It made Miller remember the way Church had held him in place so easily when Miller had tried to go inside, the way he’d been so competent and unafraid.
He was still lean, Miller mused, but there was nothing childish about him anymore—Church was carrying quite a bit more muscle, and he was broader than he used to be. His hips were narrow, but his thighs and ass had filled out. It struck Miller that Church was attractive. Or would’ve been to someone who wasn’t a straight guy. Miller wasn’t qualified to make that sort of call, bu
t he could see how someone would want to watch Church, want to touch.
His face was good too. He’d been sort of goofy-looking as a kid, but he’d grown into his features, and even though he wasn’t exactly handsome, he was striking. Somehow poetic and tough at once.
Despite his vaunted killer instinct, Church’s mouth was prone to smiling, and when he was concentrating, he tended to purse his lips a little. He was doing it now as he studied the window frame. It made his lips appear fuller, almost pouty. Miller couldn’t blame someone for wanting to kiss those lips. For wanting to see what else Church’s mouth could do. He wasn’t sure how women judged the beauty of a man’s mouth—there were jokes about women having cock-sucking lips, but guys obviously didn’t do that, so... Well, gay guys did. Gay men sucked cock all the time, Miller supposed, and got a disturbing little thrill out of thinking it. Gay guys might look at a man like Church and consider what his mouth would look like while doing...doing that. Miller didn’t, of course, but he could see how someone would.
Miller was still a little mad at him, but that didn’t keep him from wanting to go over to Church and...and clap a companionable hand on his shoulder. Make a gesture that put them back on an even keel. He didn’t like it when things were unsettled between them, and right now Miller felt very unsettled. He couldn’t help feeling that touching Church, just a little, might make everything right again.
Jesus, it was hot out. How the hell was October in Colorado this hot? He was sweating, and they hadn’t even begun to hang the boards.
“You okay?” Church asked in a low voice.
“I’m gonna piss my neighbors off doing this at night,” Miller groused. He got to work, putting all thoughts of friendly gestures and Church’s ridiculous mouth out of his head.
* * *
Church snagged the first shower after they finished hanging the boards, because he was ready to vibrate out of his damn skin.
The whole time they were hammering, Church’s heart had been hammering too. He’d had to keep his body turned away so Miller wouldn’t see the erection pressed against his fly. Miller had handed him a nail once, his fingertips grazing Church’s palm, and he’d had to hold back a sigh.
He was pathetic. And also very hard up.
God, the way that Miller had been looking at him on the porch. Church wasn’t sure he’d ever been looked at with such long, deliberate consideration. Like Miller was trying to get beneath his skin, to see how his bones and muscles were put together. Like Miller was seeing him for the first time.
One night back when he was a teenager, Church had broken in—well, by that point Miller had given Church a key, but same diff—and fallen asleep on the couch while Miller was out. He’d gotten up in the middle of the night to pee, and he’d just been coming out of the bathroom when the front door opened, and he was met with the sound of panting and feminine moans.
Church had already shut the light off, but he jumped backward too, and neither Miller nor the woman he’d brought home had seen him. Though they might not have seen him if he’d been a twenty-foot-tall dinosaur, the way she was pawing at him.
By that time, Church’s very active fantasy life had already morphed into a 24/7 streaming show of Miller doing every filthy thing Church could imagine. That wasn’t many, considering he’d been sixteen and recently de-virginized. He’d known as much about sex as ants knew about space, but the point stood—he’d put serious time into it. He’d had a very specific idea of what Miller would be like in bed, and that hadn’t been it.
Fact one about Miller: he couldn’t come unglued on his own. He just wasn’t built that way, which meant he tended to get all bottled up. So Church had figured that when all of Miller’s tension and rules and buried ferocity broke loose, Miller would be a fucking terror in the sack. Demanding, fierce and uninhibited. No-holds-barred.
Jealous as Church was at the idea of watching someone else’s hands move over that warm, freckled skin, he’d watched anyway. He needed to see Miller like that, unlocked, overwhelmed and overwhelming.
What he’d gotten instead had been disappointing.
Miller was sweet with women.
He was thoughtful and gentle, and he was apparently great at going down, because the chick came twice before Miller fucked her to a third climax right there on the floor, twenty feet away from Church’s avid gaze, moving with slow rolls of his hips, the strong muscles in his back and ass bunching and releasing.
He’d been beautiful and he’d been good, but he’d also seemed sort of...by-the-numbers. Afterward, she’d been sweaty and clingy, saying “oh my god, oh my god,” over and over, kissing him on the tip of his nose as if Miller were the kind of guy you did that to (even Church knew that Miller would never like nose kissing, what the fuck) but Miller hadn’t complained. He’d stared at the ceiling looking sort of...bored.
Nothing at all like he’d looked at Church five minutes ago.
That look on the porch was everything Church had always thought Miller would be.
Overwhelmed and overwhelming.
In the privacy of the bathroom, Church tore his clothes off, got under the water and took himself in hand, calling up the image of Miller’s eyes, thoughtful and absorbed as they lingered on Church’s mouth. He knew it was impossible, but he let himself imagine that Miller had been looking at Church’s mouth because he’d wanted it. Wanted Church to use his mouth all over Miller’s body.
Church imagined having the nerve to cup Miller’s jaw and tilt his face up so that Church could kiss him, could slide his tongue into Miller’s mouth. In Church’s fantasy, Miller tensed, but only for a second before he melted, opening up for Church like a flower to the sun, stunned at first, then eager, then demanding, and when Church shoved him against the wall, Miller held on tight, rocking his hips and kissing him hotly, wetly. Church swallowed every moan and gasp, taking what he needed, plundering, and Miller let him.
Miller let Church open his jeans.
Miller let Church slide to his knees.
Miller let Church take his cock deep into his mouth, into his throat, until Miller was writhing and bucking and begging.
Church came hard, one arm propped up against the shower wall, his knees weak enough that he almost slipped and fell. The orgasm bought him about thirty seconds of blissful silence before the shame started. He washed the come from his hand with brusque flicks of his fingers.
What the hell was he doing?
Yeah, okay, Miller had looked at him. So what? Maybe it’d felt as blatant as the looks exchanged when guys cruised, but it was more likely that Church was reading into it. Everything about Church was hypersensitive when it came to Miller, and the chances that he was staring at Church’s mouth while thinking about a blow job were slim to none.
Church must’ve had pizza sauce on his face or something.
He couldn’t let himself fall back into this trap. Jerking off over a straight guy? A guy who’d made it perfectly clear that he wanted nothing to do with Church?
A guy who’d called him a faggot for daring to kiss him before?
You did more than that, the tiny voice of fairness in Church’s brain pointed out. You climbed into his bed naked in the middle of the night, you idiot, and woke him up by touching him and kissing his throat. What did you think he was going to do? Want you back? Kiss you back?
He did kiss me back, Church told that little voice firmly, and that wasn’t wishful thinking. That was priceless, maybe the best memory he had. Those three perfect heartbeats when Miller had kissed him back.
Then Miller had woken up the rest of the way and realized that the mouth on his belonged to a guy. That the hips pressed against his were shoving a hard cock against his belly.
Press start on the homophobic slurs and the rejection and the hurt and the punching, and...yeah.
This way lay madness.
* *
*
A couple of days later, as November threatened to dump a boatload of snow on the city, Church found the front door of the bakery locked at seven in the morning.
At first, he was confused.
It was technically his day off. Matvey had been good enough to work around Church’s parole requirements, and since he’d woken up to a voice mail rescheduling his morning meeting with Chelsey, he’d decided to come in anyway. He could use the money, and he didn’t have anything better to do. Everyone else he knew was at work, school or sleeping.
Matvey should’ve been covering for him.
Church checked the clock on his cell phone in case he was having a brain fart, but no, it was 7:00 a.m. on a weekday, and the place should have been open. He’d double-checked with Matvey yesterday afternoon to make sure his absence would be covered.
Frowning, Church unlocked the door and went inside, setting the little bell jingling. The front of the bakery was empty. The lights were off too, as if no one had been in. The display cases, however, were full, and Church could hear the gurgle of the iced-tea machine brewing.
He frowned as he stepped behind the counter, wondering where Matvey was, why he’d stopped in the middle of morning setup. He made his way to the door in the rear of the bakery, only to stop when he saw that it was closed.
Through that door were the kitchen, wet and dry storage, office and bathroom, so it wouldn’t have been odd that the door was shut if the store were open. No one wanted customers peering into employee areas, but Church and Matvey usually propped it open when they were stocking cases so they weren’t juggling trays of food with a sticky door.
It should’ve been open.
He reached for the knob, then paused, his hand hanging outstretched in the air.
Church’s instincts were jangling.
He wasn’t entirely sure why. There was bound to be a simple explanation, but Church had been living by his wits for far too long not to trust his gut. He decided to head back to the parking lot and call Matvey on his cell. Worst that’d happen is he’d look like a paranoid idiot. He could live with that.
