Loose Cannon

by Sidney Bell

  “Okay,” Church said softly. “Uh, it’s okay, Miller. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s—”

  Miller couldn’t find anything nearby to wipe his hand off with, it was, there was, there was come all over him, Church’s come, and it couldn’t stay there forever, it had to go somewhere, he had to get it off him, right now, because it was like acid on his skin, he couldn’t wrench his attention away—

  “—we all go through it, Miller, well, not this strongly, I guess, I mean, I always sort of knew, but realizing that I knew was...well, still not that bad, but the point is that it’s not wrong—”

  —and finally Miller saw the brown packet of paper towels that he’d meant to take to the bathroom on his next trip because the dispenser in the employee bathroom was empty, and that was a task he needed to get to, he should be working, what the hell was he thinking, but first he tore the packet open, sending towels fluttering everywhere, but he couldn’t care about that yet because he had to get this mess off his hand—

  “—just breathe, Miller, it’s okay, no one’s gonna judge you—”

  “I’m judging me,” Miller said—well, shouted, really, and now he was scraping the dry paper towels over the sensitive skin of his cock and it was far too rough, it hurt, but that was good, it should, and then he chucked the whole disgusting clump of paper into the wastebasket. He scooped his cock back into his jeans, feeling bitter and betrayed by his body and these things that it wanted, and he wasn’t, he wasn’t like this, it wasn’t supposed to be like this—

  “—please don’t do this,” Church said. He opened his mouth, then paused, discarding whatever he’d been about to say in favor of adding, “I can help you. Okay? I’m not handling this right, I know, I’ve been screwing up all morning, but I want to help, okay, let me?” He took a step forward and reached out with his clean hand, tentatively running his fingers over Miller’s cheek, the muscles around his eyes tense and flinching like he expected to get hit. Miller turned into the touch before he could help himself, and something in Church’s expression trembled.

  “Hey,” Church whispered. His eyes were so soft. “It’s gonna be okay, Miller. You don’t have to do this alone.”

  Church leaned closer, peering at him like he wanted to read Miller’s thoughts, and he was close enough that Miller’s gaze landed unerringly on Church’s mouth, full and damp and pretty, and way too close, and for a second Miller imagined leaning closer still, pressing his lips against Church’s, imagined kissing him—

  Miller jerked back, the nausea clawing up his throat, and he couldn’t help that he’d shoved Church backward kind of hard, he hadn’t meant to, but he had, and he was afraid that he’d crush Church like he did last time, say something hateful or, Jesus, hurt him. That wasn’t okay, he couldn’t forgive himself if he did that, so he wrenched himself away and made for the hall.

  He heard Church choke out his name from behind him, but he kept moving. He caught a glimpse of Shelby near the front of the store, her expression turning shocked at the sight of him, and she said his name too, but he was already at the glass door, knocking into a customer, and he stammered an apology but didn’t stop, not then, and not for a long time.

  Chapter Eleven

  They’d done it with the door open.

  Weirdly, that was the part that had Church’s thoughts pinging around like they were on springs. Not so much because Church had forgotten—he wasn’t an exhibitionist or anything, but it didn’t bother him when other people knew he was getting some—but because Miller had.

  That wasn’t throwing caution to the wind so much as throwing caution into a hurricane.

  Which said a lot about the guy’s frame of mind throughout. Yet another point in the Church-is-an-asshole-screwup column. It was turning into a tall column.

  Church cleaned himself up and trashed all the strewn-about paper towels. Then he leaned against the wall to catch his breath, which didn’t seem to want to slow down at all.

  Had that actually happened?

  Well, it must’ve, because Church was standing in the office with a sticky cock in his jeans and a viper in his chest hissing that he’d been a fucking idiot. It wasn’t even ten and he’d managed to decimate two of his best relationships. At this rate, he’d have Tobias out of his life by noon.

  “I’m gonna die alone,” Church muttered, and yeah, he was being melodramatic, but mostly it was so he wouldn’t have to remember the betrayed look on Miller’s face right before he’d run out.

  It’d seemed obvious in the moment that Miller had been having a bit of a realization, but now, thinking it through, Church couldn’t be sure. Miller could be gay. Or bi, maybe, since he’d had relationships with women. Or, in an appalling twist, maybe Miller had stumbled into a sexual experiment only to decide that touching Church was sort of like touching a hot stove, in that it was bad and likely to leave scars.

  Any of those explanations could be right, but he wouldn’t bet money if he were forced to answer. He had zero read on what had happened.

  Then, since life liked to kick a guy when he was down, Shelby appeared.

  “What the fuck did you do to my brother?” she demanded.

  Church scrubbed his hands over his face, grateful that he’d taken the time to clean up, even if his palm still smelled like Miller’s come. He exhaled. What a clusterfuck.

  Shelby clearly expected an answer, and Church didn’t have the first clue what to say.

  There was: None of your fucking business. True, but since it would only piss her off, it wasn’t going to make his life any easier. The idea of an argument sounded kind of nice if he was honest, but this was Miller’s sister, and Church had done enough harm already today. So scratch that.

  He could say, I jerked him off during the workday right here in his office with the door open and he fucking loved it, at least until his head exploded.

  Which would probably end with Shelby’s head exploding too.

  Or he could tell the truth: I was a selfish bastard, and because of that, something that could’ve been good for him is now making him feel like complete shit.

  And yeah, Miller was an adult capable of taking responsibility for his own choices, but Church was the one with his head screwed on relatively straight—no pun intended—so he should’ve thought about how Miller was likely to feel afterward. As soon as he’d realized Miller was hard during that hug, he should’ve been a fucking grown-up and said something like Hey, you should figure out why that happened, instead of shoving his hands into Miller’s pants.

  He’d taken advantage of someone who was in a vulnerable position. Someone he cared about.

  If Miller were here, Church would ask if he still thought Church was a good man.

  “I don’t know,” Church managed. His head was suddenly pounding, and all of it—the incident at Moe’s with the Krayev brothers, the meeting with Mama, thinking he was screwing Ghost over, and now hurting Miller—crashed down on him at once. He had to take several gasping breaths before he could say, “Look, we’re gonna have to do the part where you rip me a new one tomorrow. I’m having sort of a really messed-up day, and I can’t take any more without completely losing my shit. I’m gonna walk this off.”

  He edged past her, leaving her sputtering, and tried his best not to seem like a crazy asshole on his way out. Judging from the way a couple people glanced at him, he didn’t succeed. He picked up a jog once he was in the parking lot, his sneakers crunching on the gravel as he got closer to the road.

  There was a blurry shape in the distance on the shoulder that might’ve been Miller, and Church hesitated, every cell in his body urging him to follow. But he didn’t know what the fuck he’d say or do, and considering how on-edge he was, he’d only make it worse. If the first rule of Anti-Fight Club was that you had to talk about it before you wanted to fight, the second rule was that you had to walk aw
ay once you did want to fight.

  He headed the other direction, toward the bus stop.

  Quinn’s Contracting Supply was located right off I-70, not far from the Denver Coliseum in an area that couldn’t make up its mind about whether it was industrial or residential. There were a dozen plots of dirt nearby used for overflow parking and extra corrals during the National Western Stock Show, and there was a concrete manufacturer down the street, a steel fabricator across the way, and an auto-restoration joint the other direction. Buses only ran every forty-five minutes to an hour, depending on the time of day, and Church spent the wait running back and forth on the grass by the road.

  He felt stupid doing it, knowing that people driving by were probably wondering about the guy running around near the bus-stop bench, but he just flipped off the lone douche nozzle who honked and yelled something out his window that Church couldn’t make out. What mattered was that Church got his shit under control, and if that meant running until he collapsed while people made fun of him, that was what he’d do.

  The sun was doing its best to pretend it wasn’t November, and by the time the bus rolled up, it was downright warm. Church was sweating through his T-shirt and hoodie, his feet ached in his cheap shoes, and his jeans were clammy and uncomfortable. He’d worked most of the crazy out of his system, though, and when he slumped onto a vinyl seat and listened to the wheeze of the pneumatic doors closing, he was tired enough that his feelings were muted and manageable.

  Later. The shit of the day could be dealt with later, including the fact that he’d instinctively lied to Miller about what had happened with the Krayevs. All of it later. For right now, he leaned his head against the window, closed his eyes and remembered.

  Miller had stared between their bodies the whole time, dazed, like Church’s hand on him was hypnotic, and Church had stared at him. He’d wanted Miller for so long that it almost didn’t seem real, but the experience had been too potent to be imaginary. Every detail was permanently imprinted in Church’s memory: Miller’s long, damp eyelashes; the way his mouth had trembled open and his brows crushed together; the delicate flush that had turned his cheeks rosy before spreading down his throat to disappear under his shirt; the soft, eager, pained sounds he’d begun making when he got close, like the urge to beg for more was so strong that it was all he could do to keep the words back; the way he’d thrown his head back as he came, the picture of abandonment.

  The way he’d fallen into Church’s arms afterward, shaking, panting, clinging.

  Overwhelmed and overwhelming. Church had known he would be.

  Church’s heart had been going a million miles an hour, and he’d never come so fast in his life, but Miller’s hand on him had been like napalm. It’d burned him up, gotten beneath his skin, taken him apart. He’d wanted to hold on forever, wanted to kiss Miller’s temple and say something sappy like Stay with me. Let me have this. Let me have you. Touching Miller had filled a cavern inside him that Church hadn’t realized was empty enough to echo.

  Until he’d looked at Church like he was a fucking virus about to infect Miller with his filth.

  He opened his eyes and watched the slow passing of convenience stores and fast-food joints through the window. Point the first: five years ago, Miller had been very clear about the fact that he was straight. Point the second: when a guy came with another guy’s cock in his hand, it was pretty much the equivalent of hanging a sign over the dude’s head that said not straight in bright rainbow letters.

  Church thought so anyway.

  He wasn’t sure if Miller thought the same.

  Except for that humiliating STD always-glove-it talk that Miller had given him in high school, and the sweet, if awkward, coming-out cake Miller had gotten him, they’d never talked about this sort of thing before. Maybe in Miller’s world a handy was as meaningless as grabbing your buddy’s mail for him on your way inside—it was something he would’ve done on his own when he’d gotten around to it, but hey, since you were there, you might as well help out. And if you got some mail of your own, then all the better, right?

  Which only made sense if you ignored the way Miller had run out like his hair was on fire, but whatever.

  Conclusion? Church had no idea about any of this, and he was too stupid to figure it out.

  The thing was, if Miller was having a sudden sexuality crisis, Church couldn’t really identify. He hadn’t been able to put his own orientation into words at first, but he’d always sort of known. Even before it was about sex and love, he’d known he was different. As far back as he could remember, it’d been boys that he’d thought of kissing, boys who’d given him that nice melty feeling in his stomach. The thought of being with a woman had never stirred him.

  Still, Church had lived in the land of uncertainty where you were struggling to figure out if the design defect was in you or in the mold you didn’t fit into.

  He should be patient, right? Try to look past his own upset and think about Miller’s confusion.

  Church wasn’t even sure he had a right to be upset. Well, about the shoving and the running out, maybe, but Miller hadn’t been trying to be a dick. He’d been freaking out, and Church wasn’t asshole enough to hold that against him. It wasn’t like Miller knew that Church was in love with him to the point of utter humiliation, or that it’d meant everything to him to hold Miller close like that. Miller couldn’t have realized that those five minutes in his office had been the closest thing to perfection that Church had ever found.

  He’d been too wrapped up at the time to realize he should drag the sex out, but he wished he had. Jesus, he wished he’d made it last for hours, because it wasn’t gonna happen again.

  Miller hadn’t called him a faggot this time, but whatever was going on in his head, one thing couldn’t be clearer. He didn’t want Church to be part of it.

  * * *

  When Miller could finally stop walking, he lowered himself to the sidewalk about a mile from the store.

  He sat there for almost an hour. It was a fluke, he told himself, over and over. It doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t matter. Just something that happened. Church will understand that it didn’t mean anything. He won’t be mad. It won’t be like last time.

  Miller would’ve liked to sit there forever, but a clamoring at the back of his head wouldn’t let him—Shelby’s worry and Church’s hurt. Miller needed to take care of them. He had to explain it to Church in a way that’d show it was Miller’s fault. That things were fine and Church didn’t have to leave this time.

  Christ, what if Church left again?

  With that, he headed back. He couldn’t wait until the end of the day to find Church and apologize. He’d go crazy wondering if Church was packing or removing the key Miller had given him, if he was leaving. Don’t panic, he told himself, walking faster.

  He knew what he had to do, but even as he reached for the door handle of the store, he could still feel Church’s fingerprints on his skin, could feel the puffs of Church’s breath against his cheek. He still got that raw, frantic, hurting feeling in his gut when he thought about it.

  He tried not to think about it.

  * * *

  The problem was that he didn’t know what the hell to do now, Church thought, flopping down to sprawl on the couch and turning the TV on for some distraction.

  He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he could see that the situation with the Krayevs wouldn’t end here. He’d have to deal with them again sooner or later.

  He could run. Ghost would, if he were the one being told to work side by side with drug dealers who wanted to kill him. He probably wouldn’t bother to say goodbye, either. Church wasn’t like Ghost, though, not when it came to the people in his life. Ghost always had one foot out the door, and Church wouldn’t have the first clue how to untangle himself from Miller and his friends even if he wanted to.

&nb
sp; Which brought him to his second problem. What was he going to do about Miller? Not only had he screwed up with the whole sex thing, he’d lied by omission about what’d happened before he got to the store. Granted, in his defense, it had been a busy ten minutes there in Miller’s office, but still.

  He thought of the look on Miller’s face right before he’d run out of the office, the look that said I shouldn’t have let you near me, and wondered if he’d see that same look when he told Miller about the meth and Mama.

  If he told him.

  He had to tell Miller, didn’t he? God, the thought of explaining had his guts in knots because he knew Miller would freak out, but he couldn’t not say anything, right?

  Right?

  Was there a time when lying was the right thing to do? He wasn’t supposed to tell anybody about what’d happened in the bakery anyway. It would be for Miller’s own protection if Church kept it to himself. Did it cancel out the good of protecting Miller if Church was also protecting himself?

  Church wanted to be a good man. He really wished someone would tell him how.

  Shit. Fine. Fuck it. He’d play it by ear if he had to. He’d take each day as it came and do his best with what he had and that was as much as anyone could ask of him.

  He was still on the couch watching daytime game shows when Miller opened the front door. He stood there for a long minute, the sunlight behind him casting shadows beneath his cheekbones and darkening his eyes, bringing the warm scents of fresh-cut grass and the sound of the neighbor’s lawn mower with him. The door eventually closed with a thud, but he continued hovering, shoulders hunched, hands driven deep into his pockets, avoiding Church’s gaze.

  His nervousness made Church feel like an ass.

  “Don’t go,” Miller said gruffly.