Loose Cannon

by Sidney Bell

  “Carrie Lee had a baby, so I let her husband give it to her as a present,” Miller said. There was sauce on Church’s chin and Miller wordlessly slapped at his face with a napkin. “Stop putting your fingers in that.”

  “Butt face,” Church said, because being twenty-two didn’t mean he wasn’t also five. “That was another favor, huh? The rocking chair?”

  “I guess. Sometimes people need favors. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure.” Church rolled his eyes. “I remember the favor you did for that chick who flipped that old Colonial on 18th. New portico, wasn’t it? Bet she made serious bank on that one.”

  Miller pretended he hadn’t heard that last comment. “How much do you think I could get for that sideboard?” The pasta was done. He should drain it, but instead he turned the burner off and watched Church from the corner of his eye while he threw out a daring, self-indulgent number. “Two hundred?”

  Church looked at him like he’d suggested an afternoon spent clubbing baby seals. “Are you high? You could sell that thing for a thousand, easy.”

  “No.” Miller tried to ignore the bright burn behind his sternum. “That’s...it’s not that nice.”

  “Mrs. Evanston is hosing you. That’s the real wedding present. One hosed Miller Quinn.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense.” Miller bit the inside of his cheek to keep the grin off his face.

  “How did this not occur to you or Shelby? Actually, I know why it didn’t occur to you. You’d apologize for the air you’re breathing if you were standing next to somebody with asthma—”

  “Be nice,” Miller said mildly.

  “—but I’d think Shelby would’ve thought of this.”

  “Shelby, uh, doesn’t know about it.”

  “I’ve seen her sit in the rocking chair.”

  “She didn’t know I made that,” Miller explained. “She knows I fool around a bit, but it’s only a hobby, Church.”

  “You have a network of people using you for ‘favors’ and you say it’s a hobby. You’re so fucking dumb, dude.” Church laughed at him and shoved Miller affectionately on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s eat. After the game we can make a list of all the stuff you’re gonna need. You’ll have to either add on a space for a workshop at the store or buy another building nearby, but at least you’ll have enough room for once. You could keep your setup here for when you want to work on weekends. Crap, we’ll need to figure out pricing. Make stuff expensive. People want stuff more if it’s expensive.”

  Miller dumped pasta on plates with numb hands. “I don’t think I could charge—”

  “Oh, I can, though.” Church’s smile turned bloodthirsty. “I’m gonna charge the asses off these people. See if they try to hose you again. I will end their life savings.” He abruptly stopped, his plate wavering in his hand. “I mean, if you want me to. I could help. It’s your thing, though, so maybe it’s better if you—”

  “Don’t you dare leave me alone in this, I’ll kill you.” Miller’s heart was pounding fast enough that he’d be worried about a heart attack if it weren’t for the gleeful thrill in his stomach. “What if someone asks me to make something for free, Church? I’ll say yes, you know I will.”

  “You do need me,” Church admitted, his expression somehow both shy and cocky at once. “I can tell them to go screw themselves for daring to ask, because the sawdust in your shop costs a million dollars.”

  Miller laughed, and Church was laughing too, and somehow he still had sauce on his chin, and Miller couldn’t believe he’d nearly ruined this earlier. This was what they were supposed to be. This was better.

  * * *

  The next day while Matvey was at the bank, Vasily walked into the bakery halfway through the morning rush. Adrenaline sped Church’s pulse, making him fumble a customer’s change, and his skin crawled as he muttered an apology. Vasily slid into a nearby booth, humming loudly enough that a few customers gave him uneasy glances as the line dwindled. None of the attention kept him from staring at Church with the empty, hostile eyes of a possessed bull.

  Okay. In a way, it made sense that he was here, Church decided. Rep counted for a lot with guys like the Krayevs and the type of assholes they might work with. Vasily had a lot of pride, too, and Church had seen him get humiliated by his mother. Church had one over on him, so of course Vasily was here. He needed to prove something, probably to himself as much as Church. He needed to put Church in his place.

  And since Church couldn’t fight back without making Mama second-guess her decision to let him live, Church was going to have to let him. Church might be stupid about most things, but he was smart enough to know that if he’d nearly been killed for walking into the wrong room yesterday, kicking the shit out of Mama’s son would earn him something else entirely. By the time they were done he might be wishing for a bullet in the head.

  This was going to suck, but Church didn’t have much of a choice. He’d let Vasily throw his weight around a little until he got his confidence back, and then it’d be done. It might be embarrassing, and it would definitely be annoying, but he’d survive as long as he kept his shit together.

  When they were finally alone, Vasily got up, the heavy zipper of his leather jacket scraping the laminate surface of the table in the process. “You think you’re the big shot, don’t you, Church?”

  “No.”

  Vasily puffed up as he walked closer, throwing his chest out and lifting his chin. The guy probably didn’t even realize he was doing it. He was all ego, just looking for the right moment to make Church pay.

  “I think you do,” Vasily said. “I think your skinny Mexican ass thinks you’re home safe.”

  Church had heard that one enough that it was like a shortcut directly to his temper center, but he reminded himself to keep his cool. “I’m Puerto Rican. Whole different place. Read some Wikipedia.”

  Dickwad, he added silently.

  Vasily’s brow creased momentarily. “Still skinny.”

  That one was true enough, Church admitted, and for a second he wondered if Vasily’s whole plan consisted of this sort of third-grade shit. He said warily, “Yeah, okay.”

  Vasily hesitated. Apparently he hadn’t expected Church to agree with him. He seemed unsure about what to do next, and they stood there looking at each other for a few seconds. Maybe Vasily had gotten so used to having his brothers do the dirty work for him that he’d lost track of the basics along the way.

  When Vasily shoved the tray of plastic-wrapped brownies off the counter, it was sudden enough that Church jumped. Next he grabbed the cup of straws and chucked it across the room, then threw the tip jar into the air so that dimes and quarters and a few lonely dollar bills rained down on Church’s head. Glass shattered and flew everywhere. Vasily spat on the display cases, unzipped his pants, pulled out his dick and started pissing on the floor.

  With that last one, Church bit his tongue so hard he drew blood. It took more will than he’d thought he owned not to launch himself over the counter and plant his fist in the smug fucker’s face.

  When Vasily was zipped up again, he waited for another half-minute, weight balanced on his toes, ready for anything Church might do.

  Church didn’t do anything. It was a near thing, but he held on.

  “You’re gonna have to clean that up.” Vasily gestured to the mess he’d made, like maybe Church had missed it somehow.

  Keep it together, Church reminded himself. He didn’t dare say anything, so he nodded.

  Vasily smirked. “See you soon.”

  After the asshole left, Church slumped back against the wall and counted to fifty. When that didn’t work, he kicked the bottom ledge of the refrigerator case as hard as he could half a dozen times. He concentrated on the pain crawling up his leg, took a deep breath that reeked of piss and counted to a hundred.
<
br />   See you soon, Vasily had told him.

  What the hell was that supposed to mean?

  “Fuck,” Church whispered.

  He locked the front door to keep any potential customers out, and went in search of the mop.

  * * *

  Miller was counting the day’s cash and comparing it to the receipts when Church arrived at the store after his shift at the bakery.

  “I invited Shelby for dinner to tell her about the, uh, thing,” Miller said absently, concentrating on the numbers. It was too early to start closing up, but if he didn’t stay busy, his nerves about the upcoming conversation would get out of control.

  When he was done with the drawer, he lifted his head to see Church leaning against the counter with shadows under his eyes and a moody twist to his mouth. Miller frowned. “Hey, are you okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you sure? I can reschedule. I can talk to her about the expansion later.”

  Church smiled, and though it was quiet and small, it seemed genuine enough. “No way. You’re not getting out of it that easy. Besides, I could use the distraction.”

  “What happened?”

  Church licked his lips like he was considering something, then shook his head. “Nothing. Work stuff. Come on, practice your spiel. I’ll pretend to be Shelby.”

  “Don’t be mean,” Miller warned him, and Church laughed, the last of his ill temper fading from his brow.

  Getting Shelby to be nice was a little harder, so dinner was a tense affair, but by the time Miller was finished explaining his desire to take the expansion in the direction of a custom woodworking shop, Shelby’s hostility had taken a backseat.

  “This was your idea?” she asked Church.

  “He’s good,” Church insisted.

  “It was his idea,” Miller said. “And I don’t know how good I am—”

  “He’s really good. Let’s show her the sideboard, man.”

  They’d carried the sideboard in earlier, Church covering it with a sheet so there could be an unveiling. The melodrama of that made Miller feel downright stupid. Honestly, it was a sideboard, not the cure for cancer. His heart was hammering in his chest, leaving him struggling with an alien sensation of shyness as Church pulled the sheet away with the flourish of a magician. Miller’s face went hot. Church elbowed him hard enough that it hurt a bit, but it was reassuring all the same as Shelby crouched to look at some of the detail work on the legs.

  “This is gorgeous,” she said.

  “You’re not just saying that?” Miller asked. Church rolled his eyes.

  “You’re not a kid bringing home a finger painting.” Shelby ran her fingers over the finish. “This is business. I’m not gonna lose a ton of money to blow smoke up your ass, baby brother.”

  “She means it.” Church lifted his chin high in the air. “Told you.”

  “Shut up,” Miller replied, and Church knocked him again, probably leaving a bruise, because his elbows were pointy as ice picks. Miller had to return the favor, but he couldn’t make himself do it very hard, not when Church was so visibly proud of him.

  Miller showed her a few half-finished things he was working on, and Church made her look at prices for stuff online that wasn’t half as nice as Miller’s work. By the time they were discussing space requirements and equipment costs, her disapproval of Church had melted into conspiratorial mutterings, the dollar signs almost visible in her eyes.

  Miller sat back and watched them, more than happy to let them wrangle the details at this point. If there was anything that could’ve softened Shelby to Church, it was Church caring about Miller’s needs, taking steps to ensure Miller’s happiness. She might not have forgiven him, but it’d happen. Every time Miller smiled, her anger would be diluted another drop.

  Which worked out pretty well, because Miller couldn’t keep the goofy smile off his face.

  “Maybe we can use the same location we’d scouted for the expansion of the store,” she said. “That’ll save us some time and effort. You should take a look and see if the space will suit you or if we need something else.”

  After she’d gone home, Miller needed a minute to catch his breath. His head whirled with thoughts of a larger lathe, more elbow room to work and new ideas for pieces. The idea of a workshop was every bit as terrifying as the expansion had been, though for very different reasons. Where he’d felt dread before, he now had a bright, painfully airy sensation. His hands wanted to tremble, and he had to remind himself to slow down.

  He couldn’t say anything until they were done clearing the table and had moved on to cleaning the kitchen. “That happened, right? I’m not hallucinating?”

  “It happened.”

  “Is this what being on acid feels like?”

  Church snorted as he washed the big skillet they’d used for the stroganoff. “Not remotely.”

  “You sure? It’s like I’m living in a cartoon or something, it feels so impossible. It’s unreal.”

  “There’s a guy that lives near the bus station who’s done so much acid he thinks he’s a glass of orange juice,” Church informed him. “I bumped into him once by accident, and he yelled at me because he thought I was trying to make him spill. That’s unreal.”

  “Your life.” Miller shook his head.

  “You should let me make all of your business decisions for you.” Church set the skillet in the drainer. “I’m super good at this, and you’re clearly defunct.”

  “You mean deficient, not defunct,” Miller said, making Church frown for a second until he shrugged.

  “Whatever, man, you’d still be doing favors if it weren’t for me.”

  Miller had to splash him with soapy sink water for that, and Church cursed and splashed him back, and that turned into tussling, talking shit and going for ticklish spots, Miller’s wet hands skidding on Church’s bare forearms, the rug slippery beneath their feet. It was a toss-up as to which of them was stronger, but Church was better at scrapping, so Miller ended up with his back against the refrigerator and Church holding his wrists against the cold aluminum. They were both a little sweaty, and Miller was laughing hard enough that he was out of breath. Church grinned down at him, but as they stood there, something intent and wary formed behind the amusement in his eyes, and Miller’s laughter stopped. They weren’t touching anywhere beyond that simple contact, hand to wrist, and there shouldn’t have been anything exciting about that, but Miller’s heart found another, higher gear. His mouth went dry.

  Church’s smile faded and his eyes dropped to Miller’s lips, and it was—That got his stomach tensing, hot and unsteady, and he wasn’t stupid, so this time Miller knew exactly what was lurking beneath the roaring in his head.

  He just wasn’t sure he cared.

  He’s going to kiss me, Miller thought, and he should stop this, should step away, but he was getting hard and he was burning up, and all he could think about was how good it’d felt yesterday to have Church up against him, to have Church’s hand on him, and yes, judging from the way Church was leaning in, he was going to kiss Miller. The electricity was already racing along his spine, waking him up, and it was going to happen again, Church was going to touch him and it was—God help him, Miller wanted Church to—

  And Church let Miller go and stepped back.

  “Sorry,” Church said hoarsely. “I—I’m sorry.”

  Miller’s skin burned where Church’s fingers had gripped him, but the rest of him went cold. He lowered his arms. The shift from such intimate potential to stiff distance had him reeling, disoriented like a camper lost in the wilderness, searching for any sign of the way back.

  “That was me.” Church stepped back again and jerked a hand over his buzz cut. “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine.” Miller’s tongue wasn’t working well at all. The words felt fat and clums
y in his mouth. “After what—what happened in the store, it’s—it’s gonna be weird for a while. We’re okay.”

  Church looked doubtful, but he nodded anyway. “I’m gonna take a walk before bed, huh? Clear my head a bit.”

  “Sure,” Miller said, and Church grabbed his keys on his way out.

  As soon as the door closed, Miller went into his bedroom. He had a hum under his skin and his cheeks felt dark red, warmed with embarrassment and the shame of what he was about to do. He didn’t turn the light on—the streetlamp beyond the window was plenty to see by, and this was the sort of thing that called for darkness anyway. He depressed the thumb lock on the doorknob, and kicked off his shoes and socks in a fog of—of...he didn’t know the word. He shoved his jeans down his legs and sprawled on the mattress, digging lotion out of his nightstand drawer and rucking his T-shirt halfway up his chest before wrapping a hand around himself.

  He stopped. He couldn’t—he was on fire and he needed this, but it seemed wrong, dirty somehow, and not in a good way. He couldn’t use Church like this, not when he knew that Church would rather walk away than end up where they were yesterday, not when Miller knew this wasn’t what he really wanted, or what he should want, anyway.

  The heat in his gut didn’t care what he thought about as long as he got started, so he pictured Allison, the pharmaceutical rep from the bar. It’d been a while now, so the image wasn’t clear, but he remembered pert breasts in a peach bra, sweet, soft tummy, slim thighs on either side of his hips. He remembered what it had felt like to be inside her, to go down on her.

  It didn’t get him anywhere. If anything, he lost momentum.

  Melissa then, his ex from a few years ago. She’d been a fiery redhead, a woman who drank whiskey and liked baseball instead of hockey, although he hadn’t held that last one against her. They’d dated for a year before she broke it off, saying Miller made a better friend than a boyfriend, which had hurt, but he figured it was because he wasn’t so good at opening up. Women liked that sort of thing. Melissa had never made him feel bad when he’d had the odd night when he couldn’t get himself off. As long as he was willing to use his mouth on her, she’d said, she hadn’t cared. And it wasn’t like it’d happened all that often, especially in the beginning.