by Sidney Bell
And if this didn’t convince Ghost to help her, nothing would.
“My son has never lived as we have lived,” she said, and Kellen nodded in acknowledgment. Lena ran her fingers over her braid, tugging on it, a small, nervous gesture that she caught almost before she’d finished making it. “He’s never lived as Ghost has lived.”
“No,” Kellen agreed.
Like all creatures of will, she and Kellen and Ghost shared a common seed, a core that was so tempered that it could never be broken. They knew there was a level below which you would never fall. They knew that the only way to avoid being a victim was to be willing to do the unthinkable rather than bend. They’d burn themselves alive if they had to. Vasily didn’t understand this. He’d never known such hardship that a free death became a gift when compared to a life in chains.
Ghost would walk willingly to the pyre before he’d break. He would let his friend burn with him first. Vasya didn’t know this, but Lena did.
Lena knew because it was what she would do.
* * *
The first two times that Miller called, Church didn’t answer.
He couldn’t talk to Miller yet. He’d shout. He’d say cruel things he couldn’t take back.
He walked down York in the general direction of the railroad tracks, dead at this time of night, which was probably asking for trouble. Streetlamps were sparse and many of the businesses were already shuttered and dark. He knew a bus ran down 48th, but in his temper he’d steamrolled right past the nearest stop. The wind buffeted his bare arms painfully.
Now that his anger had cooled, he wished he’d brought his coat.
Now that his anger had cooled, he felt stupid.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t known. Church had heard it a million times: from his father, from Kontakte, from Ghost. He’d heard it in his mother’s silences and now in Miller’s words. It was pointless to get mad over hearing Miller say something true, something that Church had known for ages.
He didn’t have a leg to stand on anyway, not when he’d been lying this whole time about Vasily and the Krayevs and the real reason that Ghost dumped him into the dirt. Lying about the asshole who’d torn up Miller’s truck, wrecked the yard, egged the town house and broken the window. All to protect his secret, a secret that it turned out Miller already knew.
Church wasn’t worth standing up for.
Good enough to fuck, but not to love.
Convenient.
Either Shelby had been kind enough to pretend that she’d bought Miller’s stammered excuses or she’d called him out for being completely full of shit. Knowing Shelby, the second one seemed more likely. Sooner or later, Miller would call back and then he’d either argue that they could keep fucking if they hid it better, or he’d freeze Church out again, maybe for good this time.
Church wondered if he could refuse to ever answer the phone again.
But he couldn’t sleep out here on the side of the road without a coat, and it was too late to call Tobias for a ride. He’d only say Church should talk about his feelings, but for the talking thing to work, it had to happen before the anger, and that ship had sailed. If he talked now, he’d end up screaming.
Maybe hitting.
So that wasn’t an option.
Besides, what would he say? What kind of a hypocrite was he if he called Miller out for lying? Especially when his lie was so much smaller and less important than Church’s own.
Maybe if he was firm from the outset about not talking, they could go home without bloodshed. When Church had calmed down, he could figure out someplace else to live, maybe. He’d go crazy if he stayed with Miller. The idea of staying in the town house, trying to be friends now? The only thing worse would be sliding back into the sexual relationship while knowing that Miller was just in it for the convenience. And he would slide back, because where Miller was concerned, Church was weak.
Yeah, he’d have to move. Assuming Chelsey would let him.
No matter what happened, though, he couldn’t avoid Miller forever, so the next time the phone rang, he answered. “Yeah.”
“I’m sorry,” Miller said immediately. “I’m so sorry, Church. I really screwed up, I know that, and—”
“I can’t talk about this right now,” Church interrupted. Respect it, he willed Miller. His fingers tightened on the phone until they ached.
A short silence. “Okay. Are you all right?”
“No,” Church said without thinking, and winced. How fucking embarrassing. A tractor-trailer roared by, no doubt audible to Miller. “But I’m safe, if that’s what you mean.”
“Where are you? Do you need a ride? Let me come get you.”
Church didn’t answer. He rubbed his forehead instead, trying to get rid of the tension headache brewing.
“Church, we don’t have to talk about it. We could get dinner or we could go home. Whatever you want.” Miller’s words rushed, falling over themselves in his haste to get them out, like he expected Church to hang up on him. A spark of fury at the sudden concern proved that Church’s temper wasn’t banked. He considered hanging up just to make his point, then decided he wasn’t that juvenile anymore. Besides, he was a good fifteen miles from Miller’s place, and he was freezing his nuts off.
“We don’t talk.”
“We don’t talk,” Miller agreed instantly.
“I’ll sleep on the street first,” Church warned him. Better that than punching the bastard.
There was a soft sound of...something. It made him close his eyes until Miller said, “Not a word. I promise.”
“I’m on York. Across from the....” He squinted at the nearest building, but there was no sign. Insult to injury, man. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll find you. I’m on my way.” There was a brief pause, and Church could feel Miller’s need to apologize again like a physical thing, breathing in the silence between them. But he only repeated, “I’m on my way,” and hung up.
* * *
They didn’t talk.
They drove home. They ate in front of the turned-off television. They sat silently through the scrape of fork on plate, as leftover taco salad disappeared, and they didn’t talk. They didn’t talk as they took turns in the bathroom, as they pulled on pajama pants they hadn’t worn in weeks. Miller’s eyes were dark and worried, watching like Church was a loaded handgun as Church hesitated beside Miller’s bed.
Church wanted so badly to get in. He wanted Miller to climb in next to him. He wanted to inchworm through the sheets until he could touch the apology radiating from every line of Miller’s body, until he could believe it, until he could roll Miller under him, kiss his mouth, hear his breathing hitch, and feel Miller’s hands clamped on his hips, keeping Church close.
Until he could go back to thinking Miller was his.
The problem, of course, was that it’d be a lie.
“I can’t,” he muttered, and went to sleep on the couch.
He heard Miller’s shaky exhale and the squeak of the mattress behind him as Miller sat down heavily. He didn’t dare look back as he fumbled for the knob to pull the door closed behind him, because if he saw hurt on Miller’s face, he’d cave.
He’d forgotten how uncomfortable the couch was.
He’d forgotten how empty the living room seemed.
He’d forgotten a lot of things about how bad wanting Miller could feel.
* * *
As much as the silence between them made it hard to breathe, Miller couldn’t help being a little grateful for it.
He didn’t have the first clue what he’d say.
Well, he’d say I’m sorry. That was pretty obvious.
But beyond that, he didn’t know.
What Church wanted was clear. He wanted Miller, and that was miraculous enough that Miller still couldn�
��t make sense of it. Church was strong and fiery and funny and smart and sexy, Jesus, the sex was phenomenal, and all Church wanted was for Miller to love him back.
Miller did. He wasn’t sure when it’d shifted from the simple, easily placated love for a friend to this all-consuming rush of madness that thundered through him at the idea of Church leaving, but it hardly mattered.
He was in love with Church.
Part of him wanted to dart out into the living room to blurt it out, but he couldn’t. It’d come across as manipulative, like he was throwing Church a bone to get out of trouble.
You have to forgive me for treating you like shit because I love you. Forgive me because I’m doing you the favor of wanting you.
When Church was a teenager, Miller had researched abusive relationships to figure out what kind of support Church would need as a kid raised in a house with a violent parent. The one thing that’d been clear was that in addition to the risk that Church would become an abuser himself, there was the risk that Church would fall prey to being abused. He’d be more likely to have low self-worth, to put up with things that he shouldn’t, if only to hear that he was worthy of love.
If Miller said it now, that was what it’d look like.
No. I love you wasn’t a good enough argument for forgiveness.
Miller was better than that, and Church sure as hell deserved better. He should be able to trust that Miller wouldn’t use his feelings against him. And Miller wouldn’t, not ever, but his cachet was low at the moment, and the thought of Church doubting Miller’s motives made him a little seasick.
Table that one for now.
What he needed was something bigger than words, something so convincing that Miller’s frightened ramblings to Shelby would be a drop in the bucket. He needed something that’d prove Church was more than a secret shame.
Something public.
The thought alone had his whole body clenching, but he forced himself to consider it. He could take Church on a date. Dinner and a movie, maybe. Reasonably normal, if uncreative, and maybe that’d say something to Church. That Miller saw them as a regular couple now. Movies weren’t that public, but dinner could be.
He couldn’t treat Church like he would treat a woman he was dating, though. If he tried to pull out Church’s chair for him, Church would laugh his ass off. Or if Miller tried to open the door for him, Church would roll his eyes. My arms work fine, asshole, Church would say.
And what the hell would everyone else think if he tried it?
It didn’t matter, he told himself. It shouldn’t matter, anyway.
He couldn’t help picturing the scornful glances of other couples in the restaurant. He could imagine the way some of the men might look at them with disgust, maybe angry enough to start trouble. Not that he and Church couldn’t handle themselves, but Miller hated the idea that they might have to. That something as good and happy and hopeful as a date could turn into hassling and slurs and conflict, maybe even violence.
But if Miller didn’t do that stuff, they’d be two buddies eating at the same table. Same old, same old. That wouldn’t prove anything to Church. So it had to be visibly romantic.
He supposed those were the defining characteristics of the dates he’d had in the past. Opening doors and pulling out chairs, dressing up and giving flowers. He couldn’t guess at Church’s reaction if Miller brought him a bouquet of roses. He’d probably look at Miller like he’d gotten a concussion somehow.
A gift card to iTunes might get a positive response, however. Especially if Miller promised not to grab his ears and pretend to be dying the next time Church made him listen to the emo, angry screaming he liked so much.
Miller could do that. He could put on a suit. Or not. Church didn’t own one, and Miller wouldn’t want him to feel underdressed in comparison. Nice pants and a button-down could work. He could iron. He had an iron around here somewhere, didn’t he? Shit. He’d borrow Shelby’s iron.
What if Church wanted to be the one to bring a present and choose the restaurant? Miller was used to that being his job, because he was the guy. That was how it worked with women, but Church was different. Everything about this was different.
It occurred to him for the first time that gender rules in dating were stupid. Why did someone’s gender have anything to do with who bought food? Or picked out flowers? It wasn’t until both people on the date had the same equipment that it suddenly seemed stupid. Why should he always get to decide what he wanted to do while the other person had to follow along? He had a vague urge to call all his old girlfriends and apologize, though he wasn’t entirely sure why.
In the darkness of his bedroom, Miller buried his face in his hands and groaned. He felt like a teenager all over, trying to figure out the expectations of society, trying to prevent public humiliation by doing everything right, and the only thing he knew for certain was that he was too old for a sexual-identity crisis, dammit.
He took a deep breath.
He could fix this. When Church had calmed down, Miller would apologize and explain that his comments had nothing to do with Church not being good enough and everything to do with Miller being a big fat coward. He’d explain that things would be different now. He’d ask Church to go on a date with him.
Maybe Church would be willing to explain what Miller was supposed to do to make that date successful.
Probably it didn’t matter what he was supposed to do or what anyone else would do. He blinked into the darkness, struck by the very idea.
Maybe it only mattered what would work for him and Church.
He couldn’t fuck up again. This little taste of what it would be like to have Church walk away was all Miller needed to know that he could never let it happen for good.
He thought of Church out there on that saggy-bottomed couch. He hadn’t taken sheets or a pillow with him. He might be cold. That old afghan of Miller’s mother’s was stretched out so much you could put a foot through some of the holes.
Miller got up and grabbed a pillow, then quietly rooted through the linen closet until he found the comforter Church had been using before. When he entered the living room, Church sat up, his long bones and firm muscles cast in sharp relief by the spill of light from down the hall, his eyes glittering warily in the near-darkness. Francis Bacon purred noisily in his lap.
Wordlessly, Miller held the bedding out. For a heartbeat he thought Church wouldn’t take it, and Miller stood there choking, waiting.
Finally, Church’s hand closed around the blanket.
Miller went back to his room with a hint of hope in his chest. He could fix it. Church would let him fix it.
Chapter Twenty
When Matvey went out for his lunch break the next afternoon, he left Church alone in the bakery with far too much time to think.
Okay, sneaking out to take the bus in the morning so he didn’t have to ride with Miller had been kind of a cowardly move. Otherwise, he would’ve had to figure out how to get through a car ride with Miller without either a) confessing that he’d do whatever Miller wanted if it meant they could get past this, b) punching Miller in the face for being an asshole, or c) punching himself in the face for being an asshole.
So he was already in a bad mood when the door opened and the rest of the Krayev brothers walked in. Vasily was in front, his expression twitchy, his hands flexing at his sides like he wanted to make fists. The lazy one—Grisha—and the handsome one who’d suggested chopping up Church’s body with the deli meat slicer—Seryozha, if he remembered right, but he wasn’t sure—angled themselves behind their older brother with identical blank faces. The big guy in the back had been the one to grab him in the doorway during the meth incident, but Church didn’t remember his name. Right now, he was locking the glass door and lowering the blinds, using the rod to twist them closed before leaning against the frame.
&
nbsp; “Matvey will be back in about half an hour,” Church said to Vasily, keeping his tone careful.
“Not here for him,” Vasily replied, and shoved the register onto the floor hard enough that the casing cracked. The drawer sprang loose with a dull ringing sound, and coins spun every which way. Church jumped hard at the noise and the rush of rage was an old, well-missed friend, and his hands were coiled into fists by the time Vasily launched himself up and over the counter.
Church grinned.
Everything else tumbled away but for the crash of his heartbeat, the blows singing through his bones, the trembling of his muscles and the whistle of his breath in his lungs. It’d been ages since he’d hit anyone, and he’d almost forgotten how powerful it made him feel.
Vasily fought like a bear, using his weight and the strength in his shoulders, mean and snarling, but Church was faster and more agile, using sharp jabs and elbows, slipping free whenever Vasily tried to corner him. They knocked the chips display over. One of his knuckles split on Vasily’s teeth. Church’s sweat stung his eyes and dripped salt in his mouth. It was a toss-up for the first thirty seconds or so, but a good shot to Vasily’s shin had him on his knees and Church knew that was it. His moment. The win. All he had to do was kick, and he’d take Vasily’s fucking head off.
The old Church wouldn’t have hesitated.
The new Church did.
When hands wrenched at his arms from behind, Church yelled in wordless frustration, furious with himself for getting so lost in the fight that he’d completely lost track of the others. It was Grisha on his left, Church realized, and Seryozha or whatever his name was on his right. Vasily was slowly getting up too, breathing like a horse with bad wind, huge gusts of air wheezing, and his hands shook as he wiped stark-bright blood from a livid cut on his forehead.
“Hold him,” he said.
“Can’t do it on your own?” Church snarled. He kicked out, missed by a mile. “Need some help, huh?”
“I’m gonna fucking break you,” Vasily promised. His lips were spit-wet and swollen, stretched in a grimace that was nearly a grin. “I was just gonna make a point, but now I think we’re gonna be here for a while.”
