Spiked
Page 3
"I'm not letting any brown recluses or black widows near you, my boy,” Jacob Lee informed him. “You're safe.” He turned as much of his full attention to the crates as he could spare while still keeping an eye out for Donathan. The man tended to forget the need to protect his hands, the tools of his trade, while they were unpacking and sorting through all this rubbish; he got too enthusiastic to remember his better sense.
Donathan said it for him. “Where on earth do we start tonight?"
Jacob Lee shrugged. “At the beginning, I guess.” He ran his finger through the thick, almost felt-like layer of dust on the box slats, and sniffed the heavy mustiness rising from the top crate. “I think this one's full of books.” Picking it up just enough to get a sense from the weight, he knew he'd been right. “Watch your feet. I'll put it on the floor and you sort through there, all right?"
"Works for me.” Donathan folded gracefully down, tucking his legs beneath him. “You want to set out a few more? I'll look while you lift."
"When could I ever tell you no, about anything?"
"You mean in the last day, the last week, the last year, the last three years, or ever?"
"Smartass.” Jacob Lee carefully lowered the heavy-ass crate in front of Donathan. “Go to town, hon. Enjoy."
Donathan dove right in, tickling Jacob Lee's funny bone at the eagerness with which he always, always approached these looks into the past. “Jacob Lee, look at this!” First dip in, and he'd lit upon a ledger-shaped parcel wrapped in ancient, crumbling paper. His eyes were huge, studying the leather binding as it came free. “I can't believe this. It looks a lot older than the house. Think maybe someone brought it with them?"
"Could be.” Jacob Lee hefted four more boxes down, finishing the stack. He arranged each one between them, all within arm's reach. By the time he'd dusted his hands on his jeans and sat before Donathan, Donathan still hadn't progressed past page one of the very first book.
"Hey,” he said, gently tapping Donathan's knee. “Are you gonna get lost in there all night?"
Donathan flashed him an unrepentant grin. “I might. Seriously, Jacob Lee, you have to check this out. I think it's a housekeeping record. The date written on the inside of the cover is 1861. 1861, Jacob Lee!” The delicate, tattooed spirals on Donathan's cheeks darkened with the flush he developed when he was this excited. “And here, look.” He carefully held the ledger out for Jacob Lee to take. “Check it out."
Jacob Lee took the book, mindful of the crumbling leather's edges, and held it to the lantern light to see what had Donathan so worked up.
His lips parted, then formed an “o” of amazement. The first of the moldering pages was filled with crabbed, cramped handwriting, cross-hatched in the common method used back when paper was still somewhat of a luxury. In the middle, someone had used pen and ink to draw a rough sketch of a young man with huge dark eyes and a cheeky smile.
"Son of a bitch. You would go right to the treasure trove, wouldn't you?” Jacob Lee stroked the likeness of the inked man, this stranger who'd lived and died over a century ago. “I wonder what his name was?"
Donathan bounced, gleeful as a kid. “Bet it's in there somewhere. Hand it back over and we'll see what's what."
Jacob Lee did so, indulgently amused at his Donathan. He knew they wouldn't be getting much more sorting done that night, if anything, but he wouldn't begrudge Donathan this great a pleasure. “Are there any other books I can look at?"
"I think so,” Donathan replied, already eyeball deep in deciphering the tiny, scrawled writing surrounding the sketch of the man. “If you find any others like this one, tell me?"
"As if you wouldn't sniff them out right away.” Jacob Lee nudged Donathan's bare foot, tickling the sole. Maybe he could coax their landlady into letting Donathan have this particular ledger. Truth to tell, he only ever knew Donathan to light up so bright after sex or after getting a new tattoo done. Granted, that meant he was lit up a lot, but still. Whatever made his baby glow was worth any amount of effort.
Jacob Lee extricated a similarly wrapped parcel from the crate, blew what had to be a quarter pound of dust off, and opened the bindings with as much care as he could draw from his sturdy fingers. A book, equally as old as the one Donathan cradled to him, possibly older, as this volume's binding showed considerably more wear and tear. He thought some kind of monogram or logo might at one time have been stamped in gold leaf on the front cover, though it had long since faded away to a mere glimmer of dirty gilt.
Cautious, respectful of the slice of history he held in his working-man's mitts, Jacob Lee opened the book. He stopped stock-still at the sight of what the old binding had hidden, the breath hitching in his lungs.
Lord have mercy, he breathed to himself. If the sketch inside Donathan's book was a wondrous thing, this beat it hollow. The same man who'd been immortalized in the first drawing had been rendered nearly true to life in the book Jacob Lee held. The artist had drawn him, whoever he was, with the kind of careful, reverent attention that told Jacob Lee right off he'd been adored to the point of worship.
He drank in every detail, mesmerized: slim legs in knee-high riding boots, fitted trousers, an open vest and a gentleman's shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. The man lay on what appeared to be a grassy slope, head tilted back, face raised to the sky, no doubt basking in the sunlight that shone upon him in 1861. He was a good-looking fellow, no doubt about it, young and healthy, with mischief written on every line of his limbs.
A doodle in the corner of the page caught Jacob Lee's eye. The artist had placed it right where Jacob Lee would have expected to see the sun. Not a doodle, he saw on closer examination, but an intricate weaving together of initials clasped by a claddagh ring. JM, he saw, squinting until he made out the RS entwined therein.
Jacob Lee traced the design, enthralled. Who had been who? Was JM RS's sweetheart, or vice versa? Lord, but JM or RS had been naughty, drawing a sketch like this back in the day. You'd have to be a damn fool not to see the passion in every stroke of the pen. Whoever'd drawn this had known the dark-haired, devil-smiling young man, known him in the sense the Good Book hinted at, and they'd loved him dear.
Jacob Lee knew this for sure, as it was the exact same hunger he'd seen when he came across sketches Donathan drew of him.
He wanted more than anything to show Donathan what he'd found, and it was with a huge effort of will that Jacob Lee shut the book and tucked it aside. It'd keep until Donathan's birthday, and come hell or high water he'd sweet-talk their landlady into letting him keep this one to give as a gift. The look on his lover's face when he cracked this one open would be something Jacob Lee planned to cherish for the rest of his life.
And, he thought, with a secret smile, recalling the intertwined initials, I think I have an idea as to what kind of tattoo I want to surprise my Donathan with...
Chapter Four
Donathan yawned wide enough to make Jacob Lee fear he'd dislocate his jaw, and stagger-stumbled to the right. His shoulder smacked the frame of the cellar door. Jacob Lee didn't think Donathan would fall, but all the same he moved into catching position just in case.
While he was there, he took the opportunity to nestle up behind Donathan, close and cozy, and sneak in a bear hug. For the fun of it, although it didn't seem like the wisest idea, he lifted Donathan briefly off his feet.
Even Donathan's startled laugh sounded tired. “Let go of me, you overfed ox,” he griped, wriggling jerkily. “You'll tilt over backward and kill us both."
"Never gonna let anything like that ever happen to you.” Jacob Lee seized Donathan's earlobe between his teeth and tugged, only teasing. He knew darn well Donathan wouldn't be up for anything more, at least not before he'd had a nap. Donathan could be worse than a kitten for needing his beauty rest.
As Donathan liked best to rest in his arms, Jacob Lee didn't feel any kind of need to complain.
"Yeah, I know,” Donathan faux-bitched, his words belying the sleepy shimmy in his hips when Jacob Lee
gently lowered him back to his feet. He leaned almost all his full weight into Jacob Lee's chest, snuggling in sleepy-child fashion.
Lord have mercy, his Donathan had some endearing ways. If the guys at the site ever saw how lovey-dovey they got around each other, they'd rib him sixty ways to Sunday and probably plaster his hard hat with pink-and-red Valentine's stickers. With fat, smarmy-grinned Cupids. They'd think they were the latest thing in humor.
Still, if it came down to a choice between getting a razzing from the workers or being there for his Donathan, Jacob Lee knew which he'd choose each and every time, no contest.
"Think I'm gonna take this to the couch,” he offered, putting his hand over Donathan's to fondle the old book Donathan hadn't been able to let go of and couldn't bear to leave down in the damp and mold of the cellar even for one night. “I'll look through the entries and see if I can figure out some of the handwriting up here in good light.” And now, an excuse for Donathan to enjoy some down time. “Want to join me?"
Donathan sighed, sleepy and happy. “Yeah, that sounds good. Maybe I'll watch some TV. There's an indie documentary about textile painting in the Philippines at ten."
"Good God, it's that late already?"
"So says the clock on the wall.” Donathan yawned a second time, adding a chest-deep groan.
"Be damned.” Jacob Lee hadn't worn a watch. Rarely did. He'd gotten out of the habit on one of the first sites he'd worked, where he'd learned real quick what could get caught and snagged and end up hurting you bad. He nudged Donathan forward, angling his head to get a peek at the clock they'd hung up in the hallway for lack of anywhere else to stick the thing. Hammering nails into plaster walls this old could be a royal bitch; they'd split and splinter and make a plain awful mess. Not even the old trick of nailing through duct tape really worked in this place.
Donathan nudged his ribs. “See? I'm not the only one who loses track of time down there in Wonderland. It's like Alice going down the rabbit hole."
Jacob Lee couldn't help but snicker. “More like Alex going down a hole, or for preference, myself doing the same thing. Except I have something snugger and hotter in mind.” Tired or not, he just had to tease Donathan a little by seizing the man's hips and tugging him back to fit his ass in the cradle of Jacob Lee's legs. He liked being taller sometimes, he really did. Donathan fit against him as perfectly as a man could.
Donathan hesitated; Jacob Lee could nigh see the argument he entertained within his head. “Love, don't I wish I could turn around and pounce your bones right now. I need a shower first, at least—I'm all dusty—and I'd love to stretch out on the couch, if you're still up for that.” He peeked hopefully back around at Jacob Lee. “Yeah?"
Jacob Lee kissed his Donathan's temple. Who gave a damn what the roughnecks he worked with thought? He could be as sappy around Donathan as he dang well pleased, screw them. Not that anyone had objected thus far in reality. It was the principle of the thing.
"Yeah,” he agreed, stroking Donathan's soft, dark hair, twining a longish curl on Donathan's nape around his finger. Drove Donathan batty, that did. Pretty as he was, he hated being called feminine. “Let's crash out for a while. Zoning in front of the TV sounds good. Lord knows I'll doze off watching pottery making in Portugal—"
"Philippines,” Donathan corrected him. “And it's textile painting."
Jacob Lee hadn't even known they did textile whatchamacallit in the Philippines, but whatever. His mind had already moved on. “Where do they make pottery?"
"Lord have mercy, pretty much everywhere. Me, I like the Mexican pottery. Gorgeous colors and such tradition.” Donathan yawned.
Jacob Lee figured he'd best get Donathan settled before he did keel over. He did get one last dig in, “You know, of all the things I'd like for you to teach me, I could go for pottery."
"Huh!” Donathan's face was turned away, but that didn't stop Jacob Lee from picturing, perfectly, his puzzled frown. “I might regret this, but I'll bite. Why pottery?"
Jacob Lee nibbled at Donathan's neck. Too tasty to resist, that man, and he tasted oh, so sweet. “You've never seen Ghost?"
Donathan's groan was music to Jacob Lee's ears. “Dork."
"Your dork."
"Wouldn't have it any other way.” Donathan raised Jacob Lee's hand to his own lips and licked between the webbing of the fingers. “Let's get to the couch and make out like horny teenagers."
"I think I like that idea much better than pottery.” Jacob Lee goosed Donathan's fine, firm ass. “Let's go."
* * * *
Pretty much as Jacob Lee expected, the spirit might have been willing, but the flesh was, as ever, weak. No sooner had Donathan gotten situated proper, his head in Jacob Lee's lap all ready for the kissing, he'd sighed, closed his eyes, and dozed off faster than a tabby in a sunny patch.
Jacob Lee chuckled quietly, stroking loose strands of hair off Donathan's forehead. “You rest, hon,” he whispered. “I'll work on your birthday surprise."
Knowing Donathan wouldn't budge an inch with his head cradled in the warmth of his lap and the TV turned on low, accented narrator's voice soothingly extolling the virtues of textile painting, Jacob Lee felt safe in pulling out and cracking open the book he himself had sneaked upstairs, tucked in the small of his back.
For a second he wondered if the musty smell the old pages released would wake Donathan, but Donathan only mumbled once, pulled a slight face, and sank ever deeper into his snooze. Jacob Lee satisfied himself of Donathan's unconscious state, then turned ninety percent of his attention to the book and the fascinating sketch on its first page.
"Can't stop wondering about who you were,” Jacob Lee murmured, tracing the faded old ink lines with the roughened pad of his work-worn finger. “And who drew you. Lord, there's a story there, I know."
Curious, he flicked through a handful of pages in search of clues about JM and RS. Ah-ha! Pay dirt. Though at first he'd seen only sketch after sketch of the dark-haired, devil-eyed rogue, on page seven he found his first sketch of who he could only assume was the original artist, for this drawing had been done in a different style altogether. Reminded Jacob Lee of what would happen if he tried to draw Donathan. Heavy, clumsy strokes of the ancient fountain pen rendered the second figure thick and graceless. No skill there, but as Jacob Lee saw it, an abundance of love. And mischief, for this new character had crossed eyes and a mouth so far open in a grin that he looked clownish.
And how about that, it was another man. As best as Jacob Lee could tell, he'd been taller and thinner than the devil-may-care lounging subject rendered with such reverent attention in all the other pages. Possibly fair-haired, possibly older, and far less blessed with wealth given the artist's rendering of loose, patched farmer's pants and worn hat at his side.
The dark devil, bless his hide, had gone and drawn a big cartoony heart over this farmer's head. Once again the initials were intertwined, clumsy but still legible.
Best of all? Underneath the drawing, the same hand which had done the sketch had scribbled his signature: Randolph Sampson. Hot damn! He knew which was which, now.
"Randolph, you wicked fellow,” Jacob Lee chortled to himself, careful not to disturb Donathan, well pleased. “I wonder how long you two got away with your spooning back in the day?” Make no mistake, now that he looked for it on the other, better rendered pages, he could see JM's careful attention to the length and supple grace of Randolph's legs, his reverent detail of Randolph's smile, and Lord knew only a blind man could miss how JM had always drawn Randolph lying down like sex incarnated in flesh.
Jacob Lee flipped ahead to the back of the book, frowning when he found the pages going blank about halfway in. He persisted to the final page without really looking at what came before, a growing uneasiness wiggling in his belly. They'd have died well before Jacob Lee's time even if they'd grown old and gray together, but he purely hated the thought of them getting caught and punished and driven apart.
"Damn glad we don't live back in t
hose times.” Jacob Lee thumbed the lazy, slowly beating pulse in Donathan's throat. “I'd be lost if you ... hell, it's not gonna happen, so I won't think on it."
He went back to examining the pictures, starting after the sketch of JM and carefully cataloging each one in turn. JM's fancy turned to action drawings after a while; Jacob Lee could well imagine Randolph had been a cat-like sort of man, as given to wild bursts of energy as he was lazing about in the summer's warmth. Much like Donathan.
Jacob Lee chuckled his way through pictures of Randolph trying to gentle down a huge black stallion with meanness stamped on every foaming line of his muscles and in his wicked hooves; pictures of Randolph running foot races; pictures of Randolph sneaking a pie from a windowsill and eating as much as he pleased, sticky-sweet juice licked off his fingers.
The last sketch of the series changed the mood abruptly. JM had sketched Randolph asleep in his bed, quilts and blankets rucked down over his bare belly. The man's full cock was securely in hand, possibly exaggerated through the eyes of love. If not, Randolph had been a lucky son of a bitch in more ways than one. Randolph's eyes were closed and his lips curved in a sweet grin.
Directly above, JM had drawn the claddagh heart with initials. Down in the right-hand corner, he'd written words for the first time: My heart's love, tonight, August 31, 1861. Never to be forgotten no matter where I roam.
Jacob Lee had thought there was nothing beyond that point, but he'd been wrong. The next over but one had the tiniest cartoon in pencil, so old and faded it'd be easy to miss. A Civil War flag, roughly drawn.
He sighed, air whistling out between his disappointed lips. Ought to have known. War, they said, was hell, and one of its worst devils was leaving loved ones behind. Easy enough to figure that JM, rest his soul, had likely gone off to fight, leaving Randolph behind. No idea what had come next for them, but there were no records of death or aught, so Jacob Lee chose to believe they'd made it through, hooked back up somewhere far away, and lived out long, healthy lives until they were both old and gray and satisfied with the time they'd spent on this earth.