by Chris Owen
The room was dim after the sunshine of midday, but he was prepared for the bell this time and he looked to the chair just inside the door. It was empty. Smiling to himself, Dave started to walk toward the back of the long room, pausing in front of a shelf full of thrillers to see if there was anything there that caught his eye. Finding nothing that he hadn't read from the library already, he kept going. Past the mysteries, science fiction, fantasy and through the double wide shelves of romance, he walked around the three or four customers and looked for Desmond Chase.
He heard voices from an open door at the back of the shop and looked in to find even more shelves and books, though none of them were mass market paperbacks and many of them were in plastic sleeves. He saw Des notice him and nodded in greeting, then went to read titles while Des talked to a customer.
Paperbacks that were from the 1930's, hardcover editions of Dickens from the early twentieth century, a collection of Shakespeare's complete works in five volumes from 1897. Dave walked slowly through the room and resisted the urge to take anything from the shelves, afraid he might not want to put it back. He did examine a book of sewing patterns from 1945, thinking his grandmother had something similar, and it might be neat to tell her about it.
He found a shelf of Ian Fleming novels and was smiling to himself about the cover price of Moonraker as opposed to the price it got more than sixty years later, when he saw that Des also had a copy of Too Hot to Handle, which was the “Americanized” version of Moonraker, released with a new title. Americanizing the idioms hadn't happened again, and Too Hot to Handle remained an anomaly within the Fleming catalog. Dave gave a low whistle and took it off the shelf.
"You know your Bond,” Des said.
"My dad knew Bond.” Dave looked at the cover through the plastic and shrugged. “I just paid attention when he talked, I guess. Dad was really annoyed when he bought a copy of this in the seventies at a used bookstore. He thought he'd found one he hadn't read before."
"Oh, dear.” Des smiled and shook his head. “Was he really upset?"
"Nah, he loved Moonraker. Well, maybe a bit—more disappointed than anything else. He did say that there's a certain disappointment when you realize your favorite author has been silenced and there truly aren't any more stories. I felt the same way, maybe, when I was fourteen and spent a whole summer at the lake buried in the only books I could find. I read the complete works of S.S. VanDine and then looked up to find that there weren't any more, and wouldn't be any."
Des raised an eyebrow. “At fourteen you were reading books written seventy years before you were born?"
"There was absolutely nothing to do at that lake.” Dave laughed. “It rained and the water was full of leeches. It was a horrible summer. So I fell in love with the golden age of mysteries through Philo Vance. In the fall I found Carter Dickson and that sealed my fate."
"I'm glad to hear it. If nothing else I have a rather large selection of books from the era; you're more than welcome to take a look."
"Maybe later.” Dave smiled at Des, noticing that he didn't seem to look quite as pointy and angular as he had earlier. “Thanks. So, we should talk about wood."
"Absolutely."
Des led him back into the main room of the shop and toward the front. Next to the spindly legged chair was a desk that held the cash register and a multitude of other things. Behind it was a chair sturdy enough to take Dave's bulk.
The two of them sat at the desk and poured over the sketches and ideas Dave and Wyatt had come up with, and Dave made new notes, more detailed sketches and lists of supplies on fresh paper. They worked well together, Dave thought; he'd had clients stare at him blankly when he asked how tall they wanted things and say, “Oh, you know. A bit taller than me, maybe?” so it was refreshing to have someone as detail oriented as Des to tell him what was needed, what would be nice, and what was on the wish list. It also helped that Des understood basic physics and could grasp the idea of needing certain things for structural stability.
When they had settled on general plans for both the shelving to be wall mounted and for the low, freestanding shelves for the middle of the room, Dave went to his truck for his electronic stud finder and more graph paper and got to work.
The afternoon passed easily for Dave as he was left alone to do his job. He measured and noted, found studs and drew scale plans so he could make a shopping list, and he measured the books that needed measuring. That part took the longest, due to the care he needed to show them and the side effect of losing time to browsing as he went.
He didn't mean to, of course, but time and time again it happened. He'd find a title or an author's name he recognized from a class he'd taken and he'd find himself opening the book, carefully and slowly, and reading a portion. He'd paid close attention to Wyatt, so he knew which books could be handled and which probably should be moved more carefully, and if there was one lesson Dave had learned well at his parents knees it was how to treat books with respect.
Des found him that way, holding an embossed volume of Chaucer and reading avidly. He hadn't read any of the Canterbury Tales since college, and was surprised to find that it actually made a bit more sense to him now. Maybe it was because he'd found the cadence or had merely lost any sense of being self conscious when he read out loud.
"I usually find that people start with the nuns tale, or the knight's.” Des was leaning on the doorframe, smiling at him. “The physician's tale is an interesting choice."
Dave blushed so fast he could actually feel the heat rising in his face. “The pages are strongest there. I'm sorry, I shouldn't be reading. And I didn't hear you coming, or I can pretty much promise I wouldn't have been reading out loud."
"You were doing very well.” Des came in, smiling at him. “Middle English isn't for the meek."
"Yeah, well.” Dave closed the book and put it back where he'd found it, his face still warm. “Second semester of my junior year was Chaucer and a separate course just for the Middle English. I had the same professor for both, though; that was good.” God, he was babbling. Archie would be laughing his butt off.
"What's your degree in?” Des looked interested, his eyes and smile full of curiosity. He had his suit jacket unbuttoned and one hand in his trouser pocket; Dave assumed that was his casual look.
"Oh.” Dave looked around the room to make sure he hadn't left anything terribly out of place. “I didn't finish, actually. I was on a full ride football scholarship, and I got hurt. When the money went away I just couldn't swing it."
Des made a sympathetic sound. “That's unfortunate. What did you major in?"
Slightly uncomfortable and unsure why, Dave picked up his clipboard full of notes and drawings. “English lit, with a psych minor. I was planning to drop the psych and take a couple of extra semesters to bring up some math."
"Perhaps you can go back some day.” Des seemed to sense Dave's reluctance to dwell on the education he didn't have and let the matter drop. “What else do we need to discuss?"
Dave looked at his notes. “Well, I have my shopping list. Tomorrow Wyatt and I will have to move the books, and I'll start building shelves. To keep the mess and noise down, I think I'll cut the pieces in your backyard, if that's okay with you, and assemble them up here."
Nodding, Des said, “Sure, of course. I assume it would be easier to move the boards after they're cut to size anyway. What kind of wood are you going to use?"
"Well, that's the last thing for you to pick, really. I have samples, so you can see colors.” Dave pointed to the table at the far wall. “These are all hard woods, and I can get them all the thickness you want or even a bit thicker. The prices per linear foot are marked on the ends."
"Do you have a recommendation?” Des moved to the table and picked up the piece of red oak.
"Well, it depends on color, really, but we can stain just about anything to look like something else.” Dave followed him and held up the walnut. “This'll be dark, but it's nice and dense. Oak is lighter in color,
but even harder. If you were wanting to build something completely decadent and had a pile of money to burn, I'd show you some bloodwood, but it's kind of hard to get around here since it's an exotic."
"I think I can live without bloodwood,” Des said dryly. “The maple and oak cost about the same?"
"Oak, maple and ash will all cost about the same and are light enough to stain, if you want darker wood."
Des lined up all three of them and looked at them a little blankly. “I don't think I need dark wood—the books are dark enough and I'd worry—probably irrationally—about the stain somehow leeching into the books."
"Okay.” Dave nodded and touched the hard maple. “This is the strongest of them and the smoothest. It's warm. See?” He ran his finger down the grain and passed the sample to Des. “Soft maple looks just as nice, but it's not as strong. Ash is only slightly less strong, but it's not as warm to the touch, not quite as slick and silky."
Des held the maple in one hand and the ash in the other, his eyebrows up. “Warm."
"Warm.” Dave turned Des’ hands over so they lay flat and open, palm up. “Feel them. Hold onto the wood and find the grain, slide your fingers on it. See? It's like fabric, almost, but it's alive. It's cut, but it's real and solid and you can feel the history of it, if you pay attention. It's warm, not like plastic or metal, and it's got a vibration. You need to decide which vibration you want in here."
Des smiled and closed his eyes as his fingers curled around the bits of wood. “You really do like your job."
"I love it."
There was a soft knock at the door and Dave turned to see Wyatt there, along with Archie. “Oh, hey.” Dave looked at his watch and winced. “Sorry, I didn't realize it had gotten so late.” It was well past six, and long after his usual quitting time.
"That's okay, I was heading home and saw your truck. Wyatt was just coming in, so I tagged along."
Des put the wood back in Dave's hands as he went to the door to greet Wyatt with a kiss on his cheek. “The maple, Dave. Thank you."
"You got it.” Dave scooped up his samples, wondering why his skin felt warm again, why he felt faintly embarrassed and like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't have been doing. “See you in the morning, Wyatt."
"Time to move books?” Wyatt gave him a rueful smile.
"Yeah.” Dave grinned back. “And then I'll have a delivery of wood."
Archie snorted and shook Des’ hand. “It's nice to have one project happening on time. Thanks, Des, and I'll be in touch."
"I suspect I will be, too.” He was looking at Dave when he said it, and Dave flushed again. There was thoughtfulness and speculation in that look, which was unsettling; lust would have been easier to deal with.
Dave's cheeks didn't really cool until he was in his truck and heading to Archie's, and even then he got warm again when he thought about the way Des looked at him. Dave was used to being flirted with, and he was used to being looked at. He wasn't sure why this was different.
He followed Archie home and parked next to him; each apartment got two spaces and more often than not Dave was taking up the second one. He made sure that his toolbox was locked and headed in, grateful once more that Archie had a ground floor place and patio doors. Usually that came in handy for lugging tools in and out; this time it was nice to walk right into the living room and find Archie already on the phone ordering supper and getting undressed.
"Yeah, and a bottle of Coke, thanks.” Archie disconnected the phone a moment later and set it down. He'd gotten rid of his shoes and shirt, and when his hands were free he started on his belt. “Forty minutes, babe. Shower?"
"I could do that.” Dave nodded and left his shoes at the door, then pulled the drapes closed. The delivery would buzz through the actual security door, and the world didn't need to see him and Archie sitting around in their boxers after they showered. Or having sex on the couch.
He went into the bathroom and stripped, watching Archie already scrubbing at his hair and sending suds flying. For all that Archie was a couple of years older than him and had been working in construction since he was seventeen, he looked a lot younger. He had a youthful baby face that hid his age and the smoothest skin Dave had ever touched except for his hands. Calloused and rough and cracked with wood glue, Archie's hands were the strongest statement about him.
Hard working. Dedicated. Gentle. Powerful.
"Are you going to come in here?” Archie stood under the spray and dragged his fingers through his hair. “Or are you going to stand there and get cold."
"I'm not cold.” Dave stepped into the shower and crowded into Archie's personal space. “Do you miss it?"
Archie blinked up at him, water drops clinging to his eyelashes. His eyes looked bluer than Dave remembered them being that morning when they'd skipped showering together in favor of a longer morning greeting in bed. “Do I miss what?"
"Being like that. Whatever it is that Desmond Chase does. Do you miss that? Do you wish I'd be like Wyatt?” He leaned in and licked water from Archie's collar bone.
"I don't want you to be like Wyatt.” Archie spoke softly, and when his tone wasn't dismissive or amused, Dave knew there was more. “I don't want to plan anyone's life but mine. I don't want someone to kneel for me all the time. I don't want that responsibility. I never did.” His hands rested on Dave's hips. “I was never all that into the real hard parts, babe."
"But you didn't answer my question.” Dave turned them so he stood under the spray and then reached for the shampoo. “I don't get it, I know I don't. I don't know much about it because it's not my thing. But Wyatt and Des seem really suited, really settled into their life and that's good.” He started lathering his hair, glad that Archie was still touching him. “I guess what I'm trying to say is that I can respect it."
"Respect is good.” Archie's thumbs played up and down Dave's sides. “I was more into the trappings of bondage, babe. That was my kink. I got off on the ropes and cuffs and blindfolds and role playing. That's only a very small part of the scene."
"The rest didn't appeal?” Dave started rinsing his hair. Bubbles slid down his back, following his spine and coasting over his ass. He closed his eyes to feel it better and thought about blindfolds. “I'm not sure if even that much is for me."
"Hey, I've never asked you, have I?” Archie's fingers followed the bubbles, right between Dave's cheeks. “So I can't miss it very much, huh?"
Dave spread his legs a bit. “I'd try it,” he whispered, his eyes still closed. “If you wanted me to."
One of Archie's fingers traced around his hole. “You'd probably be bored,” he said, laughing softly. “Would you enjoy sex as much if you couldn't use your hands? If you were tied spread eagle on a bed and I was over you, riding your cock?"
Dave's eyes opened. “Is that a suggestion? Because the riding thing is totally going on the list for the night."
"We can do that.” Archie's finger stopped circling and slid in a bit. “After supper? Bondage optional."
Dave spread a bit more and looked in the soap dish to see if Archie had grabbed the lube and a rubber. “If you need it, I can try it."
"I don't need it. Dave, I don't. If it was a need, I'd be looking for someone else."
"Do you?” Dave reached for the condom and tore the wrapper open. “When you're out without me, when you're doing someone else—are they the guys who let you tie ‘em up?"
Archie hissed through his teeth as Dave rolled the rubber onto his cock. “Usually. But I don't keep them, do I?"
"No.” Dave lubed him up and nodded. “You don't. But you do go looking for it."
"Does it matter?” Archie turned him around to face the wall and Dave leaned forward, closing his eyes again.
"Of course it matters.” Dave reached down and stroked his own cock with a loose fist. “Hey, is it like this? I mean, you and me, we switch. We like it both ways. Do you like being tied down?” Maybe he could get into that.
Archie laughed and fingered Dav
e's hole a bit. “You wish. No, my pretty, I'm strictly the man with the keys. Sorry."
Oh, well. Dave figured he'd feel weird about that, anyway. “Is there any particular reason why you're taking your time getting your dick in my ass?"
"See, this is why I didn't even bother asking you if I could gag you. I like to hear you bitch and whine.” Archie laughed again and got down to business, rubbing the head of his cock all around Dave's hole. “Now, Des. He'll ask you anyway. Maybe."
Dave snorted and pushed back, trying to get Archie where he wanted him. “Stop that."
"Oh, come on, baby.” Archie teased and laughed, then started pushing in. “I saw the way you two were looking at each other and feeling up the wood. There's sparks. Just let me watch some time, okay?"
"Shut up.” God, he was blushing. In the shower with Archie. About Desmond Chase, lover of books. “Fuck me, Archer."
"Call me Archer and I'll start looking for a ballgag, babe."
Dave laughed and rocked back, his balls already singing. “Okay. If you say so, boss."
Archie dug his fingers into Dave's hips and held him still. “Are you trying to piss me off?"
"Nope.” Dave looked back over his shoulder and winked. “I'm trying to get fucked really hard. The harder you fuck me, the more you make me feel it, the harder I'll do you after supper. You and me, in your bed, man. My cock, jammed so far up you that you'll feel it all day tomorrow—"
"Dave.” Archie snarled and his calluses slid on Dave's hips, the skin catching. “Shut up."
Dave shut up, mostly because he was getting what he wanted; Archie was moving, fast and hard, bending his knees and driving up into Dave with increasing power. He couldn't have talked if he wanted to, he was too busy holding onto the wall and praying he didn't fall and get them both killed before they managed to get off.
Archie was hammering away at Dave's gland, and someone was yelling; it took Dave a few minutes to realize it was him. He had both hands on the wall and was begging Archie to touch him, to jack his cock and to yank his balls, anything to get him off before his head exploded.