The First Hello

by Willa Okati

  THE FIRST HELLO

  Willa Okati

  www.loose-id.com

  Chapter One

  Shawn’s mother had always said the story of his life started in the middle. He’d never understood what she meant by that.

  Not before the dreams began.

  * * * *

  “Come to bed.”

  Beads of water, honey golden, reflected the glow of the fire Shawn knelt in front of. He drew the rough sponge in a meandering line from navel to chest, over skin darkened by the sun, tougher in his muscles than he used to be. He tilted his head, let his eyelids drift halfway closed, and stroked the sponge across the exposed side of his neck. The water had warmed but was still cool enough to refresh. He could almost imagine himself drawing it in as thirsty earth would drink rain in the worst of the hot season. Far warmer here than home.

  “You go ahead.” Shawn dipped the sponge again. “I’m almost done. I’ll come to you soon.”

  He heard the step of bare feet walking lightly over the hewn floor, sanded as smooth as satin, so smooth there was never any fear of a splinter. The man with him smelled of soap, fresh-cut grass, and a hint of salt, especially at the bend of his neck below the short hairs just growing long enough to curl. Warm hands that’d worn themselves as rough with the work as the wood he’d hewed was silky smooth, no splinters, lit on Shawn’s shoulders. His thumbs brushed Shawn’s nape as the man lowered himself to a crouch and then to a kneel behind Shawn. Warm lips, soft and firm and full, nestled a kiss behind Shawn’s ear.

  “I could do that,” his lover said. “Or I could stay and help.”

  Shawn had forgotten the sponge when the man knelt. He only noticed it again now when his hand closed tighter and water streamed between his fingers, pattering soft as rain back across his naked flesh and onto the floor.

  His lover corrected him, moving the sponge back to Shawn’s chest. “Careful. Don’t waste it.” He punctuated his words with tiny light nips, nibbling Shawn as if Shawn was a treat he wanted to savor bit by bit…by bit… “You never know when the rains will come again. I’m told we’re in for a long dry spell.”

  “By who?” Shawn asked, not really paying attention. He lifted one arm, reaching back to card the man’s curls through his fingers. They’d dried crisp and soft after his ablutions in colder water. “You never did have any patience.”

  His lover’s quiet chuckle warmed the hollow of Shawn’s collarbone. “And yet you keep trying to teach me.”

  “Of course. I haven’t given you up as a lost cause yet.”

  “God willing, you never do.” His lover drew Shawn’s earlobe between his teeth and nibbled. He took the sponge from Shawn, unresisting now, and dipped it into the bowl of water. Drawing the sponge over Shawn’s chest, across his heart in an X shape, letting the drops of water trickle down to bead in the thatch of wiry dark curls at Shawn’s groin. Shawn was slighter and smaller than his lover, but strong. His stomach muscles flexed when he looked down, watching his lover move the sponge in small circles, closer and closer to his burgeoning arousal. It didn’t take much for the man to get a rise out of Shawn, no. It never had.

  “Are you washing me or dirtying me?” Shawn wound one of his lover’s curls around his finger and tugged. “Either way, I don’t mind.”

  “Good. Because I promised you both, and I mean to make good.”

  Shawn covered his lover’s hand and worked the sponge free of his loose grasp. Though they were costly, he held other treasures more dearly. Smooth on his water-slick skin, he guided his lover’s hand down to his cock and molded the man’s fingers around him instead. “Always?” he asked.

  His lover nudged tighter, closer to Shawn, careless of the damp. They’d dry themselves in the night air, and the wind whipping across their skin—the wind that could scour a man down to his soul during the heat of the day, at the height of the sun—would kiss them sweetly with cool breath this late at night.

  That would be then. This was now. Shawn could feel his lover’s cock pressed against him, a hard length fitted to the cleft of his backside. He shivered with new reason, and with anticipation, and pushed back against the man. “This is what you want tonight, isn’t it?”

  More warm laughter, soaking beneath Shawn’s skin, going heart-deep. “You read me like a book.”

  “It’s a story I’ve heard before.”

  “But you don’t mind reading it again?”

  “Never,” Shawn said. He pushed the bowl and sponge out of harm’s way and turned roundabout, sliding easy as a falling leaf onto his lover’s lap, straddling him. He drank the man’s surprised, pleased mirth down in a thirsty draft, and his sharply indrawn breath when his cock nudged Shawn’s. Shawn reached down without looking to take them both in hand; so did his lover, linking their fingers around both shafts in a ring, a circle without beginning or end.

  He couldn’t see his lover’s face—couldn’t take in the details—when their heads were this close, but Shawn could feel the man’s aura wrapping him up in pleasure, in delight, in passion. He moaned and canted his hips, needing more pressure.

  His lover held off. “Forever. You promise?” he asked Shawn, his hand still. “You choose that, with me?”

  He always did need the reassurance.

  Shawn tilted his head and fitted his mouth to his lover’s in a long kiss as golden sweet as toffee, seconds stretching out between them in a thread that seemed to last forever. “Always,” he promised. “Always. That’s my choice. Now and forever. Time after time, I am yours as you—”

  “Say it.” His lover drew Shawn’s lip between his teeth, stroked his velvet-sleek tongue deep, stealing Shawn’s breath. “Say it. Say my name.”

  “You’ll hear me calling it soon enough.” Shawn wanted another kiss, but his lover held back.

  “Say it first,” he insisted. “Say my name.”

  “I—” Shawn stopped. He couldn’t remember. He—

  “I—”

  He—

  He opened his eyes, and—

  * * * *

  Shawn woke with a start, a name taking shape on his lips. Cold sweat made his face feel tight and numb. His lips were parted, and he’d taken such a tight hold of the arms in the chair where he sat that the wood creaked beneath his grip.

  It’d happened again.

  “Mr. Tillerman?” Della, the real estate agent, rapped at the door of her office before walking in, a thick file tucked beneath the arm she used to maneuver her walking cane. Tall and stately and no-nonsense at sixtysomething, draped in smooth linen and tiny hints of gold jewelry, she raised an eyebrow at Shawn and paused as she asked, “Are you all right? You look pale.”

  Losing his damned mind was what he was.

  Shawn rubbed at his temple and made himself nod. A lie. The episodes were only getting worse and more frequent. Sidesteps out of the genuine down-and-dirty world and into a—a dream place—that seemed so real that when he was there, he forgot it was only in his head. He didn’t know how long they lasted, but they were worth others taking note of, and that would not do.

  Flip your shit later. Focus now. You’ve got a task to manage here.

  Shawn blinked, trying to ease the dry chafe of his eyelids, and sat up straighter in the guest chair set at an angle to Della’s desk. He tried to smooth his hair back. He cleaned up okay when he put in the effort. With luck he might look less like a roughneck on his last change of clean clothes before he had to hunt down a Laundromat, and more like a man who had a right to inherit a house on the eastern shore. He even smiled or at least made his lips turn up at the corners. “Sorry. I’m fine. Just had a long day.”

  Della frowned but politely said nothing as she eased into the task chair behind her desk and flipped open the file he’d come to talk about.
“This shouldn’t take long. Ten minutes and you can be out the door. That is,” she added, spreading a handful of glossy photos from the file over the desk like a magician’s cards, “if you’re still sure you want to sell. Do you?”

  And isn’t that the question.

  Shawn drew the photos closer to him, barely touching the edges. He hadn’t even known the house belonged to him before the month previous, and he very nearly hadn’t opened the letter with legal letterhead stamped on its envelope. Too much bad news would get to a man after a while—but in the end, he’d torn the flaps open, and the world became a different place.

  He owned a house. He’d never had a home. Just apartments. Motel rooms.

  And she was a beauty, wasn’t she? Shawn rested his hand over the pictures of tall, elegant walls festooned with ivy, golden with dignity and simple enough to sing a quiet call of comfort. Built in 1875, traded hands a few times before the turn of the century—the previous century. Life on that patch of coastline had grown up around the old house, including a hotel three times its size that churned tourists in and out like a washing machine. It’d come to his Great-Aunt Anna through marriage, and there it’d stayed. She’d died at ninety-five with no children of her own. He hadn’t known she was still alive. That he’d had more family out there in the wide world, and he’d never met her. The wastefulness of it stung him.

  Miss Anna must have known about him, though.

  He and his sister, Gabrielle—truly his only family left in the world now—had set up temporary camp in the old caretaker’s cottage, but until the deeds were signed and property transferred, Shawn figured they ought to be safe enough from eviction. He’d only ever walked up to the old house. Too fancy for the likes of him, he’d thought, and he’d become sure of it when he peeked in through the windows wherever the ivy allowed. He’d seen everything covered with drop cloths and a layer of dust thick enough to draw pictures in, but beneath that the bones were good. Solid. Just needed a little work, and it could be as regal as a queen again.

  Shawn could do the work, but that wasn’t the problem.

  He glanced up. Della seemed like a nice sort of lady. Calm, professional, kind. A good woman. She wouldn’t smile at Shawn like that if she knew him.

  He pushed the photos back across the desk. “You said last week that you had someone asking about the property. Are they still interested?”

  Della pressed her lips together but forbore to comment. She took the photos back and tapped them together into a neat stack. “I do. He’d talked about leasing from Miss Anna before she had her stroke. He’ll be just as glad to buy. I can touch base with him today if you like.”

  Shawn exhaled with relief. “Okay. Do it.”

  “Done,” Della replied. “And the repair work that needs to be done? That’s usually taken care of before the sale goes through.”

  Which it couldn’t. Shawn owned a house worth a few hundred thousand and had maybe twenty dollars in the bank. Maybe not even that much. He hadn’t checked in a while.

  Frustration and humiliation made him look away as she went on. “You can do it yourself if you want. Or we could arrange to have the cost of repairs taken out of the final sale price. I know the buyer, and I can’t imagine he would object. If you like, I expect we could even work out some sort of arrangement that would allow you to stay on in the cottage until the job’s complete. It’s up to you.”

  Shawn hadn’t known that could be an option. It beat the hell out of his other choices, sure, but— “Why would you do that for me?” he asked, wary.

  “Why not, Shawn?” she asked, not blinking. “Anna seemed to think you were worth leaving her house to. I considered her a friend. So why shouldn’t I do what I can to help with that?”

  Shawn tapped his foot against the floor. Not sure why, but he’d swear she wasn’t telling the whole truth there. “I—”

  He didn’t get to finish. Outside, the sound of someone singing cut through and below the sound, warbling notes off-key, way too happy to be sober.

  Della’s eyebrows drew together. She started to stand. “Who’s—”

  Shawn beat Della to his feet and then to the window, which looked out at the quiet footpaths and the quieter main strip. He knew what he’d see, but his heart sank just the same. Gabrielle. She looked like she’d spent the afternoon left to her own devices neither wisely nor any too well.

  Fucking damn it.

  Shawn’s face burned hot, even as his stomach flipped with worry and his fists tried to knot up in defense. “My sister,” he said, not looking at Della. Not wanting to see what he saw in everyone when Gabrielle first crossed their paths. “She’s not well. I need to go.”

  Della narrowed her eyes, and Shawn worried she was going to stop him, but she didn’t. Just nodded once and picked up the phone. “Okay. I’ll set up a meeting and call you later with the details.”

  Shawn ducked his head once, sorry and thank you all rolled into one, and made his exit as fast as he could. If he didn’t catch up to Gabrielle before she reached the water’s edge…

  * * * *

  But for once, Shawn had luck on his side. Gabrielle had found a tree to loiter under, always her favorite, and he came abreast with her on the winding path. Thank God.

  He caught her by one far too thin arm as she would have twirled past him. “Gabby, what the hell?”

  “There you are!” Gabrielle looked thrilled to have found him. Her hair had long since escaped the fishtail braid she’d started the day with, and blew around her face in wild strands that tangled over her eyes and caught on her lips. She didn’t even notice, too busy pointing down the coast and to the sprawling hotel that blocked the horizon. Her laugh was a few degrees too high, too excited. He could smell the alcohol on her breath. Oxycontin was her drug of choice, but if that wasn’t on offer, she loved whiskey sours.

  They’d been born twins. She looked at least five years older. Sometimes ten.

  Shawn let his shoulders drop. “Damn it, Gabrielle,” he said, more tired than before.

  She didn’t notice that, either. “Did you know they have a restaurant at the hotel? I was over there a few minutes ago, and it smells good, like really good. Spicy.” She perked up, painfully eager and almost shy. “I thought maybe we could grab something to eat, like when we were kids. Hey, do you remember that game we used to play? The memory game? I want to play.”

  Shawn sized her up, wondering if he should try and take her by the arms or if he could stop her from getting far too wound up. It happened. More often than he’d like, and when she wasn’t fizzing with energy, she drifted away like a message in a bottle, lost in the ocean. “I thought you said you were going to take a walk down the shore and go straight back home.”

  “It’s not home.” Gabrielle raised one bird-skinny shoulder and did a hop-skip backward, wobbling wildly when she came down wrong on one ankle. “Just a caretaker’s cottage that’s been empty for half of forever. There are all these books in the attic, did you know? And pictures, and an old sewing machine—”

  Enough. Shawn made a lucky grab and managed to wrap his hands around her wrists. She seemed as light and fragile as a broken feather as he steadied her. She was high as a kite and three sheets to the wind. He recognized the signs. “We’ve only been here for a few days, Gabrielle. Where did you even find it? The hotel?”

  “I— I don’t know.” A switch tripped in her. Shawn could see it, how the overly bright light in her eyes faltered, then dimmed. “I don’t remember. I didn’t mean to.”

  And that was probably true. She never meant to. She’d just been born that way, like their mother. Always looking for something to take away the pain that lived in her head, and she never knew when to stop. She’d been born that way too. Shawn did his best, but he’d been about fourteen when he realized his best was never going to be good enough to keep her feet on the ground, to keep her in the here and now. He had no idea what kind of price the buyer would be willing to pay for his white elephant of a house, but if it was
enough to get his twin into a good rehab, one that’d give her a chance at getting well, he’d sell it without another second’s thought. And while she was in recovery, he’d be able to keep a job. He could find them an apartment and make it a home. No more living out of their car. He just needed the chance to get started.

  “I’m sorry.” She bit at her lip and tugged at his sleeve. “Shawn? I’m sorry. I just–”

  “I know. Me too.” Shawn wrapped one arm around her shoulder, wanting to keep her warm as much as he wanted to keep her safe. He’d find a way. Somehow. Keep the encroaching dissociative episodes and the psychotic break waiting to happen to him at bay long enough to make the sale.

  As long as she was safe before he finally fell to pieces, he could live with that.

  “Come on, Sis,” he said when he thought she could walk without falling over. “Let’s get you home.”

  * * * *

  At least Gabrielle settled fast. Went to bed as meekly as a lamb, willing to sleep it off all tucked up in the kitchen on a couch haunted by the ghosts of peppermint and lavender. The rafters had been crammed with drying herbs when they’d first gotten in, tied up and left to hang. It’d all long since gone dry and fragile enough to break if so much as breathed on, but it’d made the small caretaker’s cottage fragrant from ceiling to cellar.

  She tucked one hand by her cheek on the pillow. “Are you staying in?”

  “Not yet.” He should, but they both knew he couldn’t settle before he’d worn himself out. They were alike in more ways than either of them liked to reference sometimes. Shawn tried to give her a smile. Let her know he wasn’t mad, not really. That he knew she was trying. Maybe not succeeding, but she knew what was what, and during the good days she had as much drive as he did.

  She watched him as intently as if she was trying to read his mind. “It’ll get better,” she said after a minute. “Shawn? It will. One day, it’ll all be better.”

  Shawn took a second to appreciate the irony that between the two of them, she was the optimist.