by Jane Davitt
Gary’s lips moved against his palm in what had to be a protest, but no sound emerged. Good.
“Tell me—quietly—why you woke me up.” He cracked his eyes open, but kept his hand where it was. “You okay? Sick? Feverish? Did a toe fall off after all?”
Gary pushed his hand away. “Yes and three noes. I’m warm now, though I need a shower or a bath, because I stink, but I guess it can wait until the morning. I woke you up because you have a concussion. You’re not supposed to sleep.”
Abe groaned, waking up some more and feeling grumpy as a result. Sleep had been peaceful. This wasn’t. Every word out of Gary’s mouth was a poke from a finger. “They don’t do that anymore, you idiot. Not with a mild concussion, anyway, not for years.” He remembered the topic coming up when he’d taken a refresher first aid course to be eligible for a summer job at a camp. “I wasn’t knocked out for more than five minutes, if that, so do us both a favor and go back to bed.”
“You could be confused because of the concussion,” Gary pointed out.
Abe’s eyes had adjusted and he could see Gary as more than a vague outline now. His hair was rumpled, giving him a rakish look, and there were shadows under his amber eyes. Jesus, Abe’d missed seeing those eyes sparkle with amusement or darken with arousal.
“Trust me, I’m not confused. I know my name, date of birth, the president, and the year.”
“Prove it.”
With a put-upon sigh, he rattled them off.
“You’re still the only man I know called Abel.” Gary sounded amused.
“Shut up.” Gary knew how Abe had gotten teased about his name all through school. “It’s still better than Abraham.”
“Marginally.” Gary was enjoying himself too much in Abe’s opinion. “I think it’s—”
“I don’t give a fuck what you think.” Abe buried his head in the pillow. “Go away. Wake me up in the morning.”
“It’s one o’clock. I went to bed at eight. I usually go to bed at midnight and get up at six. I’m wide-awake and my body clock is screwed. There’s no way I’ll be able to go back to sleep.”
“One?” He rolled to his back and stared up at the ceiling gloomily. Waking early, say at dawn, wouldn’t have bothered him, but after five hours of deep sleep, his body, like Gary’s, told him it was ready to get up and start the day. And he didn’t want to. “Shit, is that all?”
“Do you think the snow’s stopped?”
He gave Gary a sidelong look. “How would I know?”
Gary sighed. “Look, I get it, I woke you up—with all good intentions—and you’re pissed, plus you live alone so you’re probably not used to something civilized people call chatting, but could you give me a break and not bite my head off every time I open my mouth? Please?”
“Fine.” Abe was grudgingly aware Gary had a point. “Okay, you’re awake and I’m awake.” Gary’s stomach rumbled and Abe cracked a smile. “Guess that answers my next question.”
“I’m starving. You lured me here with promises of cookies and never delivered.”
The cookies were out on the counter in plain sight, but by the sound of it, Gary hadn’t helped himself to one. Abe gave him points for that.
“I’m hungry too,” he admitted. “Not for cookies, though. I need more than that.”
Indifferent to his nudity, he tossed the covers aside and got out of bed, his headache still present but reduced by sleep and the painkillers to something bearable. Gary gave an appreciative hum. “Nice view. God, you look bigger out of your clothes than you do when you’re wearing them. When did that happen?”
Abe paused, his sweatpants in his hand, and gave Gary a bewildered stare. “How is that possible?”
“I don’t know.” Gary narrowed his eyes speculatively. Abe gave Gary a few more points for not hiding the fact he was checking out Abe’s dick. He didn’t care, even if he wasn’t hard so there was nothing much to look at. His cock was plenty big enough when he needed it to fuck with. He’d never get hired to make a porn film, but that wasn’t something he cried himself to sleep over.
“How tall are you now, anyway?” Gary continued. “Six two? Six three? You’re definitely taller.”
“Yeah, around that. Why do—”
“And you must weigh—”
He cut Gary off. “I don’t have a fucking clue what I weigh.” He stepped into his pants and grabbed his sweatshirt, keeping it simple. “Bathroom scales are another thing Linda and Sarah don’t like having around the place. I’m still taller than you, I still weigh more, and my dick’s definitely bigger. Can we move on?”
“God, you’re touchy,” Gary complained. “Low blood sugar?”
“No.” Abe’s voice was muffled by the folds of the sweatshirt when he pulled it over his head. “It’s you. Just you.”
With an eye to getting something hot on the plate as quickly as possible, he didn’t try anything fancy, though cooking was something he enjoyed, a secret indulgence. He wasn’t used to cooking for anyone other than himself, though he had his family over for hamburgers or barbecue in the late spring now and then, before Linda and Sarah returned for the warm months of the year. They didn’t mind him doing that, though he was careful not to take advantage of their relaxed attitude. He’d never brought a date back here or let someone sleep over. He was always conscious of the fact this wasn’t his home. Letting Gary stay was different—not an offering of hospitality but a rescue. He knew his employers too well to think they’d have wanted him to do anything else.
In the long winter months, though, with not much else to do and cupboards filled with exotic perishable supplies from New York, he often experimented in the kitchen. He’d discovered the hard way that doubling up on the amount of chipotle because a spoonful didn’t sound like enough wasn’t a good idea. He wasted a sinful number of eggs perfecting the art of soufflé making. Like a lot that went on in his life, it wasn’t something he shared with his family.
Steak, eggs, mushrooms, all done in one skillet, and he had a bag of home fries in the freezer that would cook fast in the oven . . . that would do. Gary sat at the table, watching him prep and not offering to help, presumably because he didn’t know where anything was and would get in the way. It still bugged Abe. He didn’t appreciate being taken advantage of, and something told him Gary was doing something worse: assuming Abe would wait on him.
That was a total change in behavior. Gary had fended for himself after his dad died, doing his laundry and bringing homemade lunches to school that were so far away from what Abe’s mom packed for him that he’d felt guilty. Limp white bread, smeared with peanut butter, and a bruised apple didn’t compare to homemade muffins, thick slices of chicken or beef on nutty, chewy homemade bread, and a bag of cherries, darkly glossy, for instance. Abe always offered to share, but Gary never would, though he’d accept invitations to eat at Abe’s house when they were made. Proud but not stupid.
“If we’re not going back to bed, how about you brew some coffee?” Abe nodded at the coffeemaker. “The filters are in the cupboard over it, and the coffee’s beside it.”
“You don’t keep the beans in the freezer?”
Abe sighed, tilting the skillet to coat it with oil. “I don’t keep beans anywhere. It’s pre-ground. Much cheaper. Maybe where you’ve been living, they worship coffee—”
“Seattle.”
“Well, there you go. Me, I like it hot, strong, and I throw in milk and sugar. That’s it. I don’t fancy it up with frothy milk or vanilla syrup or cinnamon sprinkles or—”
“Jesus, calm down.” Gary filled the jug with water. “It’s coffee. No need to get worked up over it.”
“And it ruins the flavor keeping it in the freezer,” Abe added without thinking it through. “It breaks down the oils. If you keep taking it in and out, that’s worse. The humidity gets to it and it spoils.”
“Well, aren’t you the little foodie these days,” Gary drawled, the words insulting, but his tone robbing them—mostly—of offense.
> Abe watched smoke curl up from the oil. “That’s me, a foodie. You want your steak burned or charred?”
Gary pressed a button to begin the brew cycle. “What? Oh medium rare, please.” He sniffed the air a minute later. “That smells incredible. Are you using herbs on it?”
“Not unless you count salt and pepper as herbs, and if you do, I’ll assume you live off take-out.”
“I don’t cook much, but I eat at some upscale restaurants. At least, I did before—never mind.”
Abe swung around, letting the steak sizzle by itself. “Look, unless you’re on the run from the cops or being chased by hit men or something, I don’t need to know your life story since you left town, and I’m not interested in sharing mine. I can tell sometime recently your life turned to shit, and if you did nothing to deserve that, well, I’m sorry, but it’s not my problem. Not now. Not after what you did.”
Gary stared at him in silence, his expression closed-off enough for Abe to regret what he’d said. He was sincere in not wanting to provide a shoulder to cry on, but that didn’t mean he wanted to hurt Gary’s feelings either.
“Sorry. That came out different than I wanted it to.”
“Don’t be.” Gary waved dismissively. “Sympathy’s overrated.”
Abe gave up and turned back to the steaks. They were easy to deal with by comparison, but so was the theory of relativity. Gary was all over the place, and Abe wasn’t used to people like that nowadays. Sure, his family and friends had emotional ups and downs, but he knew the grouches and assholes from the rays of sunshine. Gary went from flirting to fucking with him in the space of a few breaths, leaving him floundering and resentful.
The only thing in Gary’s favor was that he wasn’t boring.
Abe finished cooking in a silence broken by the hiss and gurgle of brewing coffee. Gary had roused enough to set out placemats and cutlery, then disappeared to wander around the family room, studying the paintings on the wall. Abe didn’t mind, though he wouldn’t let Gary go upstairs. Linda and Sarah’s bedroom and office were up there, along with a locked storage room where they kept personal items. He only went up there every so often to make sure the roof wasn’t leaking.
“Do you know you have an original Hartigan in there?” Gary asked, returning to the kitchen, his face as animated as if he were discussing his bespoke suits. “I didn’t recognize it at first, but it clicked. It’s worth a fortune. Who owns this place? You said the road was new, so I guess the cabin is too?”
“I told you.” Abe lifted the eggs one by one out of the skillet and onto the waiting plates. “Linda and Sarah.”
“Yes, but—” Gary broke off, his eyes widening. “Linda? L. Hartigan? You work for— Jesus. I knew she had a cottage in the middle of nowhere—”
“Thanks. Nice to know you miss the place.”
“But I didn’t know where and I never expected it was here. My, uh, my boss was a huge fan. He had her work in his office and the boardroom.”
Abe set the well-filled plates down on the table. “Yeah? Her stuff sells well, but I don’t see the appeal, myself.”
Gary sat without pouring out the coffee and picked up his fork. “Well, no, I suppose it isn’t as accessible as some artists’, but the use of light alone—”
“Coffee?” Abe gripped the back of his chair to stop himself from snatching the fork out of Gary’s hand and stabbing him with it. Listening to the new, improved Gary chatter about art worked his last fucking nerve. He didn’t know this Gary, and he felt a fierce, violent pang of loss that the Gary he had known was gone for good. Abe was also pissed about the lack of coffee on the table. He’d set out two mugs, milk, sugar, and spoons, which could be considered part of Gary’s chore of coffeemaker, but he was damned if he’d pour it as well after cooking the meal. Gary was destined to do the dishes, though Abe decided to break that to him after they’d eaten.
“What? Oh, black, please. The way they collaborate is amazing. Hartigan gives so much credit to her partner—”
“Pour the coffee.”
“Well, I would, but you’re standing up, so why don’t you? Do you know if it’s true when they say she’ll never paint a scene Sarah hasn’t sketched first?”
Abe turned his back on Gary, stalked over to the coffeemaker and poured himself a cup, doctoring it the way he liked it. Only the fact he’d want a refill and he’d been brought up not to waste food stopped him from emptying the rest of the pot down the sink. It would also have been on the childish side, but he figured he could live with that to see the look on Gary’s face.
“You didn’t pour mine while you were there?” Gary asked incredulously when Abe sat. “Jesus, Abe, don’t you think that’s a little petty?”
Abe filled his mouth with a piece of steak and chewed it, his gaze locked on Gary’s face, flushed warm with indignation, as if Abe had failed Perfect Host 101. He took his time before swallowing, washing the steak down with a sip of coffee. Weak.
“Tastes like dishwater. You’re not missing anything.”
Gary narrowed his eyes and stabbed a chunk of fried potato with his fork. “Sorry, I forgot you strong, outdoors men like your coffee so the spoon can stand in it. I won’t speculate what lack you’re compensating for there. I seem to remember you were average, but I didn’t have anything to compare you to back then.”
“My dick stands up fine when I need it to.” Abe curled his lip. “I bet if I poured this swill into a glass, I could read through it.”
“So toss it out.” Gary jerked his chin up in a defiant gesture that took the edge off Abe’s annoyance because it was so damn familiar. Maybe the old Gary wasn’t dead, only sleeping. “Or better yet, stop drinking it.”
“I’m thirsty.” Abe took another swallow. “It’s hot and wet and it’s the middle of the night so I’ll let it go, but next time, try to get it one step up from flavored water, okay?”
“There won’t be a next time.” Gary scowled at him, lower lip thrust out. “When it’s light, I’m leaving.”
“After you’ve done the dishes, you can do whatever the fuck you want. Won’t get far if it’s still snowing.”
“Dishes?” Gary’s voice shot up. “Put them in the goddamned dishwasher like everyone else.”
“There isn’t one.” Abe popped a neat triangle of steak into his mouth. “Linda and Sarah like to keep it simple and rustic, remember. That’s why this place is in the middle of nowhere.” That last had been mean, but he didn’t regret it.
They ate in silence for a while, with Gary avoiding Abe’s gaze, allowing him to study Gary without needing to do it covertly. A few hours’ sleep and the meal he was inhaling had put some color in his face—or maybe that was down to their argument. One hell of a temptation, Abe had to give him that. There’d always been something compelling about Gary. Abe wanted to slide his fingers though the dark red fall of Gary’s hair and tilt his face up so those beautifully shaped lips could be kissed hot. It didn’t seem to matter how much Gary pissed him off; he couldn’t shake the desire to get his hands on that smooth elegance and muss it up some. He wanted Gary smiling at him, all lazy warmth and welcome, reaching out with those elegant hands to do depraved, delicious things to Abe’s body. It was pure fantasy, but it was the middle of the night, and there was no better time to dream than that.
“This place is as far as it gets from rustic.” Gary placed his fork back on his empty plate, picking up the conversation as if there hadn’t been a five-minute gap. “I was wrong there, and I admit it.”
“Nice of you, but not necessary,” Abe said. “If this had been my place, it would’ve been pretty much what you expected, I guess. A dump compared to what you’re used to these days. Guess you went up in the world.”
“You don’t know what I’m used to.” Gary jerked up his chin in a challenging way. “You’re making plenty of assumptions too, but go ahead. It doesn’t matter. When it gets light—”
“It won’t get light.” He’d make Gary realize the truth of the situation if
it took the rest of the night to do it. “Not until the storm blows over. You act like the sun will rise and melt the snow, or the city’ll come by and plow the roads so a tow truck can get here. It’s not happening. You know that, Gary. It’s not so bad. There’s plenty we can do to keep from being bored.” He relented. “Okay, it’s been a tough night and you’re tired. We both are. I’ll leave the dishes soaking and you can do them tomorrow.”
“So now you’re being nice?” There was an edge to Gary’s voice. “Let me see. It couldn’t be connected to the way you plan to pass the time, could it?”
Abe had taken French as a kid. Talking to Gary sent him back to the classroom, staring at words on the chalkboard that were made up of the familiar letters of the alphabet but which he couldn’t read or understand. It’d made him confused, even angry at first, but he’d thrown himself into figuring it all out with a dogged determination. If he could learn to speak French, he could learn to decipher Gary’s take on the world. He’d failed before and it’d cost him, but he wouldn’t stop trying. “What?”
Gary stood and cleared the table, stacking plates and cutlery with brisk efficiency. “You want me to spell it out? The sex will be better if I’m feeling grateful, right? Well, you can toss me out of here, but the only way you’re getting my ass is if you’re into fucking freeze-dried corpses. I don’t like being taken for granted. Next time, ask, don’t assume.”
Abe pushed back his chair and watched Gary stalk over to the sink with the dirty dishes, too dumbfounded to come up with a rejoinder until the rush of water into the sink made speaking pointless.
When Gary shut off the water, Abe cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean sex.”
“No, of course not.” Gary plunged a plate into the froth of bubbles and hot water, scrubbing at it with the same economy of movement he’d shown when he cleared the table. For a man used to a dishwasher, he was doing okay. “Got a jigsaw puzzle you’re working on? Or are you a Scrabble fan?”