Unraveling Josh

by Edie Danford

  He huffed out a laugh. “Jeez, okay, okay. You’d think your ego was fragile or something. I promise I won’t hate you.”

  “Cool.” I winked at him. “You in good enough shape to make it up there?” I teased, gesturing toward the crazy-steep incline.

  What I didn’t tell him was that the driveway was only part of the climb. At the top of the drive, in a space invisible from the sidewalk and street, was a set of stone stairs. They’d been covered with slick moss and dead leaves when I’d moved in, but a few hours of work each day with a broom and scrub brush had made them less treacherous.

  Actually, by taking a breather here at the base of the drive, I was gearing up my own body for the climb. I’d discovered through trial and error that I had to do some dicey weight-shifting shit so I wouldn’t aggravate my injury.

  He rolled his eyes. “Well, I’m not a super jock like you, but I think I can make it if you give me an extra hour or two.”

  I laughed. “How do you know I’m a super jock?”

  I was surprised when he looked away abruptly. Were his cheeks getting pink or was it just exertion from the walk? Hmm. Maybe Cocky had done some research on me between the time I’d told him my name and now. The thought made my smile widen.

  “Lucky guess,” he muttered.

  We started up, our shoulders brushing as the vegetation narrowed the path. “I haven’t been super at any sports for a while,” I told him.

  He shot me a glance.

  “Usually I’m a freak about working out,” I confessed. “I cross-country ski with a couple of clubs in the winter. Can’t let up on training, even in the summer, or my bros leave me in the dust. But this summer…”

  We’d reached the base of the stone steps. I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of dirt and leaves and pine needles.

  “What happened this summer?” he asked, his eyes dark in the shaded afternoon light.

  “Fucked up my Achilles tendon. For like the ninetieth time. It’s not hard to do basic shit like walking or standing—but I can’t work out the way I usually do. Might not be able to ski at all this season.”

  “Ninetieth time, huh? So maybe it’s good to take a break?”

  I managed half a smile. “I’m not good at taking breaks.”

  His gaze shifted toward the stairs. “Yeah, guess not. Since the act of getting home seems like it’s gotta be one helluva workout.”

  “Just like working out, it’s totally worth the effort. C’mon up and see.”

  He followed me, but by the time we’d reached midpoint of the twenty or so steps, he was huffing and wheezing loud enough to scare the chickadees.

  I looked back at him. He scowled and flicked his fingers at me, waving off any questions of concern. I smiled and kept climbing. When I got to the top, I leaned against the thick, smooth trunk of a beech tree—I’d propped myself on it many times in the last week—and watched him finish the climb.

  “Motherfucker,” he muttered, plopping his hands on his knees for a few heaving breaths.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He straightened, pushing a few sweaty waves of hair off his face. “I hope you’re getting an excellent discount on rent.”

  The place was actually rent-free because of the fellowship and my connections with Professor Pearlstein. But I was feeling guilty about my luck so I didn’t mention how my only expenses living here were utilities and food.

  “We’re almost there,” I said. I shifted my bag around on my shoulder and took a few deep breaths, waiting to make sure he wasn’t gonna pass out.

  “Better be.”

  I could’ve made some rude comments about how smoking and lack of exercise weren’t good things for his long-term health, but he probably would’ve pushed me down the stairs. The look on his flushed face was pretty fierce.

  The path to the entrance was my next project—it was overgrown and I was careful to hold back some of the wild honeysuckle branches so they wouldn’t smack my pissed-off lunch guest in the face.

  Finally we reached the small terrace outside the front door.

  Nick stood on the worn-smooth pavers and looked up. His eyes went wide and he let out a huge breath. “Holy fuck! Holy…fuck.”

  I laughed. “Told you it was worth it.”

  “You live here? In the Torvek Tower?”

  “Yep.” I was a bit surprised he knew the name of the place. When I’d been an undergrad, the few people who knew about the spot always called it “that weird stone tower on the other side of the pond” or “that freaky pile of rocks you can only see from the library bell tower”.

  I followed his gaze up the tower’s layers of rosy, hand-hewn granite stone—the arched oak door with the big, gothic-style hinges on the first floor, the tiny rectangular mullioned windows that demarked the second, third and (very narrow) fourth floors, the sharply peaked slate roof that perched on top of the whole amazing deal.

  “Oh my God,” he whispered, stepping toward the door. “I didn’t know you could get here from…” He gestured back toward the path. “I had no idea we were even close! I thought you could only get here by coming through the Torvek estate on the other side of the golf course. And in front it’s got that big-ass security fence and gates, you know?”

  I nodded. “It’s more like an overgrown hideaway than an on-purpose secret. Pearlstein told me the Torvek family used to give tours back in the day. But since the latest generation inherited the estate thirty or so years ago, there’s rarely anyone around.”

  “I cannot believe you’re living here. Can we go in?” He bounced on the toes of his flip-flops. His smile made the shadows seem not so shadowy. He’d left all signs of moody-broody on the stairs. I wasn’t entirely sure who had taken his place, but I wanted to find out more about him.

  “Sure.” I fumbled through my bag to find the keys. His excitement was making me excited. I’d expected him to think it was cool or weird or whatever, but I hadn’t expected total joy.

  As I unlocked the door—the old-school key made appropriate creaks and clicks—I could feel him vibrating beside me. I pushed against the heavy oak and the scent of old stone, old books and old furniture polish melded with the earthy scents of the outdoors. I heard Nick inhale deeply, a sound that was damn close to a moan. I smiled. Seemed as though our senses were turned on by some similar shit.

  “After you,” I invited.

  He stepped inside and then abruptly stopped forward motion. “Umm…”

  “You gotta let your eyes adjust.” I stepped in behind him and flicked the switch on the wall by the door. The wall sconces were awesome antiques—iron wrought intricately in the shape of bats and spooky-looking trees—but, like bats and spooky-looking trees, they were shadowy and didn’t seem attuned to bright light. “Biggest drawback of this place is that it’s dark as hell, even in the sunshine.”

  “Cool on a hot day, though…” He turned around slowly, his fingers spread wide, his eyes glowing and his lips parted, as if he were opening himself wide to the possibilities of the place, eager to take it all in.

  “Yeah. This floor is the most boring of the four. Originally it was used as a chapel.” I pointed to the small window on the other side of the round room. The glass was frosted and in its center was the blue, purple and red crest of the Torvek family superimposed on a yellow cross. “For a while they actually used it as garden-tool storage. I dumped my workout gear here when I moved in. Just have to figure out the best way to use the space now, I guess.”

  “Wild,” he said, his gaze skipping over my piles of skis and boots and weights and bags of random shit to linger on the window. He pressed his fingers against the stone wall, leaning forward to examine the sconces. “These are really fricking cool.”

  “I know, right? Hazen Torvek added electricity to the place in the thirties. The fixtures he chose are incredible. He was into some seriously gothic shit.”

  His eyes flashed at me. “In more ways than one.”

  Hazen Torvek had been a professor
at Ellery in the twenties and thirties. When he was an old guy. Before he’d “retired” to write and teach history in New England, he’d done so much crazy shit they could’ve made a bunch of movies about him and skipped the this-is-getting-old crap that always happened in a series after the first few plot lines got wrapped up. He’d been born in Yugoslavia and he’d been a revolutionary, a spy, an artist, a poet, a pirate, an entrepreneur and a notoriously good-looking guy with a legendary libido and lovers of all genders.

  Legend had it that he rarely used the main house on the estate. Supposedly he’d spent most of his time—and engaged all of his trysts—in the tower. I’d only been sleeping in his bed for a few nights. But it was hard not to feel…moved by his spirit.

  I asked Nick, “Have you read any of his poetry?”

  “Yeah, actually. Although mostly I’ve read his other stuff. I’d heard through the grapevine that his personal library here in the tower is full of all kinds of good treasure.”

  “Do you want to see it?” I asked.

  “The library?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  His enthusiastic nodding had hair falling against his cheeks. He absently tucked one of the waves behind his ear, but it didn’t stay put for more than two seconds. I couldn’t resist my own attempt at smoothing it away from his flushed cheek. I was rewarded by the feel of tangled, heavy silk and the slightly damp warmth of his skin.

  His gaze snagged mine and his parted lips came together. Because he was surprised? Or maybe wary? I dropped my hand. “Sorry,” I said. “If we spend any time together you’ll find out that I just do that kind of shit.” I cleared my throat. “The touching, I mean. I’m a compulsive hugger and a head-rubber and hand-holder… Um, with everyone. Not just you.”

  He laughed softly and nodded. “I know.” He quickly brushed his hand over his loose hair. “I mean… It’s okay.”

  I was suddenly aware how perfectly his looks were suited to this setting. Long dark hair, pale skin, sharp features—Nick could definitely be the denizen of a mysterious tower. I inhaled slowly. Another drawback of this place was that it oozed atmosphere and made even mundane shit—things like eating a piece of toast or taking a whizz or folding a towel—seem heavier than it should be.

  He’d said, it’s okay. Did that mean he wanted more touching? Because I was sure as hell down with that plan. But he seemed to be avoiding my eyes. And his shoulders were a little stiff. I was probably reading too much into his comment.

  He licked his lips and the lingering wetness gleamed in the odd yellow light. Maybe he was feeling it too. Maybe those eyes of his were asking me to lean in and…

  “So,” he said, his voice echoing loudly off the stone walls. “Library?”

  “Right,” I said, turning away. “Up here.” I took a too-quick step toward the stairs and winced when my foot sent up a silent scream. Jesus. I needed to slow down. Relax.

  I was good with friend stuff, but obviously pathetic at being smooth with a guy I had the hots for. I managed to be a decent host and intelligently answer a lot of his millions of questions as I showed him my fave parts of the second floor—the surprisingly functional living area that had been added in the 1930s like the little kitchenette and the marble-tiled bath and the comfy mohair couch and big brass bed.

  Nick lingered over the fixtures and the art and the rugs and the windows, but he didn’t linger long. The library was what he was truly interested in and when I got him up to the top two floors, showed him the specially made bookcases that lined the circular walls and the glass-doored oak cases of curios and even more books on the top floor, I knew the promise of lunch and lure of my charms (questionable), weren’t gonna pull him away any time soon. I left him to examine a shelf full of Victorian poetry.

  On the second floor, I took my time making a couple of grilled-cheese sandwiches with avocado and tomato. I plated them up with some veggies. Setting the little table by the window with placemats and cloth napkins and glasses of iced tea was probably going overboard, but I did it anyway. My mom had sent me a bunch of shit to “set up housekeeping in my new special place”—she actually wrote a note using those exact words on a greeting card she’d enclosed with the box—and since I’d bothered to unpack it all, I figured I should use it. Nick was my first guest.

  My mom had sent me a lonely-sounding message earlier—one I hadn’t responded to yet. I picked up my phone and snapped a photo of the table. I sent it to her, adding a message: See? Looks good!

  I put down the phone and picked up a carrot. Nervously gnawing, I looked down at the trying-too-hard-ness of it all and considered putting everything back. Except for the grilled-cheese. The only way to properly get rid of those was to eat them. I picked up a half of one, bit into it—

  “Hey, man. What’s that awesome smell?”

  I turned from the table to see a smiling Nick. He’d ditched his flip-flops somewhere and his feet had been quiet on the stone steps. I finished chewing my too-big bite and returned his smile. “Lunch,” I said, offering up the uneaten part of the half-sandwich.

  “Yum.” He took it from me and downed it in one. Tomato splooged and some blobs landed on the corner of his mouth. He did some quick licking to catch them. Yep. I had to agree with him—yum.

  He swallowed and looked down at the table. “Wow. You went all out. Do you always…”

  I laughed. “Um no. I don’t always. I just unpacked this stuff and thought I’d used it. I wanted to give you time to look around. You seemed pretty absorbed.” I tipped my head toward the stairs.

  “I was!” He pulled one of the chairs away from the table and sat. “I still cannot believe you live here. Can. Not.” He immediately put the napkin on his lap and gulped a huge drink of tea. “So cool,” he breathed.

  “Yeah. It really is.” I sat across from him. “To be honest it was one of the perks Pearlstein used to lure me here. He knows the Torvek family and made the arrangements.”

  Nodding, he finished chewing another half-sandwich. “I know he knows the family. He’s the one who got me fascinated with Hazen Torvek’s papers. But I didn’t know he had any inside info on the tower. Living in the tower.”

  As I crunched more veggies, I listened to him talk about the books he’d seen and loved most—lots of details about bookplates and artwork and type and paper. I grinned. Nick was a bona fide book geek. Who would’ve guessed?

  “It’s gonna take me hours just to go through one section,” he said.

  “You’ll definitely have to come back. Anytime.”

  “I know a lot of the Victorian bindings probably aren’t as rare as a lot of what’s up there. But, God, they’re so over the top. Beautiful in such a weird, complicated way.”

  I nodded, agreeing, but mostly just enjoying the excitement on his face. His pointy chin was smeared with butter, his dimples were popping even without smiling, and his eyes were the exact color of the rich earth I’d uncovered on the stone steps early this morning.

  I picked up my phone and pulled up my contacts. “Here,” I told him, pushing the phone across the table. “Give me your info. I’m compiling images of the collection and I can send them to you as I go. If you see any you like, tag them and come by any time to take a look.”

  “That would be awesome.” He wiped his fingers carefully on the napkin before entering his deets.

  He returned the phone with a smile. His eyes widened as he noticed the empty plates. “Oh,” he said. “Sorry. I ate more than my share, huh?”

  “No worries. I can make more.”

  “Avocado and tomato?” He licked his lips, like he was just now tasting the different flavors.

  He’d said he was a sophomore—so that made him, what? Nineteen? Twenty? Right now he seemed younger and I could imagine what it would’ve been like to know him as a kid.

  Growing up—in high school for sure and even back in elementary school—I never hung out with guys like Nick. I was too busy with sports and my bros from all my teams. Too busy with my dad and all the
stuff he wanted me to do. I’d thought I’d finally be able to branch out from my typical grind of studying and working out once I hit grad school, but then I’d been offered the chance to train with a couple of elite ski teams and all my spare seconds melted like April snow.

  It was interesting to think of the possibilities that might come from having more free time. And more freedom to make new friends.

  I flexed my sore foot under the table. I’d taken off my shoes earlier and my bare toes brushed against Nick’s. “Yeah,” I said, remembering to answer his question about the sandwiches. “Good, huh?”

  “Excellent. And I approve of the two-cheese combo.” The edge of his foot rubbed against mine and I felt the contact zip straight to my dick. My balls had felt tight and slightly achy for a while and I shifted around on the chair, wishing I could make some adjustments, but knowing rooting around in my shorts with my big ol’ hand wouldn’t exactly be subtle. But, hey, maybe subtlety was the wrong approach. Maybe I needed to shrug off the worries that typically made me so uptight and take advantage of the feelings Nick inspired.

  “Cheddar selection in Vermont makes the winters worth it, right?” I winked at him and drained my tea. “Want more now? Or are you hungry for…something else?”

  For a second I was sure he’d take pity on me and smooth over my bumpy attempt at a come-on, maybe answer my unspoken plea and say, “Hell, yes, let’s get it on!”

  But he didn’t say anything. He blinked once and then his gaze traveled slowly over my face. I don’t know what he saw there, but it changed his expression. And then—it was really weird—Cocky Dude came back on the scene and draped attitude over Nick like a dark, moody-broody cloak. He wiped his chin slowly with the napkin and sat back in the chair. He met my eyes—more darkness—and then he looked down and pulled his phone from his pocket.

  I watched him look at the screen. Watched his lips press together, his eyes narrow.

  “I’d love more,” he answered finally, his voice got low and raspy as he looked at me from under his thick lashes. He shoved hair away from his cheek with a graceful flick of his hand. “But it’s the first Friday of the quarter. Places to go, people to see, you know?”