Connor laughed and began to fill in the hole around the post. “Who do you think did the yard work around here? Mama supervised. I did the sweating.”
John grinned and squatted by the hole, packing the dirt around the post. “Yeah? Her own personal yard slave?”
Connor snorted. “Yard, house, you name it. We spent years fixin’ up this old house only to start all over again. First my dad, then me.” Connor wiped his face with the bottom of his T-shirt, the same faded one he’d worn yesterday. John froze as he came face-to-face with Connor’s flat, pale stomach, a line of dark hair slicing down the middle to the low-rider waist of his jeans. A strip of plaid boxers was visible above his waistband.
John’s mind went blank as his body sat up and pointed like a hunting dog. The shock of awareness that went through him actually made him jerk back from Connor, and he fell on his ass in a clumsy sprawl.
Connor gave him a funny look. “You all right? Maybe the heat’s gettin’ to you. People who aren’t used to it find they wear out pretty quickly.” Then, without any preamble, he whipped the shirt off over his head, wiped his face and neck with it, and tucked it into the back waistband of those damn faded jeans.
John found himself facing lean, hard pecs covered by a fine layer of dark, curly hair. His mouth went dry, and he scrambled to his feet.
“The heat. Yes. The goddamned heat.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his hand, backing away from Connor. “I need a minute. I’ll be back.” He turned and had to force himself not to run to the house.
Once inside he sat down at the kitchen table and put his head between his knees. The tears burned behind his eyes, and he welcomed the sting. Not since Steve… He couldn’t finish the thought. It was the heat, he convinced himself. It wasn’t Connor. It was the heat and the physical exertion and the unexpected sight of a naked man. Half-naked. Thank God, only half-naked.
After a few minutes he sat up, under control. This wouldn’t be a problem. It hadn’t been a problem in a long time. He could handle Connor being here. He was just so damn glad not to be alone anymore.
“You ready?” John asked.
It was early evening, and Connor was sitting on the back steps, drinking a bottle of water. He nodded. “Yeah.”
They were going to get Connor’s things from the shelter. John watched as Connor unraveled his tall body from the step and walked toward him. The sun was getting lower in the sky behind him, making it hard to see his face. It outlined his rangy frame perfectly, and John forced himself to turn away.
“I can walk over.”
John frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can drive.” He jerked a little when he felt Connor’s warm, rough hand wrap around his upper arm, stopping him.
“Are you sure you want me here?” Connor asked, and John looked from the large hand on him to Connor’s unsmiling face.
“Yes,” John lied. “I’m sure.”
Connor let go of him, and they walked to the garage.
Chapter Five
Conn was sitting on the front steps. John liked that; he could tell. He liked to see Conn there when he got up in the morning. Conn always woke up early. A habit formed in jail, he supposed. He could hardly remember if he’d done it before that. Didn’t much matter if he did. He did it now.
He took a sip of John’s hot coffee. Man, this shit was strong. He wondered if the hair on his chest was growing with each sip. The thought made him grin. He’d been drinking it for two weeks now. You’d think he’d be used to it. Two weeks of hot, backbreaking work in the sun, getting that fence up with John. Two weeks of not having to watch what he said or how he acted or worry about where he was going to be tomorrow. Two weeks of pure heaven, watching John sweat and curse and struggle to make something out of this old house, and then falling into bed in his own space.
His grin faded as he looked down at his childish handprints in the concrete of the top step. He dusted his hand over them. He remembered the day he’d done it. His daddy was pouring the concrete, and Conn wouldn’t leave him alone. So he’d let him make his mark. He’d run all over town telling everyone to come and see “his” steps. He sighed and took another sip. Burned his tongue on it too.
He heard the door open behind him. “Can’t we cool this stuff off?” he asked. “Burns my damn tongue every morning.”
“You can’t,” John told him. Conn heard him settle in the little wooden rocking bench on the porch. “I’ve tried. Put ice in it.”
“If I wanted iced coffee, I suppose that’s what I’d make.” Conn froze. He still had to watch his temper. He didn’t want to go. Not yet. He closed his eyes, waiting for John to kick him out.
“Then get your own coffeemaker,” John replied casually. “No one said you had to drink my coffee if you lived here.”
Conn forced his shoulders to relax. He wasn’t going to admit he couldn’t afford a Mr. Coffee yet. “You want me to start on the porch today?” He didn’t want to be out front, not yet. But the porch needed it. Bad. This old thing was barely holding on. Conn smoothed his hand over the prints in the step again. “This concrete is all cracked. Gonna have to put in new.”
“I don’t know what I want.”
Conn chuckled. “When you know, tell me.”
“You’ll be the first.”
Conn sighed and looked up at the porch posts. “Those are still good. Just need some paint. I see you started sanding them.”
John groaned. “I hate sanding.”
“I’ll do it.” Conn meant it. He didn’t mind. He liked being outside. He liked sweating in the sun and working hard. It made him feel alive, productive. Free.
“I’ll let you.” John stood up behind him. “More coffee?” Conn heard the laughter in his voice and finally turned to look at him. He was wearing those red-and-blue plaid pajama bottoms again. He wore those every morning. They made Conn smile. They looked soft. Maybe he should get a pair. Today John’s T-shirt was gray. It looked off, as if John wasn’t used to wearing T-shirts.
Conn grinned back at him. “No, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” John went back inside. The screen door slammed behind him. “Fix that,” John called back to him.
Conn kept grinning. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly. He put his coffee down and stood up, stretching. Then he went to get the tools to fix the door.
“Goddamn it.”
The voice was almost a whisper, but it floated over to Conn on the still afternoon air from the sidewalk. He lowered his hand from the post he’d been sanding and turned to the street. Toby Thomas stood there staring at him as if he were looking at a ghost. And he was, wasn’t he? A shadow of the boy who used to be his best friend.
Toby pushed open the gate and carefully closed it behind him after he walked through. In Conn’s mind, he saw Toby doing the same thing when they were six, twelve, eighteen. Conn’s mama had always made such a fuss when they let it slam.
Toby stopped at the bottom of the steps. “You lost weight,” he said quietly.
Conn nodded. “You gained some.”
Toby fought a grin and rubbed his stomach. “I look good.”
“I look better.” Conn was transported to his youth, standing here on his porch shooting shit with Toby again.
“You got mean.” Toby frowned and squinted at Conn.
Conn smiled. “You got soft.” Toby shook his head and closed his eyes. “We gonna do this all day?”
“No hello?” Toby challenged him.
“Hello.” Conn waited for whatever Toby wanted to dish out. He deserved it.
Toby walked up the steps, loosening his tie. He was wearing a suit. It looked so weird Conn didn’t know what to say. He remembered Toby in cutoff shorts and T-shirts with the sleeves cut off to accommodate his bulging linebacker muscles.
Toby stopped and held out his hand. Conn hesitated a moment; then he wiped his dusty hand on his jeans and took it. The next thing he knew, Toby had pulled him into a hug. “You bastard,” Toby whispered. “Not a word from you in almost si
x years.”
Toby was shaking. Conn could feel it in the hand he still held. So he let Toby hug him as if he were trying to make sure Conn was real.
“I thought you were dead, man. Jesus.”
After a minute he let go, and Conn dropped his hand. Toby stood staring at him, checking him over from head to toe. He stopped on the sandpaper he still held and laughed in disbelief. “Still fixin’ up this old house?” Conn nodded. Toby frowned and looked around. “Where’s Ford?”
Conn gestured into the house. “In there.”
Toby kept frowning. “Where are you staying?”
“Here. For now.”
Toby nodded. “Of course you are.” Conn wasn’t sure what he meant by that and didn’t ask. Toby shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it on the wooden bench. He pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar before rolling up his sleeves. “Give me some of that,” he said, pointing at the sandpaper. Conn handed a piece over, and Toby moved to the post next to him and started sanding. “You remember the last time we did this?” he asked without looking at Conn.
“Yeah, I remember,” Conn said, going back to work. That had been the summer before he left.
“Why didn’t you come see me?” Toby asked after a few silent minutes.
Conn shrugged. “I don’t know. Wanted to.”
“You gonna tell me where you’ve been? Why they couldn’t find you when your mama died?”
Conn shook his head. “Not today.”
The sound of Toby’s sandpaper stopped for a few seconds, then started again. “All right. Not today. But soon.”
“Soon.”
“What do I have to pay you?” John asked about an hour later when he came out and saw Toby. “I’ve only got one spare room.”
Toby laughed. “I work for beer.”
John looked pointedly at his soft middle. “Obviously.” He held out a cold Coke for Conn and a cold beer for Toby. “I came prepared.”
“Thanks.” Toby took a swig of beer, watching Conn. “You don’t drink anymore?” he asked when he lowered the bottle.
Conn shook his head. “Nope.”
Toby sighed with exasperation.
“He doesn’t talk much,” John offered as he moved Toby’s coat and sat down. He was wearing some chino shorts, and his gray T-shirt had white paint on it. He’d been painting the fence, then. “How do you two know each other?”
Toby looked surprised. “He didn’t tell you?”
John raised an eyebrow. “You know what a chatterbox he is. It was hard to get him to shut up long enough to ask, ‘Hey, do you know my insurance agent, Toby Thomas?’”
Conn’s mouth dropped open, and he stared in horror at Toby. “Insurance agent?”
Toby made a face. “Beats working in the sun landscaping with my old man. I’ve got to feed the kids.”
Conn couldn’t get much more surprised. “Kids?”
John shook his head. “What the hell have you two been talking about for the last two hours?”
Conn turned to him. “You knew he was here?”
“I thought I’d give you some time. It was clear you two knew each other.” John took a drink of his own beer, but Conn still saw the blush.
“We were best friends when we were kids,” Toby told him. “I don’t remember a time when Conn wasn’t my best friend.”
Conn looked down at the wooden porch, fighting unexpected tears. He leaned over and put his Coke down and turned back to the post and started sanding. “Yeah.”
Toby leaned on the rail next to him and took another drink. “You still play guitar?” he asked.
“Not for a long time.” Conn hadn’t done a lot of things for a long time.
“I remember how much the girls loved your corny songs,” Toby said with a laugh. “You used to say nothing got a girl’s pants off faster.” He shook his head. “Your mama gave me some stuff when she was sick. You want it?”
Conn had to stop and take a deep breath through his nose while he bit his lip. Damn these fucking tears. Where had this come from? He’d cried himself out years ago. Then he saw Digger’s grave, and he couldn’t seem to stop. “I don’t have room right now,” he said gruffly. “But thanks.”
Toby turned to John. “I heard you were gay.”
Whoa. That stopped Conn’s tears. He looked over his shoulder at John to see his reaction. John put his drink down on the arm of the bench.
“Yes.” His tone was guarded.
“Why?” Toby seemed genuinely perplexed. “You’re a good-looking guy. You could get all the pussy you wanted.”
Conn couldn’t help it. He laughed. John made a face at him.
“It seems to me that any clean, polite, gainfully employed male could get all the pussy he wanted,” John told Toby. “Most men try too hard.”
“You’re not gainfully employed,” Conn observed. “Or too clean either.”
John shuddered. “If I were, then pussy might seek me out, and that would never do.”
Conn laughed out loud, and next to him Toby smiled at the joke.
“Are you gainfully employed?” Toby asked him.
“Nope.” Conn waited for Toby to ask about pussy, but he didn’t. He just turned back to the rail and began sanding. Conn looked over at John, who shrugged. Conn shook his head. “Kids?” he asked.
Toby grinned. “I’ve got two. Michael and Harley.”
“Harley?”
“He was conceived during Bike Week in Myrtle Beach.”
“Of course he was,” John said drily, and both Toby and Conn laughed.
“Can I bring them by to meet you?” Toby asked tentatively. “They’ve heard so many stories about you. And Cheryl wants to see you.”
“Cheryl hated my guts,” Conn scoffed.
“Because you used to drag me away from her to get into all kinds of trouble.”
Conn looked at him askance.
“Absolutely,” John said enthusiastically from the bench. “Bring them all by. I’d love to meet them.”
Conn narrowed his eyes at John, who just smiled.
“Great,” Toby said.
Conn watched John stand up and head back for the door. Toby was right. He was really good-looking. His hair had some gray in it, but Conn didn’t think he was that old. His bright blue eyes contrasted nicely with his dark hair.
“You two keep working, and there’s more beer and Coke in it for you.”
Toby laughed. “Conn’s mama used to give us dinner and some of her famous cherry pie.”
“If I give a man dinner, I expect more than my porch to get sanded,” John told him. “And don’t get me started on what cherry pie will cost you.” Conn laughed as Toby blushed.
Toby turned back to him. “Do you remember that game against Tarheel?” he asked.
Conn nodded. Ten minutes ago he hadn’t been ready to reminisce. He was ready now. He smiled at Toby, who smiled back.
Chapter Six
“I was thinking I might paint that bedroom for you.”
John was standing by the sink, and he looked over at Connor, who was sitting at the kitchen table. It was a big, round farmhouse sort of table. John had never owned anything like it before. He’d always had slick glass-and-chrome modern pieces. But this table fit here. And Connor fit at that table. “Two weeks here, and you think you own the place.”
Connor turned pale and looked away. John silently cursed his stupid, unfunny jokes. “Of course you can paint it, Connor. You’re sleeping there, and it needs it, God knows. Ignore my very bad sense of humor. Go ahead.”
“Go ahead and ignore you, or go ahead and paint it?” Connor asked quietly, carefully setting the doorknob he’d been fixing on the table, still not looking at John.
“Both. But I highly recommend the ignoring part. That’s what most people who know me long enough end up doing.”
Connor looked at him then. “Do they? Do you want them to?”
John frowned. “What? No. Why would you ask that?” He crossed his arms. “What do
you want for dinner?”
“Nothing.” Connor stood up. “I’m tired. I think I’ll just go up.” He turned and walked away. He was wearing that faded red T-shirt again. It had a new hole under the arm and some white paint on it. John had only ever seen one other tee on him. A gray one with a logo in red letters on the front. His jeans were faded too. And getting pretty thin along the knees and the seam over his ass.
When John realized he was staring, he looked away. He didn’t know what to say or do. He felt like a shit, though he hadn’t done anything. Had he?
Connor paused in the kitchen doorway and looked over his shoulder at John. “I put all those things in the closet upstairs.”
“Okay.” John searched for something else, anything else, to say. He stared down at his bare toes. Wiggled them against the shiny new hardwood floor.
“Can I play the guitar?”
“No.” John’s head whipped up, and he said it so fast it sounded harsh. He surprised himself with the vehemence of his response. Connor’s eyes went wide. “I just…” John knew his mouth was gaping, waiting for more words, but he had nothing. Again.
Connor just nodded and then walked away. John turned, and his hands reflexively gripped the edge of the sink as he stared out at the half-painted fence while he listened to Connor climb the stairs.
John felt like a schmuck as he climbed the stairs a couple of hours later. He’d been an ass. He should have come up sooner to apologize. He knew Connor must be starving. He’d worked outside all day again. He seemed to enjoy that, but the heat must affect even him a little. It was so quiet upstairs John could hear the crickets and the toads outside making a racket. He walked as slowly and silently up the stairs as he could. If Connor was asleep already, he didn’t want to wake him. But if not, he’d offer to make him something to eat. Food was a good apology, and so much easier to offer than an “I’m sorry.”
John’s feet refused to move as he rounded the bend near the top of the staircase. He could just see over the top step into Connor’s room. What he saw there made him hold his breath, afraid Connor would hear him. Afraid he would stop.
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