Conn shook his head, even though John couldn’t see him. “No, sometimes you don’t need all the pieces. Sometimes you’re stronger when you glue it back together without the extras.”
Conn could see John smile as he looked down at the counter and swept some imaginary crumbs into the sink. “As long as the glue’s strong enough, I suppose.”
“Mercury makes pretty good glue,” Conn said. He grabbed the bag full of his new clothes from where he’d dropped it on the floor and left John looking at Digger’s grave out the window.
Chapter Eight
John took another drag off the cigarette. He blew out the smoke and held the butt up, staring at the glowing tip in the dark. It was pitch-black outside, not a star in sight. Maybe it would rain tonight. He set his foot down and gave a push, setting the bench rocking again. He left his other leg over the arm.
The front door opened, and the screen creaked as Connor opened it just enough to lean against the doorjamb. “I didn’t know you smoked.”
John took another drag. His mouth felt like the ashtray sitting on the table next to him. “I don’t. Not anymore.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Connor cross his arms and smile crookedly. “You don’t, huh?”
John blew a smoke ring. “Nope.”
“When did you quit?” Connor moved out onto the porch and quietly shut the door behind him. The bastard had nothing on but his jeans unbuttoned over a pair of the boxers John had bought today. He took another deep drag that stung his tongue.
They were having a conversation like it wasn’t three o’clock in the morning and John wasn’t being completely irrational. Maybe this was why he adored having Connor around. He made John feel normal for a change. He felt his dick getting hard. Oops. He made John feel normal that way too. And that was why John was sitting out here smoking.
“When someone asked me to.” He stubbed out the cigarette and sat up straight. He rubbed his face. “Sorry I woke you.” He reached for the pack of cigarettes.
Connor was quick considering his size and the late hour. He stopped John with a hand on his wrist before he reached the pack. “You didn’t.” Connor let go of his wrist and picked up the cigarettes and the lighter there. “Who?”
“Who what?” John asked, confused.
“Who asked you to quit?”
John just stared at Connor. He didn’t want to say his name. He didn’t want him here with Connor. And that was wrong on so many levels.
“Come on,” Connor said quietly. He took John’s hand and led him to the door, opening it and gently pushing John inside. It was as if John’s body had no mind of its own, just a desire to do what Connor made him do. It was so much easier to let someone else call the shots. Part of him wanted that again, and part of him never wanted that again. He was tempted to pull a James Dean and scream, “You’re tearing me apart!” into the night. But that might be a little over the top, even for him.
Connor closed the front door behind them, and somehow the night got brighter. John glanced toward the kitchen. It was the microwave clock light. He’d never realized how bright that was. The green splashed over the hardwood floors and the glass on the pictures on the wall.
Connor placed John’s cigarettes on the hall table, and suddenly John was backed against the wall, Connor close enough that John could feel the heat of him from nose to toes and smell the spicy soap John had bought them today.
“Tell me what’s wrong, John,” Connor said quietly. He leaned his forearm against the wall beside John’s head, and John had the completely inappropriate urge to bury his nose in the sparse hair of Connor’s underarm and breathe the life of him in.
He closed his eyes and felt Connor’s nose nudge the side of his head. When he spoke John nearly missed his words because his hot breath on John’s ear fried his brain circuits. “Tell me, Johnny,” he whispered.
John let his hand roam. It was wrong, it was stupid, but Connor so close was irresistible. He slid his open palm along Connor’s side to the dip in his lower back, and Connor shivered. John liked that. He liked that he made Connor shiver. He slowly glided that palm lower, past the loose waistband of Connor’s jeans. He hesitated at the band of his boxers, but Connor’s back moved just slightly, just enough to make John think he wanted him in there. He gently worked his index finger under the band, and there was the slightest break in Connor’s breathing. He let his other fingers follow, until he cupped Connor’s bare ass cheek in his hand. It fit perfectly, soft, round, smooth. Connor moved closer, and the muscles bunched and flexed under John’s palm, and his dick got so hard he thought it might burst through his flimsy pants and right into Connor.
“Johnny,” Connor whispered again, and suddenly it was wrong. Everything was wrong. He pulled his hand out and tried to push Connor away. Connor easily grabbed both of John’s hands and pinned them over his head. “Do you want me to make you feel better, John?” he asked in that low voice that caused the hairs on John’s arms to rise up deliciously. John made a feeble attempt to get free, but Connor just grabbed his wrists in one hand and slid the other down John’s chest, over both nipples through his soft T-shirt, and John’s body betrayed him as his hips jerked, seeking that big, rough hand.
Connor leaned down and bit one of John’s hard nipples through the soft cotton as his free hand pulled the front of John’s pants down until his hard cock popped out into the cool night air of the hallway. Then Connor wrapped his heavy fist around John’s cock and squeezed. “You want me,” Connor whispered against John’s cheek. John turned his face, blindly seeking Connor’s mouth, but Connor turned away. “You smell like an ashtray,” he said. “I don’t want to taste that.” He squeezed John’s cock again. “But I’ll taste this, Johnny.”
He let go of John’s wrists and squatted in front of him. He pointed John’s hard cock toward his mouth, closed his eyes, and leaned forward. Without hesitation John grabbed two fistfuls of Connor’s hair and stopped him.
“Don’t,” he rasped. “Don’t do it unless you mean it.” Connor didn’t fight John’s hold, didn’t look up at him. He just stayed poised there on the brink. “The last man that did that meant it,” John said. “I don’t want it if you don’t.”
They stayed like that for a minute or more. It felt like an eternity to John. Finally Connor shook John’s hands off and stood up. Without a word, he picked up John’s cigarettes and lighter and pressed them into one of his hands. Then he turned without meeting John’s eyes and went upstairs.
“About last night,” Connor said as he walked into the kitchen the next morning.
John shoved his coffee cup under the spout on the espresso machine. His eyes felt like he’d rinsed them with sand, and his mouth felt the same. Ugh. “Yeah, sorry about that.”
“You’re sorry?” Connor asked in surprise. “What for?”
John pressed the button on the machine and waited until the beans were ground before answering. “For waking you up. Sometimes I get insomnia. Not a pretty sight. Next time I’ll stay in my room.”
“It’s your damn house,” Connor said angrily. “You can have insomnia wherever the hell you want it.”
John turned in amazement. He’d never seen Connor angry. Of course, there wasn’t much to see. Connor stood there stoically glaring.
“Thanks. I will,” John replied testily.
“I was talking about the blowjob that didn’t happen.” Connor’s words were flat.
John had to admire him for not beating around the bush. Those particular bushes, however, deserved a good beating. He shrugged. “It didn’t happen. Not much to talk about.”
Connor stared at him for a minute while John just sipped his coffee. Finally Connor shrugged too. “I guess not.” He walked past John toward the backyard. “I’m going to see if I can salvage some of the fence lumber to fix the front porch.”
John grabbed his arm. “Forget it. I’ll just buy new.”
Connor roughly jerked his arm away. “You don’t always need new, John. It’s not
a crime to use what you’ve already got.”
“And it’s not a crime to be rich enough to afford new when I feel like it,” John shot back.
“We got along just fine fixing this place up with what we had.” Connor was so stiff John was afraid his joints would lock.
“Yeah, well, as someone just told me, this is my house. I’ll fix it up how I want.”
His thoughtless jab hit its mark too well. Connor paled and spun around to walk toward the front porch. “Whatever you say. I’ll finish sanding the posts.”
John sighed. “Stop.” He didn’t yell, didn’t raise his voice. He just asked. Connor stopped at the door as if he’d hit a brick wall. John walked over and spoke to Connor’s stiff back. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”
Connor’s shoulders sagged. “No, I’m sorry. I’m being an ass. I’m taking shit out on you that has nothing to do with you.”
Ouch. John didn’t even think Connor was aware how that one hit the target. “I guess that makes two of us,” he lied.
Connor leaned the front of his body against the wall next to the door and covered his head with his arms. “I wish I could mean it, Johnny,” he said quietly, his voice muffled. “I don’t know if I can ever mean it.”
John didn’t know what to say or do. But he knew he had to say something. “I’m sorry about what you told me yesterday,” he said quietly.
Connor straightened from the wall, his back to John. He brushed his hands over his cheeks, and John pretended not to notice. “We gonna do anything with the gardens?” he asked roughly. “They’re lookin’ pretty bad.”
“I don’t really have a relationship with plants,” John confessed.
Connor let out a weak laugh. “You don’t really have a relationship with anything, John.” John took a step back as Connor looked at him over his shoulder, his eyes red. “Do we need garden tools?”
John shook his head. “I got that far.”
Connor nodded. “I guess you had to, to fix up Digger’s grave.”
John walked past Connor, resisting the urge to throw his arms around his broad shoulders and hold on for dear life. “I deal better with the dead.”
Connor grabbed his arm, and John’s coffee sloshed onto the floor. He turned to glare at Connor.
“I’m coming alive, Johnny. One of these days you’re going to have to deal with me.” He turned again and walked out the back. He must be getting dizzy.
“No one calls me Johnny,” he hollered after Connor.
“I do,” Connor yelled back.
John hated when someone else got the last word.
Chapter Nine
Conn heard her before he saw her. A tap, tap, tap on the sidewalk. He remembered that sound from his childhood. Miss Priscilla Jones was coming to visit. He used to run inside and wash his hands right away and yell for his mother. She’d come bustling down the path and open the gate for Miss Priscilla and help her up onto the porch, where they’d sit for hours talking, drinking lemonade and eating cherry pie. Miss Priss didn’t drink liquor. Not once that he’d known her. But she was addicted to his mama’s cherry pie.
She came for her weekly manicure. Barbara Meecham gave them on weekends to most of the ladies in the town for extra cash. Pedicures too. Usually she went to their houses, but Miss Priss always came to theirs. Conn liked that best. He could run and play and do what he wanted here. He had to behave himself at everyone else’s house. When he was a teenager, he’d sit on the steps and strum the guitar while they gossiped, the smell of nail polish making his nose itch while the click of forks on plates made him hungry.
He set down the shovel he’d been digging up the weeds with. There weren’t any flowers left here along the front fence. He was just digging it all up and starting from scratch. If Johnny wanted to buy all new lumber, he could get all new plants too. Conn had done some gardening work at jail. He liked those bright yellow daylilies. He wanted to line the fence with them and put a couple of rosebushes by the gate.
He wiped his hands on his new shorts and then cursed himself. He was trying to keep them nice for a while. They were camo cargo shorts. And a damn sight more comfortable than his jeans in the heat. He couldn’t do anything about the white T-shirt. It was smudged with dirt, but he had a good excuse. He fought the urge to run inside and wash his hands. Instead he just stood there, watching the intersection of Justice and Goodman Streets, waiting for Miss Priss to come into view.
When he saw her, it was like a punch to the gut. He’d had way too many of those in the last few weeks. Damn if this coming home wasn’t harder than he’d thought. She paused at the corner when she saw him. She didn’t wave, just turned and walked his way. She looked older, which surprised him. He’d thought she was ancient when he was little. She was walking so slow he felt self-conscious just standing there. She wore all white, making her brown skin look like dark chocolate. When he was six, he asked her if she tasted like chocolate. Conn had thought his mama was going to have a heart attack, but Miss Priss just laughed.
When she reached him, they just stood there looking at each other for a while. She looked him over from head to toe.
“Connor Meecham,” she finally said in that old-fashioned, formal way of hers. “You look well.”
He nodded politely. “Miss Priscilla.”
She looked pointedly at the gate. Conn looked at it too but didn’t move. She gave him a stern look, and he belatedly opened the gate.
“Thank you,” she said politely. He was worried about her with her cane on the gravel path, so he stepped up beside her and offered his arm. She took it, and they walked to the house and up the stairs. She settled herself on John’s bench. Conn stood there, not sure what to do.
“It is good to have you home, Connor,” she said with a sigh as she settled back in the seat. “Tell me where you have been and why you have not come to see me.”
“This isn’t my house, Miss Priscilla,” he said quietly. “Someone else bought it after Mama died.”
“I am well aware of that, Connor,” she said calmly. “I have not gone soft in the head. A gentleman from California is living here now, or so I’m told. He has not come by to meet me.”
Conn bit his lip to keep from smiling at the disapproval in her tone. “They do things a little differently in California, Miss Priss. I don’t think anyone told him he should go and see you.”
She smiled at the use of the old nickname. “You should have told him,” she chastised him.
Conn nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I should have.”
“You are living here now.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I’m helping John fix up the house. It had fallen into a bit of disrepair.”
“That is an understatement, Connor. It was a shameful sight that deserved better. I am glad to see the new owner agrees.” She glanced around the porch. “Your mother always wanted to paint the house a stately gray, with white and yellow accents.” She shook her head. “That woman had an unnatural affinity for yellow.”
Conn was taken aback. He hadn’t known that, about painting the house. “Then why didn’t she?”
“White was cheaper,” Miss Priss said matter-of-factly. “Which should not be a factor for the new owner, I’m told.”
“I like yellow too,” Conn said with a smile.
“Of course, you do,” Miss Priss said with a sniff. “As I told you, Barbara had an unnatural attraction to the color.” She looked at Conn and raised an imperious eyebrow. “Are you not going to offer me refreshments, Connor?” she asked. “I have walked all this way.”
“May I get you something to drink?” he asked politely, racking his brain to try to remember if they had any lemonade.
“I would like a lemonade, please,” she answered politely. “And please send your Mr. Ford out to see me.”
“So you know his name,” Conn teased.
Miss Priss gave him an indecipherable look. “I know more than most give me credit for, Connor. I know everything that goes on in my town. Now, if
you please, may I have my lemonade? I am parched.” She looked up at the ceiling fan on the porch. “Could you also turn that on, please?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be right back.” He walked quickly over to the front door and went in, turning the fan on first thing. He hustled back through the kitchen to the back door. “John,” he called. John’s head popped up from behind the fence. He was holding a paintbrush covered in paint. “Someone on the front porch wants to meet you,” Conn told him. “Come on over here. Don’t keep her waiting.”
John put the brush down, walked around the side of the yard, and came in the gate. “Who?” he asked curiously as Conn waved him over. When he got to the steps, Conn grabbed his upper arm and dragged him into the house. “What the hell?” John exclaimed. “Where’s the fire?”
“She walked all the way over here,” Conn said. He was suddenly nervous, worried that John might offend Miss Priscilla. “Have we got any lemonade?”
John gave him a funny look and then walked over and reached for a cabinet. He stopped before he opened it. “In there,” he said. He went to the sink. “I don’t want to get paint on the handle.” He began to wash his hands. “You’ll have to mix it. The pitcher should be on the shelf above.” He laughed as Conn got the stuff out. “You know, when I first saw the front porch, I thought it looked like people should be sitting there drinking lemonade.”
Conn dragged the bin of sugar over and went to fill the pitcher while John was drying his hands. “Well, Miss Priscilla Jones is about to be.” He gestured to the front with his head. “Get out there. And be nice. And polite.”
“Who is Miss Priscilla Jones?” John asked as he walked toward the front.
“Miss Priscilla Jones is Mercury,” Conn answered.
Conn needn’t have worried about John’s manners. Turned out he had a boatload of them. Miss Priss took to him right away, especially when he took Conn to task for not taking him over to meet her. She loved that.
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