by Anyta Sunday
“Well, no, but—”
“And if I do, I’ll clean up, okay?”
“Wouldn’t sitting just be easier?”
“And weirder.” Heath shook his head. “This is not actually up for discussion, babe. It’s just the way I am. It’s a take it or leave it sort of deal.”
Will scowled at him. But he wasn’t as bothered by it as he made himself out to be. It used to frustrate the living hell out of him with Karl, but it didn’t bother him quite so much with Heath. Well, it did a little. But it was nothing he couldn’t live with.
Heath prized the towel out of his grip and dropped it, then peeled off his t-shirt. “Tell me, what were you yodeling before?”
“You heard that?”
“I always hear it. Don’t you know I stand outside the bathroom and listen every time you shower?”
“Really?”
“No. Also, I find yodeling one of the weirdest things about you. It sorta freaks me out a little. But maybe—maybe I’m starting to get used to it?”
“Freaks you out a little?”
“Dude, that sound is just not normal.”
“Well, I like it. It’s just the way I am,” he said, pointedly, “A take it or leave it sort of deal.”
Heath grabbed him by the ass and pulled him close. “Oh, I’ll take it all right.”
His back hit the wall, and, before he knew it, they were both breathing hard. Will clawed at his ass, and bit his shoulder, making Heath growl and surge hard.
Once they were both spent, Heath chuckled and stole a kiss.
“What’s so funny?” Will asked.
“It’s just . . . I think that was the first time we did it with your socks off.”
“Hardly.” But thinking on it, maybe Heath was right. He blushed. “Bad circulation.”
Will jumped back into the shower, dragging Heath in too. Carefully, he cleaned him up.
“I want to take you out tonight,” Heath said, after Will had lathered him in soap. “I was able to score us a reservation at Macaroons.”
“At Macaroons. That’s,” he bit his lip and rinsed out the soap from the wash cloth, swallowing the ‘Isn’t that where Rory works?’ line. The same Rory Heath hadn’t gotten around to telling about them yet. “That’s a classy restaurant.”
“Yeah. Well, I want this to be special.”
Will blinked through a spray of water bouncing off Heath’s hair and onto his face. Special? He swallowed hard, unable to contain the glee that shot through him. Did that mean . . . would maybe he say it tonight?
“I can’t wait,” he said, twisting the shower head after rinsing Heath off so the water was on him.
Heath barely waited a second before changing it again. It was why they didn’t usually share showers. They were both water-hogs. “Oh,” Heath added almost as an afterthought, “Rory was how I managed to get us a table. But he said he won’t be working tonight—so no need to worry about him.”
“I can handle Rory.” Will pushed Heath back, stealing the warm water spotlight. “But you’ll have to tell him about us eventually.”
Heath scowled. “There won’t be anything to tell if you keep stealing the water.” He pressed Will against the tiled—and much colder!—walls. Gah. Heath kissed his nose with a triumphant smile. “But seriously, Will, it’s a bit more delicate with Rory—I don’t know how he’ll take it.”
“Safe to assume badly, I’d say.”
“Exactly. I want to be ready for it.”
And maybe it was from guilt, but suddenly the warm water was on him.
* * *
The first thing Will noticed when he entered the Freak Zone that morning was Candice’s canvas. Or the lack of it, to be precise.
The clever minx. She’d finally gone and taken it away. For the last month, she’d covered it from view with a note pinned onto the sheet, which read “No peeking.”
So naturally everyone on the eleventh floor had been sneaking peeks. Candice’d caught him just yesterday with his head tucked under the sheet, marveling at the improvements made since her and Sig had been working together, and ticking off ideas with Eric for what the painting was for.
Maybe something to auction off for a charity? Hmm . . .
He hadn’t noticed Eric go unnaturally silent until a second before his ear was pinched and he was dragged back to his desk and told to do some “real work”.
That’s when she’d pulled out her “Canvas” folder and browsed through it, shaking her head. She laughed. “Thought so, suckers.”
Will stood, staring at the empty space and the bare window sills. The room felt odd without the giant canvas there. Off-balance, somehow. Cold. He’d liked having the canvas there; it was a constant reminder of Candice even when she wasn’t in the room. Her bubbly, if somewhat manic, personality.
Sig strolled into the room and clapped him on the shoulder. “One week to go, Will. Don’t let curiosity kill ya.”
“Where’s she put it?”
“Locked it in the storage cupboard—and before you get any ideas, her supervisor has the only key.”
“That’s all right. Can’t have changed much since yesterday.”
“Not much, no. Except”—Will took in the sly smile on Sig’s face—“locked away with it is the answer to its mystery.”
He perked up. “I need that key!”
Sig laughed and moved over to his desk.
“Wait a second,” he said, “You seem way too calm about this.” He pressed both hands against Sig’s desk and stared at him. “You know what it’s about, don’t you?”
Sig lifted his laptop screen, the corners of his lips twitching.
“Damn!” Will said. “Did she tell you?”
“No, I figured it out and working my charm last night, I got confirmation.” He grinned. “It’s very simple in the end. I wonder why none of us got it.”
“Well, what is it then?”
Sig’s fingers flew over his keypad. “Nope, can’t say. I’m on ’Dice’s side now, remember. And for good if I can help it.” He glanced up at him, waving toward Will’s desk. “Just one more week.”
* * *
“I want you to take the leash,” Heath said that afternoon at Ross Creek Reservoir car park, just a few steps off the beaten track they’d taken to running three times a week.
Will stepped back from Heath, who held out the leash toward him, Murky straining to hit the track and get on with it. He foolishly wished Heath would pity him and take back his suggestion.
“Isn’t it enough I come on these runs with him?” he tried, slipping another half-step back.
Heath moved, closing a hand around his upper arm. “It’s time, Will. I’ll be right behind you.”
“What if I promise to try this in another month or so?”
Heath dragged his hand down his arm and gently prized open his clenched fingers. “No more putting this off.” Will gulped as Heath pressed the leather hand strap into his hand. “You can do this.”
Murky pulled at the leash, tugging his arm. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the pull. He could handle this. He would. Heath was right; it was time. Opening his eyes, he affixed his gaze on Heath. “Okay.”
His momentary bravado faltered three steps on the track. Jesus, he’d never felt this rushed running before; he and Heath usually kept up a similar pace, but with Murky tugging on the leash, the pressure was on. And, come on, it wasn’t like he was going to upset the dog unnecessarily.
He picked up his speed and raced down the muddy track. He wasn’t the one taking Murky for a run at all, was he? This leather grip cutting into his hand may as well have been around his neck.
Vaguely, somewhere behind him, he heard Heath yelling for him to rein Murky in and to pace himself. If he hadn’t been puffing like a freaking steam engine, he’d have sworn.
The path curved and a low-hanging branch swiped him as he careened around the corner.
Ahead, crossing a small creek, strolled a woman and her two dogs. Crapity. Fighting b
ack a throat-constricting panic, he yanked on the leash, coming to a stop. All he’d have to do is turn around and head back the way they’d come—
Murky erupted into a string of barks.
“Calm down,” he growled at him, glancing over his shoulder. Where was Heath?
Murky charged toward the passing dogs. Double crap. Will kept the leash steady, breathing deeply. “He’s just excited,” he said to himself, but maybe he’d said it a bit too loud.
She and her dogs came to a stop.
“Lovely dog you have there, such an unusual color.”
He stammered a thank you, trying to keep an eye on all the dogs at once. Which was impossible. And after a moment, he just gave up and looked at the middle-aged woman with bow lips, smiling at him. If she was so calm, he could be too.
She bent down and petted Murky. “Very nice, aren’t you?”
Slowly bending his knees, he lowered himself to a crouch in front of her Bloodhounds. “H-hello,” he said to the darker of the two dogs. The one that wasn’t currently sniffing Murky’s butt.
“That’s Tink, she’s a friendly one,” she said, pulling on the other dog’s leash. “Not quite as energetic as Punk over here. He chases everything.”
In the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Heath, standing behind a fern, watching them. For a second it pissed him off Heath didn’t get over there and help him out. But as he complimented the Bloodhounds and said a good day to their owner, he realized he had it under control. He’d . . . well, he’d done it. Sure there’d been a moment of panic, but he’d got through it. He really could do this.
When Heath finally caught up to him, he knew he was sporting a ridiculously proud smile. “Don’t say a word,” he said when Heath saw it and chuckled. He just knew a teasing comment hovered on the tip of his lips. “Just don’t.”
And he didn’t. He was the perfect gentleman all the way back to Heath’s home, where they put Murky into his kennel and took off their muddy shoes on the back veranda. Through the sliding doors, Will could see Vicky, her back to him at the kitchen table, leafing through papers, a pen poised in her hand. She lowered the pen to the paper, but her hand shook and she lowered the pen, laying it on the table and staring at it. Heath was about to slide open the doors when she picked the pen up again.
Will grabbed Heath’s arm, stopping him. “Just wait a second,” he whispered. “I think your mom might need a minute.”
It took Heath one quick look at his mom before he backed away from the door. Together they sat at the edge of the veranda. Next to a brass frog where Heath had told him to look if he ever needed a spare key into their house. Will patted its head as Heath took off his cap and frayed the bill between his thumb and forefinger.
Heath’s chest expanded as he took in a deep breath. “It smells nice out here. After it rains. Fresh.”
“I like it, too,” he said softly.
It was clear by Heath’s frown and the intensity he stared at the back garden, he was amidst other thoughts. As Will would be too, if he were in Heath’s shoes. He’d want and need the time to come to terms with the myriad of feelings he’d be having at this point. Over his shoulder, he watched Vicky and her pen.
If only there was some way to make this easier for them. But there wasn’t. No amount of willing could get that pen to touch and sign the divorce papers for her. Vicky had to do it on her own.
Heath’s arms had prickled, and Will unzipped his jacket, draping it across his guy’s back.
“It’s for the best, I know,” Heath said. “It’s easier this way than holding on to the vain hope we’ll someday be a family again.”
“It still can’t be easy.”
Heath looked at him, resting his cap in his lap. “No, it’s not. It’s harder for Mum. She still beats herself up for being the one to push him away in the first place. She still loves him.”
The knots in Will’s stomach tightened. He hated to see the people he cared about in so much pain. “I’m sorry.”
“Sometimes it makes me hate my dad. But I can’t hold on to it for very long, because I remember just how hard he tried to make it work. It didn’t, though. It’s sad, but it’s what it is. I just hope the two of them will keep talking to each other. I need them both to do that, at the very least. I need to know when he comes down the weekend after next for the anniversary of William’s death, that at least on that front, it won’t be so hard. I need to know that when I need them both, they’ll be able to set aside their hurt and work together.”
The sound of the door sliding open came from behind them and Will bent his knees and pushed himself up to greet Vicky.
“Will,” she said, lowering her gaze as if it would stop him noticing how red and blotchy they were. “Heath. Are you two staying for dinner?”
Will could hear the plea in her voice; tonight she needed company. People around that she loves and love her back.
Heath picked himself up, setting on his cap. Hesitantly, he spoke. “I’m taking Will out to Macaroons tonight.”
“Oh. Okay.” Vicky attempted a smile that rather looked like a wince.
“We don’t have to go out tonight,” Will blurted, darting his gaze from Vicky to Heath.
Heath sighed, a silent ‘thank you’ falling from his lips.
But as good as their intentions were Vicky wouldn’t have any of it. The wince-smile faded into an all-out glare. “Are you kidding? No. You two are most certainly going on your date. You can come over tomorrow for dinner instead if you like.” When it looked as if Heath would protest, Vicky added, “I mean it boys, don’t cross me on this. You go out there and have a wonderful time, or so help you, God.”
Her warning stare had Will cracking a smile. He took her into his arms and hugged. “You’re the best, Vicky.”
“You enjoy yourselves, hun,” she whispered back.
“We will. But first, how about a coffee before I head back and get ready?”
“I’ll get the kettle on.”
* * *
He walked back to his flat without Heath—the first in a long time. With Benny and James on their overseas adventure, the place was dark. No warm lit windows or rich smell of spices from Benny’s cooking beckoned him inside. Actually, the place sorta looked creepy, what with its vines strangling the veranda posts and shadows latticing over the old wooden boards and front of the house.
Shaking off the threat of a shudder, he focused on the flyers choking the letterbox and spilling onto the lawn. He collected the mail and headed up the path, fingering a thick cream envelope in the middle of his stash. Pulling it to the top of the pile, he noted it was addressed to him.
In a handwriting that looked familiar.
He opened the door and let himself in just as the phone rang. It echoed down the hall, shrill and demanding. Chucking the mail on the kitchen table, he answered, relieved to hear Candice on the other end, and not static and heavy breathing.
Not that he’d expected that or anything.
Damn, he hated being alone.
“Brunch.”
“Say what?” he said, fumbling for a glass and filling it with water.
“Tomorrow. Capers. We’re having brunch. Just us from the Freak Zone.”
He drained half the cup, checking over his shoulder when he heard a car door slam in the distance. “Brunch, eh?”
Candice hooted down the line and he pulled the phone away from his ear. “We really are New Zealandificating you! You said that ‘eh’ with a pitch perfect kiwi twang.”
“Glad to hear it. Something to take back to the folks at home.”
“Which won’t be happening as soon as you think it will if I can help it.”
“What are you on about?”
“I’ll give you more details at brunch.”
She played her cards well, he’d give her that. “How early are we talking?” Because after his and Heath’s “special” dinner, he didn’t imagine they’d be getting much sleep tonight.
“Eleven thirty.”
&
nbsp; “What! That’s still in the a.m.”
“That’s why it’s called brunch. See you then.”
After she hung up, he startled at the time on the microwave and hurried to the bathroom for his third shower of the day.
Half-way through, he heard the creaking of the floor boards. Envisioning a Hitchcock moment, he cut the shower short and, dripping all over the place, checked the front rooms. But no one was inside. The house was just old, groaning on its own accord. Nothing to get freaked over.
Still, even knowing that, he found himself pulling a large chef’s knife from the kitchen and toting it with him to bedroom. He checked under the bed before he sat on it to, er, get rid of the image of bloody hands gripping his ankles and yanking him to the floor.
Jesus, he’d watched far too much crap in his life.
After he’d dressed in a shirt and slacks, his stomach twisting with nerves—mostly in anticipation of dinner, of course—he decided to soak up the churning acid with a piece of toast. He and the chef’s knife moved back to the kitchen and popped some bread in the toaster.
The floor boards creaked again, but this time with the unmistakable sound of footsteps. He jumped, twisting, chef’s knife extended.
“Jesus!” Heath was in the kitchen doorway dressed to the nines in suit pants and navy button-up shirt. And maybe a splash of cologne, if his nose wasn’t betraying him. “What the hell are you doing with that thing?”
“Heath!” he said. It came out an accusation, but really, he was just relieved. And feeling maybe a touch stupid for letting his imagination get the better of him.
Just a touch.
“I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”
Heath looked pointedly at the knife, raising a brow. “Ah huh.”
Will lowered the sharp beast. “Oh, that,” he said, pushing out a laugh. Hell no was he going to tell Heath what he really was doing with that knife. “I was just, ah”—The toast popped—“just making some toast.”
“Toast, eh?”
Heath erased half the distance between them and pulled out the top drawer next to the oven. He shut it and moved to him.
“For everyone’s wellbeing,” Heath said, “I think you should use this.”
The chef’s knife was extracted from his hand, replaced with a butter knife. Heath slid the bigger knife into the wooden block next to the coffee machine, barely containing a smirk. “Wait a sec,” Heath’s almost smirk morphed into a small frown, “why are you eating when we’re going out?”