Bluewater Blues

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Bluewater Blues Page 11

by G. B. Gordon


  He stood where she’d left him, her scream still ringing in his ears; his lungs felt as if he’d had the air punched out of him in a boxing match. His music was gone, Mark was gone, and now Margaret. He sank heavily onto the chair he’d just picked up, rested his head on his arms on the table, and stopped fighting the pressure behind his eyes.

  A while later he got up to clear the food they’d barely touched off the table, then went through the mail, just to do something. Later he would check to see how Margaret was doing, but it was probably a good idea to give her some space for now.

  The mail was mostly junk: some bills, a delivery confirmation, the paper. He gave it a quick once-over, only to flatten it out on the table for a more thorough scrutiny when he caught the word Atlanta in the lower-right corner. He was only subscribed to a local paper, so that Margaret wouldn’t read about Georgia or anything that would remind her of why they’d fled, or worse, bring back the incident itself.

  He skimmed the small article on the front page. A Georgia representative Jack had never heard of had apparently managed to cause a scandal juicy enough to be picked up by papers as far away as Washington State. Nothing to do with the two of them. Still. He tore up the paper and stuffed it in the kitchen trash. Given Margaret’s distress today, he wasn’t taking any chances.

  He started the kettle to make some hot cocoa the way Margaret liked it: easy on the milk, heavy on the chocolate, hold the marshmallows. He’d made the marshmallow mistake once, only to have her spit the confounded things back in the cup. Something about their consistency made her nauseous.

  He kept his brain busy with small, ordinary things so he didn’t have to think about the big one he’d managed to mess up beyond repair.

  When he took the mug of cocoa up to her room, she wasn’t there. Not good. It meant she’d retreated into her bulwark in the attic. He hesitated at the bottom of the attic stairs, for once not sure if he’d be welcome.

  “Margaret?” he called up, before he climbed the stairs. He didn’t really expect an answer, but unless she had her earphones in it would give her a bit of warning that he was entering her space.

  The light was on in the attic, but the alcove’s curtains were drawn tight. He set the mug down on a stool she used as a side table, then sat cross-legged on the floor with his back against one of the roof supports. A thin ray of light filtered through the grimy skylight, showing the dust motes he’d set dancing in the air. He needed to clean the place again.

  “I brought you cocoa,” he said. “Since you didn’t eat anything for lunch, it might be a good idea to drink it.”

  No answer.

  “I’m sorry, Margaret. I know you like Mark. I do too.” Understatement of the century. He’d obsessed over the man since he first laid eyes on him.

  “But do you know what he’s going to do when he finds out what happened? I don’t. He seems like a straight enough arrow. What if he expects us to go back and face the music? There’s bound to be a criminal lawsuit. Do you want to be in court trying to explain what happened?” He’d never put it to her quite that bluntly. Had never needed to. She’d always complied with his safety rules. Until Mark.

  He wasn’t even sure she’d heard him. For all he knew, she could be sitting in there listening to music. Or one of her audiobooks.

  “I don’t know how to do this, Margaret.”

  A small rustle told him that she was indeed in there. The thought that she might not have been shot a hot flash of panic through him. That she might have run out of the house in her distress, might have gotten lost somewhere in town without any idea how to get home.

  Don’t underestimate her.

  He didn’t think he did. Not usually. In this case, though? Was Mark right? Was his protectiveness clouding his judgment? The truth was, he didn’t know how much she understood the workings of the world around them. So how was he supposed to know whether he was protecting or underestimating her? She couldn’t tell him.

  Unless, of course, that was exactly what she was doing, had been doing over the past weeks. Months?

  “I don’t know what you want me to do. I need your help.”

  After a few minutes, one side of the curtain opened the tiniest bit. Margaret’s face appeared in the gap, frowning at the steaming mug of cocoa on the stool. She was probably frowning at him, though.

  He heard the rapid tapping, even though he couldn’t see it. Sounded like hand against leg. Still agitated, then, still pissed at him.

  Her frown became more intense until it screwed up her whole face something fierce.

  “Margaret . . .” she said.

  And suddenly he understood that her frowning wasn’t disapproval; it was a concentrated effort at communication.

  “Do you want your tablet?” Sometimes typing was easier for her than talking, but usually she found gifs or images that she used to communicate the same way she used other people’s sound bites.

  The tapping gained speed. “Margaret,” she said again, “is not an idiot.”

  Oh God. “I know that, love. I never—”

  “Margaret.”

  So she was still mad at him.

  “Secrets are idiotic,” she said.

  “I know. Oh, Lord, I know. Don’t you think I want to tell Mark?”

  “No secrets.”

  Oh Jesus. He banged his head against the post behind him. It didn’t jar loose any solutions to his problem. So they sat there, until Margaret had finished her cocoa. Then she picked up her tablet and earphones and retreated back into her own world.

  I see Margaret’s message in the car, but my eyes are killing me, and I put my phone away again. It’s just some picture of a run-down street that doesn’t tell me anything.

  As soon as I’m upstairs in my apartment, I take my lenses out and turn the lights off, though I try not to sit in the dark for too long or too often these days. There’s way too much room for thoughts there. But I’ve been working overtime every day over the last two weeks, and my eyes are telling me to shove it.

  There’s been no word from Jack, not that I expected any. Hoped, maybe, but not expected. Jack was clear on that. Pretty much the only thing he was clear on, actually. The rest was classic Jack. Theatrical back-of-hand-to-forehead gesture: unnamed bad in past, can’t lie to friend, but must protect sister, so have to cut ties to friend. Fuck you, Jack. Right, there’s a thought.

  It’s enough to piss anyone off. Half of it is probably bullshit, anyway. I can’t imagine either Jack or his sister having done deeds so terrible that I’m better off without them.

  No, if he and Margaret are on the run, it isn’t because of something they did. Which leaves running from someone. Someone who’s after them for what they have or are. Because Margaret is autistic? Because Jack is gay? Neither would surprise me. I’ve had my unfair share of people hating out of fear of anything different, even if that difference doesn’t pose a threat. Fuck all of them.

  Jack didn’t look happy with his own decision. Is he? That’s one of the things I need to verify.

  My eyes have had enough rest, so I switch the lights back on, put my lenses in and check that message. Yup, a street shot of storefronts: a barber, a pawnshop, a used CD store, something with small electronics.

  Underneath Margaret’s written: Jack!!! Which gives the message some urgency, but no transparency. I scroll farther down her message to the picture of a saxophone. Jack used to play in a barbershop? Pawned his sax? Recorded a CD? Written a ringtone jingle?

  I send my four guesses to Margaret because I’m getting nowhere on my own and I didn’t, after all, promise Jack not to message her. Besides, it would be pretty rude to ignore her.

  Her answer comes in the blink of an eye: 2.

  So, Jack pawned his sax.

  Her next message is an image of a pair of cartoon eyes brimming with tears.

  Apparently she or Jack (or both?) are sad about this.

  Next comes a heart with two little throb lines.

  She loves Jack for having pawn
ed the sax? He pawned it because he loves her? Either way, she seems to be telling me that Jack’s a good guy. What else is new?

  Is she telling me not to walk away?

  I type, Do you want me to talk to Jack?

  Again, her answer is instantaneous: Y

  Right. It’s what I’ve been wanting to do anyway. But her endorsement sure gives me a better argument against Jack’s protect-my-sister drama. What the hell does he think I’m going to do to her?

  Okay, I type.

  Now what? My eyes say sleep. I can do that. Maybe. I send a quick message to Jason to say that I’ll be driving myself to work the next day because I have to leave early, reset the alarm so I’ll have time to check the traffic and road news for any nasty surprises, then go to bed.

  I decide to walk over while the store’s still open, and even wait until Jack has customers before going inside. I don’t believe in surprises. This way Jack has time to get over the fact that I’m here before we’ll be able to talk in private. All I want for now are five minutes to tell him how I feel.

  Jack throws me a glance when the bell chimes, and then does a movie-worthy double take, before turning his attention back to his customer. He looks like he hasn’t slept since I last saw him two weeks ago.

  After she’s left—and Jack waits behind his counter stiff as a board until the door has closed behind her—he rounds on me. “What do you want?”

  “To see you, talk to you.”

  “I thought I’d made it abundantly clear that—”

  The chime interrupts him, and for the next ten minutes I peruse the cards and idly listen to the conversation. There’s no joking going on today. Jack is courteous but matter-of-fact.

  When we’re alone, he turns back to me. “You’ve messaged with Margaret again, is that it?”

  “No, Jack, that’s not it. Yes, I wrote to her. After she messaged me. What do you expect me to do, ignore her? She’s an adult; she made a decision. And unless you’re thinking of smashing her tablet and locking her up, you’re going to have to live with that. But that’s not why I’m here.”

  Jack stumbles back as if I shoved him. “Oh God, I’m becoming them.”

  He looks like he’s seen a ghost, but he doesn’t get to say more than that, because the door opens again.

  After he’s walked the guy out, he checks up and down the road, then locks the door, though it’s a few minutes to closing time yet. There’s no sign of Margaret, which is unusual enough to make me think they’re still at odds.

  “You’d better come inside,” he says and leads the way through the office.

  The blinking blue LED of a phone on the desk draws my gaze like a magnet. The urge to check it, even though it isn’t mine, hammering in my brain. The hallway smells of beeswax. Do they wax the wood? Or it might be some natural soap in that pile of delivery boxes by the back door.

  Sunlight streams into the dining room, where Jack stops and rolls his shoulders before he turns.

  Yeah, me too, Jack. Me too.

  I half expect to be barked at again, but Jack just stands staring at the carpet for a few minutes, before saying quietly, “I can’t do this.”

  “What, Jack?”

  “This.” Jack spreads his arms, indicating me and the whole house around him. “You, Margaret, everything that’s happened. I can’t fit it together to make it work. I thought I could. I thought, if I could keep things casual between us, it would be okay. So I didn’t say anything, didn’t promise anything. This?” Another gesture at the room or the situation at large. “This dusty parlor of a bygone era? It holds no promises, my friend, only busted dreams.”

  It’s theatrical, but only in the same way that a cracking voice still sounds vaguely like singing. “But then you told me you don’t do casual.” He is standing with hanging shoulders, as if he’s taken a glittering jacket off, now tired and beat after a performance, much like I’ve seen the actors do time and again. It shows me a different side of Jack, a more intimate, vulnerable side.

  “I never said I didn’t do casual, just that it wasn’t easy.”

  “It doesn’t really matter now, does it?” Finally Jack looks at me, a wistful trace of a smile on his lips. “Truth is, we passed casual without me even noticing. Or maybe I didn’t want to notice.” He shrugs. “I didn’t tell you how good I am at kidding myself, did I?”

  That sad line of the eyebrows begs to be smoothed out this instant. Don’t watch him. Concentrate. There’s something I need to say. “I don’t need to know, Jack. Whatever it is you think you need to tell me to keep seeing me? I don’t need to know. I can’t and I won’t try to stop Margaret from messaging me, whether you kick me out now or not, but I can promise you, I won’t dig into your past, and I won’t ask any questions you’re not willing to answer, or expect any answers you can’t give me.”

  Jack hasn’t moved a muscle. He seems to be listening, though. Good.

  “If you tell me you don’t want me, I’ll leave this second. But please don’t make me leave because you think it’s better for me. Just because I don’t know every single thing about you. Apart from that being an illusion in the first place, it’s not a decision you can make for me. Whether you believe I won’t be a threat to you or Margaret, however? That’s on you.”

  “You’d give me that much trust? What if you’re wrong?”

  “It’s a chance I’m willing to take. You draw me in; you’re an irresistible force, so alive, and deep, and full of energy and promises.” I give him the once-over. “When you don’t look like shit, that is.”

  Jack laughs, and suddenly it’s there again, that intensity of life that so often eludes me. Or at least a spark of it.

  Magnets have nothing on this man.

  I take a step closer, and Jack doesn’t pull back. So I take another step, and he has to look up, exposing that beautiful line from jaw to throat. I run the tip of a finger along it, and he leans into the touch until his cheek is cradled against my palm. Who is touching whom, I can’t say. A merged touch. I’m okay with that.

  “You’re as sticky as Georgia peaches,” Jack murmurs.

  “Is that a good or a bad thing?”

  “I don’t know anymore.”

  “I like peaches.”

  “Everybody likes peaches.”

  A movement draws my eyes. Margaret steps through the door with a notepad and maybe a ledger in her arm. Right. Weekday. Closing time.

  She stops just inside the room, laughter bursts from her lips, then she walks past us to cross the hallway into the office. I think she says, “Love,” as she disappears, but I’m not sure.

  I look back at Jack. I haven’t let go.

  “I want to take it, your trust,” he says. “I believe what you said, about not digging. For now, that has to be enough.”

  I nod. I’ve already said it is. For a second the pressure of Jack’s head against my hand deepens, then he straightens up. “I take it you’re staying for dinner, then?”

  This time there’s no waiting around for Margaret to go to bed. After laughing and fidgeting her way through dinner, she disappears upstairs like a streak of lightning, before we’ve even started to clear the table. Jack stares after her, then turns to me with a raised eyebrow that is both question and comment. I’m cramming the last bit of oven-fried chicken in my mouth. It’s too good to leave. Margaret didn’t touch the meat, but polished off a good portion of the honey-glazed carrots. She’s got a sweet tooth, that one.

  I can feel Jack’s gaze on me like the lightest of touches, but it’s fine. I put the cutlery down and lean back, warm, replete, happy to just be here, at this table, with him.

  He starts stacking the plates, throwing me glances now and then. Waiting for me to start something? Nervous that I might? I’m not sure where we are after the last two weeks. Do we continue where we left off as if nothing happened? Or give things time to fall into place?

  I collect what’s left on the table and follow him to the kitchen, then watch him load the dishwasher. Okay
, watch his ass while he’s loading the dishwasher. It’s an ass worth watching.

  He closes the door and does some button beeping. When he turns and realizes how close I’m standing, he backs against the counter. Does he want space? Time? Both? Before I can decide, he licks his lips and clears his throat.

  “Touch me? Please?”

  Oh, yeah. I run my fingertips across the stubble on his jaw, the rasp sending delicious tendrils zinging up my arm and through my body. The edge of his lip like satin against the rough pad of my thumb.

  His Adam’s apple moves as he swallows.

  “Mark?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Kiss me? I mean, if you can? If you even want to, that is.” He presses his lips together, shutting himself up. His knuckles are white as he grips the edge of the counter.

  Can I? “I don’t know.” It comes out low and distracted. By him, by his lips, by the possibility of touching them with mine, beyond that brief brush by the river, or a peck in the hallway. A real kiss. Is that something I want? Yes. I’ve kissed other parts of him. Parts that can’t kiss back. Is he going to kiss me back? Is that something I want?

  “You don’t know? You’ve never kissed anyone?”

  “No.” Never had that kind of sex. But I don’t say that. It doesn’t belong here.

  I run my thumb across his lips again, and he half opens them, his harsh exhale warm on my hand.

  His chest rises and falls against mine, his heart beating against my ribs as I explore his jaw with my fingers, explore the soft lips, the scruff, the brackets that deepen when he smiles. He isn’t smiling now. His eyes are deep and . . . scared? Expectant? I brush my lips across his, carefully. It feels surprisingly nice. Touch my fingers to my own lips. So sensitive, lips. I wonder what his taste like. Salty? Like skin? I kiss him a tad more firmly, catching his lip between mine, nipping without teeth, run the tip of my tongue between his lips. Sweet. Honey glaze.

  He makes a sound down in his throat, a low moan, and sags against the counter behind him a bit. But when I put my hand between his shoulder blades to hold him, he comes easily against my body, radiating heat. My briefs are more rough now against my dick than is comfortable.

 

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