Like No One Is Watching

by Jaime Samms

  Chapter 9

  DUSTY’S WALK home was a precarious one. It led down a steep embankment at the end of the road the studio sat on, and onto a train track. After crossing over that track and three more, then slipping through the fence on the other side, he had to traverse a gravel parking lot, sneak through another fence and through the burned-out shell of an old department store that took up an entire city block. The fire had happened so long ago, only rusted steel girders and the stone-and-cement foundation remained. Someone had tumbled one of the less stable walls down years ago to provide a cracked, sloping access to the building’s basement. A set of concrete stairs on the far side offered escape back up to street level.

  On the far side of the old building was a park with a creek and a narrow bridge over the water. After that, a trek that passed a busy family garage and skirted a less friendly part of town was the last leg.

  His own small apartment was on the distant side of that poor neighborhood, just far enough across another set of tracks for him to say he didn’t live on the wrong side of them. The walk took him about twenty minutes all told.

  The drive, because they had to drive far uptown to traverse both sets of train tracks and circumvent the park to cross the creek, took longer. Admittedly, the scenery was prettier, and Dusty managed to while away the first third of the trip admiring the huge houses they passed.

  “That’s the street I grew up on,” Conrad pointed out as they passed one of the fancy white-and-black street signs. This one read “Magnolia.” Dusty had cleaned one of the large estate houses at the far end of that street after a party the month before. He’d had to spend nearly half his earnings from that job on the taxi to get to the house because the walk would have been over an hour and neighborhoods like that one didn’t allow for—or probably require—such pedestrian things as bus stops.

  Dusty wondered if the house he and an entire posse of Marcello’s part-time workers had cleaned had been Conrad’s.

  “There are nice houses up there,” he said. It was true.

  “You’ve been?”

  Dusty peered at him. “Who do you think cleans up after the cocktail parties and makes the beds and washes the dishes, Conrad? You don’t think anyone who lives in places like that cleans their own toilet, do you?”

  Conrad shifted in his seat, obviously uncomfortable. “I suppose not,” he said quietly.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “No, you’re right. I never cleaned a toilet in my life until I bought the studio.” His cheeks turned pink. “I didn’t even realize they had to be cleaned until I had a roommate during one of our tours who—” He made a face. “Never mind. But it never occurred to me. Not really. Not practically, anyway. When I bought the studio, I had to call Marcello. He used to clean my mom’s house, you know. His father… well, anyway. By then, Marcello had his own company, but I knew him from when I was a kid, and I called him up and asked him what I was supposed to do. I tried to do it myself. I was sort of hopeless.”

  “Was?” Dusty snorted. “Sort of?”

  The flush in Conrad’s cheeks deepened. “Yes, well. He bailed me out, all right? I confess it. He has kept me in cleaners the whole time, though it seems none of them last very long. He says he sends me his newest hires, as a trial by fire, to see how long they last. He says if they last more than a few weeks, he knows he’s got a potential permanent staff member. He says it’s not a job very many people can handle. I’m never sure if he means cleaning in general or just my studio.”

  “Your studio is special,” Dusty said.

  Conrad chuckled. “I’ll tell him you said that.”

  “No!” Dusty sat up straighter. “Please don’t. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. Please. I won’t make fun anymore.”

  Conrad glanced over at him, a thin line between his bushy eyebrows. “I’m not offended, Dusty. I’d have to be a complete asshole to live the way I do and then get offended when people call me a slob.”

  “But I work for you. I—”

  Conrad heaved out a sigh, tightening his fingers on the wheel. “Yes. You do.”

  Well. At least they were clear on that point, then.

  They settled into silence for a while as Conrad turned away from the posh neighborhood toward Dusty’s more modest one. They traveled in silence until the last directions Dusty had given were almost up.

  “It’ll be a right on Bloomingdale, then left on Adelaide.”

  “Isn’t that on the other side of Kensington tracks?” Conrad asked, concern clear on his face.

  “Well, yeah, but you cross again at the far end of Adelaide and turn right again into Troll Heights.”

  Conrad smiled. “Troll Heights. I love that neighborhood. All the old houses and huge trees.”

  “Drafty apartments and broken sidewalks, you mean.”

  Troll Heights were so named because the bridge over the tracks that led into the area had the look of an old-world stone edifice that certainly had to house a bridge troll or two. It had been a silly moniker given in the paper when the bridge had been built almost a hundred years ago, but it had stuck. The majesty of the bridge was well covered in thick moss now, and the stately trees had overgrown their plots to heave the sidewalks into undulating and treacherous paths along the narrow streets. The houses, once modern, dark, brick masterpieces of the bricklayers’ art, had begun to crumble and show their age. A few had been restored, but more were falling into ruin and disrepair, long ago splintered into apartment warrens like the one Dusty lived in.

  He pointed out his building, and Conrad drew the car to the curb and turned off the engine. “So here we are.”

  “Yes.” Dusty stopped, his hand on the door handle. “Here we are.”

  “Are you on the main floor?”

  Dusty snorted. “The main floor? Are you kidding me?” Even though the building had seen better days, it wasn’t one of the worst. Repairs to the brickwork, skillfully done, were already over a decade old. The paint on the trim was a few years past its crisp white-and-blue origins, and the front door weathered. Still, a ground-floor apartment was well beyond Dusty’s price range.

  “I lucked out in getting the back basement space for a little over half the going rate. It’s small, underinsulated, one room, and needs more and better windows. But it’s home.”

  “Can I see?”

  Just like that? Invite himself in? Was that his privilege talking? Or just a Conrad thing?

  Dusty looked at him, surprised.

  “I always wanted to see the inside of one of these places. They look so much grander than the giant, ugly boxes on the hill where I come from. These were built with real style, don’t you think?

  “If you consider drafts and leaks and old wiring stylish, then I guess so.” Dusty opened his door.

  “Can I come in?” Conrad ducked down to watch Dusty through the passenger door. “Please?”

  “Sure, why not? Come on in.” Dusty managed to restrain the deep sigh that bloated his conscience. He so did not want to show Conrad his very sparse, mostly drab apartment. It was tiny, and probably the only bits of any interest at all were in the architecture itself. Certainly his secondhand dumpster-find furniture would not be of interest to someone like Conrad. Not even if Dusty was pretty proud of the way he’d fixed them up while still preserving their original grandeur and value. Despite the draftiness and sometimes discomfort that he couldn’t help, Dusty liked what he’d done with the meager resources he had. Hopefully, the leftover details of the house’s original architecture would be enough to distract Conrad from noticing how little Dusty had of his own to fill the place.

  As they navigated the path along the side of the house, Dusty was spared having to figure out how to explain his obvious poverty by the constant flow of Conrad’s babble.

  “The thyme smells so good.” Conrad deliberately stepped off the concrete patio stones to press his foot into the new leaves of the herb that grew between the path and the house. A waft of savory scent floated up, and Dust
y had to smile. He did that a lot himself. He loved the scent.

  He didn’t get a chance to say so, though.

  “I don’t think they even make brick like this anymore. Do you know the old places they tore down along Junction? The doctors’ houses? Did you know they salvaged all the brick they could? That’s why it took so long to get the houses out. Some developer or other wanted the brick so he could sell it to whoever wanted to fix up these houses. I think that’s a terrible way to fleece people, but it is nice they recycled, I guess. Hey. Is that honeysuckle?” He stopped and peered at the vines snaking overhead along the wooden pergola the upstairs neighbor had installed.

  “Grape, actually.” It was hard to tell at this time of year. The leaves hadn’t opened yet, but Dusty had asked about them when he’d moved in, years ago. Huge fans of deep green leaves and bunches of sour wine grapes had shaded the walk. He thought Conrad would swoon over it. He’d have to bring him back when the grapes were almost ripe. He’d love it.

  “Wow. I love grapes. Can you eat them?”

  “They’re for wine.” Dusty glanced back to find Conrad shrugging and grinning.

  “That’s good too. I also love wine. Red is nice. If it’s full. But I like white better. Not too dry. A bit of sweet and with some fancy cheese and rice crackers, and maybe mussels.”

  If only Dusty could afford any of those things, really. Good old American cheddar was about as fancy as he got. And he doubted Conrad would want the wine he had in a box in his fridge. Or the mussels smoked and canned sitting in his pantry. He smiled but it didn’t last. “Sounds nice.”

  Conrad waved a hand. “It is. But then, I like milk and cookies too. I’m not that hard to please. Oreos.”

  “Oreos,” Dusty said at the same time. They grinned at each other, and suddenly, the gap wasn’t so wide. Dusty’s attention caught on Conrad’s mouth, and he found himself pinned between his closed door and Conrad’s hard body, gazing up, his glasses slipping, his palms sweating.

  “Do you have Oreos?” Conrad asked.

  “Does it matter?” Dusty couldn’t catch his breath. He gripped Conrad’s forearm, because he had to hold on to something.

  Conrad’s grin slanted from cookies to something less wholesome, and he leaned closer. “It doesn’t really matter at all.” He snaked fingers into Dusty’s hair.

  “Wait.” Dusty pulled his hand down.

  “Wait what?” Conrad’s tone darkened. His eyes flashed. “Why wait?”

  “Because if you kiss me and I lose my shit and you end up on your knees at my feet again, my neighbors might take offense.”

  The dark light in Conrad’s eyes took on a decidedly lustier hue. “On my knees?”

  God, how much he clearly liked the sound of that.

  All this strength Dusty could feel in the arm that had circled his waist, the wiry grace in the sway of Conrad’s hips when he moved, the confidence when he showed parents what he could do for the dance future of their children, it was all at Dusty’s fingertips with a slight change in the tone of his voice. “Come inside.”

  Conrad licked his lips. “Absolutely.”

  He so should not be taking advantage of the need flaring in Conrad’s eyes. He should be sending the man on his way, back to his home and safe from the temptation to lower himself to the whims of a janitor.

  Dusty swiveled in the tight space of Conrad’s confinement and unlocked his door. He pushed it open, and they tumbled inside, at least one of Conrad’s hands on him as they crossed the threshold, closed the door in their wake, and descended the three steps into the sunken apartment.

  When Dusty tried to turn away from Conrad, he was spun back carefully—probably in deference to his braced knee—but uncompromisingly, until they were groin to groin and Conrad was glaring down at him.

  “Trying to go somewhere?”

  “There’s not really anyplace to go,” Dusty said.

  The apartment was one room. His bed, an antique four-poster monstrosity someone had tossed out beside the bin a week after he’d moved in, sat with its headboard against the far wall. Heavy drapes, salvaged from a hall Marcello had been commissioned to strip for renovations, hung from the rails, open at the moment but easily drawn for warmth and privacy. He’d had to sew the damn things by hand, ripping open seams and hemming them to fit their new application, but it tickled him a bit to know he slept behind theater curtains from the Shriners hall, a place someone of his lowly station would never even be allowed to enter without a bucket and mop in his hands.

  The other main piece of furniture, a modified wardrobe, was also an antique. He’d had to carefully remove the legs so it could stand in his basement apartment, but it was wide enough to block most of the view of the bed from the rest of the apartment. He’d also removed the center doors and layered stacks of bricks along the inner walls to hold up a slab of plywood on which sat his television, facing the bed, because he didn’t have a sofa or any lounge chairs. The curved sides of the wardrobe retained their original functionality, one housing a rod and hangers for his meager stash of clothing, the other a series of drawers for his towels, socks, and underwear.

  Marcello had scored him that very useful storage piece from the house of one of his clients, and he’d been more than grateful. Aside from being only one small room with a half kitchen at one end and a miniscule bathroom taking up the other, the apartment had no closets. Until Marcello had offered him the wardrobe, he’d been storing his clothes in cardboard boxes.

  Conrad glanced around at the room. “Big furniture for a small space.”

  Dusty shrugged. “It does what I need it to do.”

  “It’s fancy.”

  Dusty studied his eclectic space. Besides the bed and wardrobe setup, there was a stack of deep, colorful pillows in the corner under the largest window and more bricks and plywood stacked to form shelves that housed his CD collection and a few books. His small CD player and the speakers an upstairs neighbor had offered him when she moved out sat on a shelf on the wall under the window. His kitchen was tidy. A small coffeemaker, a toaster, and a microwave sat on the counter. The bar fridge was tucked underneath, and he had a single stool at the counter to sit and eat at if he chose. Usually, he just ate in bed, in front of the television.

  He didn’t have much. He didn’t have anything new to him other than his mismatched mattress and box spring, a few of the CDs, and the stereo.

  “It works for me.”

  “Well, except there doesn’t seem to be anyplace to sit.”

  Dusty took Conrad by the hand and pulled him deeper into the room. “Did you think you’d be sitting?”

  Conrad swallowed and licked his lips. He did that a lot when he was trying to find words. “Kneeling?” he asked at last, his voice a low croak of sound and desire.

  “To start with, I think,” Dusty agreed. “Come here.” He pulled Conrad toward the bed, sat on the edge, and pushed at Conrad’s shoulder. “Down.”

  Chapter 10

  CONRAD KNELT. A flutter of nerves sang up through his body and left a shiver of cold sweat behind. It was almost like the sensation he got before going onstage. The dance of nerves then always thumped in his chest to the rhythm of whatever dance he was about to perform. Or had been about to perform. It had been so long.

  He blinked and shoved the thought from his head. The last thing he needed now was to get maudlin over his career. He’d made his choice years ago. Seeing Peridot again had brought it back, but he was here now, with Dusty, and he would not let the old sadness intrude on what he hoped was coming.

  Squaring his shoulders, he lifted his gaze and met Dusty’s eyes.

  God. The man was beautiful, more so because of the slight imperfections of skin and the roundness of his face. He didn’t have the plastic, contrived beauty of the people Conrad had grown up around. He was real. He had soft corners, worn spots, strength under the kindness, and Conrad gravitated to him, a moth pulled to the danger of flame.

  “What?” Dusty asked. His voice, like
the rest of him, was gruff strength under a soft whisper of sound. His fingers, ghosting over Conrad’s cheek, were tender.

  “You,” Conrad said, unsure if telling Dusty he was beautiful would fly. His janitor was more down-to-earth than that.

  Dusty smiled, a slightly crooked expression that twisted a crease into the side of his face, bracketing his mouth like the smile had been more frequent once than it was now. “Me? What’s so special about me that I get that look?”

  Conrad scooted closer and ran his palms over Dusty’s thighs. He licked his dry lips. He wanted to push the hair out of Dusty’s eyes, but Dusty had moved his hands to grip his wrists and hold him in place. That. That’s special, right there.

  He managed a gulp of air that caught in his throat and nearly made him choke. Then Dusty tightened his grip and Conrad gasped, meeting the concentrated look Dusty gave him. He breathed again, and Dusty seemed to relax once more, fingers caressing Conrad’s wrists.

  Conrad flicked his gaze to one of Dusty’s hands and back up to his face, trying to form a grateful smile of his own, to tell him the hold was appreciated, because his brain and tongue seemed to have lost all connection.

  Dusty leaned close and kissed him, a deep, possessive kiss that curled Conrad’s toes but was all too brief. “You like this?” Dusty whispered, his face still close enough that the words brushed promising tendrils of heat over Conrad’s already flushed skin.

  Conrad nodded.

  Please let that be okay.

  “You want to suck me?”

  Conrad nodded again.

  “Then undo my pants and do that.” He released Conrad to lean back, hands on the mattress behind him to prop himself up. He watched as Conrad did as instructed, unbuttoning and unzipping Dusty with slightly shaking hands.

  “You okay?” Dusty asked. His voice held calm reassurance. No alarm or concern, just a tinge of understanding.