Seeds of Tyrone Box Set
Page 82
Michael frowned and chewed on his thumb, thinking—hopefully—about what Tom had said. “You joined, did you say?”
“Aye.”
“As a friend, or…?”
Tom had no idea how to answer. Michael watched him around the curl dangling in front of his right eye. Tom sighed. “Could you—” he blew upward and nodded at the curl “—do something about that?”
“I thought that was your job.” Michael’s museful expression morphed into a cheeky grin.
…that these stones become bread. Tom wanted this too much, and it was not his to take. He eased his legs from under the table and stood up. “I’m going to get some fresh air. Will you be all right for a minute?”
Michael nodded his assurance, and Tom set off, following the beer garden signs through to the back of the pub, where double doors led to a small yard with a couple of picnic tables under a canopy. A few smokers huddled near an external heater. Chart music from inside played quietly through small speakers. LEDs chased red, yellow, green, blue, around the lip of the canopy. Tom stepped to the side of the door and leaned against the wall, his eyes losing focus until the lights were fuzzy blobs merging into each other, creating new colours.
Four days ago, he had gone to see Michael to ask him if they could be friends, and they were friends. That would never change. But in those four days, he had realised with absolute certainty that he wanted to be with Michael. He’d never experienced such intense longing before, and it wasn’t sexual, although it would be if he thought about it. He still wanted the same as before: to go out as friends or on dates—it didn’t matter which—to get to know each other, spend time together doing the things they enjoyed. All those years they had sat one on either side of the aisle when they could have been praising God together. They had so many things in common they already knew about, and so many more to discover.
But right now, the thing Tom wanted most was to deliver the kiss he’d been keeping for what seemed like forever, though it was little more than forty-eight hours.
He rubbed his eyes, as if it would wipe his mind of all the things he wanted but could not have. It was late, and he was tired, but if this day had at least given Michael pause for thought, it was worth it. It’s not like I have to be up for work in the morning.
The door from the pub creaked open, but Tom didn’t bother checking to see who it was. He already knew.
“Are you all right, Tom?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just needed to gather my thoughts.” He let his hands drop to his sides and blinked to clear the blur. “So…I was wondering, Michael. What are you doing New Year’s Eve?”
“Um, nothing much. I’ll probably go to Marie’s. I don’t know. How about you?”
“Same, but…would you like to come back here?”
Tom watched Michael for his response. He spent a moment thinking it through, and then smiled and nodded.
“Yeah. I’d really like that. We need to get tickets now, though. I’ll go and do that, shall I?”
“Aye, if that’s OK with you?”
“God, yes! This place is great!”
Michael fairly bounced back inside, and Tom’s thoughts immediately drifted. It was terrible conspiring like this. Of course he wanted to spend New Year’s Eve with Michael—this and every one for ever after—but it was also a backup plan, in the event that he failed to persuade him tonight.
It seemed no time at all had passed before Michael announced his return with, “Got them.”
“Grand.”
“Should be a good night.”
“Definitely.”
“The music’s pretty good tonight. It’ll be amazing on New Year’s.”
“Amazing…” Tom laughed. “And I bet there’s loads of talent.”
“Like live bands?”
“Good-looking fellas.”
“Oh! I suppose. But…” Michael was frowning again. He combed through his curls with his fingers, pulling his hair back from his face…except for that feckin’ curl. “We are coming together, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, we are, Mike.” How to put it? “Listen, this whole thing of me suggesting we move to Belfast? I’m not assuming we’ll be a couple. You’re going to be spoilt for choice, so you are.”
“Lads, you mean?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Why would they be interested in me?”
“Why wouldn’t they? You’re handsome, kind, fun to be with—”
“Go on with ye!” Michael laughed, embarrassed.
“It’s all true.”
“Handsome? I don’t think so.”
“Modesty makes you more so.”
“I’m like that elastic fella. What’s he called? Stretch Armstrong. Like someone got a hold of me arms and legs an’ kept pullin’.” Michael stood on tiptoes and stretched his arms over his head, easily reaching the doorframe above him. His sweater rose, revealing a strip of belly—creamy skin, a faint line of dark hair extending from the waistband of his jeans up to his belly button. Tom’s viewing was mercifully interrupted by Michael self-consciously tugging his sweater down again.
“Michael, believe me, you are so handsome. And in case it’s not obvious, I really fancy you.”
“Are you sure you don’t just feel sorry for me because of what’s gone on?”
Tom shook his head. “No. And it’s not my ego, either. I’m certain. I’m telling you because, well, if there’s even the slightest chance that you’re interested…”
“Um…” Michael was blushing so brightly it was apparent even in the flickering multicoloured twilight under the canopy, but he was smiling, too. “Epic crush, remember?”
“I remember.” Tom couldn’t have stopped himself grinning if he’d tried, and he didn’t. “But it seems like ages ago.”
Michael’s nod of agreement transformed into a shiver. It wasn’t a particularly chilly evening, but he didn’t have much in the way of insulation. Almost instinctively, Tom raised his arms, ready to offer Michael a cuddle to warm him up, but he stopped himself and shoved his mutinous hands into his jeans pockets.
“Let’s go back inside,” he said. He pushed away from the wall, feeling a little better now—still like a man carrying his heart on his upturned palm and expecting to trip at any second. He just needed to step carefully, although stepping at all might be tricky, seeing as Michael hadn’t moved from the doorway. “You all right?”
Michael didn’t answer, seemingly looking for inspiration from the heavens above.
“Mike?”
“Hm?”
“Are you all right?”
“Probably.”
He sounded cheery—very cheery—and a bit excitable, which only served to worry Tom further. “You’re acting oddly.”
“Well, I am odd,” Michael reasoned.
Tom chuckled. “Even for you.”
“I’m all right.” Michael shifted his gaze downwards to meet Tom’s. Nope, still weird. “I’m trying to…work something out.”
“Why? What’s up?”
A smile twitched on Michael’s lips, and he pointed. Up.
Tom didn’t need to look to know what he’d find if he looked up. So that was why Michael was loitering in the doorway, and why he’d stretched to touch the doorframe overhead. If Tom hadn’t been ogling Michael’s bare belly, he’d have had his answer a few minutes ago. But what was a few minutes when he’d been waiting for days?
The mistletoe’s translucent white berries changed from red to yellow to green to blue, the deep-green leaves appearing to shift in the waves of colour. Tom was mesmerised, hardly able to believe what was happening. There was the mistletoe, and Michael McFerran was standing beneath it, waiting for Tom to make his move, but he’d never been that great at romance, and he was insanely nervous.
“Are ye gonna kiss me, or leave me standing under here, looking like an eejit?”
Tom giggled, his face getting impossibly hotter—who’s the one who looks like an eejit?—and when he still didn’t move, Michael gr
abbed his hands and pulled him into the doorway.
Then he kissed him. Again.
Like the last time, it was clumsy and too short. Way, way too short. More of a peck than a kiss, really.
“You just, er…” Tom looked down at their joined hands. We’re doing this. Oh, God. We’re actually doing this for real. He squeezed gently and circled his thumbs over soft skin, defined tendons, the smatter of dark hairs. There was strength in those hands, and it tethered him to Earth. Without it, he would surely be floating up and away. What a strange feeling. Like the flu, but not. Anti-flu? He looked up into Michael’s face and shrugged, speechless, breathless and completely senseless.
“I what? Kissed you?”
Tom had forgotten he’d left a sentence hanging. “Well, yeah.”
Michael nodded. “Sorry.” He didn’t look very sorry—not with that big grin, and a whole mess of curls flopping over his eyes. “I don’t mean for kissing you. I’m not sorry about that at all.” He shook his head, trying to flick his hair out of his face, but it didn’t work.
With shaking fingers, Tom reached up to brush the curls back, but Michael captured his hand and planted a soft, slow kiss on Tom’s palm.
“Why are you sorry?” Tom’s voice was suddenly husky and deep—he hoped it sounded seductive, not creepy, because he had no control over it whatsoever.
“Well, you say you’ve been wanting to kiss me, and I didn’t know how to show you I wanted you to without kissing you, except I didn’t want to steal your thunder by snogging your face off. So I thought I’d just do it quick and then…” Michael sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Be romantic. I’ve never done it before, and I’m kind of sober this time, so… Any time you want to take over…”
Tom laughed, delightedly disbelieving. Michael’s doubts were the same as his own, and yet here he was, wooing Tom without even realising.
“So you don’t mind if I kiss you, then?” Tom asked.
“Not at all. I’d actually really like you to kiss me. If that’s OK.”
If that’s OK? There was quite possibly nothing else in the world that was more OK.
Tom took a step closer, and Michael’s warm breath puffed against his cheek. Closer still, and their torsos touched. A hair’s width between their lips, Tom cupped Michael’s face, working his fingers into Michael’s hair, as soft and tangly as he had imagined it would be. With a quick glance up first, to check they were still under the mistletoe, he closed his eyes and let his mouth find Michael’s…
Stomach clenching, ears fizzing, Christ, my knees are going from under me, I…this…the world popping out of existence all around them. Michael tasted perfectly magnificent—of beer and fresh air and Michael—spring sunshine, snow days, rain after weeks of baking sun, swirls of autumn leaves. They were time-warping together, sharing a lifetime’s hopes and wishes through a kiss. It didn’t matter that they’d kissed twice before. Those kisses, fleeting and brave, were their legacy, but they were not this sustained, breathtaking wonder.
Michael’s lips parted, and Tom followed his lead, suppressing a groan when he felt Michael’s tongue enter his mouth and the warmth of Michael’s hands on his back, pulling him closer, full-body contact, both smiling into the kiss at the discovery of their mutual arousal. Tom pulled back and captured Michael’s lower lip between his teeth, biting and sucking at it, losing control. He wanted more.
More kisses.
More than kisses.
He was lost to Michael McFerran. Lost, and found.
Chapter Twenty-Five:
Interim
It was almost two a.m. when Tom stopped the car outside old Barry’s farm to drop Michael home after their night out—and gone half past two by the time Michael made it out of the car, away from the kisses. Boy, did his face ache—no one ever mentioned that in romance novels, or real life. Kissing was hard on the face muscles—more so, he imagined, because he’d never done it before. But, he supposed, as he walked across the farmyard and silently entered the house, more practice would solve that problem. With a little giggle to himself, and a whole lot of—
Oh my God, I’m going out with Tom Donnan, oh my God, oh my God…sorry God, for taking your name in vain, but God, I’m GOING OUT WITH TOM DONNAN! I hope that’s OK, Father? Amen.
—Michael locked the door behind him and crept up the stairs to bed. Fumbling in the dark, he successfully undressed and leaned down to get his pyjamas from under his pillow.
“What the—Dee!” He got his hands over his bits and bobs just in time. The bedside lamp came on, and Dee peered up at him, stretching and groaning.
“You woke me up,” she complained sleepily.
“You’re in my bed!” he hissed.
“I was waiting for you to come home.”
He gawped in disbelief. Quite why he was bothering to cover himself up, he didn’t know. Any second now, Chancey was going to storm in and rip his balls right off, leaving him in a squirming bloody mess on his own bedroom floor.
When Dee made no move to get out of the bed, Michael huffed as loudly as he dared, and said, “Could you give me my pyjamas, please?”
Dee tugged them out from under the pillow and held them up for him to take. Michael edged closer. Without moving his hands, and losing any and all hopes of protecting his modesty, he gripped the fabric between his index and middle fingers and shuffled back, turning away from Dee to put them on.
“Nice ass.”
“Shut up, Dee.”
Safely in his pyjamas, Michael advanced on his bed once more. “Shift over.” Dee moved back against the wall; he climbed in beside her. “What are you doing in here? Everything all right?”
“Yep. I wanted to wait up for you, but Dad sent me to bed.” Dee grinned mischievously. “He didn’t say which bed.”
“He’s gonna kill us both.”
Dee’s shoulder lifted slightly in a carefree shrug. She had gall, this girl. “So…what happened?” she asked. “Where did you go? Did he take you on a date?”
“We went to Belfast to look at Queen’s University.”
Despite the fact she was lying down and looked very relaxed, Dee still somehow managed to sag in disappointment. Michael laughed at her.
“God, you are so boring!”
“I wasn’t done!” he protested. Dee scowled. “And then we went to a pub…”
Even as he prepared to tell her, Michael felt the swell of excitement building inside him, growing and growing, until suddenly it erupted from him in a gasp and a shiver.
“And then?” Dee prompted, poking his shin with her bare toes.
“And then we kissed under the mistletoe.”
“You… Without me?”
“What, sorry?”
“I waited all this time, and you kiss when I’m not even there to see?!”
“Um…” That wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting. He’d hoped she’d be pleased for him. “You wanted to watch us kissing?”
“Well, yeah. Cos, let’s get real. I’m never gonna get to kiss a boy.”
Michael didn’t bother arguing. Chancey was overprotective, but Dee was a handful. He could appreciate why her dad kept such a tight rein on her. But he was loosening it, slowly but surely.
“Michael?”
“Hm?”
“Is Tom your boyfriend?”
The smile bloomed and expanded, making his kiss-exhausted cheeks ache all over again, and he rolled onto his side and squeezed Dee in a tight, tight hug that made her squeal.
“Shhh!” he admonished, and they both giggled. “Yeah, he’s my boyfriend.”
“I’m so happy for you,” she whispered.
He closed his eyes and sighed, certain he’d never been this happy in all his life. Even Chancey discovering Dee was in his bed again couldn’t ruin this feeling.
“Will you find me one?” Dee slurred.
“Aye,” Michael agreed. “Tomorrow.”
<<<>>>
Tom looked to the duty solicitor for guidance, but she simply nodded at him to answer the question.
“It wasn’t unprovoked, sir.”
The police officer sat back and studied Tom for a moment. “Father O’Neill thinks very highly of you. He went to great lengths to assure me that this assault was entirely out of character. So, the thing I’m trying to establish here, is why a young upstanding citizen such as your good self would attack someone he’s worked and got along with for two years.”
“You need to ask Connor McQuaid that question, sir.”
“I’m asking you.” The officer leaned forward again. “Come on, Tom. Give me something.”
Tom swallowed, with difficulty. He was so thirsty, and hungry—no time for breakfast. While he and Michael had been in Belfast, the police had gone to the house and told his dad that Tom needed to voluntarily report to the police station at nine a.m. Years of listening to his grandad’s stories left Tom in no doubt what that meant. If he didn’t go to the station of his own free will, they’d arrest him. They wouldn’t care that he’d only woken up at a quarter to nine and had to put his t-shirt on as he sprinted to the car, or that he’d had to break the speed limit to get here on time.
The police had talked to Michael yesterday, and he’d told them the truth—he wasn’t capable of anything less. They’d also talked to Father O’Neill, and Tom had already lost his job over this. He had nothing to lose by confirming what the police already knew.
“Connor McQuaid and his friends have been bullying Michael McFerran.”
“All right, Tom. That’s better. What do you mean by bullying?”
He shrugged hopelessly, trying to block the image of Connor smashing up his car, which inevitably he would, as soon as he found out Tom had made a statement.
“Cyber-bullying,” he said. “They were sending him degrading messages on Facebook and posting statuses that were obviously about him. I don’t know if they still are. I blocked them. But they also follow him around town, get in his face, steal stuff from him, and then at the church…”