by Tom Collins
Grandmother? Someone’s grandmother wanted to meet me? I hadn’t even met Sandy’s mother, who hadn’t approved of her marriage to my father and her subsequent “adoption” of me.
“Tea,” I repeated, taking that hanging bite of boxtie, chewing and swallowing down hard.
“She wants Bren and I to join you guys,” Jill went on. “So, Tuesday?”
“This…Tuesday?” I swear my voice squeaked.
Erin outright snorted. “Uncle Gabe boasted that you’d skinned your knuckles on those thugs. So you fought three muggers, but you’re scarred to face our little old grandma?”
“Shut up, fuckwit!” Liam snapped. He looked seriously pissed at Erin. “You’re still healing,” he said earnestly to me.
“Healing, right,” Erin drawled, “And that was physical therapy I heard coming from your bedroom.”
“—If you’re not ready—” Liam went on to me.
“No,” I waved him off. Erin might be obnoxious, but he was right. Being scared was silly. “It’s just tea with grandma, right?”
“And granddad,” Bren put in, devouring his second boxtie. “And our ‘rents and sister, but don’t worry. Molly’s the only one likely to give you trouble.”
Erin was grinning now, relishing his revenge on me, which I hoped meant we could bury the hatchet.
Liam looked upset. He didn’t want anything ruining our hard-won harmony. I could understand that, but I also understood that I’d asked for this. Commitment, entanglement, worked both ways.
“Tuesday then,” I agreed and went back to eating. “Just let me know the time. Oh, and Erin, this is delicious.” It was. He’d marinated the chicken in something, I could taste herbs and spices and citrus.
“Thanks,” he said smugly, almost graciously. We ate in silence for a moment, with Erin still eying me. Then he put his plate aside and went back into the kitchen. The refrigerator opened and shut and he came striding back with a blue ceramic bowl. It was covered with plastic wrap.
“Here!” he shoved it at me. I set down my plate and took it. Removing the wrap I smelled tuna and saw that it was piled atop brown rice.
I felt like someone had hit me over the head with a mallet. Why would anyone who could cook like Erin try to duplicate my pathetic tuna salad?
“Fuck a duck! Can’t you let it go?” Liam nearly growled at his cousin. He looked as embarrassed as I’d ever seen him.
Erin had his arms crossed defiantly. “Taste it!” he commanded me. I did. It was delicately favored with apples and celery and sweet pickle.
“Um…it’s yummie,” I said and meant it. I was half inclined to pick up a fork and dig in.
“Tell that to him!” he jerked his chin at Liam who was rubbing at his forehead as if trying to mentally wish away his cousin. “That’s about the tenth batch of that shit that I’ve made this week and none were up to scratch. Your boychick there would eat a bite or two, then set it down saying, ‘It doesn’t taste right!’” Erin’s tone was whiny, but enough like Liam’s that I almost laughed. “So, I want to know what I did wrong because I made it just like he told me, and every other way I could think of, and it was still fercockt.”
Fercockt?
“Well…ah…it’s albacore tuna, that’s right—” I began.
Erin nodded.
“No mayo or any of these other things, just lemon and olive oil, some dried herbs, a little pepper—”
He nodded again. “That’s what Liam thought was in it, and that’s how I made it in half the recipes. After which I started adding those extras.”
“Well, if you made the tuna that way it ought to have been right. I mean, other than that, there’s just steamed veggies on top, brown rice beneath, and a drizzle of balsamic dressing.”
“That’s probably it,” Erin said impatiently, “Liam mentioned the vinaigrette. I tried mixing it up six or seven different ways. How do you make it?”
“Um…” Oh, man I didn’t want Erin hating on me again. Oh, well. “It’s store bought.”
“Store…bought? You mean like a commercially made dressing?”
“Um. Yes,” I said meekly. “I’m not a very good cook.”
He positively glowered at Liam, fierce enough to make me put a protective hand on my lover’s shoulder. “Store bought,” he echoed accusingly.
Liam blushed. “I told you, I never actually watched him make it!”
“Liam was usually drawing when I fixed it up for him,” I added.
“Store bought!” Erin was still shaking his head. He looked both horrified and offended, but also amused. “Space Oddity, you are such a…space oddity!”
We finished lunch and Liam walked me down the hall to the elevator.
“Sorry about Erin,” he said, resting his head on my shoulder. “He can be a real pill, but he’s a brother, if you know what I mean, which you probably don’t, not having any brothers.”
“I know what you mean,” I said, and kissed the top of his head. “He tried to take care of you and there’s no way I can be mad with anyone who did that. Besides, he’s the only member of your family who’s made perfect sense to me. Of course he’s angry for what I did to you, and what you did to him when you found out where I’d been.”
I stopped us and made him face me. I had to say, there was a warm feeling inside me, as if a cold, empty spot had been filled, or a half of my soul had been returned. In the end, I was indebted to Erin as much as to anyone else for it. Liam liked my tuna salad! It made me all teary-eyed.
Absolutely whacked and ridiculous. Like a potted cactus or a bagged lunch or a cartoon done up just for me and placed on my pillow. Did Liam even realize that his very masculine man was turned to mush by such stupid, little tokens of affection?
“You still have my key?”
He nodded solemnly.
“You wash and pack up. Give me a few hours to rest up, and then come on over. Okay?” I tried not to be hesitant in asking it, but some uncertainty leaked through. “I’ll make up tuna salad,” I cajoled.
He grinned. “Just try to keep me away…tuna salad or no.”
Chapter Fourteen
*Liam*
I went back inside, locking the door behind me and leaned back against it with a heavy sigh of relief. Bren came over and I grabbed him up in a bear hug.
“He loves me, Bren!” I cried happily.
“Tchya,” exclaimed Erin.
“What?” I demanded, letting go of my brother and stalking toward Erin in his recliner.
“Did he actually say he loves you, or did you assume it?” he inquired, hazel-green eyes narrowed.
“He as good as said it…he came to me to make up, didn’t he?”
“Of course he did,” he drawled, rolling his eyes heavenward, as if beseeching higher powers for help, or at least patience, with the lame of mind.
“What’s that supposed to mean!?”
“Have you ever looked in the mirror, or even at the person standing next to you right now?”
Brendan and I looked at each other questioningly. He shrugged to say he was as mystified as I was; I shrugged back and returned my attention to Erin.
“Oh, my God!” he cried in exasperation, leaping to his feet. He grabbed me by the shoulders saying, “Kine-ahora, Liam, I love you like a brother, but you’re such a dreamer, always with your head in the clouds. You think everyone is a mensch until proven otherwise and it takes a fucking catastrophe to change your mind sometimes. My point is, he’s a man and you’re a choice piece of ass. You really think he’s gonna just let that get away from him when the alternative is going back to cruising bars and alleys for dangerous strangers?”
I jerked away from him, more hurt than angry. It was as if he didn’t believe someone could want me for more than sex.
“He’s not like that!” I snarled through clenched teeth. “He’s not a user like you think, and I’ll thank you to stop with the kibitzing already. He loves me whether you believe it or not!”
“Oh, so now I’m not welcome?
” He was hurt, I knew. “Well, you can just call me Pontius Pilate ‘cause I’m washing my hands of this loch in kop.” He mimed his words, dusting his palms against each other.
“You’re wrong about him, Erin.”
“Fine, good…mazel tov!” His tone dripped sarcasm like spoiled cream as he flopped into his chair and flicked on the TV. “Just don’t come crying to me next time that momzer breaks your heart.”
I sighed through my nose, wishing there was something I could do or say to convince him. I thought he must have been feeling about the same as me. I knew he was trying to protect me, not just from Oliver, but also from myself. He’d spent most of his life guarding Brendan and me, making sure we didn’t walk into holes—be they figurative or literal—and this was the thanks he got for that devotion, right? My rejection of his protection when he felt I needed it most.
Letting it rest for now, I headed into the bathroom with Brendan on my heels to keep me company. Taking special care in washing, I lathered up twice with my green shower-puff before rinsing—Bren’s was blue, our personal color coding since we were little—and setting it aside. Bren sat on the toilet while I showered, keeping a running dialog going. He didn’t address what was on both our minds until I was at the mirror shaving.
“He’ll come around,” speaking of Erin. “You got to give him time and let Oliver prove his worth.”
“I know,” I sighed. “It’s just going to be hard for a while. He’s such a mother hen.”
“And Ollie’s not? Did you see him go all protective, putting himself between me and Erin? He’s totally my hero right now.”
“That didn’t surprise me at all. He’s the protective type, and while he doesn’t see us as the same person, I think we’re enough alike that it makes him protective of you too, the way Jill is of me. Maybe that’s part of the problem; Erin feels like he’s losing his last boychick to another hen,” I grinned.
“To a rooster more like.” My other self smiled at me. “You could be right.”
I dressed in our white jeans and paired them with the Hawaiian shirt that was covered with bright yellow hibiscus flowers, green palm fronds and royal blue butterflies on a white background, leaving it untucked. The shirt was made from a material that imitated silk with near perfection, but was synthetic and considerably more durable. Black Converse completed the ensemble that got Jill’s approval as soon as she saw it.
“Oh, that reminds me,” Bren said on seeing me in the shirt, “Some lady who came to hear us play Friday night liked the dragon shorts you painted. She’s been coming into the pub all week, bugging me about them and wanting to know when you’d be back. Really wants a pair. I promised I’d pass on the message.” He fished out a card from his back pocket. “Call her, okay?”
“Sure thing.” I slipped it into my back pocket and settled on the arm of Erin’s chair. He tried to shove me off. It was a half-hearted effort at best. He grudgingly allowed me to place an arm across his broad shoulders. We sat that way until it was time for me to leave.
I grabbed my umbrella from the coat rack incase it decided to do more than sprinkle, snagged the small duffle I’d packed with a few changes of clothes and other necessities, and opened the door.
“I’m gonna let it go for now,” Erin called, stopping me, “but I’ll be watching him…you let him know that, hear?”
I nodded and headed out, jingling my keys merrily, fingering Oliver’s key in particular. Everyone I passed along the way, or sat near had a big smile for me. I got off the subway a couple blocks from Oliver’s building. Not five feet from the steps was a small grocer that catered to health food aficionados.
When I came back out of the shop, the sky had opened up again, so I unfurled my bright green, mobile shelter and strolled along, whistling joyously with dessert clutched in my free hand in a paper bag.
Reaching Oliver’s door, I jiggled my key in the lock more than necessary and gave a little knock of warning before opening it and stepping in. Smelling cooking rice and vinegar, I knew he’d already made our supper. I remembered the first time I’d arrived at Ollie’s to smell brown rice in the air. It’d seemed odd and I hadn’t been sure if I liked it. Now, it smelled like home.
I took two steps in and stopped dead at the sight that greeted me. Oliver dressed in a black kilt, heavy black leather boots, greaves, a black mask and nothing else. He leaned against the archway into the kitchen where he would be the first thing I’d see upon entering. In his right hand he held a prop short sword and had a buckler, a tiny shield, strapped to his other forearm. I could make out every set of muscles in his torso and, as he’d dropped some weight, his ribs as well. He was an artist’s dream.
The pose was meant to make him look casual, but I could see his nerves twitching. He didn’t know how I’d react and, no matter how sexy he wanted to look, felt silly. Shoving the door shut, I groped for the dead bolt, not taking my eyes off him for a second. I’d lost my smile when I saw him, but was grinning so hard now that my cheeks were complaining. Other parts of me were beginning to complain as well, due to constricted space.
I leaned my umbrella against the wall next to the door, dropped my small duffle and, still holding onto the bag from the store, walked half way to him. I stopped to take him all in. Until now, I would have said it was impossible for him to be more appealing, but the promise of what lay under the skirt, combined with the sexy mystery of the mask, upped my temperature by several degrees. My already tight Wranglers were becoming more uncomfortable by the second and he was growing restless, likely worried about what I was thinking. I slipped my hand under the long hem of my shirt to adjust my swelling cock into a more comfortable position and that’s when he relaxed and smiled.
“You like?” he asked, rhetorically I was sure.
By way of an answer, I nodded and lifted my shirt to let him see the outline of my hard-on through my jeans. I saw his eyes behind the mask lock onto my zipper as his tongue lapped, slow and sensuous, over his bottom lip. It was an unconscious gesture indicating his carnally oral thoughts. A bolt of desire shot down my spine, making my groin muscles clench. My knees were going to buckle if I didn’t move, so I rushed toward him and grabbed hold to keep myself upright.
I’d moved fast to get to him, but now I kissed him slow and deep. He wrapped his arms around me, dropping the sword, and I caught hold of his hips. Inserting my knee between his, I pulled him up the length of my thigh until he rode my hip. I ventured under his kilt with my left hand. Cupping and squeezing his cheek, I found him bare, not even a jock. I felt him hardening against my hip and groaned into his mouth.
He returned my groan, clutched my shoulder with one hand and buried the other in my hair. I broke the kiss, needing to breathe, but moved down to cover his neck and bare shoulders in kisses, licks and nips. He leaned back, stretching his neck to allow me free access. I brought my right arm up to his shoulder blades to help support his upper body. He gasped and thrashed for a second; the way he moved gave me the impression he was trying to crawl through me.
“What the fuck!” he exclaimed.
“What?” I was baffled.
“You stuck a bag of ice against my back!” he accused.
I busted out laughing and showed him the paper sack.
“What the fuck is that?” he demanded. The bag was coated in condensation, looking as if the bottom might give way at any moment. “Ice cream?” Again his tone was accusatory, though for a different reason this time.
“No,” I pulled the container out to show him, “fat-free, sugar-free, frozen yogurt. You distracted me so much I forgot I was holding it. Sorry. Doesn’t it look yummy though? It’s chocolate with a ribbon of caramel swirled in it.”
He took the half-gallon container and examined it for a second before nodding his approval.
“It’s OK. It just kinda killed the moment.” He gave a little shiver, whether he was remembering the cold of the yogurt or the heat of our embrace I couldn’t say. “We can have some of this later…after we eat di
nner.”
His tone left no room for negotiation, but I didn’t mind as it was exactly what I’d expected. I nodded and followed him to the fridge. He spent a moment working it into the stuffed freezer while I held him from behind, drawing patterns on his shoulders and nape with the tip of my nose. Once he got the freezer closed on its treasure trove, he supported himself on the fridge and leaned back against me, rubbing his firm, round rear against me. My fingers traced the shapes of the individual muscles of his eight-pack on their journey to the waist of his kilt.
“We should stop,” he breathed.
“Why? Are we saving our virtue for the wedding night?” I joked.
He laughed and turned in my embrace to face me. “You know, your brother’s right. You are a cheeky bitch.”
“Guilty as charged, sir,” I said with a grin, leaning in for another kiss. He ducked under my arm. “Aha! Playing hard to get, are we?”
I gave eager chase, but even with his bum leg, he eluded me long enough for me to catch sight of a new addition to Oliver’s limited space. I stopped dead, staring once more in disbelief. At some point, most likely after he left me at my apartment, he’d bought an easel and set it up in the corner by the love seat. It looked like a nice one, too, and that wasn’t all there was. Forgetting the hijinks for the moment, I went to check it out.
It was made of lightweight aluminum and looked as if it would hold a canvas more than two feet tall. The work angle would adjust a full ninety degrees from vertical to horizontal. What’s more, it had telescoping legs. It was breathtaking. It’d been years since I needed a new easel, and this one would make my old, heavy, wooden ones green with envy—the parts that weren’t green with paint already, that is. That wasn’t even the best part. Clamped to the rear tripod leg was a full spectrum artist’s lamp.
It was the very one I’d shown Oliver when I hauled him to the supply store, saying I’d been eyeing it, but hadn’t yet decided if it would be worth the expense. Behind the easel sat an adjustable, padded, wheeled stool and beside that stood a wooden TV tray. Laying on it was a brand new palette and twelve quality brushes, six with blue handles and six with yellow handles—blue for water applications and yellow for oil. All of which I’d explained the use for to Oliver while in the store.