by Lanyon, Josh
That’s not something you hear everyday. I chuckled again. Settled more fully on him, adjusting to his size and length. It had been a good long while since I’d had a real live partner and not a silicone rubber substitute.
He raised his head and kissed my breastbone, and I bent forward latching onto his mouth.
All this and kisses too? I kissed him until I thought I’d pass out from lack of oxygen, and his mouth parted reluctantly from mine. I liked his reluctance. The wet smack of his lips letting me go. I liked the taste of alcohol in his mouth.
“God, that’s sweet,” he muttered.
I rocked back and forth…gently…rising up and scrape-sliding down. The smooth swooping glide of a merry-go-round, that’s what it reminded me of, and the merry-go-round pole driving up my hot little hole. We were just playing, but I started to feel that urgent aching need.
I planted my hand in the cushion of solid pecs and I worked my hips more frantically. Luke matched my rhythm easily, bucking up against my ass, thrusting deeply. His grunts excited me even more. I arched my back, went wild, begged him to fuck me hard, harder, harder.
I needed so much. There was such a big gaping emptiness in me. I needed him to fill it with heat and hungry demands; I wanted his need to overwhelm my own. I almost sobbed as he reached up and took my solid erection into his fist. He pumped me. Sweat broke out across my back. I was on fire.
I looked up and the sky was spinning, the stars rolling across the night, trying to drop into the little pockets. A dizzy swirl of stars and tree tops and the sliding moon, faster and faster and faster….
Luke shouted and I felt that funny squish inside the condom, the rush of hot release. My hole pulsed in response to his orgasm, like a pink mouth trying to find the words. There were no words for this. I reached for the low-hanging stars and yelled right out loud as my own release shivered through me.
Like the cork popping on champagne, spumes of white shot out. Emptied, I slumped forward on Luke’s sweaty chest. Closed my eyes. His arms fastened around me. The sparse hair tickled my nose pleasantly. His heart was thumping from a million miles out…echoing across the universe…
“Christ Almighty,” he moaned. “Please tell me you’re just the same sober.”
The merry-go-round slowed…slowed…glided gradually to a stop. It was nice to lie there like that, skin on skin, listening to the faraway chirp of crickets and frogs.
His words finally registered. I laughed and lifted my head. “It’s moot. I’m never sober.”
His mouth was a kiss away. He said wryly, “You think you’re joking.”
That startled me. “I am joking.” I shook my hair out of my eyes. “Listen, I like to drink, but I do not have a problem with alcohol.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, in the tone of someone who doesn’t want to get into an argument.
It was like he dumped a bucket of ice water over me. I felt bewildered. Hurt. I pulled out of his arms and sat up. “Maybe you should work on your after-play technique.”
“Sorry.” He tugged me back down. “That really was amazing.”
I didn’t have an answer for him. He’d spoiled it for me. I lay there, head on his chest, more hurt than angry — but a bit of both. He stroked my hair. His touch was light, almost tender. I couldn’t think of the last time someone was tender with me.
“Tim,” he said quietly. That was all. I raised my head and he kissed me, his mouth warm and surprisingly sweet.
And we did it all again, only slowly, lingeringly.
* * * * *
The house loomed before me. Ten stories tall. The windows flashed red in the setting sun. The hinges of the broken front door shrieked as the door swung open…
I jerked awake. It was freezing. My head throbbed. My mouth tasted horrible. I needed a piss.
“Bad dream?” Luke asked softly.
Confused, I realized that we were somehow in the same sleeping bag, and I was lying plastered on top of him, my sweaty head resting in the curve of his shoulder. He was dressed again; we both were, although I didn’t remember pulling my clothes back on, didn’t remember zipping ourselves into the bag.
“I…No. I…don’t remember.” I answered in a whisper, responding to his own hushed tone, even as I wondered why we were whispering.
Somewhere to the left, a twig snapped. I shivered.
He pulled the sleeping bag — wet with dew — over my shoulders, and slipped one arm around me again. It felt very good to be held. Even like this, in jeans and flannel shirts, I could feel and was comforted by the heat of his body. His hand slipped under my shirt, absently smoothing up and down my spine.
Despite the soothing touch, I heard the steady, swift thump of his heart beneath my ear.
His other arm, I slowly realized, rested on top of the sleeping bag — and he was holding a gun.
“Is something wrong?”
“Not sure. I think someone might be out there.”
I sucked in a sharp breath, starting to pull away. He held me still. His put his mouth against my forehead. “Shhh. Don’t let on.”
I made myself lie still. Stared at what I could see of his profile in the dark. “What do we do?”
“Wait.”
Wait?
For someone to pick us off as we lay by the cooling embers of our campfire? And I thought I had to pee before? My own heart was ricocheting around my ribcage. I felt for the zip of the sleeping bag, gently pulled it down. Luke nodded infinitesimal approval, continued to stroke my back in that automatic way, his eyes watching the line of trees surrounding the clearing.
We lay there not moving for what felt like an hour. Then I heard an owl call: not the drowsy nocturnal hoot, but the screech they make when they hunt.
A dank, damp breeze scented with the tangled undergrowth washed over my perspiring face. And all at once the night was alive with sound. From silence to deafening racket; I could practically hear ants marching up and down the grass blades, the dew drops crashing from the leaves overhead. Even the stars overhead seemed to crackle brightly in the black and bottomless sky. Too bright for my eyes…
* * * * *
I woke up sick and shaky, head pounding, my ass feeling thoroughly kicked.
“Morning, sunshine,” Luke remarked in answer to my groan. He squatted next to the smoky campfire and held up a sauce pan. “Coffee?”
I muttered assent, crawled carefully out of the bag. Everything was wet, as though it had rained during the night. The smell of frying bacon made me want to puke. I staggered into the bushes and relieved myself.
As I wove my weary way back into camp the empty Bushmills bottle caught my eye. It lay near the ring of campfire stones, a tablespoon of amber glistening in its belly. Why the hell had we finished the entire bottle? Now there was nothing left for today.
My gut tightened remembering Luke’s comments. Well, fuck him.
Oh yeah. I already did.
I took the lightweight aluminum cup he offered, picked up the bottle and tilted the dregs into my coffee. He watched in silence. “Hair of the dog.” Against my will, I heard myself making an excuse. “Sometimes it helps a bad hangover if you have a little drink.”
He eyed me for a long moment, then rose and went to the sleeping bags, unzipping them. He re-zipped his own bag and proceeded to roll it into a tight neat bundle.
I drank my coffee and tried to stop shaking.
He tied his bag with a couple of quick yanks, and said flatly, “My old man was a drunk.”
It was like getting punched in the chest. I couldn’t get my breath. He can’t really think….
“He was what you’d call a functioning alcoholic,” he added.
Maybe he’s not talking about me. Maybe he’s just…lousy at making morning after conversation. I said, “I…thought he was a cop?”
“He was. For thirty years. He drank and he did his job and he came home and drank some more. He was a decent cop and he tried to be a decent husband and a decent father, but he basically lived his
entire adult life in a bottle. There’s not a lot of room for other people in a bottle.”
“I’m not…I don’t have a drinking problem.”
Luke didn’t say anything.
“Look, I admit that I’ve gotten in the habit of drinking too much sometimes, but I’m not…I’m not an alcoholic.” I offer him a twitchy smile. “Really. I’m not.”
“I’m not judging you, Tim. It’s an illness. It’s like heart disease or HIV.”
“The hell you’re not judging,” I said. “Not that I give a damn what you think. I just hope you’re a better detective than you are…whatever this was supposed to be.”
I threw out the rest of my coffee and went to tie up my own sleeping bag.
* * * * *
Which leads us to current events.
I stared at the ragged cross in the pale bark, my chest rising and falling.
“You couldn’t be happy with dinner and a movie, could you?” I ask bitterly. “This is really all you dragged me out here for, to find this goddamned house. Why did you pretend it was anything else?”
“Look, I didn’t kidnap you. You agreed to come. I assumed you wanted to.”
“I wanted to see you again.” It sounded pathetic, but I was so far beyond pride at this point, what did it matter?
His eyes flickered. “I wanted to see you too.”
“Oh, please.” Now it was my turn to be disgusted. “You were never interested in me. You’re just looking to solve some big imaginary cold case. You’re just…bucking for Detective First Grade.” I mimicked the quiet pride in his voice when he’d told me his rank.
He flushed. “That’s bullshit. I wanted to ask you out before I ever heard about this skull house of yours. Rob said you weren’t interested.”
“I wasn’t. I’m not.” Now I was just being childish, but I didn’t care. I hated him for dragging me out here, for seeing me break down sobbing, for making me face things I didn’t want to face.
His mouth tightened. He said, “All right. That story about The Forester? That happens to be an urban legend that every cop in the northeast is familiar with.”
“I didn’t make it up!”
“I know.” He was cool again. “The night of the party…I watched your eyes when you were talking. You weren’t making it up.”
What the hell had he seen? I had no idea. I stared sullenly at the carvings in the tree trunk.
“Whatever you saw all those years ago…it still scares you. And I thought if I offered you a chance to face whatever that was, you’d…take it.”
“In other words, this is just a job opportunity for you.”
“I already told you…” He stopped. Shrugged. “I thought maybe we’d have a few laughs while we were at it.”
“A few laughs? It’s Lost Weekend. In every fucking sense of the word.”
“Hey —” But he didn’t finish it, which was probably just as well. Instead he said, “It’s your call. You want to turn back or you want to see what’s ahead?”
I wanted to start back, no question about it. I looked at him. He met my eyes. I knew what he was thinking. I knew what he wanted. We’d come this far. I stared again at that little cross in the tree.
“After you, Jungle Jim,” I said bitterly.
We continued walking.
And walking.
And walking.
The markings on the tree were mine, but now Luke led the way like he knew where we were going. It was all I could do to put one stumbling foot in front of the other. Maybe there was a path, but to me it seemed like an obstacle course of poison oak and sharp stones and snake holes and bug-infested logs and things that slithered and skittered reluctantly out of our way.
Miles of it in the humid, autumn heat. My head pounded nauseatingly with each step; I felt my heart hammering in my side. I took one step and then another, and I stopped, slid off my backpack. My head swam. I was coated in cold sweat, dizzy…
I dropped down on my knees, fell forward onto my hands. I was trying to decide if I would feel better or worse if I let myself throw up. I probably couldn’t afford to get any more dehydrated than I already was.
Luke squatted down beside me. “You okay?”
I raised my head with an effort. “Of all the stupid questions…” I didn’t have the energy to finish it. “I’m sick,” I whispered.
“I know.”
He opened his pack and pulled out a silver flask. “Medicinal purposes,” he commented, measuring out a stingy little dose. “I think this qualifies.”
I eased the rest of the way down and rested my head on my knees. I wanted to tell him to shove his little silver cup up his tight ass. There was no way that I could.
“Here.” I looked up and he handed the cup to me, steadying my hand with his own.
I was a caricature, a movie drunk. I could hardly manage to get the cup to my mouth.
“Jesus,” he said softly.
I drank. Put my hand still holding the flask cap over my eyes. Like the magic potion in a fairytale, I felt it begin to work, burning through my system, snapping on the lights, warming, calming, illuminating…. Maybe it would make me invisible to Luke; I didn’t want him to keep looking at me like that. I wiped my face on my sleeve. “I’m okay.”
Oh, yeah. Superb. Sick and shaking — but for God’s sake: I was exhausted and sleep-deprived and out of shape; it wasn’t all withdrawal. I didn’t bother telling that to Luke, though. I’d already told him three times that weekend — possibly more — that I didn’t have a drinking problem, so there was no point telling him again.
Even I knew by then that I was lying.
Follow the signs to journey’s end: I couldn’t get through a single day without a drink. I was an alcoholic. A drunk.
“You can have another shot,” Luke said. “But you may need it more later.”
“I can wait.” I didn’t even know if that was true or not.
I didn’t look into his eyes because I couldn’t bear to see the reflection of what I already heard in his voice: attraction and liking replaced by pity — and distaste.
I heard myself say, “I’ve tried to stop. I can’t.” I listened in shock to the echo of those words.
Silence.
He said finally, “Have you ever thought about getting help?”
“You mean like…AA?”
“There are other organizations, but yeah, like AA”
“I…can’t.”
“You can’t what?”
I swallowed hard. “I can’t go and talk to a bunch of people about my…problems.”
I couldn’t believe I was talking to him. Just imagining standing up in a room full of strangers made me feel light-headed: Hi, I’m Timothy…
I looked at him shame-faced and said, “Besides, I don’t…think it would work for me. I don’t think I can stop. I have tried.” I dropped my head on my folded arms.
Why was I telling him?
And yet, as humiliating and painful as this was, there was a terrible relief in just…saying it. Admitting it once and for all.
Luke rested his broad, warm hand on my back. “What about getting medical treatment?”
“You mean a hospital?”
“Rehab, yeah.”
Voice hushed, I admitted the real truth. “I’m afraid.”
“Of rehab?”
I moved my shoulders. “Of giving up control of my life.”
He said gently, “Tim, you already gave up control.”
* * * * *
The house leaned crookedly behind a wall of forbidding trees. I didn’t remember the gingerbread trim. Those frivolous curlicues sweeping up and down the edge of the roof above the wall of trees seemed incongruous with the house of my memory. The vines and tree branches seemed to be all that were holding it rooted into place; I heard the old boards groaning like the building was ready to topple over any moment.
One or two of the upper story windows still had glass panes. The others gaped blackly or had been boarded up. The double wide fron
t entrance was also boarded up. I couldn’t remember if there had been a door before; I didn’t remember the baby blue posts holding up the sagging portico. There was no giant tree growing out through the peeling roof; my imagination must have supplied that.
But there was no question it was the same house.
“There must have been a raised porch that ran the length of the house,” Luke said, studying the high windows.
If there had been stairs they had disappeared with the long-ago porch, and the windows were too high to climb through unless one of us boosted the other.
The building creaked ominously in the breeze, like the laughter of some demented old crone. The sound snapped me out of my trance. “We have to get out of here.”
I tried to brush past Luke. He said something, and reached for me, and I struck at his hand, ducking back when he lunged for me again. He swore. His foot caught on a tree root and he went down on one knee. I slipped out of my pack and ran like a deer.
Only it wasn’t running so much as trying to plough through the brush and bushes and trees. I didn’t get more than a few yards when Luke caught me up. He grabbed my shoulder, and I turned around and swung at him.
He blocked me without particular trouble, not letting go of the steely grip he had on my shoulder.
I tried to slide out from under this hand, and when that didn’t work I tried to slug him. He grasped my fist, yanked me forward, throwing me off balance, and I crashed against him. He still had hold of my arm and he twisted it behind me, turning me away from him.
The pain was instant and startling. I cried out.
“Don’t struggle,” he said, breathing fast. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re fucking breaking my arm!”
“Then hold still, damn it.” His other arm locked across my shoulders in a restraining hold that stopped just short of choking me. “Tim — stop.”
I stopped. My arm felt wrenched out of my shoulder socket. I clenched my jaw against the pain, and nodded. After a moment he let go of the arm twisted behind my back; it dropped limply to my side. I tried to move my other arm to rub my shoulder, but he kept me pinned against him.