The Tinder Stories

by Tory Temple

  John nodded and didn’t say anything for a while. Morgan sat in companionable silence with him and enjoyed the quiet.

  “Maybe no one is responsible,” John spoke up. “A true accident. They do happen, you know.”

  Morgan looked over at his lover’s father in the fading light. “And that’s okay with you?” he asked John. “You love him too. He was hurt because of someone else’s lack of attention. I just want someone to pay for that. Because then maybe it won’t happen again to someone else.”

  The only thing to be heard for a few minutes was the sound of tearing paper as John played with the label on his bottle. Then he spoke slowly, as if he was choosing words one by one.

  “My son’s life was threatened. This was upsetting for Maribel and myself, as you can imagine. It was upsetting for you too. Anyone with eyes can see that.”

  Morgan made a sound of agreement and waited. John Matthews didn’t talk a lot, but what he did say was usually worth listening to.

  “But we—meaning Maribel and myself, because I feel she would agree with me—don’t wish for anyone to ‘pay’ for what happened to Christopher. That would be spreading blame around where maybe it doesn’t rightfully belong.”

  “But it does belong somewhere. I’m a retired fireman, John. I spent fifteen years doing what Chris does. Things are always preventable.” Morgan had become more and more sure of this over the past decade or so. After all, an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure, wasn’t it? His grandmother had loved saying that.

  John blew lightly across the rim of his empty bottle. The low sound reverberated across the patio, and Morgan could feel it in his chest. Somewhere, a mourning dove heard the noise and called back.

  “I don’t doubt that you were very good at your job, Morgan. And that you’re good at what you do now. Teaching firemen to be safe is commendable. Chris speaks highly of you. But the fact remains that you can’t keep life from happening. You can only do your best to live it.” John rose from his seat, bottle in hand. “I’ll go and save my son from his mother. Probably order takeout at the same time. Preferences?”

  “Chinese,” Morgan said absently. He rolled the ice around in his glass and didn’t look at John.

  “Good enough.” John went inside, letting the screen door bang shut behind him.

  The dove that had answered the beer bottle call flew into the yard just then, its mate behind it. Morgan watched the birds settle on the back fence until it was too dark to see them.

  CHRIS’S ANKLE proved to be both painful and troublesome. Despite the lack of surgery, a relief to them both, the bone was still broken and required time and rest to heal. Chris was instructed by his doctor to go nowhere without crutches.

  “I hate these things,” Chris fumed one night as he limped his way into the kitchen. Five days after the incident, the shiner over his eye was still prominent. The yellowish-green bruise did nothing for him, Morgan decided. But Chris was still pretty.

  “So stay on the couch like you’re supposed to.” Morgan turned the heat off under the cooked pasta and got the strainer out of the cupboard. A master chef, he was not. Spaghetti again.

  “I had to pee.”

  Morgan was about to tease Chris with the offer of a bedpan when a knock at the front door sounded, followed by the doorbell.

  “Hide!” Chris whispered. “I think the Jehovah’s Witnesses are back. They were here two days ago when you were at the store.”

  “I will do no such thing.” Morgan gave Chris a withering look and went to answer the door. Even Jehovah’s Witnesses would be more pleasant to talk to at the moment.

  It was not, in fact, any religious group that was calling. Morgan opened the door to find Tucker and Chance on the porch, a foil-covered casserole dish in Tucker’s hands and a pink bakery box in Chance’s.

  “Hiya, Morg.” Tucker grinned. “Brought you some chow. Chicken casserole. Ain’t fancy.”

  Morgan blinked. “Right now, anything not spaghetti is fancy. Thank you.” The visit and the food were unexpected.

  Chance handed over the pink box. “There’s a French bakery around the corner from my station. They make great profiteroles.”

  “Yeah, I dunno what the hell those are, but there’s some good cream puff things in that box.” Tucker smiled broadly, dimples on full display, and Morgan understood again why Chris had spent time pursuing him. And why Chance was so protective. The dark-haired fireman with a thick Southern accent was quite easy on the eyes, if Morgan was being honest.

  Morgan snorted and looked at Chance. Chance rolled his eyes and elbowed Tucker. “Bring the casserole into the kitchen.”

  “Yep, I’m goin’.” Tucker slid past Morgan and headed for the kitchen, calling out as he went, “Matthews! Brought you grub, you big slacker! When’re you gonna get your ass back to work so I don’t gotta deal with these overtime medics, huh?”

  Morgan couldn’t hear Chris’s answer, but the teasing tone mimicked Tucker’s. Well, at least there was something that cheered Chris up a little.

  “Come on in, Chance.” Morgan stepped back so Chance could come inside. “I can offer you spaghetti and canned sauce. Or chicken casserole.”

  “We ate.” Chance smiled and shook Morgan’s hand. “Good to see you. We won’t stay long, if you’re about to eat.”

  The living room was dark, so Morgan flipped on the overhead light. “Spaghetti can wait, trust me.” He could hear Tucker and Chris talking animatedly in the kitchen. “Get you something? Water? Beer? Stronger?”

  “Nah.” Chance waved off the offer and sat on the couch, moving aside Chris’s sheets and pillows. “Just came by to bring food and give you some help. Your grass is getting long out front.”

  “I know.” Morgan sat in the easy chair that faced the sofa. “My gardener is on vacation for a month, and I said I’d cut my own lawn while he was gone. You can see how often I’ve done it.” The answer was not at all. Chris had said he’d do the mowing on his days off, but then he’d gotten hurt and everything had been on hold for almost a week.

  “Tuck will be by tomorrow to do that for you. I have to work, but he’ll take care of it.”

  “What?” Morgan frowned. “Why? I’ll get to it eventually. Hopefully before the homeowners’ association mails me a nice letter about it.”

  Chance shrugged. “Because then you don’t have to. It’ll take Tuck less than an hour, and it’s our way of helping. We help our own.”

  Our own. Morgan assumed that mean firemen. He hadn’t thought of himself as a fireman in many years.

  “I’m not… you know. One of your own. But thank you.” Morgan shifted uncomfortably. He liked Chance, and Tucker too. He wasn’t sure how to react to this offer of help.

  “Sure you are,” Chance replied easily. “You work for the department. Even if you didn’t, everyone knows what happened to Chris. We reach out to help people who need it.”

  This was unexpected. Morgan knew that the fire department was very good about ensuring that the families of injured members received support and help during a difficult time, but somehow he had never assumed that would apply to himself.

  “Thank you,” Morgan finally said.

  “No problem. Do you need meals for the weekend?”

  “Christopher’s parents brought some frozen dishes that we’ve been eating. Alternating with spaghetti.”

  “So, yeah.” Chance grinned. “Let me have a couple of things delivered. When I was laid up, Tuck and I appreciated it.”

  Morgan recalled Chance’s serious accident several years prior. Morgan and Chris hadn’t been together at the time, but the news went around the department quickly. “Okay. Thank you. We’re both tired of my fake cooking.”

  Chance nodded and rose. “We’ll let you get to your spaghetti. Hang in there. This is a rough time, but it gets better. Accidents happen.”

  It was on the tip of Morgan’s tongue to say that he didn’t think things would ever get “better,” not as long as Chris was a fireman and exposed
to all the dangers of the job. But when he looked up at Chance, there was such a look of calm surety on the other man’s face that Morgan couldn’t help feeling his anxiety lessen slightly. He supposed that’s what made Chance a good captain.

  “Thank you,” he said again. It seemed inadequate.

  “You got it.” Chance stood in the entryway and raised his voice. “Tuck! Let’s go.”

  The sound of laughter came from the kitchen. Morgan was grateful to Tucker for doing what he himself hadn’t been able to do for a few days now.

  Chris and Tucker appeared after a moment, Chris hopping on one foot and Tucker using the crutches. “This ain’t hard, you big baby. Quit yer bitchin’ and be nice to Morgan, for God’s sake.”

  “Your armpits aren’t rubbed raw after only five minutes,” Chris scoffed. “Give me those before I fall.”

  Tucker returned them with a chuckle. “Take ’em. And you better be back after six weeks, like the doc said. Don’t try and get away with longer.” He gave Chris a light punch on the arm and went to stand next to Chance.

  “Good to see you, Tucker.” Morgan smiled and offered his hand.

  “Morgan.” Tucker shook it and said in a serious voice, “Go ahead and call me when Matthews is a dick to you. I’ll take care of it.”

  Chris mumbled something disparaging under his breath, and Morgan laughed. “I bet you will. Thanks.”

  Chance sighed and rolled his eyes. “Chris,” he acknowledged. “Get some rest.”

  “Thanks.” Chris nodded but didn’t quite meet Chance’s eyes, and Morgan hid a smile. Good, as long as Chris was slightly afraid of Chance, Morgan didn’t have to worry about Chris’s old crush on Tucker resurfacing.

  The two men left and Morgan turned to Chris, who was still balancing on crutches in the middle of the room. “If you sit your ass on the couch, I’ll bring you some ice and your dinner.”

  To Morgan’s surprise, Chris complied. He sank down to the sofa with a grateful sound and closed his eyes. “I never thought just moving around could exhaust me.”

  A flash of sympathy and fondness hit Morgan simultaneously. He bent to offer Christopher a gentle kiss. “I know. Let me take care of you.”

  “Well.” Chris opened his eyes and smiled. “Maybe having Chance Shanahan in my house isn’t so bad. What did he say to you?”

  “Nothing. I just like the guy. It would be nice if others took his example and were as careful about their work as he is.” Morgan turned to go back to the kitchen and their abandoned pasta.

  “Morgan.”

  He reached the doorway and turned to look back. “Mmm?”

  “Most of us are careful. Shit just happens. Let it go.”

  Morgan knew it wouldn’t be as easy as it sounded.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TUCKER CAME to mow the front and back lawns, just as Chance said he would. He also brought a peach pie and a gallon of vanilla bean ice cream, which made Chris as happy as if he’d won the lottery.

  Two days after that, Rich showed up with Russ Franklin, another firefighter at Chris’s station but on a different shift. Morgan watched through the front window as they both washed Morgan’s car and then Christopher’s truck.

  For the next three weeks, the steady procession of firemen continued. Mostly they were men Morgan knew, but once in a while someone would show up who Chris would need to introduce. But each of them brought some form of food, help, or just conversation.

  It was nothing like Morgan had ever experienced.

  When Kyle had been seriously hurt, his family had whisked him away to provide the best possible care. Morgan was alone, isolated, shut out. It was likely that Kyle’s family had been offered the same type of support and friendship Chris was receiving now, but Morgan had no idea. He and Kyle had been a secret from… well, everyone. It had made things much harder to bear.

  Morgan still felt guilt over wishing Kyle had died sooner rather than later.

  He watched Chris stand on the porch and slap hands with Tucker as they said goodbye. Tucker had made several visits over the course of the past month, at least once a week, always with food. He would joke with Chris and grin at Morgan. He never stayed for longer than an hour. It seemed to be the exact thing Chris needed, and Morgan began to wonder if he would ever understand the brotherhood of the fire department.

  When Morgan saw Chris turn to head inside, he pretended to be busy watching the motorcycle race he’d recorded on television. Christopher limped to the couch and sank down next to Morgan.

  “Two more weeks,” he announced.

  Morgan assumed he was referring to the cast on his ankle. “I know. But you can’t go back to work for at least another ten days after it comes off.”

  Chris huffed in annoyance and slumped down lower on the sofa. “That’s bullshit.” He studied his bare toes sticking out from the plaster, then leaned forward and picked up his digital camera from the coffee table. Morgan knew it was his favorite possession, second only to Chris’s motorcycle.

  Chris snapped a picture of his casted ankle, as he’d done at least once a day for the past few weeks. He studied the screen thoughtfully. “Look,” he said and passed the camera to Morgan. “Less swollen, right? My toes were looking like sausages for a while there.”

  “I don’t have to look at your camera to see that.” Morgan laughed. “I’ve been seeing those things for a month now. If you’d stay on the couch a little more, the swelling would have gone down faster.”

  “Boring,” Chris grumbled. “The couch is boring. So is the bed and the kitchen table and my bike.”

  Morgan raised a brow. “Your bike is boring? That’s a new one.”

  “It’s boring if I can’t go anywhere. Just sitting on it is lame.”

  It seemed as if the good mood Christopher had managed to sustain until now was evaporating quickly with each passing day. Morgan couldn’t really blame him, but it made for some tension in the house.

  “You’re not exactly in shape to do much else. Talk to me in two weeks when the cast comes off.” Morgan patted Chris’s thigh.

  “The Salt Creek ride is this weekend.” Chris looked up from his camera. “We can’t get our money back for it.”

  “Good thing it’s for charity. And I’m still riding in it.” Morgan was looking forward to it, actually. The ninety-mile ride up through Oceanside and Orange County was along Pacific Coast Highway. He liked the group of riders that was going too. None of them were grouchy firemen.

  Chris scowled. “Figures. What am I supposed to do for the day?”

  Jesus Christ. Morgan turned his head and looked at Chris in disbelief. “Are you serious? You’ve been moving around fine on your own. You don’t need a babysitter for six hours.” He knew that wasn’t the real reason Christopher was disgruntled, but Morgan was feeling a little disgruntled himself by now.

  “Whatever. Go ride.”

  Morgan sighed. “What do you want for dinner? We have two frozen casseroles in there. I can probably grill burgers too.” At least he thought there was some ground beef left after the meatloaf the other night.

  “I don’t care. Popcorn.” Chris grabbed the remote and started changing channels furiously.

  “You are not having popcorn. Make a choice or I’ll make one for you,” Morgan said firmly.

  “Fine, Dad,” Chris snotted and threw the remote on the coffee table. “Burgers.”

  His patience left him in a rush. “Enough!” Morgan barked. He leaned forward and shoved the coffee table out of the way, then turned and dropped to his knees in front of Chris.

  Chris looked startled. “What are you—”

  “Shut up already.” Morgan reached up for the waistband of Chris’s gray track pants and yanked. He succeeded both in pulling the pants down and dragging Christopher closer to him. There was only one way Morgan could think of to make Chris stop grousing for five minutes, and right now Morgan was desperate.

  Chris wore no underwear, which was fortunate. It gave Morgan better access to the nicely s
haped cock in front of him. It wasn’t hard, not yet, but Morgan could see it already starting to wake up.

  Morgan looked up from between Chris’s legs. “I’m going to blow you and you’re going to like it,” he informed Chris. “And then you will refrain from pissing and/or moaning about anything for at least an hour. Understand?”

  “Uh-huh.” Chris looked down at Morgan, blue eyes wide. His cock was definitely more attentive than it had been thirty seconds ago.

  “Good. Don’t talk.” Morgan lowered his head and set to work. With any luck, he’d get ten or fifteen minutes of complaint-free silence.

  He put a hand on Chris’s good leg and shoved it over to give himself more room. The nice, stiff dick in front of him had responded quickly, as Morgan figured it would. The boy was nothing if not easy. Morgan started with nuzzling Chris’s heavy balls and didn’t stop until he heard a light sigh.

  The head of Chris’s prick was practically begging to be sucked, so Morgan did. He played his tongue along the slit and then kissed it before closing his lips around the soft ridge. He stayed there for a while, alternating between kissing and sucking very lightly, until Chris’s gentle breathing became more pronounced.

  “Suck me,” Chris demanded, but added a please when Morgan looked up at him wryly. “Please?” he said again, his hips tilting forward.

  Morgan took pity on him. They really hadn’t had much sex in the past few weeks. Christopher’s painkillers had also effectively killed his sex drive for the first few days, and then he’d just been tired or too irritable for Morgan to even want to get near him. Morgan had had several of his own jack-off sessions in the bathroom after Chris had finally fallen asleep at night.

  Chris seemed anything but irritable now, though. Morgan hummed a little around his cock and enjoyed the moan he got in response. He began to suck in earnest, only wanting to give Chris pleasure, to take his mind off the pain and being trapped in the house.