by Greg Howard
“Actually, I was looking for my phone.” And his shirt, and his underwear, and any shred of dignity he had left. Why couldn’t Mateo, or whatever its name was, have just stayed asleep? That usually made this easier on everyone.
“Ah.” The guy propped himself up on one elbow and turned his perfectly proportioned body toward Cooper. He ran smooth fingertips over the ripples of Cooper’s stomach, reigniting a flicker of desire. “I finally caught the eye of the elusive, hot ginger I’ve been stalking for a month, and now he’s having buyer’s remorse.” A smirk twisted the guy’s lips. “Just my luck.” His gaze drifted down Cooper’s torso and stopped when it arrived at his exposed morning wood.
Heat rushed to Cooper’s cheeks as he pulled the mangled top sheet up over his midsection. “Look…Mattias…”
The guy cocked an eyebrow at him.
“Manuel?” This wasn’t going very well.
The guy rolled his eyes, chuckled, and sat up, not bothering to cover his nakedness. “Really? We talked for an hour at the bar before we left together.”
“We did?” Cooper couldn’t remember the guy’s name, much less the finer points of their no doubt banal conversation. He slipped out from under the sheet and stood with his back to the bed, though it was a little late to play the modesty card at this point. His clothes were scattered on the floor, on a chair, over the lampshade, but his phone was nowhere in sight. Neither was his underwear.
“It’s Miguel,” the guy said with a huff. Cooper looked over his shoulder. Miguel slung his legs off the bed and scratched his dense, curly mop of dark hair. “It’s fine. Your reputation precedes you. I knew what I was getting into.” Miguel stood, rubbed his bare ass, and disappeared into the bathroom.
Cooper gave up trying to find his underwear and pulled on his jeans. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He scanned the floor. “Where the hell is my phone?” A flash of silver caught his eye just under the side of the bed. Dropping down to his knees, he peeked under the frame. Two familiar, gold eyes stared back at him, just a claw swipe away from his phone, which was partially hidden under his hastily discarded boxer briefs.
Cooper reached a hand under the bed and shooed the cat away. It didn’t move. “Beat it, you nappy little pussy.” He swatted again. The cat shot out from under the bed with a hiss and disappeared into the front room.
“Cooper Causey…” Miguel called over a healthy jet stream of liquid hitting the toilet bowl. “…a great lay and you don’t even have to make him coffee. He’ll be gone before the sun’s up. That’s what they say about you at the bar.”
Cooper grabbed the phone and stared at the blank screen, Miguel’s words sparking only minor irritation. What the hell did he care? He’d never see this guy again anyway. He got up, sat on the edge of the bed, and held down the power button on the side of the phone. A toilet flushed, and Cooper glanced over his shoulder toward the door.
Miguel ambled into the room sporting a tiny, yet well-filled, black thong. “Don’t get me wrong. It was damn well worth the wait.”
“I am so glad I don’t disappoint,” Cooper replied with a sarcasm-laced mumble.
His phone finally came to life. A gray notification box in the center of the blue screen tracked six missed calls and one voice mail, all from the same number. Guilt swelled inside him.
Lillie Mae never liked leaving voice mails, opting to call multiple times to see if she could make a personal connection instead. She’d called three times while he was at the bar before he turned the thing off and shoved it into his pocket and out of his thoughts. But six calls plus a voice mail was not like her, especially since she knew he planned to visit her soon. He’d put it off as long as he could and run out of excuses. Something had to be wrong.
A pinch of pain shot through Cooper’s fingertips, like the simultaneous pricking of a hundred needles. The cat reappeared and weaved in and out of his legs, soaking up the errant discharge. He nudged the cat away with his foot, shook his hands, and looked over his shoulder.
Miguel stared at him with a wrinkled brow and a crooked grin. “You okay?”
Cooper grabbed his shirt off the back of the club chair and slipped it on, stuffing the balled-up boxer briefs in his front pocket. He was definitely not okay. Hadn’t been in years.
“Sorry,” he said. “I have to get going.”
“Oh, right. The dissertation you told me about. Smart and sexy. I am such a sucker for smart and sexy.”
God, he needed to get out of there. This guy might actually like him. Those were the worst ones. He connected half the buttons on his shirt and sat down to put on his shoes. Before he could get the laces tied, he sensed Miguel hovering over him.
“Not good with personal stuff after the deed is done are you, Professor?”
“Never going to be a professor unless I get that dissertation done.” Cooper paused and looked up, his eyes level with Miguel’s bulging crotch. The guy was trying to tempt him with round two. That never worked on him. “Sorry to rush out. Really.” Not really. He couldn’t get out fast enough. He stood and almost put a hand on each of Miguel’s arms in a vain attempt at sincerity. The irritating heat in his palms made him think better of it. He clenched his fists. “I’ll call you. I promise.” The words rang so hollow in his own ears, he almost choked them back.
Miguel rolled his eyes. “And guys really believe that shit?”
Cooper gave up. This guy didn’t know him, and he wasn’t worth the effort. He shook his head and made his way toward the front door.
“You can’t use that hot body as a shield forever, Cooper Causey,” Miguel called after him.
“Whatever.” Cooper couldn’t help but slam the door behind him when he stepped out of the apartment. He leaned against the door and took a deep breath of fresh Tennessee morning air. The cookie-cutter apartment complex was quiet except for a few birds playing chase in the treetops across the street in Centennial Park.
The phone weighed his hand down. He flipped it over and stared at the screen again, his fingertips still throbbing. A familiar anxiety rumbled inside him as it did every time he made contact with his past. With that place.
He took another deep breath, pressed listen, and lifted the phone to his ear.
Chapter Two
Cooper lost traction with the road on the black ice of Sampit River Bridge. With a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, he coaxed the SUV back toward the center of the lane, his fingers molding to the hard leather like clay.
Straining to see through the persistent barrage of sleet battering the windshield, he spotted a metal sign up ahead. A severely dented post on the right side caused a protracted lean, as if bowing to the majesty of the unusual winter storm. The reflective coating glimmered under the glare of his headlights.
Welcome to Historic Georgetown
3rd Oldest City in South Carolina
Ghost Capital of the South!
The sign quickly disappeared into the blackness as he passed, and he guided the car onto Fraser Street. A single bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck. The heater had been on full blast since Charleston. Glancing down at the dash, he switched the fan to low and cracked the window for little fresh air.
Grabbing his phone, he checked the screen again. No calls. He’d listened to the voice mail from his grandmother a dozen times between Nashville and Georgetown and speed-dialed her twice as many times to no avail. She didn’t own an answering machine. He should’ve bought her one. He should’ve done a lot of things. But she was always there. She always answered. Until tonight.
He’d already tried Georgetown Memorial, hoping that if she were hurt, she’d have been able to call 911. No Lillie Mae James had been admitted. All he could think of now was getting to Phipps House and making sure she was all right.
He looked up, and his breath caught in his throat. In the middle of the road, a couple of car lengths ahead, stood the hulking, dark figure of a man. Cooper’s foot shot instinctively over to the brake pedal. He yanked the steering
wheel hard to the left. The SUV revolted and lunged to the right, skidding to the side of the road and slamming into the thick metal pole of a road sign. Cooper lurched forward, but the seat belt snapped him back. His head bounced off the headrest, and then the car went still.
He rubbed his neck and slammed his palm on the steering wheel. “Fuck!”
The car idled around him, the only sound in the quiet outskirts of the city other than his rapid breathing and the low hum of the heater. He took longer than he should have to open his eyes. He had his reasons.
Finally he turned and scoured the darkness through the back window with only the orange haze of the street lamps to illuminate his search. The road was empty.
Of course it was.
He relaxed his shoulders and ran his fingers through his hair. He needed to get a grip. Needed to shake off what this godforsaken town did to him every time he passed the city limits. Through the ice-speckled windshield, he noted the sign embedded in the grille of the car.
Historic District and Harborwalk
Next Right
Nervous energy coursed down to his fingertips, igniting a tingling sensation he tried his best to ignore. He took a deep breath and wrung out his fingers like a wet dishrag. Focusing on the blinking lights of the instrument panel, he cursed under his breath and jerked the gearshift into park. He needed to see how much damage had been done, but hell if he wanted to get out of the car. He punched the red release button of his seat belt with trembling fingers. Three tries later, he was free.
Jumping out into the harsh reality of the freezing rain and biting wind without a coat was both miserable and invigorating. He sucked in an icy breath of air and looked around, just to be sure he was alone. The combination of dim streetlights and orange dust from the steel mill smokestacks cast an eerie film over the boarded-up shops and offices lining the entrance to the dying shell of a town.
Cooper walked around to the front of the SUV and inspected the damage. The signpost had made a pretty good dent in the grille. Nothing too serious, but the front right tire was flat. Great. Just what he needed.
He looked around to get his bearings and a familiar landmark caught his eye up the street on the right. With a deep sigh of resignation, he got back in the car, put the gearshift into reverse, and eased the SUV backward. The pole dislodged from the grille with a screech of mangled metal. The drag of the deflated tire lumbered underneath as he pulled into the street, plodding along at a snail’s pace.
The lights of the old Ice House gas station and convenience store lit the black sky with garish fluorescence. He pulled into a parking space in the corner of the lot and killed the engine. Grabbed his phone from the center console and hit redial. After five unanswered rings, he shook his head, hung up, and hopped out of the car.
A sudden blast of brittle January air sucker-punched him in the chest. He grabbed his jacket from the passenger seat, pulled it on, and yanked the collar up around his ears. Balancing himself with one hand on the SUV, he made his way around to the back and checked the cargo area. Spare tire? Check. Jack? Not so much.
The onslaught of freezing rain picked up and sleet stung his face as he carefully navigated the slick parking lot toward the entrance of the Ice House. The bell hanging above the glass door announced his entrance with a jarring clang, shaking cobwebs off long-buried memories in some far corner of his mind. His father used to bring him and his older brother, Kevin, here when they were kids. They’d fill a Styrofoam cooler with ice, bottles of Pepsi, and grab a container of live crickets before heading to the fishing pier off Winyah Bay. The memory no longer seemed like it was his. It belonged to an innocent boy full of life, with a living, breathing family, not to a nearly thirty, immaculately educated yet unemployed English teacher haunted by a clan of shadows.
The store was void of other customers but filled with the pungent odors of raw fish and stale cigarettes. He hurried through rows of potato chips, pork rinds, and beef jerky, making a beeline for the long counter at the back of the store. A man sat hunched over on a stool behind the register, his head buried deep in a rumpled copy of Field & Stream and a burgundy Gamecocks hoodie bunched up around his neck.
Greeted with silence and the top of a thick roost of hair the color and texture of dried hay, Cooper glanced down at the counter to a plastic brochure holder housing a bundle of homemade, tri-folded fliers. Scribbled across the front was Miss Ida’s Ghost Tours. Cooper shook his head. Idiot tourists paid someone to give them a guided tour of the thing he’d run away from since he was a kid.
Annoyed at being ignored, he cleared his throat without trying to sugarcoat his impatience. The guy finally dropped the magazine and looked up. He appeared around the same age as Cooper, and his face was oddly familiar.
With raised eyebrows and a gaping mouth, he looked at Cooper like he’d been raised from the dead. “Cooper Causey?”
A childhood version of the man’s face finally popped into Cooper’s head. He leaned forward and squinted at him. “Tony? Tony Tanner?”
Tony nodded and looked down, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.
Cooper assessed the adult version of the scrawny boy he’d spent so many adventure-filled days with during the long, humid, low-country summers. Tall with a sinewy build, Tony was handsome in that redneck sort of way.
Cooper offered his hand out of habit. “Long time. Ten years at least.”
Tony stared at Cooper’s hand like it had cooties. After an awkward moment to scrub the inside of his elbow, Tony finally accepted the outstretched hand. Cooper flinched when their palms met. Tony’s skin was scaly and cold, like the dead fish resting on ice in the display case a few feet away. His eyes were set deep in their sockets, underscored with baggy dark circles. His face was drawn and weathered, like a crackled canvas of small town history.
“Yeah,” Tony said, pulling his hand away after only a couple of seconds. “’Bout that long. Kevin’s funeral, I guess.”
The reminder stung. Cooper hid behind a stiff smile of well-mannered Southern denial and moved passed it. He needed a jack. That was it. Not a walk down memory lane, especially not for those memories.
He pointed over his shoulder with his right thumb. “I hit a sign and blew out a tire. Do you have a jack around here that I could borrow? Or buy?”
Tony nodded to the far right wall before scraping the inside of his elbow again. Probably massaging hungry track marks, because hell if he didn’t look like a junkie. Cooper followed Tony’s direction to a lone red jack on the bottom shelf, sitting amidst bottles of motor oil, funnels, and gallons of blue windshield wiper fluid.
“Perfect.” Cooper walked over, retrieved the jack, and sat it on the counter. Pulling out his wallet and thumbing through the bills, he waited for the inflated price he would be charged for the convenience of his purchase. Cooper winced when Tony mumbled the amount, giving him a credit card instead.
Cooper scanned Tony’s discarded magazine, mouthing the titles of articles listed on the cover in a vain attempt to avoid small talk while Tony processed the transaction. But guilt and uncomfortable silence prevailed.
“So, you work here now.” It was more of a statement than a question, and Cooper hoped that approach would curtail any lengthy answer.
“Sort of,” Tony said, looking over Cooper’s shoulder.
Why the hell wouldn’t this guy look him in the eye?
Tony’s voice was flat and distant. “Helpin’ out my dad. He bought the place a few years back. Goddamned archaic money pit. Can’t make a decent livin’ selling ice, crickets, gas, and beer no more.”
Cooper really didn’t care. He just wanted Tony to process the damn payment so he could be on his way. He rapped his fingertips on the counter as another awkward lull filled the space between them. They both stared down at the credit card machine, Cooper willing it to respond. He probably could make it do so, if he dared.
Tony made no attempt to draw out the small talk either. He obviously wasn’t interested i
n Cooper’s life now. Perhaps he carried some shame over what they used to do together as kids when they locked themselves away in the storage room behind Tony’s house. He had probably heard rumors about Cooper through the small town gossip mill.
You know that Cooper Causey? Queer as a three-dollar bill. Poor Lillie Mae. Hasn’t that woman suffered enough in her life?
The moment Lillie Mae’s name drifted into his thoughts, the credit card machine sparked to life and spat out a receipt. Tony slid a pen and the receipt across the counter with overdone caution, like feeding a poisonous snake. Cooper scribbled something vaguely resembling his name on the paper, and they both grabbed the car jack at once.
“Thanks.” Cooper pulled the jack toward him by the base. Tony didn’t let go, his empty, dead eyes locking onto Cooper’s. He closed them and leaned over the counter, taking a long sniff of the air between them.
Cooper froze. He stared at Tony, confused and a little creeped out. Tony’s lids fluttered back open, and only the whites of his eyes showed for a split second before dark irises fell back into place. Cooper was sure the guy would pass out.
“You okay?” He let go of the jack and put his hand on Tony’s shoulder.
Tony recoiled, stumbling back and crashing into the wall of cigarettes behind him. The whole display nearly toppled over on top of him. He stared at Cooper with a twisted, undecipherable expression.
Fear? Disgust? Desire?
“Sorry,” Cooper said, though not sure what he’d done wrong.
Tony didn’t respond. Just leered at Cooper like he wanted to slice him up and eat him for dinner. An ice-cold chill ran down Cooper’s spine. Something was seriously wrong with this guy, but he had zero time to waste trying to figure out what it was. Cooper grabbed the jack off the counter and backed away. For some reason, he didn’t want to turn his back on Tony.
“I’ve got to change that tire and get over to Phipps House,” Cooper said. “Good to see you.”