Laying a Ghost

by Jane Davitt

  “I don’t know.” John’s hand dropped away. “I’ve never had to think about it before and this ‑‑ you ‑‑ it’s happened so fast that I’m still catching my breath from it all.” He gazed across the kitchen, lost in thought. “Tonight’s not a problem. I’ll drive home and walk back across the fields to you. After that ‑‑” Nick’s expression must’ve given him away because John groaned. “You think this is crazy, don’t you? And it is. It’s just ‑‑ I grew up here being told every other Sunday, it felt like, that the likes of me were unnatural, heading for hell. It took me years to get to the point of not believing that, although I don’t recall it ever stopping me from getting off with someone when I could, which wasn’t often and never here. Never on the island.”

  Despite what had flitted through his head, Nick knew one thing. “This isn’t crazy. This is normal ‑‑ it shouldn’t be, but it is. It’s how some people live. Maybe not everywhere, but lots of places. And I don’t ...” He put his hand out and touched John’s arm the way John had touched his. The sky was slowly darkening outside, the peat fire in the other room making the faintest golden glow in the doorway. “I don’t want to screw up your life. I really don’t want that. So however you want to do this is okay with me.”

  “It isn’t normal,” John said, his voice low and forceful, his hand coming up to cover Nick’s, his fingers clinging almost desperately. “Unless lying and hiding and pretending is normal. Unless going months without being touched is normal, because you can’t work out a way to get off this place alone so that you can go to the city to pick someone up. And even then I’m still lying. There’s not a man I’ve fucked that knows my real name. Is that normal, then?”

  Nick turned his hand, lacing his fingers through John’s and pulling him closer until their bodies were nearly touching. “Hey ...” He wished he was better at knowing what to say. It was so hard to imagine a life like that ‑‑ Matthew, who Nick had always loved, even when he’d hated him, had been part of his life for so long that he couldn’t picture being really alone. “God, John ... I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

  “How could you? It’s not been like that for you, has it?” John kissed Nick then, a hard, almost violent kiss that left Nick’s mouth stinging, a jolt of arousal going through him. “Tell me; what do you miss most about him? About Matthew?”

  The question startled Nick. He blinked and let go of John’s hand, bringing his own up to touch John’s cheek, thumb rubbing across his cheekbone. “I guess ... maybe that he knew me so well. We were friends for a long time. He helped keep me together when I was falling apart.” It didn’t sound like much out loud.

  “He knew you,” John repeated thoughtfully. “For years. Aye, I see.” He turned his head so that his lips found the center of Nick’s palm, pressing against it in a kiss as lingering and gentle as the last one had been swift and bruising before he turned back to meet Nick’s gaze. “I’ve had a day or two, not years, but somehow I’m thinking I know you, too.”

  “Yeah.” Nick heard his voice shake because this was just so fast, not to mention intense. “Yeah, I think you do.”

  John nodded, looking satisfied but not surprised, and if he felt anything like the way Nick did, it was no wonder. “Then I’ll be staying tonight and the hell with it.” He sounded pretty calm about it. “Although ‑‑” He hesitated. “If you’re going to stay here, it’s maybe not just me who should be worried about people finding out, you know. It’s not just me who needs protecting.”

  “So we’ll think of something to say. For a while, at least. Play up the distant cousins angle, maybe, and tell people I’m, I don’t know, researching genealogy or something. It’ll be weeks before anyone is suspicious.” Nick hoped that was true, although he had no real way of knowing. Wanted it to be true, in the same way he wanted to take off John’s clothes and scatter them across the floor in the dying light, to get down on his knees and suck John’s cock with both of John’s hands on his head, to have John fuck his mouth.

  John smiled slowly. “It won’t be weeks if they ever see you look at me like that. What were you just thinking?” His fingers stroked up the side of Nick’s neck and drifted across his mouth, leaving his skin tingling. “God, I can’t see you without wanting you,” John whispered. “Can’t kiss you even once without getting hard”

  Nick’s breath caught in his throat, but he was very aware of the precariousness of their situation, with dark coming on and John’s car parked in front of his house. “I know. Me, too. But your car ... you were right about not leaving it here.”

  John bit down on his lip ‑‑ which nearly undid Nick’s resolve ‑‑ and nodded reluctantly. “Aye.” He took a deliberate step backward, not taking his eyes off Nick’s face, and then turned away abruptly. “I’ll see you later then.”

  The door closed behind him, leaving Nick alone. It wasn’t until Nick moved several minutes later that he realized John hadn’t eaten more than a few bites of his sandwich.

  Chapter Six

  Nick sighed and went to sit at the kitchen table to finish his own meal, then decided that the best thing to do while John was gone was to keep busy. One glance at the desk in the sitting room told him that he didn’t want to sort through any more papers today, but he wasn’t sure what he did want to do.

  He went upstairs and into the room filled with bookshelves, sat on the floor in front of the one that looked most promising, and took out a book. And then another. The first few weren’t immediately interesting, but it wasn’t long before he found one that was. It actually seemed to be some kind of diary or journal, in what might have been a woman’s handwriting. He had a hard time reading it, sometimes needing to sound out words that stumped him because they were either difficult to read or just utterly unfamiliar.

  Eventually, he came to realize that this was his grandmother’s journal ‑‑ it held a combination of recipes, house information, and dates that must have held meaning for her. She’d been a religious woman; that much was clear by the numerous mentions of “God” and “His Will.” But she’d also been indulgent in some ways, if the many recipes for soaps and lotions scented with lavender were any indication. She’d liked lavender.

  Nick had completely lost track of time and was startled when he heard the sound of the door downstairs opening and closing. Heart pounding a bit more than it should have been, he got up and went to the top of the stairs and called down, “John?”

  “You were expecting someone else?” John sounded more relaxed than when he’d left, and when he appeared at the bottom of the stairs he was smiling. “Aye, it’s me.” He lifted up his hand and showed Nick a bottle. “Whiskey. Definitely a traditional house-warming gift in these parts.”

  “In my line of work, someone else is always a possibility,” Nick said ruefully, starting down the stairs. “You left your sandwich, before.”

  “I did, yes, but if I’d stayed to eat it, I don’t think I’d have had the strength of will to leave. I made myself another when I got home.”

  John had obviously showered and changed, too; his hair was still slightly damp and the ripped jeans had been replaced by a clean pair with no holes.

  “Good.” Nick reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped in front of John, studying the lines of his face, reminding himself what he looked like. He felt suddenly awkward, as if they were strangers, which on one level they were. He went with the one thing that seemed to make sense. “Thanks. For the whiskey. Want to have a drink?”

  John passed him the bottle with a small nod, the smile fading away, making Nick realize suddenly just how receptive John was to his moods, almost mirroring them back to him. He wondered if it was based in insecurity as much as anything, because from what little John had said, he couldn’t have any experience being in a relationship at all.

  He got out two glasses and poured them both some of the whiskey, noting that it was an Islay malt, distilled not that far away from Traighshee.

  “Do you remember what to say?” John asked him, when th
ey’d settled down on the couch before what was left of the fire, his face lightening a little. He raised his glass, the firelight striking amber sparks from the whiskey inside it, and gave Nick an expectant look.

  Nick didn’t. “I say it wrong anyway.” He felt self-conscious, wondering why he’d thought it was a good idea to have this man here for the whole night when they hardly knew each other.

  John smiled. “You’re right; you do. But I’m thinking you’ll pick it up soon, and more besides. And if you don’t master the Gaelic, well, everyone on the island speaks English.”

  It had never occurred to Nick that all of the islanders were bilingual and he began to have serious second thoughts about his ability to ever fit in. He’d seen this place as a refuge, but it was starting to feel more and more like a mistake.

  John sighed and took a sip of his whiskey. “I’m thinking from your face ‑‑ and don’t ever play cards for money in the pub, because they’ll leave you with nothing in your pockets but fluff ‑‑ that you’re wishing I’d stayed home because this is one hell of an awkward situation to be in. And I’d make an excuse and leave, and trust me I thought up some fine and convincing ones when I was sitting at home, fair shaking at the thought of coming here again, but something tells me I’d be sorry for it when I was back there with nothing to do but think about you sitting here alone.”

  Nick took a much bigger swallow of his whiskey than he probably should have, relieved at the burn, and tried to relax. “I just don’t know what to say.” The fire made a soft hissing sound different from the crackle of a wood fire; it sounded wrong to Nick, and he wondered if he’d ever get used to it. “I had this idea in my head,” he tried to explain. “Of how things would be here. And I basically didn’t get any of it right. I’m still kind of ... adjusting.”

  “You need to forget what you expected. And you need to remember that you’ve gone through a hell of a lot and you’re still tired from traveling.” John took a contemplative sip from his glass and stared at the fire. “Why don’t you go to bed? You’ve pushed yourself about as far as you can go today, what with ghosts, and tripping on rocks, and letting yourself get seduced by strange men. Go to bed. I’ll sleep here, and if you get visited by someone who’s not just looking for a goodnight kiss, yell and I’ll come running.”

  “Let’s just sit here for a little while.” Nick took another sip of whiskey and studied John’s profile while the other man was occupied looking into the fire. “You didn’t seduce me,” he said after a minute, watching as John’s face turned toward him. “I wanted it just as much as you did.” Nick smiled a little bit, hoping to lighten the mood. “And you’re not that strange.”

  “I don’t see how I can seem anything else through your eyes,” John replied. “For all that we have in common.” He looked at Nick. “But I’m hoping you’ll get used to me in time, and after all, it’s just the same for me.” He shook his head sadly, a glint of laughter in his eyes. “I never thought I’d fall so low as to kiss a man who can’t get his lips around a simple ‘Slainte Mhath.’ Even the English tourists say it better than you do.”

  Nick flexed his left hand, which was resting on his thigh, and didn’t feel more than a dull ache. That was a relief ‑‑ for a minute, on the beach, he’d wondered if he’d broken it again, and the thought of it had sent a surge of panic through him. “I’ll practice,” he promised. “Just not tonight.” He looked over at John again, thinking now that the whiskey was running through him that there were other things he wanted to do tonight and none of them worked with John sleeping on the couch.

  “Do it with a dram in your hand and just keep sipping.” John was staring at the small, leaping flames again, his fingers tight around his glass. “Would you have come here if you hadn’t had the accident, do you think? Just out of curiosity?”

  “I don’t know.” But Nick could easily imagine having spent the next ten years doing exactly what he’d been doing for the previous ten, after graduation hadn’t brought with it any job he could do, and Matthew had persuaded him to market his abilities, although he’d phrased it differently. A decade spent driving around the country with Matthew, letting Matthew take care of him. There’d been something he’d liked about that, even if he wasn’t happy about having liked it. He missed Matthew; losing him was like losing the use of his hand. Slowly, gradually, the pain of it was fading, but with alarming regularity he’d forget just long enough so that when he was reminded it took his breath away, leaving his chest aching. “Probably not. Maybe for a week or something, just to see the house. But I don’t think we would have stayed.”

  John’s gaze came to his face then. “If you’d been here with Matthew I wouldn’t have wanted you to.” His words were blunt to the point of being rude. “God, it would have been hell to meet you and know I could never ‑‑” He broke off, looking distressed. “I shouldn’t have said that. You’ll be thinking I’m glad of your loss, and I’m not, I swear it. I’d not wish ill on another, or pain on you.”

  Upset because John was, Nick finished his whiskey in one large swallow and moved closer. “I know.” He put his hand on John’s knee. “I understand. Really.”

  John glanced down at Nick’s hand and then set his glass aside on the table by the couch, his movements careful. “Aye? It’s more than I do.” He curled his fingers under Nick’s where they rested on his leg and brushed his thumb over the top of Nick’s hand. “And I don’t understand why I can do that, just that, and feel like my bones are melting from the heat of it, either.” He brought Nick’s hand up and studied it. “Looks like just the usual sort of hand,” he murmured, dipping his head and flickering his tongue across Nick’s fingertips before biting down gently on the middle one.

  Nick started to get hard instantly, his lips parting as John’s teeth and tongue did incredible, astonishing things to his fingers. He gasped when John bit down on the pad of his ring finger.

  It was just a usual hand. It was John that was different. Special.

  “John,” he whispered. “John, I ‑‑” Nick moved, turning and finding John’s mouth with his own, kissing him like someone who had been working outside all day in the hot sun might drink a glass of water, as if John might quench every thirst he’d ever had. He let his left hand fall down into John’s lap, not trying to do much but provide pressure if it was wanted, and focused all his attention on the taste of John’s mouth, on the strength of his lips and the warm, round flavor of the whiskey.

  John was holding onto him, holding him close, and all the urgency of the afternoon was there again, waiting to flare up, held at bay only by the fact that kissing John was too good to rush. John’s hands slid up to cup Nick’s face, managing to be gentle even as his tongue swept deep inside Nick’s mouth with an assurance that he hadn’t shown earlier.

  It wasn’t one kiss; it was dozens, their mouths clinging and breaking apart only to come together again as they slid down lower on the wide couch. It’d been years since Nick had kissed like this, years since he’d wanted to. It was the way he’d kissed when he was younger, when kissing had been enough to have him on the edge of coming. Doing it now, knowing what was waiting for him when they moved on, lent an edge to it that left him breathless. Or maybe that was from the slow slide of John’s mouth on his and the way John’s hands were finding every place on his neck that made him shiver.

  Half lying on top of John now, Nick didn’t care about the awkwardness of their position or the fact that the fire seemed to be dying. He didn’t care that the curtains were opened and someone might easily look in and see the two of them making out on the couch like teenagers. All he cared about was John, and the soft, rumbled sounds of satisfaction that were escaping both of them as they kissed.

  Nick slid his hand up underneath John’s shirt and groaned at the feel of smooth skin over hard, wiry muscle. A surge of desire too strong to deny made him slide down away from John’s mouth while simultaneously shoving John’s shirt higher, baring his chest and stomach to Nick’s eager lips.
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  He took a second to glance up at John, who stared back at him, wordless, the blue of his eyes half-hidden, and then bent his head, dragging his mouth over a nipple and licking at it until it rose to his tongue before moving on from the winter-pale skin of John’s chest down to the spreading line of dark hair striping his flat stomach. He paused sometimes, trying to remember each place where a kiss or a scrape of teeth made John’s breath catch or hiss out in a whimper, but not for long.

  Not when he could always see another place he wanted to kiss and taste.

  Nick moved lower, pressing kisses to John’s shaft under the layer of denim and smiling when John swore in a low voice and dropped a hand down to stroke his hair encouragingly. He worked at the stubborn button on John’s jeans with clumsy fingers, not paying any attention to the ache in his wrist in his determination to free John’s erection.

  “Let me.” John’s hand came down. Nick watched John’s stomach muscles contract as he hooked his thumb inside the waistband of his jeans and flicked the button open a moment later. “Is that what you were trying to do?” John murmured. “Or were you planning to carry on driving me near demented a while longer?”

  “That’s what I was trying to do.” Nick pulled back fabric, exposing the head of John’s cock. He inhaled the scent of John, just faintly musky underneath the crisp smell of soap, and drew a shuddering breath. “Wanted to do this before, in the kitchen.” Nick pressed a wet, sucking kiss to the sensitive tip and shivered in sympathy at John’s small cry. “Wanted to take off all your clothes and suck you. Have you come in my mouth, with your hands holding my head still.” He licked, tasting a hint of salt, and felt his own cock twitch.

  “You could have had that.” John’s voice was intense as his hand pushed its way roughly, urgently through Nick’s hair to cup his head. “If you’d said, if I’d known that was behind the look in your eyes, I’d have left you with the taste of me in your mouth. So that you’d remember me and we wouldn’t have had to start over tonight, with you looking down at me, so fucking polite, as if you hadn’t come in my hand, on my skin, earlier today.” John shook his head. “Christ, you scared me.”