by John Inman
Sam seemed to appreciate the lines of it too. He scanned the room thoroughly, and the last thing he rested his eyes on was the baby monitor sitting on the nightstand. I could see him holding his breath for a moment to better hear the sound of Timmy and Thumper softly snoring through the rush of static and white noise.
Finally, Sam’s eyes traveled back to my face. He sat up and rested his warm hand on my knee.
He gave me a quizzical look when I jumped in surprise, although I tried not to. “You mind?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No.”
A smile played at his mouth. “I’m a little creeped out. I need to feel another human being.”
I smiled. “Feel away.” The minute the words were out of my mouth, my cock shifted among the crumpled sheets. Thank God, Sam didn’t notice.
His eyes were on mine. His smile had faded. He looked somber again. “This is where Paul and Sally lived. This house. Timmy lived here too, right?” His hand was a warm reminder of how it feels to be touched by another man. I found myself wishing I could touch him back, but there was no graceful way to do it. Not without appearing to be a desperate slut.
So I nodded instead. “Yes. Timmy lived here for a while after he was born. He was just a baby when your brother left. After a few months of being alone in this big old house with a baby and no husband, Sally called it quits. Everything reminded her of Paul, she said. She wanted out. Fortunately, I wanted in. I loved the house. I eventually bought it from her without thinking twice.”
“Have you been happy here?” Sam asked, his hand sliding away from my knee and resting on my ankle. God forgive me, I was a little disappointed it wasn’t sliding up instead of down. More than a little actually.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ve been happy here. Like I said, I love the house. I love working in the backyard.”
“You’ve made it beautiful. Did you plant the little trees?”
“Thanks. Yeah. The trees, the rock garden, the roses, everything. It was just half-dead grass back there when I moved in. I thought it needed a little more character than that. I guess I figured since the house was so beautiful, the grounds should be beautiful too.”
Sam pushed his damp hair out of his eyes. It was drying slowly, the color gradually lightening a bit as it did. Already, golden streaks were glistening in among the chocolate brown locks. One of the perks of living in Tucson, I supposed. Sun-lightened hair. It also accounted for Sam’s perfect tan.
He stroked my ankle with his fingertips. I’m not sure he even knew he was doing it. He had the look of a man whose mind is a million miles away.
I was surprised when he asked, “Do you think Timmy remembers living here?”
Scooting myself up a little higher on the pillow and tucking my hands behind my head, I stared at him, considering the question. Finally, I said, “Sally says no. She’s sure he was too young when they moved out to remember anything about the house. He doesn’t remember his father either. Maybe that’s a blessing.”
A muscle clenched in Sam’s jaw. I wasn’t sure he liked what I had just said. But after a couple of beats, he decided to let it pass.
“I suppose,” he said quietly. “Timmy can’t miss what he doesn’t remember.”
I nodded. “Exactly.”
A tiny smile twisted Sam’s mouth and lit his face. God, his eyes were beautiful. They drew me in every time I glanced at them. He was remembering what had happened earlier. I could see it on his face.
“You were just as shocked down there as I was,” he said. “Was that the first time something—paranormal—has happened in the house?”
I was a little uncomfortable with this conversation. It made me feel like a fruitcake. Like a Bigfoot hunter, or a psychic hotline operator, or one of those goofy people who chase ghosts around the countryside, never finding anything, but still writing reams and reams of books about the nonexistent experience.
“I’m still not sure it was paranormal. Good lord, it could have been a hundred things.”
“Name one. And don’t hit me with the low-flying jet again. I’m not buying that one.”
I tried to consider the problem rationally. It wasn’t an easy thing to do, since there really wasn’t anything rational about what happened at all. “I don’t know. Maybe it was an electrical surge, and all the appliances were screaming for a second. Or a gas leak, with gas fumes tearing through the house like steam through a steam pipe. Or maybe it was an earthquake. Yeah, that’s probably what it was. An earthquake.”
Sam chuckled. “Oh yeah. That sounds reasonable. If it was a gas leak, why didn’t the house blow up? If it was a power surge, why didn’t the lights either brighten or blow out altogether. And you know as well as I do it wasn’t an earthquake.”
Sam leaned forward, once again placing his hand on my knee. This time he had a pretty good grip on it. All the humor in his face was gone. “If it was a utility screwup or an earthquake, then who was Timmy talking about when he said he was mad at the dark? Who was mad at the dark? And don’t forget the dog. The dog knew something was happening too.” Sam glanced at the baby monitor, tilting his head for a split second to better hear the sound of snoring coming through it. Both Timmy’s, and Thumper’s. “The dog hasn’t left the boy’s side since. Explain that.”
I was finally forced to shake my head. Hopeless. “I can’t,” I said. “I can’t explain any of it.”
Thinking back, I remembered Timmy talking about the man who spoke to him through the basement window. I remembered the lights going out without anyone touching the light switch when Timmy and I left the basement that morning. But those weren’t paranormal experiences, right? They were just weird stuff happening, like weird stuff happens all the time. You can’t call every odd thing that takes place a paranormal experience, for Christ’s sake. If you did, you’d be running from shadows for the rest of your life.
Sam got my attention by tapping my knee. “I think we should ask Timmy some questions tomorrow. Ask him why he said what he said.”
We had tried asking him about it tonight, and he had ignored us. Ignored us completely. When we kept harping at him to tell us who was afraid of the dark, he started to cry, so we backed off. I had every intention of staying backed off. I had no intention of making him cry again.
“He wouldn’t talk about it tonight,” I said. “What makes you think he’ll talk about it tomorrow? And the last thing I want to do is scare the boy. I don’t want to freak him out and make him afraid of the dark. I don’t want him to be afraid of the house either. I enjoy having him here. I’d rather we just forget about the whole thing. I won’t have Timmy hounded. Not by you, not by me, not by anybody.”
Sam stared at me. He seemed about to argue, but then I could sense him pulling back.
He acquiesced. “Whatever you say. But if a ghost rapes me in my sleep, we’re going to revisit the issue. Deal?”
I laughed. I was tempted to say, “That would be one lucky ghost,” but I bit my tongue and opted for, “Deal,” instead.
Sam probably knew what I was thinking anyway. He had an odd grin on his face when he patted my knee for the final time and pushed himself to his feet. He stood beside the bed gazing down at me for a moment. I envisioned him reaching out and tossing the sheet aside, leaving me exposed and hard beneath him. But all he did was pull the towel off his neck and wipe his face.
Crap.
“It’s hot tonight,” he said. “Good night, Jason.”
I stared up at him, longing for him not to go. Longing for other things too. Like those rooster-covered boxer shorts to vanish in a puff of smoke. But no such luck. They stayed right where they were. I knew they would.
“Good night, Sam. Get some sleep.”
“You too.”
He strode toward the door, his lean, strong back straightening as he walked away, the boxer shorts hanging low, exposing a patch of dark hair just above the crack of his ass. The swell of his rear end, the movement of it as he walked, was a beautiful thing to watch. To get a fin
al glimpse, I rose up onto my elbows just before he stepped into the hall and quietly closed the door behind him.
Alone, I sighed and reached over to switch off the lamp by my bed. As the darkness enclosed me, I lay back and remembered every square inch of Sam’s body he had offered up for display, the way he looked, the way he smelled, and the casual way he perched at the side of my bed. I remembered the feel of his hand on my knee. That I remembered most of all. The warmth of it. The strength. The gentle softness.
Because I couldn’t bear not to, I reached beneath the clump of sheets and wrapped my fingers around my swollen cock.
I closed my eyes and let my imagination do the rest.
Too enamored with the living, I forgot the ghost completely. Later, when I came, I imagined my lips on Sam’s throat.
In my imagination, he came with me, both of us crying out, hungrier than we were when we started. As my heart pattered down to a normal cadence, I slid a finger through the semen puddled on my chest. I touched it to my mouth, tasting it, wishing it was Sam’s.
And then I slept, with my seed drying on my lips.
TWO DAYS passed. The three of us—myself, Sam, and Timmy—fell into a pattern of behavior not unlike a typical family. Naturally, Sam’s and my attentions centered almost exclusively on Timmy. Anyone with a four-year-old in the house will understand why. There is no escaping them. A four-year-old is like a tiny moon sucking everything around it into its orbit. By the sheer force of their energies and personalities, they require (nay, demand) total obeisance and an unswerving eye.
And while it was a full-time job keeping the kid safe from his own adventures, with every passing hour, I grew more attached to Timmy. Sam, too, seemed to find himself at odd times simply sitting back and staring at the boy, amazed by the kid’s take on the world around him. Timmy’s sweetness and innocence was astonishing, his knack for getting into trouble truly disconcerting, and the ease with which he wormed his way out of that trouble unerringly mind-boggling.
I had revised my expectation of the boy becoming president one day. Now I felt fairly certain he would become the world’s greatest con man when he grew up. Not a day passed but what I clucked my tongue and wondered just what Timmy would do next. And not once did he disappoint me in outdoing himself completely.
But what amazed me most about Timmy was the bravery with which he faced the unknown. And by the unknown, I am referring to the other member of our little household. The unnamed member. And so far, thank heavens, the unseen member.
But no matter how unknown or unseen that fourth housemate remained, all three of us knew he was there. Waiting. Waiting….
So yes, you see, I had come to the conclusion there was indeed a ghost on the premises. Why he should suddenly make his presence known now was a mystery, but there was little doubt he was here. Actually, I was rather proud of myself for not throwing my arms in the air and running screaming down the street like Aunt Pittypat waiting for the Yankees to swarm Atlanta. Who knew I could be so lackadaisical about a visitor from beyond the grave? Not me.
But I must say, even the presence of a four-year-old and the prospect of a ghost on the property was not enough to permanently turn my eye from Sam. A hundred times a day I found myself glancing his way when he was busy doing something else. Little things about him continually set my heart to pumping faster. The line of Sam’s jaw, crisply delineated against the front of his shirt. The way his fingers gripped a glass of milk. The feel of the hair on his leg against the palm of my hand as I helped him reach the high limbs of the orange tree out back, fearlessly climbing higher than I had the nerve to go. And how I had longed to press my lips to the tender skin at the back of his knee that day, and probably would have, too, but for the fact that Timmy was standing on the lawn cheering Sam higher.
It was also on that day, with Sam back on the ground and the elusive orange triumphantly in his hand, that Timmy had tugged at the hem of Sam’s shorts and asked, “Are you and Uncle Jason boyfriends?”
Sam and I laughed. Then, avoiding my eye, Sam leaned down and whispered to the boy, “Not yet, but we’ll tell you when we are.”
“Don’t forget,” Timmy warned.
And Sam tweaked his nose. “You’ll be the first to know. I promise.”
The rest of my day was lost in a haze of confusion, wondering what the hell Sam had meant by all that.
Whatever business Sam was in town for, it certainly didn’t take up much of his time. Most of his mysterious business dealings entailed hushed cell phone conversations in his bedroom behind a securely closed door. I forced myself not to pry or ask questions or try to listen in, figuring it was none of my business. But I couldn’t ignore the fact that I was beginning to dread the day he would announce he had accomplished what he came to San Diego to accomplish and now it was time to head back to Tucson.
I’m not a fool. Well, not a complete one. I knew I was getting a crush on the guy. And I knew that one day, if he stuck around long enough, I would lose my battle to keep my hands to myself and lay them on Sam instead. How he would accept that, I wasn’t sure.
Thumper still remained at Timmy’s side through every minute of every day. At least, she tried to. It was clear from the start her energy level and Timmy’s energy level simply didn’t jive. Thumper did her best to keep up with the boy, but occasionally, she would simply plop herself down wherever she happened to be and conk out for an hour or so. Timmy had taken to carrying a handkerchief around in his back pocket, and when Thumper keeled over for a quick snooze, Timmy would yank out the handkerchief and carefully drape it over her like a tiny blanket. After tucking it under her chin and smoothing out the wrinkles, Timmy would tiptoe off so as not to wake her, then resume his normal rambunctious activities.
So basically, their synergy was a little skewed, Timmy running on full all the time, Thumper usually on empty, or close to it. After all, they were on the opposite ends of the age spectrum, Timmy just getting started in life, Thumper about to close the book on hers. Still, they loved each other, and it was a touching relationship to watch. Obviously, Timmy was just what Thumper needed to snap her out of the doldrums of old age. If I had known, I would have bought her a four-year-old ages ago.
And bought one for myself as well. For much to my amazement, I found I loved having the kid around. He made me furious, horrified, impatient, and exasperated. But he also made me smile. More than I’d smiled in years. He brought a new level of life into the old house. And he brought innocence. Everything to Timmy was a wonder. And after a while, through watching him, they were a wonder to me too.
Sam and I laughed a lot those first few days the three of us were together. Timmy kept us on our toes, the ghost gave us something to stew about, and we had each other, Sam and I, to bring a little sexual tension into our lives.
Oh, yes. The sexual tension was there, all right. Sometimes even Timmy could feel it.
Once, out of the blue, the kid said to me, “You know you want to kiss him. Why don’t you just do it already? I won’t tell.”
Sam overheard Timmy’s words, but he didn’t let on. He also pretended not to see me turn twenty shades of red and break into an embarrassed sweat.
Later that day, while Timmy and Thumper napped on the sofa, Sam came up to me as I sat at my desk in the sunroom working. He laid a hand on my shoulder.
“I like you, Jason,” he said.
And with my heart in my throat, I turned and said, “I like you too.”
“Good,” he answered and walked away. I watched him go, muted by uncertainty. Should I follow, call him back, scream for him to stop? In the end I did none of those things. I simply watched him walk away.
A few minutes later, Timmy awoke and started tearing through the house like the Tasmanian Devil in one of those old Looney Tunes cartoons. If there were things I wanted to say to Sam, they were lost in the kid’s noisy slipstream. Not that I had the courage to say them anyway.
Or who knows? Maybe I did. Maybe later. When the kid was asleep, mayb
e then I would find my courage—assuming our invisible housemate didn’t pop up first to scare the libido out of me.
Chapter 6
IT WOULD be dark soon. Timmy was already in his pajamas, but that hadn’t slowed him down much. He was sitting on the closed commode lid, swinging his legs, sucking on a Popsicle, and watching me clean up. Since it was a grape Popsicle, his right hand and the lower half of his face were a brilliant shade of cobalt blue. He’d probably need another bath by the time he got down to the stick. Lord, kids are a lot of work.
Thumper was snoring at the base of the commode, just under Timmy’s swinging feet. The kid had worn her out, but still, Thumper wouldn’t leave his side. It was funny, but I never remembered her showing that much devotion to me.
Timmy didn’t know it, but I had plans to put the moves on Sam as soon as the little brat was conked out for the night. By “little brat” I mean Timmy, not Sam. By the way, Sam didn’t know I was going to put the moves on him either. At least, I hoped he didn’t. I was nervous enough without my intended prey watching me like a hawk, studying my powers of seduction, and later maybe offering up a written critique of the whole damned embarrassing process and turning it into a college thesis or something.
Just out of the shower, I stood at the sink with a towel around my waist. I was applying concealer to a zit on my neck. I’ve never made plans in my life to put the moves on somebody when a zit didn’t pop up somewhere. Thank Christ for Cover Girl.
“Is that lipstick?” Timmy asked.