The Rebuilding Year

by Kaje Harper

  “I don’t think you’re allowed to insult me while you’re still inside me,” John said, and shuddered. His body tensed hard, riding the aftershock, and then slumped again. His ass was beginning to feel too full, but it added welcome reality to this floaty newness. Ryan is inside me. We did… that.

  Ryan pressed a kiss to his neck. “Should I move? ’Cause I’m not sure I can.”

  “Not yet.” He could feel an ache beginning. He was going to be sore. But for now he was warm and content, and replete. He reached a hand back to press Ryan’s ass down over his own. The weight was sweet. The ripples of scars under his fingers were just Ryan. His Ryan. This is right.

  Ryan’s mouth moved softly over his neck. “It never felt like that before. Either you have the hottest ass in creation, or it’s just that much better when it’s you.”

  Warmth spread though John. “I’m thirty-seven. You guess.”

  Ryan’s teeth scraped his skin. “Hottest ass. Definitely.”

  Eventually Ryan reached down to hold the condom and pulled out slowly. John whimpered, trying not to show the pain as his body released the last inch of flesh. Yeah, that was going to smart for a while. He felt itchy and oddly loose and sticky. But so worth it. Ryan dropped the condom into the trash, and turned to him.

  Ryan touched John’s jaw, and up to his cheek, fingers tracing over his features, like a blind man learning his lover’s face. “Tell me you’re okay. Because I’m going to want to do that a lot.”

  John kissed a wandering fingertip. “I’m a little sore, but it’s a good sore. It felt… so right. Give me a day or two.”

  “Let me know when.” Ryan lay down and pulled John into a spoon. “Not that all the other things we do aren’t awesome too. But… wow.”

  John chuckled. Maybe Ryan wasn’t willing to tell the world about them. Yet. But John figured he was in no danger of losing the man any time soon. Patience.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ryan cursed softly, his voice echoing in the basement laundry room as he wrestled with wet fabric. But he was too content to put much heat into it. Even though John’s washing machine was prehistoric and temperamental and deserved to be insulted.

  He bent over and dug deeper. Ah, there was the problem. No matter how carefully you loaded the damned thing, it would end up unbalanced, with the clothes in a wad on one side. Then it would start banging like it wanted to take out the back of the house. If John was around, he would wander down eventually and fix it, but Ryan couldn’t hear that noise without moving fast to make it stop. John had seen him charge downstairs once, and the next day both staircases in the house had a second railing installed on the other side.

  Ryan dragged out the mess of wet fabric. This time, one of John’s sweatshirts had somehow wrapped its arms around the comforter, pulling it into a big strangled ball. Long sleeves had knotted around thick quilted fabric. Ryan teased the knot apart, and smiled, because it was his fault they were washing the comforter. He’d been in too much of a hurry last night to pull it down before shoving John face down on the bed.

  He shook out the sweatshirt, and wondered if those sleeves were stretched beyond redemption. Although, maybe John’s arms really were that long. Sometimes that was the best part, afterward, when John would pull him in close and hug him up tight, and he’d feel that steady heartbeat against his back. And those strong arms wrapped around him.

  A faint sound caught his attention, and he dropped the laundry back in. The noise came again. This time he identified the doorbell. With a sigh, he closed and restarted the washer, and climbed slowly upstairs. Whoever it was would just have to wait for him. He made his way to the door and pulled it open. The porch light wasn’t on yet, but in the fading daylight he recognized the backpack, the guitar, and the boy.

  “Marcus!” Ryan pulled the door wide. “What are you doing here? Come on in.”

  Mark ducked his head and stepped inside, his hands full. Ryan reached for the pack and hefted it, eyeing Mark more closely. The boy looked rumpled, and tired, and chilled.

  “Where’s your jacket?” Ryan asked. “You must be freezing.”

  Mark shrugged. “I was in California. A parka kind of stands out there.”

  Ryan opened his mouth and shut it again. Let it go. “Is Torey here too?” He peered out into the dusk.

  “No. Just me.”

  “Well, come on in and have something hot to drink. Just dump your stuff.” Ryan led the way to the kitchen and grabbed the kettle. “Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate?”

  “Coffee, I guess.”

  He got the bag of fresh grounds out of the freezer. “Did your dad know you were coming?” John hadn’t said a word about it.

  Mark’s voice was low. “No.”

  Ryan blinked. “Does your mother know where you are?”

  For a minute Mark stared out the big kitchen window. “Probably not.”

  “She must be going crazy!”

  Mark shook his head. “I bet she hasn’t even missed me yet.”

  Okay, not my place to get into the middle of this. Ryan wanted to push for more information. But it was John’s job, not his. He poured water over the grounds, and got out milk and sugar. “You want some food with this— cookies maybe? We’ll have dinner when your dad gets home.” And didn’t that sound domestic. But not a ripple passed over the boy’s face. He has his own problems.

  “No, thanks.”

  Ryan doctored the coffee heavily with milk and sugar without asking, and handed it over. The boy wrapped his fingers around the mug and stared into it. He had big hands, Ryan thought. Mark might still be on the short side, but Ryan bet there was a growth spurt coming. The boy’s voice was deeper, more settled in its register, even after just a couple of months. But he’s still only fifteen.

  “Are you hurt, at all?”

  Mark’s eyes flew to his face. “Huh? No.”

  “Okay.” Ryan poured himself a cup and sat too. “I’m going to call your dad.” He hesitated a beat until Mark nodded. John’s phone went straight to voice mail, which probably meant he was in his truck. “Hey, John, it’s Ryan,” he said, more formal than usual with the boy listening. “I hope this means you’re on your way home. If not, I’d appreciate it if you would come as soon as you can. We have a… situation that needs you. Not a disaster, just… soon.” He flipped the phone shut.

  “You didn’t tell him it was me.”

  “No point in getting him worried and driving too fast. You sure you don’t want some cookies? Don’t worry, neither of us baked them.”

  Mark’s lip twitched. “I guess.”

  Ryan fetched down the Oreos and some chocolate chip ones, and tossed the bags on the table. “You’re family, you don’t need them on a plate, right?”

  Mark dug out a cookie and stuffed it in his mouth.

  “Guess not.” Ryan reseated himself and took a mouthful of his coffee, wondering what to say. When in doubt, say nothing. He slid a notebook closer and pretended to study. The boy ate another cookie, and finally began to sip his own drink. He looked a little less strung out.

  Ryan paused at the thought, and eyed Mark covertly. But he decided no, the boy was just tired, maybe scared. No tremors, skin tone normalizing, midrange pupils, steady gaze. He breathed a small sigh of relief.

  The sound of the front door made them both jump. John’s voice called out, “Ry? You home?”

  “In the kitchen with company,” he called back, before John could say anything indiscreet.

  John appeared in the doorway and did a visible double take. “Mark?” But an instant later he strode forward and pulled his son up into a hug. “It’s good to see you. You’ve grown since the last time you were here.” Only after a minute did he pause and set the boy back to look at him. “Why are you here?”

  Mark squared his shoulders and looked his father in the face. “Can I stay with you?”

  “Right now?” John asked slowly, “Or forever?”

  Mark flushed and looked down.

  “I think we
need to talk,” John said.

  “I can go and study in my room,” Ryan offered, although his curiosity would about kill him.

  “You live here, so this’ll involve you. Unless Mark needs you to go?”

  Mark shrugged. “I guess he can stay.”

  John leaned against the counter and looked at his son. “So tell me.”

  The boy’s eyes tracked left and right, as if looking for a way out, but eventually he said, “I can’t live there anymore. With them. All we do is argue and fight. And then Mom cries, and he says it’s all my fault. I can’t ever measure up, and school is awful and… I want to stay here.”

  “You’re always welcome here, son,” John said. “I promise. But your mother has custody. You know that. If you want to change things, we need to talk to her. Did she know you were coming to see me?”

  “No.”

  “You ran away without telling her? She’ll be terrified!”

  “No!” Mark gripped the edge of the table. “I told her I was spending the weekend with a friend. And then going to school straight from his house today. It’s two hours earlier in California. She won’t be looking for me yet, or not much.”

  “Right. I’m calling her now.” John pulled out his cell and dialed with one eye on his son. “Cynthia. It’s John. Do you know where Marcus is right now?” He waited. “Well, that’s because he’s here, in my house… Yeah, in Wisconsin… No, I don’t know but I’m going to find out… No, I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.” He winced and held the phone a little farther from his ear. Ryan could hear a woman’s shrill voice but not the words. “Cynthia,” John said firmly. “Listen. He’s fine. I’m going to call you back when you’ve calmed down.” He paused. “I assume you do know where Torey is?… Good. I’ll call you.” He shut the phone.

  “Was she really mad?” Mark asked.

  “She was worried.” John sighed. “Okay, yeah, mostly mad. But she’d have been worried if you’d been gone much longer.”

  “She hadn’t missed me, had she?”

  “You can hardly complain when you set it up that way.”

  Mark shrugged. “I knew she wouldn’t check up on me. They’d be too happy to have me out of the house for a while.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “I used her credit card and bought a train ticket. The Zephyr, the Empire Builder. And then I hitched.”

  John winced. “You hitchhiked?”

  “Yeah.” Mark’s gaze was defiant.

  “Okay.” John blew out a breath. “Mark, I will always come get you if you need me. Always. Anywhere. Don’t freaking hitchhike.”

  “I didn’t want to answer any questions on the phone.”

  “Uh-huh.” John rubbed at his forehead. “So, when you say you argue, it’s with Brandon?”

  “And with Mom. He mostly wants to know why I’m such a screw-up. Then she gives me hell for not listening to him. And he yells at me for upsetting her, in her delicate state. And over and over.”

  “He considers you a screw-up?” John asked, obviously working to keep his voice mild.

  Mark sighed. “I am. I can’t do anything right. I hate school, and my grades suck. He says I could do better if I try, which is so not the actual truth. So he grounded me from band practice. And the band got another lead guitar. So I got mad, and basically stopped doing anything much. Then he got a call from the school. Which drove him absolutely bonkers, because you know, Loyola Prep. It’s his old school. He thinks they walk on water or something. He was one of the A list, with the money, and the looks, and the football letter. He doesn’t know what it’s like when you’re not one of those.”

  “You were on the baseball team.”

  “Yeah. And I liked it. But I’m not great. I went 0 for 12 my last four games, and we didn’t get close to making the playoffs. So I’m a failure there too. He got mad, because he wanted to coach me and I said no. So obviously I have no interest in improving myself, or contributing to the team. I want to suck the rest of the team down to my level.”

  “Mark.”

  The boy’s voice rushed on, pitched higher. “All Mom talks about these days is how we have to keep him happy, and he makes all this money for us, and I should try harder. And she’s all wrapped up in the new baby coming. She’s knitting¸ like, Mom, actually knitting! Half the time, she has this glazed look in her eyes, and she doesn’t even hear what I’m saying.”

  “Hey, hey. Take a breath. I’m listening now.” John frowned. “How’s Torey doing?”

  Mark shrugged, his tight shoulders dropping a little. “She’s not happy, I guess. But she gets good grades, and she’s a girl, so Brandon doesn’t get on her case half as much. He doesn’t have this agenda for her to measure up to. And she’s kind of looking forward to the baby. A couple of times, she’s talked about coming back here to live with you, but I don’t think she was really serious. Brandon mostly ignores her.”

  John leaned forward. “Mark,” he said carefully. “He doesn’t hit you, does he?”

  Mark shook his head slowly. “No… not really. He can be pretty scary when he gets mad, but mostly he just yells. He grabbed my arm a couple of times, when I tried to walk away from him, but he’s never hit me.” He looked up at his father, eyes wide. “I’m more scared that I might hit him. Because of the stuff he says. He knows all my sore spots, somehow.”

  “Mark—”

  “He makes it seem like my fault that I’m short and slow and clumsy, and not as smart as Torey, and have bad skin, and everything. Like, if I just do what he tells me, think what he tells me, fucking eat what he tells me, then I’ll somehow become a carbon copy of him and life will be wonderful. Only not quite as good as him, because after all I’m not a true Carlisle. But at least he could mold me so I’m not a fucking disappointment and a loser and a failure.”

  “Dammit,” John grated, then visibly clenched his teeth together.

  “You’re not any of those things,” Ryan put in, because he didn’t think John could talk right now. “Well, okay, you’re short, but from the size of your hands that’s gonna change, without any special diet. And I’ve had conversations with you and Torey, and you don’t need to worry. You have very different minds, but both of you can think rings around most people.”

  “He hates my music,” Mark said, but his tone was less desperate.

  Ryan blew a loud raspberry. “There. See? A guy like that, you know he has no taste, so why worry about anything else he says?”

  John took a smack at Ryan’s arm, but his expression was grateful. “Trying to have a serious conversation here, Ry.”

  “Well, I think we need some serious dinner.” Ryan pulled himself to his feet. He figured the emotional level needed to ratchet down a little. “Mark, when did you eat last? Real food, I mean.”

  Mark looked startled, then uncertain. “I’m not sure.”

  “Then it’s past time. If you’re gonna hang out here, you can wash up and then get out some salad greens. I figured I’d make pasta. John, you have half of the campus under your fingernails. Go shower.”

  John blinked up at him.

  “Shoo.” Ryan flapped a hand at him. “You’re not going to solve everything in the next five minutes, so get clean, we’ll all get fed, and look at this again after dinner. Right, Mark?”

  “Okay.” The boy jumped up, went over to the fridge and began pulling out salad fixings. Ryan figured he was hiding his face in the open door and catching his breath. Which was fine, for now.

  Reluctantly, John headed for the stairs. “I should call Cynthia back.”

  “After dinner?” Ryan suggested. “’Cause if you don’t make it back down before the spaghetti is cooked, you’ll have to eat yours cold. Go.” He met John’s eyes and gave the man his best supportive smile, since a hug would clearly be too much. How long would it be before he could safely give John anything more intimate than a smile? Ryan forced himself to turn away and get down the big stockpot.

  “Mark,” he said. “Before yo
u start the salad, why don’t you put the small table away and get out the big one again, and another chair. If it’s going to be three of us here, we’ll need the space.”

  ****

  That evening, John hesitated outside the door to Ryan’s room. It was closed. Did that mean he should keep out? Was Ryan mad at him? From down the hall, Mark’s fast, angry guitar licks echoed through his own closed door. John’s head throbbed like a drum, and he just needed… he needed. He knocked lightly.

  Ry pulled the door open. “Hey.” His smile was gentle and friendly. Maybe he wasn’t angry. He grabbed John’s arm. “Get in here.”

  As soon as the door closed, Ryan pulled him close and kissed him. But it was more sweet than hot. Ryan’s thumb brushed over his forehead, soothing him. “You look like hell.”

  “Headache,” he admitted.

  “Did you take something, or are you trying to be a martyr?”

  “Took some. Hasn’t kicked in yet.”

  “Come sit down.” Ryan led him to the bed and pushed him onto it. John didn’t have the will to resist, but he scooted back until he was sitting up against the headboard.

  “Things didn’t go well with Cynthia, huh?” Ryan sat beside him, their hips touching, and tipped his head back against the wall, eyes drooping shut.

  It made talking easier, not having to meet anyone’s eyes. “Not particularly.” She had accused him of brainwashing their son, of bribing, of coddling, doing anything and everything to get Mark away from her. He’d snapped and accused her of allowing her new husband to psychologically abuse the boy. You might say it hadn’t gone well.

  “She’d have sicced the law on me for breaking the custody agreement, except that Mark told her flat out that if she forced him home, he’d just run again. And maybe not run to me.”

  Ryan laid a hand on John’s thigh, rubbing gently with his thumb. “That’s pretty scary.”

  “Yes.”

  “So he’s staying with us?”

  “For now.” John hesitated, unsure where to start. “I guess I sympathize more now, with you not telling your brother about us,” he offered tentatively.

  “This isn’t the same thing.”