by Kaje Harper
“No. But, Ry, I can’t tell him. Not now.”
“Of course not!” Ryan sounded surprised. “That’s what I meant. This isn’t just you not being ready to let someone know about us. He needs you to be his safe, familiar dad right now. I get that.”
“You do?”
“Idiot. The last thing that kid needs tonight is to deal with finding out his dad is gay, or bi, or whatever the hell we are.”
“I’m scared that if I try to explain, if he thinks I’ve been lying to him about important stuff and stops trusting me, he’s going to take off. And God knows where he’d go.”
“John.” Ryan cupped his cheek and turned their faces together. His lips brushed John’s softly. “I moved back into this room because he’s a troubled fifteen-year-old boy, and I’m thirty and settled. I can wait while he gets his life together.” He kissed John again, harder. “Not that I’ll like it. But we’re officially back to being roommates without benefits, until you think he’s ready.”
John pressed his forehead into Ryan’s neck, inhaling his scent. “God, that bed’s going to seem empty without you. And I do want to tell him. I want us to be out in the open, to everyone. But… it could be a while.”
“If he stays, he’ll surely be in school sometimes. Or at the movies. Or something.”
“It’s not the sex I’m thinking about,” John said. “Or not only. It’s all the little stuff, day to day. It was just starting to feel right, like natural. I don’t want to give up kissing you over coffee in the morning. But I don’t want him to see.”
“Considering that half the time it ended with one of us on our knees in the kitchen,” Ryan teased gently, “we’d better take a pass.”
“I can’t send him home.”
“I don’t want you to. John, I like the kid and he’s your son. If he’s that miserable at home, he should stay here with us, if there’s any way to swing it. Hell, I always wanted kids. Anyway, it’s not forever. In three years, he’ll be off to college.”
“I just want to get through the next three days.”
“One day at a time.” Ryan rubbed his thigh reassuringly. “Tonight he’s here, he’s safe, and warm and fed. Tomorrow, we’ll go on from there.”
John leaned his head back against the wall. “I’m just really glad that Cynthia didn’t know he was gone until I called her. Can you imagine going through the last two days, knowing the kid was out there in the wind somewhere?”
“No what-ifs,” Ryan said firmly. “We go on from here. What do you want to do with him tomorrow?”
“He can tag along to work with me,” John decided. “Earn his keep with some shoveling.”
“I’ve got a jacket in the closet he can borrow,” Ryan offered.
John rolled his eyes Ry’s way and raised an eyebrow.
“He came with just a backpack, no gloves, no coat.”
“Shit, I didn’t notice.” What kind of father didn’t notice that his kid had no winter coat in February? A sharp pain in his thigh made him yelp. Ryan had pinched him! “Hey, what was that for?”
“No wallowing. You’re a good dad, and you didn’t notice because he was indoors when you got home. Quit blaming yourself for mistakes you didn’t make. There’ll be enough real mistakes to go around.”
“No doubt. I haven’t been a full-time father since he was ten.”
“Ten is nothing like fifteen. Maybe we just have to start from scratch.”
“We?” John liked the sound of that. It didn’t look so insurmountable if he could share the job.
“Sure. I’ll help as much as he’ll let me. Sometimes a kid talks better to someone who’s not their real parent.”
John thought about people who were not the real parents. Like stepfathers. He was worried about Torey. He’d insisted Cynthia let him talk to his daughter. She’d sounded subdued, but all right. But how could you tell from two thousand miles away? Anything could have been happening and he wouldn’t know it.
“Do you think something happened he’s not talking about?” Ryan asked, echoing his thoughts.
“How can I tell? If that bastard did do something to Mark, I’m going to—” Ryan silenced him with a hard kiss.
“We have to focus on taking care of Mark here first. Don’t borrow trouble.”
“Right.” To distract himself, he looked around the room. Ryan’s clothes had mostly still been in here, although they’d slowly been migrating piece by piece into his room. But he recognized the robe that had hung on his door yesterday, the novel from his nightstand. The bookcase was overflowing. “This room is really small.”
Ryan laughed, and kissed him again, hot and dirty. “Now that’s just pathetic, if you’re feeling guilty because I have to stay in my tiny, dank, dingy little room all by myself.”
“Are you insulting my house?”
Ryan’s eyes held a wealth of heat. “Go back to your own master bedroom, big man, and go to sleep on your nice, big, soft bed, while I lie here cramped and uncomfortable.”
“Only one reason you’ll be uncomfortable.” Against his will, John’s eyes tracked downward, and yes, that did look uncomfortable.
Ryan shoved him over and smacked his ass firmly. “Git. Before we forget our resolution.” He cocked an ear toward the music in the hallway. “I think that’s the end of the song.”
Right. It was really hard to walk away from Ryan when he had that glow in his eyes and the growl in his voice. But John went to the door and let himself out.
“Sleep well. Don’t let… anything bite.” Ryan’s words held a quiver of laughter. John closed the door, and adjusted his pants. Two doors down the hall, Mark’s guitar had fallen silent. His door was still shut, and when John gave the handle a surreptitious turn, it was locked.
He knocked lightly. “Hey, Mark?”
After a moment there was a begrudging, “Yeah?” from inside.
“You need anything?”
“No.”
“Okay.” He hesitated. You’re the dad here. Don’t wimp out. “House rules, son. No loud music after ten p.m. Ryan’s up at six thirty. There’s breakfast if you want some. We leave for the campus at seven thirty. Dress warmly tomorrow. You can come with me and earn your keep.”
A hesitation and then, “Can’t I just stay here? I’m pretty tired.”
He probably was, but instinct said not to leave him alone to brood. “Get a good night’s sleep then. If you don’t want breakfast, you can get up just early enough to be dressed for seven thirty.”
He held his breath, because really, what would he do if Mark said no? But eventually he heard some kind of affirmative grunt. At least he would assume it was affirmative. “Good. Sleep well, son,” he said firmly.
His room was warm and quiet. The Tylenol was kicking in, and his throbbing head was down to a dull ache. He went over to the window and looked out.
The field behind the house was dark. The light from his window and from Ryan’s reached the nearby ground, making the fresh snow glisten. Enough white stuff had fallen over the weekend to keep his two winter crewmen busy on campus for a couple days. He’d be able to give Mark a valid job to do. Physical work was always good, to take the mind off one’s troubles.
And off other things too, which was why he’d be glad to be out there with them shoveling tomorrow. As his head eased, he became more aware of his body. His ass was a little sore. Ryan had been wild last night, dominating and impatient and passionate. John wasn’t complaining. Being with Ryan was already way out beyond anything he had done with Cynthia. It was sex ramped up to eleven, when Cynthia had been more like a six. He just hadn’t known the difference. He wondered suddenly if this was what she’d found with Brandon. If so, her leaving was easier to understand.
Looking back, he thought his love for her had been naive. A picture of the perfect life, more about the idea of her than who she really was. They’d married so young. He’d been obsessed with her from a distance all through school, and then paralyzed with delight when she finally noticed hi
m, and let him have her. He’d never looked twice at anyone else. And then there was the baby. He’d loved her being pregnant. Loved the thought of a child of his growing inside her, adored the children when they were born. But he’d never been as easy and as close with Cynthia as he already was with Ryan.
Now she was carrying another man’s child. He was surprised to realize that the only thing he felt was mild irritation. He’d been hurt, betrayed, but also crazy jealous, when she’d first told him about Brandon and asked for the divorce. But maybe that had been more because this intruder was getting the life John had built for himself— wife, children, house, and all— and less because the man would be sleeping with Cynthia.
Now if Ryan ever dated someone else… A rush of heat and pain swept over him. Well, he’d just better not. That man belonged in this big bed, and no one else’s. The barest thought of Ryan naked in bed had him stiffening, and he slid a hand into his pocket, brushing himself lightly through the fabric. Ryan’s just down the hall. Kids sleep soundly. But he knew he wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t take the chance of Mark hearing or seeing something. Not until he could make his son really understand.
He tried out phrases in his mind. I’m in love with Ryan. I’m sleeping with another man, but it doesn’t mean I didn’t love your mother. I’m gay. He hadn’t said that out loud yet, but he was pretty sure it was true. Ryan might still be pussyfooting around the word, talking about having sex with him like it was a different thing. And hell, maybe it was for Ryan. He couldn’t be certain how someone else felt. But he was gay.
Having another man’s mouth on his, another man’s dick in his hand or in his ass was just plain right. Loving another man satisfied him, at a level that loving a woman never quite had. Well, not any man, but Ryan, for sure. He was more turned on by Ry’s male body than he could remember ever being, even in the days when he was young, horny, and stunned by the wonder of making love to Cynthia. It explained why he hadn’t really looked at other women after the divorce, why his half-hearted dating attempts hadn’t felt worth the effort. He was gay. He just didn’t know how he was going to explain that to his fifteen-year-old son.
Chapter Twelve
Early the next morning, the cab of his pickup truck felt crowded with the three of them. Mark was squeezed into the middle seat, drowning in Ryan’s old parka. Ryan, riding shotgun, looked tired. John wondered if Ry had slept as badly as he had.
“I’ve been thinking about buying a car,” Ryan said, breaking miles of silence. “I was being all economical and ecological and other virtues, riding the bus. But I’m a lot less virtuous now that the temperature gets down near zero.”
“You were never virtuous,” John quipped, and then bit his tongue.
Ryan gave him a mock glare and then whined, “Maaark, your dad’s picking on me.”
Mark snorted. “How old are you guys anyway?”
“Old enough to know better, but not old enough to care,” Ryan said.
John shifted in his seat. He was horny as hell, and everything Ryan said this morning seemed to have a double meaning. Moving around the kitchen in the pre-dawn dimness, it had been hard to avoid brushing up against Ryan accidentally-on-purpose. Hard to remember not to look where he wanted to, touch what he wanted. Mark’s stumbling entrance had them jumping apart guiltily, even though they was already two feet of space between them. Going back to being platonic was going to be a hell of a challenge.
Ryan had fed the boy, joking with him lightly. Gradually Mark’s monosyllabic grunts had expanded to actual sentences. John had watched, feeling a little jealous of both of them.
“Speak for yourself,” John said. “I’m a mature, responsible adult.”
“So, Mark,” Ryan asked. “If I go car shopping next weekend, do you want to come with me?”
“I guess.” There was reluctant interest in the boy’s tone. “What kind of car do you want to get?”
“Well it has to be used, because I’m broke. What I really want is a Corvette. But since I’m buying it to drive in Wisconsin in the winter, I’ll have to be more practical than that.”
“You’re, like, old,” Mark said. “Why don’t you have a car already?”
“I did,” Ryan said easily. “A classic Mustang, actually. Which is part of the reason I’m now broke, ’cause maintenance was expensive. But the ’Stang was a stick shift, and I couldn’t drive a clutch after I got hurt, so I sold her.”
“Oh. Right.” Mark looked down.
“So I need an automatic, but there’s no reason it can’t be a fun car. Maybe a Miata.”
“In Wisconsin. In winter. In a household with three people,” John said.
Ryan grinned. “Mark wouldn’t mind riding in the trunk, would you, kid?”
Mark turned to John. “You know you’re renting a room to a crazy person, right?”
John hid a smile. Mark and Ryan had hit it off well at Christmas, and Ryan seemed to have the right touch to get them back in that easy relationship again. “His money’s as green as anyone’s.”
They turned onto campus, and John pulled over in front of Brennan Hall to let Ryan out. Ryan wrestled his backpack out from behind the seats and hefted his cane.
“Watch the ice, guy,” John told him lightly.
“See you tonight.”
John lingered long enough to see Ryan find his footing up the front steps, and then pulled around to the staff parking lot. His office was in the basement of Croft. He found Juan and Kwame waiting for him, and introduced Mark to the guys.
Juan was tall, bulky and quiet, with pale gray eyes in his tanned face. At near fifty, he had been around the campus a long time and knew it well. At first, John had tried to consult with him on decisions, soliciting his opinion. But he’d had found that what Juan wanted was to be given a task and left in peace to do it. He would eventually answer a direct question but in the fewest possible words. Detective Carstairs had probably not enjoyed her interviews with him.
Kwame was short and stocky, with mahogany-dark skin and sad, world-weary eyes. He was a whiz with things mechanical, but he was squinting today, which usually meant he was hung over. And while he never shirked his work, he did noisy jobs slowly on his bad days. John assigned him to apply ice-melt on all the building stairs, and told Juan to drive the temperamental sidewalk plow for a change.
John had the feeling Kwame drank to forget, not to party, and he could sympathize. He’d been there himself often enough in the year following the divorce. As long as Kwame never came to work still drunk, or ditched the job, John could make it a little easier on him.
John got shovels out for himself and Mark, and led the way to the rose garden. This spot was one of his favorites. A series of paths wound through flowering bushes and climbing arbors. This part of Wisconsin was really borderline cold for growing roses, and John had to use all his skill to keep them healthy. The last thing he wanted was to have the motorized plow dumping packed ice on them. But that meant doing the job by hand.
He got Mark started at one end, showing him where the path went, and where he wanted the excess snow. Then he started at the other end. He could watch Mark while he worked. The kid was going at it with a will. He was trying to follow directions and use his knees not his back while shoveling. John could see when he forgot and started bending, and then remembered and tried to squat and lift. He was working hard.
That was part of what bothered him most about Mark’s complaints last night— Mark admitting that he’d stopped working at school, stopped trying. Because Mark was the kid who’d never needed to be pushed.
Torey was a different story. Things came so easy for her, she often didn’t see why she should make any big effort. It took a firecracker to pry her away from her books or the TV to do her chores. Mark was the one who would remember to clear the dishes or take out the trash, and do it without being asked. Mark had been known to do his homework days before it was due. If he’d quit trying, then something important was broken.
John thought about his conve
rsation with Cynthia. She’d ridiculed his concerns about Mark. She insisted that Mark was jealous of the coming baby, that he didn’t want to work hard enough to meet the standards of a rigorous school. That he just needed more discipline. John heard Brandon’s influence in everything she said. As if she’d given up control of Mark to her husband. He ground his teeth, and pitched snow off the path with a will.
Before he realized it, he was bumping his shovel into Mark’s. He looked up. The kid had managed to do close to half of the work. It was pretty impressive. My son does not need more discipline to be made to work.
Mark looked up into his face. “Are you really mad at me, Dad?”
“Huh?” John realized he was scowling. “No, son. I’m mad at…” At the last moment he substituted “Brandon” for “your mother”. He forced himself to relax. “I gave that guy the two most precious things in my life to take care of— you and your sister. And he messed it up. So I’m pretty angry with him.”
“It wasn’t all his fault,” Mark admitted.
“No,” John agreed. “You own a piece of this mess, and your mother does. I’m at fault too. You were here for a week, and I didn’t notice you were that unhappy, and you didn’t feel able to tell me. That’s on me.” He felt a twinge of guilt. If I hadn’t been so obsessed with Ryan at the time, would I have paid more attention to Mark? He shrugged for Mark’s benefit. “But I’m kinda fond of you and me. And I even still care about your mother. So it’s easier to be mad at Brandon Carlisle.”
Mark cracked a small smile.
“Come on,” John said. “Warm-up break.” He led the way into the utility room of Robinson Hall, and pulled off his gloves. He’d been sweating with exertion, but his fingers were chilled. He blew on them. Beside him, Mark unzipped his jacket and pulled off his borrowed gloves. John spotted a red mark and caught his son’s hand for a closer look.
“That’s a pretty big blister you’ve got there,” he said. “You should’ve told me.”
Mark inspected it with a shrug. “I didn’t even feel it till now.”