Safe House

by Charley Descoteaux

  Everyone loved the okonomiyaki, even though he made it in the Kansai style with the sticky texture that he and his father loved but many people found off-putting, and that made the whole event so much nicer. Kyle hadn’t done much cooking for the past few months, since he’d started classes at East West College. He’d loved the culinary arts, but so far massage therapy seemed more a calling than a course of study. Even his father had remarked that he’d seemed happier lately.

  Not one date or hookup since February, but there were worse things than to spend one’s time studying the healing arts.

  After the meal, the parents began to drift into the art room for drinks. It was only two in the afternoon, and Kyle shamelessly took the opportunity to hide in the kitchen with Derek and Alex, helping them clean up from brunch and prep for dinner. It was almost four by the time he peeked out. He found his father standing in front of one of the large windows looking out on the backyard. Alone.

  “Dad? Are you having a good time?”

  “Kyle.” Ken turned and favored him with a slightly fuzzy grin. “Splendid party. Just catching my breath.”

  “Catching your breath? Are you okay?”

  Ken shook his head and smiled fondly. “Will you please stop asking me that? I am fine.”

  “Okay. Sorry.” They stood at the window for a moment, during which Kyle debated getting another drink. He’d had two in the kitchen and felt mellow. Another could either make him giggly or sleepy.

  While he was pondering his alcohol consumption and his father was thinking about… whatever was rolling around in his head, the door beside them burst open. A slightly embarrassed guy who looked about seventeen left a sand-encrusted pair of sandals on the porch, came inside, and closed the door. He scanned the room and then ran in the direction of the kitchen. Kyle watched him go and then returned to his pondering, coming to the conclusion that more alcohol should probably wait until he wasn’t watching underage blonds with such open fascination. He didn’t think about much beyond the flowers in the garden until he heard his father’s voice, a stern tone he remembered very well from his childhood.

  “Are you old enough to be here?”

  Kyle turned to see the blond kid, his eyes wide and shocked, sputtering. “Um, what? I’m—sorry?”

  “Dad. It’s okay. Nothing—”

  “I’m eighteen? I’m only here to hit my mom up for some sunscreen and then go back out to the contest. That’s okay, right?”

  Kyle was wondering which of the women he’d never seen before was his mother—not Minnie Smith, I know who her son is—when the boy regained his composure and offered his hand to shake.

  “Jason. I’m Jason Morris. Nice to meet you.”

  Ken looked at his offered hand for a moment before shaking it. “Ken Shimoda. What contest?” Somehow he managed not to sound rude, but Kyle thought it was a close call.

  Jason turned to Kyle and offered his hand. “Are you Kyle Shimoda?”

  “Yes….” They shook, and Kyle tried to conceal how stunned he was by the whole exchange. Maybe I won’t be having another drink after all.

  “Hey, thanks for the tips. We might not win, but at least we’ll still be alive for the judging this year. This is the best sand sculpture we’ve ever built.”

  “There’s a sand castle contest going on today?” Ken sounded more interested than Kyle would have guessed. “I’d like to see yours.”

  “Okay, I can take you there. I have to get back anyway.”

  Ken turned to Kyle, a little less than steady on his feet. “Are you coming?”

  “Sure, Dad.” His smile was accompanied by a fluttering sensation behind his breastbone. Bran is there.

  They set out for the contest, heading unsteadily west until they reached the hard-packed sand beyond the high tide line. Ken waved Jason on ahead—the contest area was easy to spot from far away, crowded with teams working on their sculptures and groups of spectators watching and wandering. A few notes of jazz occasionally rose over the sounds of the wind and the waves, and every few minutes happy shouts or laughter reached them. The clear day warmed the top of Kyle’s head as the thought of seeing Bran warmed him from the inside.

  He didn’t want to feel that way—the guy had disappointed him. But he’d also pulled him from the freezing river. Maybe those two things evened the score, allowed for another shot at the ultimate prize…. Kyle dialed it back a little and admitted to himself that he was willing to see how it played out once they saw each other again, and go from there. He still hadn’t managed to get through a single week without thinking—or dreaming—of Brandon Smith. That had to mean something, although Kyle wasn’t sure exactly what, or how much that was swayed by the fact that he’d enjoyed being fucked by Bran’s big cock.

  No way was he comfortable with attributing his ongoing fascination to anything more than a good, much needed, and long overdue fucking.

  Ken had stopped a few feet back before Kyle realized he’d zoned out thinking about Bran. Again. Sheesh.

  They inspected the first few sand castles, predictable entries—castles with turrets and moats, sea creatures, and mermaids lounging on the beach—and then they reached Bran’s.

  Jason nodded when they stopped. He was busy misting what appeared to be the head of an umpire. It was visible above a backstop—it was obviously a chain-link-fence-style backstop even from behind. When they made it to the front of the sculpture, the umpire was enough a part of the backstop to be stable, but separate enough to pop, calling the runner out at the plate. The runner had slid, but the catcher had him tagged a foot shy—on his knees, so the catcher’s figure stood solid and stable. The whole thing looked so well-executed that Kyle couldn’t keep a smile off his face.

  None of the figures had facial features, which was creepy and cool at the same time. Considering the level Bran had been sculpting at in February, their contest entry was truly impressive.

  Ken and Jason talked, but Kyle didn’t pay them much attention. He circled the sculpture and found Bran on his knees beside the umpire, working on the laces for his shoes. His team consisted of himself and five boys who all looked high school age. The problem he’d mentioned, about having all his entries collapse before judging, didn’t seem to be in play anymore. Bran looked up and smiled at Kyle. His gaze lingered a moment—he looked afraid, or maybe contrite. Or that’s only wishful thinking. He seemed to swallow hard before ducking his head and getting back to work. Everyone on the team knew their jobs, and they worked in silence—with the occasional “accidental” misting and burst of laughter. Ken wanted to see the rest of the entries, so before long they walked on. Kyle was sure he felt Bran’s eyes on him as they left, but didn’t allow himself to turn and look.

  By the time he saw Bran again, it was nearly six o’clock and the judging had finished. Bran’s team took third place and they were over the moon about it, laughing and hugging each other. The spectacle brought a smile to Kyle’s face.

  Bran came over, brushing sand from his hands. Kyle wasn’t sure if he wanted Bran to offer his hand to shake, or if that would be insulting. But he didn’t. He glanced down at himself—damp, covered in sand, and thoroughly windblown (alluring, enticing, and slightly terrifying for all that)—and smiled apologetically. “Thank you for your help.”

  Kyle smiled and shrugged. “I didn’t tell you anything you couldn’t have learned on the Internet.”

  “I still appreciate your help. It’s a little embarrassing to admit, but I didn’t know there would be so many resources for this online.”

  “You’re welcome.” Kyle found himself relaxing—a little—in spite of his conscious effort to stay detached.

  “Are you staying at the camp all weekend?”

  “Yes. My father and I are here for parents’ weekend.” He grinned, and Bran mirrored the expression.

  “I have to run back to my place and clean up. My mother’s at the party. After I take her home, can we go somewhere and talk?”

  Kyle looked around and was surprise
d to see they were alone beside the sculpture. A large group, including his father, had walked halfway back to Buchanan House.

  “I owe you an explanation.”

  Kyle almost said he didn’t, but he really did. And Kyle wanted to hear that explanation. It had better be good.

  “And I’ve been looking forward to giving it to you.” Bran stepped closer. Only one tiny step, but it was enough to slightly invade Kyle’s personal space, enough to allow him to catch Bran’s scent and feel warmth radiating from his body. “You look great. I hope that means you’ve made a full recovery.”

  Kyle wasn’t sure what he was getting himself into, but he nodded.

  “My car’s in the lot.” Bran pointed behind himself with his thumb, not taking his eyes off Kyle’s face. “See you at the camp in about a half hour?”

  “Okay.” For a long moment, neither moved—the tension was almost too much. Kyle took a step backward and then turned and walked away. It was surprisingly difficult to leave Bran standing on the beach.

  By the time Bran made it to the celebratory cocktail party at Buchanan House, Kyle had showered and changed into a clean pair of jeans and a tight red tank top. He left his hair loose and hoped nobody could tell he’d tied it back first and then rejected the look.

  Bran came in while Kyle was deep in conversation with Jason’s mother, Melissa, and Alex. Mostly Kyle smiled and nodded while they discussed the relative merits of different courses of study—bachelor’s degrees and trade schools for the most part.

  Alex turned to Kyle and asked about his experience with education, taking him by surprise. He’d been trying to read Bran’s lips while he spoke with his mother and Ken across the room.

  “Um, okay. I have an EE—a bachelor’s in Electrical Engineering—from U of O, but I haven’t used it for twenty years. It was painful to get, and I’m sure my father would say it pained him to pay for it.”

  “Engineering? Wow.” Alex looked intimidated, and Melissa leaned toward him as though she suddenly liked him more.

  It made Kyle uncomfortable to think that about Mrs. Morris, so he turned slightly away from her toward Alex.

  Alex rested a hand on Kyle’s arm. “How did you end up in culinary school?”

  “I needed to get out of the cube farm.” Kyle shrugged. He hadn’t been able to explain his career change to the people he’d known at the time—especially not his father—and had long since given up trying. “Culinary school changed my life. I met great people who became family, and I loved almost every job it got me.”

  Melissa raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Where do you work now?”

  “I’m studying massage therapy.” The light instantly left Melissa’s eyes, and Kyle fought to keep from showing how much he wanted to walk away. I’m probably misinterpreting everything. Or I want to go and talk to Bran so badly I’m grasping at any potential reason to do so. Kyle found himself saying something ridiculous about the healing arts being his true calling, before realizing Bran had crossed to the near side of the room when he wasn’t looking. How much did he hear?

  Alex smiled and made a beckoning motion. “Bran, come and join us.”

  As he closed the short distance between them, Kyle allowed himself to take a good long look at Bran. He’d meant to take in the whole package, but once their eyes met, Kyle couldn’t tear his gaze from those bright blue eyes.

  Bran greeted them, and Alex brought him up to speed on the subject. “What about you? Did you get a four-year degree?”

  “Not right away.”

  Before he could go on, Nathan tapped the rim of his wineglass and announced they would be bringing out a dessert buffet shortly. Bran looked relieved, which only made Kyle more curious. When their drinks were both empty—coincidentally, both were drinking coffee—Bran asked if he could have a word.

  Kyle followed him to a quiet corner opposite the kitchen. He watched the way Bran was walking a little stiffly and wondered if that was due to his work on the beach or if he was nervous. He’d cleaned up nicely, wearing tan khakis and a light blue button-down shirt that made his eyes look even darker blue while accentuating his broad shoulders and clinging to his chest.

  “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

  Kyle’s heartbeat sped up as he waited to see if Bran would suggest a place. He felt a little underdressed, but if he was interpreting Bran’s expression correctly, that wasn’t a problem. Kyle told himself he didn’t want to leave with Brandon, but he did. The thought of being alone, even if only sharing a table at the nearest bar, reminded him of when his left knee hadn’t had the strength to hold his weight.

  Weak in the knees. That’s what this feeling is called.

  “Please.”

  All Kyle could do was nod. Bran had saved his life, and he owed it to him to listen, but that’s not why he agreed. Not even close. “Let me tell my father I’m leaving.”

  Bran smiled, his eyes practically sparkling. Kyle kept from sighing with an effort.

  Ken was deep in conversation with Minnie Smith and barely acknowledged him. Kyle wondered about Bran’s relationship with his mother. He’d said he would take her home, but she was still at the party, and as far as Kyle noticed, he didn’t tell her he was leaving.

  He probably doesn’t plan to be gone very long.

  Kyle grabbed a jacket he’d left behind the check-in desk. Bran was waiting for him in the lobby just inside the front doors, shifting his weight from foot to foot and looking out the window. He was obviously nervous.

  Handsome and nervous.

  Kyle usually went for the delicate, willowy—and, yes, tragic—type, so the realization he still wanted Bran as much as he had that first night came as a bit of a shock.

  Okay, a big shock.

  If I’m lying to myself.

  He pulled on his jacket and slowly approached Bran, grabbing a few extra seconds to study him. Bran’s posture said cop—nervous cop, awesome—his back straight and shoulders tense. Kyle wanted to run his fingers through Bran’s wavy hair, a few shades darker than the sand he’d been working with earlier, wanted to caress the smooth, warm skin covering his firm muscles. Bran turned to him, and he must have just licked his lips, because they glistened invitingly. Kyle thought about tracing their shape with his finger, nibbling on the full bottom lip, and then kissing Bran’s sexy mouth.

  That explanation had better be very good.

  They stood and gazed into each other’s eyes for a long moment, and then Brandon broke the eye contact. “Thanks,” he told his shoes, before raising his gaze along Kyle’s body and settling it somewhere on his face—perhaps his mouth. “I mean, thank you for coming.”

  Bran opened one of the front doors, and Kyle preceded him onto the porch. After Bran closed the door with a soft click, they went into the parking lot. It wouldn’t be dark for another couple of hours, and the day was still warm enough that Kyle regretted putting on the light jacket before they’d made it halfway across the parking lot. Brandon hesitated at the rear of a blue Ford Focus, and Kyle wondered if he had stopped himself from opening the passenger door or was only considering saying what he had in mind to say right there. They got into the car, and Kyle startled when the engine started. Bran acted like he hadn’t seen it, but he had to have noticed, or he wasn’t a very good cop—the car shivered.

  They rode in silence. A few minutes later, Bran pulled into the garage of a small green house on a quiet street. The yard was a little overgrown, and the garage was partially full of neatly labeled boxes. Bran waited until the garage door had completely closed behind them before turning to Kyle. He didn’t say anything, just reached behind himself and opened the car door.

  Kyle watched him get out of the car and wondered how all this dancing around each other would end before he opened the passenger door and did the same. Bran beckoned him to follow and went inside.

  The house didn’t look lived-in, and that made Kyle a little sad. The kitchen was almost too clean, except for the dust. The furniture in the dining room
was old and worn but not dingy—everything seemed to be shades of green or brown—and the few pictures on the walls, landscapes of the beach and the woods, all looked local. Painted by local artists? Kyle had an urge to go back and look in Bran’s refrigerator.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Bran had stopped beside the oval dining table. A clean spot in the thin layer of dust covering the table said he’d rested his hand on the edge.

  “Nice house.”

  “It’s not mine.” Bran invited Kyle to sit with a gesture.

  For no reason he could have named, that admission made Kyle afraid. “What?” He stuffed both hands into the pockets of his jacket and tried not to appear as though he was moving away from Bran. He did sidestep out of the arched doorway between the kitchen and dining room, though, so it was hardly a stealth move.

  “It’s a safe house. I have roommates, so we wouldn’t have privacy at my place.”

  “Um… okay.”

  “All I have here is beer or Coke.”

  “I’ll take a Coke. Thanks.” Kyle didn’t particularly like Coke, but he didn’t want to drop his guard with a beer. The whole strange situation had the effect of sobering him up completely, and he wanted to stay that way. Already, things weren’t playing out the way he’d anticipated. Kyle hoped he could remember the way back to the camp—or at least to a main road—if he ended up leaving on foot.

  Bran returned with two Cokes, didn’t “accidentally” allow their hands to touch when he passed one to Kyle, and sat in one of the plain wooden chairs—not the one next to the chair Kyle was standing behind. Kyle admitted to himself he was relieved Bran hadn’t been the one who decorated the house and then quickly pushed that thought away.