Busted (18 page)

“Don’ want Alex back,” Chris said with a pout. “Don’t. He’s not real. Shouldn’t be here if he’s not real. Not fair. He always gets the pretty ones.” Steve could’ve sworn Chris was pouting.

“I think Joe might not be too happy about being called pretty, Chris.”

“He’d bite me. Like a little yippy dog. Yip, yip, yip, chomp!” Chris mimed a dog head with his left hand and tried to grab Steve’s shoulder with it, but he missed and fell back to the couch.

“See?” Chris asked as he looked up at Steve. “He’s bitey.”

A small laugh escaped Steve. “Buddy, he is so going to kick your ass.”

* * *

Joe was fuming as he carried Toby upstairs. He'd actually worried about Chris earlier. He snorted. Sick. He knew exactly what sort of sick Chris was.

Toby moved in his sleep and held on a little tighter to Joe. Joe's fury vanished for a moment as he gave Toby a little squeeze and a kiss on the top of his head. That surprised him. He hadn't intended to do that. It had been instinctive, and just felt right.

That brought the fury back. He'd grown up with this sort of crap. Parents who were drunk all the time. His parents, his brothers, his sister, most of their friends… there were days when it felt like he was the only one sober in the house, though that wasn't ever really true; they'd had a cat.

Toby didn't deserve this. Joe knew what came next. After passed out on the couch came drinking during the day, losing your job, then bringing home trash and fucking them on the floor. Interspersed with some random violence and a lot of puke on the living room carpet, just to liven things up.

"I won't let that happen to you, sweet boy," Joe whispered into Toby's ear. Something about Toby brought out all his paternal instincts. He wasn't sure what it was, but right then he didn't care.

Joe flipped on the lights to the room Steve had said was Toby's. It was, without a doubt, a little boy's room. The walls were painted a light blue, and there were Winnie the Pooh pictures hung everywhere. The curtains on the windows had spaceships on them, and scattered all over the floor were Matchbox cars, half of them were police cruisers. The bedspread was blue as well. Against one wall was a low dresser. On it was a picture of Toby on Chris' shoulders. They both looked so happy Joe had to smile.

The bathroom was across the hall from Toby's room. Remembering what Steve had said, Joe carried Toby in there instead. Standing in front of the toilet with a little boy in his arms, Joe realized he had no idea what he was supposed to do. The general idea was the same for kids as adults, he was sure. But past that… were there rituals, or procedures or something? Joe assumed parents got instructions when their kids came home from the hospital, but he'd missed that bit.

Still, they were both guys, and the plumbing couldn't be
that
different. Joe looked around and didn't see anything special around the toilet. Not wanting to take any chances, he put the seat down. It was a little awkward, leaning over to do that, and Toby hung on tighter as he did.

"C'mon, sport," Joe said. "Time to go potty before bed."

"'k," Toby said. His voice was sleepy, and Joe had a sudden fear he wasn't going to wait until he was sitting on the toilet.

"Hold on a sec! Don't go yet," he said, fumbling with the tie on the front of Toby's swim shorts.

'''m a big boy. Not gonna piddle," Toby said. He sounded a little grumpy that Joe would think he couldn't wait.

"I'm sure you won't," Joe said soothingly. Ties undone, he slid Toby's shorts down and sat him on the toilet seat. Toby was wobbly, so Joe knelt in front of him to keep the boy steady.

That turned out to be something of a mistake. Toby, Joe found, was uncircumcised like his Uncle Alex. He was also very sleepy, and at four his aim was shaky at the best of times. As a result, Joe suddenly found himself wet.

"Sorry Unka Joe," Toby mumbled. "I missed."

"It's okay, Toby," Joe said. He wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or laugh. He settled for stripping his shirt off with one hand while he steadied Toby with the other as he dried both of them off with one of the towels hanging on the wall. Joe let Toby's shorts fall all the way off – they were wetter than his shirt, and there didn't seem to be any point in putting them back on for the trip across the hall.

Joe picked Toby up and carried him over to his room. He lay the boy down on the bed and rummaged through the dresser. Toby had a thing for Scooby Doo, judging from the underwear drawer. It only took a minute or two to for Joe to get him changed and tucked in.

"G'night, sport," Joe said. He pulled the covers up, tucked them around Toby's chin, and gave him a kiss on the forehead. He wasn't sure why, but it seemed the right thing to do.

Joe came downstairs, bare chested and shirt in hand, to see Steve guiding a barely conscious Chris out of the living room.

"C'mon, Chris," Steve was saying. "One foot in front of the other. You can do it."

Chris looked up and saw Joe. His face broke into a huge grin. "'M dreeeeming," he said. He turned to Steve. "y'din' tell me I was dreeeming." There was drunken accusation in his voice.

"Yeah, it's a dream, buddy," Steve said. His voice was a little forced. "Dream yourself upstairs, okay?"

Chris took two stumbling steps forward. Then his eyes went wide and he fell forward, right into Joe. He barely caught Chris and lurched back a step. He caught his heel on the bottom stair ended up laying on the stairs with Chris on top of him.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Joe spat. He was somewhere between furious and puzzled. Chris was dead drunk, but he was apparently a happy drunk. He was also very heavy.

Chris gave him that very serious look that only drunks and small children can give. "I'm dreaming," he said. He said it slowly and carefully, so as not to slur the words.

He was convinced of it, too. The world was very wobbly, and Joe was there, naked. Well, mostly naked, but Chris was willing to forgive him the shorts. That meant he was dreaming. He didn't remember Joe being nearly so cranky in the other dreams. On the other hand, in those dreams that mouth was either kissing him or sucking him. Chris couldn't quite reach his pants, so that left only one option open.

Joe was surprised for a second when Chris started kissing him. Then there were a few seconds where he kissed back. He was pretty sure the fact that he wrapped his arms around Chris was only out of reflex. It was when he couldn't come up with an excuse for his crotch-grinding that he pushed Chris away.

"Get
off
me," he spat. He was furious. Mad at Chris for getting drunk when his son might need him. Mad at Chris for kissing him. Mad at himself for kissing right back.

"Can't," Chris said cheerfully. He tried to move, with no success, mostly because Joe hadn't actually let go yet. "'M stuck!"

Joe let go, feeling like he'd just been burned.

"Get him up, please," he snapped at Steve, who was enjoying this altogether too much for Joe's comfort.

"You sure?" Steve asked. "I was thinking of giving Mary a call and…"

"Off!" Joe had put his hands against Chris' chest and pushed. Chris was limp enough that it didn't do much good. His muscles felt good against Joe's hands. He had to resist kneading, which just made him angrier.

"Up you go," Steve said. He pulled back on Chris while Joe pushed, and between them they managed to get Chris back onto his feet.

"Awww. No more kiss?" Chris asked. He tried to pout, but it didn't work too well.

"No kiss. Bed," Joe snapped.

“See? Yippy. Told you,” Chris slurred as he wobbled.

The stairway was too narrow for two people to walk next to each other, let alone three, and Chris was more than drunk enough for Joe to realize there was no way he was making it up the stairs by himself. Giving a disgusted snort, Joe stood on the stair just above Chris and turned around.

"Drape the drunkard over my shoulders and give me a hand hauling him upstairs," Joe said.

Both Chris and Steve stood stock still, staring at the tattoo that covered most of Joe's back. It was an intricate design, all Celtic knotwork in dark green, maroon, and gold. It was roughly the shape of a cross, with the bar at his shoulder blades and the column extending a few inches on either side of his spine. The artist had done an impressive job, the lines meshing with the muscles and bone.

"Shit. That must've hurt," Steve said.

"Like a son of a bitch," Joe snapped. "I had my wisdom teeth out in college. Can we move, please?" Chris had reached up and was tracing the lines with his fingers, making Joe shiver and bite his cheek to try and keep his erection under control.

The statement didn't make any sense to Steve, but a drunken Chris was a more immediate problem, so he let it go for another time. He lifted Chris' arms and dropped them over Joe's shoulders. The difference in the men's height worked to their advantage; even standing up a step Joe was barely taller than Chris.

Chris was more than happy to be in this position. He draped himself over Joe, his hands closing over Joe's pecs and starting to knead the muscles underneath. Joe gritted his teeth, folded his arms across his chest to keep hold of Chris, and started walking.

Steve was muttering encouragement and pushing from behind, pushing as best he could while Joe lifted, bearing most of Chris' weight. There were only eighteen steps but it seemed to take forever to make it to the top; Chris took the reaching of the summit as a personal triumph. They'd surmounted the stairs. That only left the hall, and then to bed. He liked that idea.