Rough Road (13 page)

As soon as we’re out of sight of his coworkers, he leans against the wall and pulls me into a crushing hug.

“That was fucking awful,” he says. “Goddamn Tommy.”

“Are you okay?” I ask. “What do you need?”

“Oblivion.” He lets go of me and then grabs my hand as we start walking toward the doors.

I thrust a credit card at the parking people and a moment later my car appears. I tip the valet the twenty that was in my wallet, and hope Wish doesn’t see. I don’t have any smaller bills, and I don’t want to waste any time dealing with money.

I settle him into the passenger seat and take him home.

He protests when we get to my house instead of his apartment. Something about clothes.

“You can wear mine. We’re about the same size.” My T-shirts might be snug on him, but I’m sure my jeans will fit him fine.

“You wear jeans that cost half my paycheck.”

“And you’ll look damn fine in them, come on. Come inside, I’ll feed you and put you to bed.”

He follows me in, shoulders slumped and expression vacant. I send him upstairs to shower and open my fridge.

Takeout box. Takeout box. More takeout boxes. Don’t I have any actual food? I glance at the calendar. Grocery delivery is on Tuesdays, so no, I really don’t. There’s a can of those exploding biscuits in the door of the fridge. I can’t remember ever ordering them. I take those out and start heating the oven. A peek in the freezer rewards me with vacuum-sealed packs of steak. A corporate gift from god-knows-who, god-knows-when. I pull out a pair and toss them in the sink with warm water.

Vegetables. What the hell am I going to do about vegetables? I don’t even have bagged salad in the fridge. Ever since I heard about people getting salmonella from that stuff, it’s been out of the question. I open the pantry, dubious. I can’t remember the last time I ate something from a can. All the normal kitchen stuff I never use is there: flour, sugar, baking powder. What’s baking powder even for? A couple jars of salsa. I stare at those for a moment . . . salsa is kind of a vegetable, but we don’t have any chips. It’s not like we can eat it with a spoon.

“I don’t have any vegetables,” I announce to the pantry, which mocks me silently.

I turn around and see Wish standing there, barefoot in a pair of my sweats.

“Not that hungry.”

“But you’ll feel better if you eat.” I settle him in at the kitchen table.

I manage to serve us up a pair of steaks and a plate of biscuits, and in spite of his protest, he eats everything I put in front of him before pushing away his plate and reaching for me.

I slip into his arms, clutching his head against my stomach and ruffling my fingers through his hair. The tension in his body and the anguished hitch in his breath gut me, and I tuck him closer to my body and rock him.

“They were moving sections of Jersey barrier, and somehow one wasn’t clamped properly and it fell on him. A piece of rebar cut his thigh. It took the fire department half an hour to get there because of traffic on that narrow highway. I had to hold pressure on the wound while he screamed because no one else had the stomach for it.”

“I’m sorry.” Inadequate, but it feels worse to say nothing.

His arms tighten around me. “Even once the paramedics got there, they couldn’t pull the barrier off him until the firefighters arrived, and he
still
might lose the leg.”

“That’s terrible.” I stroke his hair again. “But he’s lucky you were there.”
Thank God it wasn’t you.
It honestly didn’t occur to me that his job was dangerous. I knew it was physical, but I didn’t associate it with actual danger.

“It could have been me. It could have been any of us who work that part of the crew.” He shudders, and I rub the back of his neck in small circles. It seems to calm him, being touched, so I keep up the massage.

“You want to go to bed?” I ask.

He slumps against me. “Yeah.”

The dishes can wait until tomorrow. He lets me lead him upstairs, clinging to my hand like a lifeline. That trust touches me deeply, a sweet ache in my chest tinged with gratitude that I can do something for him that no one else can. I tuck him into my bed and spoon him from behind, taking the protective posture he normally would. He pulls my arm around him like armor, gripping my hand tightly against his belly. I kiss the back of his neck, willing the last bit of tension to slip from his body, and I hold him until we both fall asleep.

I wake up to him running his hand through
my
hair and studying me with a serious expression on his face. He’s perched on the side of my bed, wearing my T-shirt and my oldest, most faded pair of jeans.

“Hi,” I whisper.

“Good morning.”

“Is it morning?” I yawn. “Too soon.”

“The site is closed today.” He holds up his phone. “Tommy’s out of surgery for now, but probably needs another. They think they saved his leg.”

I rub my eyes. “That’s good.”

“Yeah. Thanks for coming to pick me up yesterday. I wasn’t holding it together too well.”

“Of course. That’s what boyfriends do. Are you okay?”

“I was really scared. Scared for Tommy. Scared for me. And that’s
not
how I planned to introduce you to my coworkers.” There’s a flicker of a smile around his lips.

“You told them about me?” I remember Conlon knowing my name in the hospital.

“Yeah. I mean, they think your campaign against the roads project is shit—” we both wince “—but I told them you were an okay guy in spite of your politics. That led to me admitting I was dating you.”

I laugh. “Hmm. An ‘okay guy’ doesn’t exactly sound like a ringing endorsement.”

“It’s a macho environment. I don’t keep the fact that I’m gay a secret, but I don’t go bragging on my guy the way those guys talk about their girlfriends.”

Ah. A choice I understand, even if it’s not one I would make myself.

“You know, I’d love to get to know your friends. Why don’t you invite some of them for Labor Day? I mean, you’ve met Ben and everyone, but I’ve only met your roommate. And only the one time.”

He recoils a tiny bit. “I don’t know that it’s a good idea with everything that happened yesterday. Maybe another time.”

I’m not sure what meeting me has to do with the events at his worksite, but I stifle my annoyance. He had a hellacious day; some incongruity can be forgiven.

“Okay, another time. What do you want to do today?” I tug him down to the bed as I change the subject. “I can take the day off. I have a conference call at two, but I can call in from anywhere.”

“I’d like that.” He smiles shyly, so unlike the confident Wish I know. I’ve seen him happy and horny and angry, but never vulnerable like yesterday or this morning. His armor is down, and he’s letting me see. Something’s changed.

“I like you like this too, you know,” I whisper, and he flinches a little, then softens again.

“I don’t want you to think I’m not . . .” he searches for the word, then settles on, “capable.”

“Of course I don’t think that. It takes a strong guy to admit he’s scared.”

He doesn’t answer me, not with words anyway. Instead, he cups my face in his hands and he gives me a long and lazy kiss full of the best promise.

The Saturday before Labor Day, I wake to an aching ass and Wish wrapped around me like we’re velcroed together. Rolling out of his arms, I pad into the bathroom to take a long, hot shower and rinse away any leftover traces from last night’s sexcapades, then I take stock of myself in the mirror. Meeting his family for the first time and I’ve got bruises on my ass. I glance at them and shudder at the memory of him digging his fingers into the marks he’d made with the skinny paddle I love. And yeah, that’s a bite mark on my shoulder, complete with a scab where his tooth actually broke the skin. He was mortified, but it turned me on so much, his mortification didn’t last long. When I told him he was in no danger of hearing my safeword from a love bite, he treated me to several more until I was a writhing, begging mess. God, he was so fucking hot. I’m starting to get hard just thinking about his teeth on my skin.

He’s going to introduce me to his mother like this? I cross to the walk-in closet and open a drawer, digging for my board shorts. I own exactly one pair, and I save them for meeting people’s families. Easing them on, I wince when they scrape over the tender skin of my ass. A short-sleeved cashmere T-shirt matches the purple in my board shorts—perfect. When I turn around, Wish is standing in the doorway to the bathroom, gloriously naked, scratching his chest and staring at me with a funny expression on his face.

“What are you wearing?” His voice is sleepy and confused.

“Shorts, love. I hear they’re all the rage.”

“What happened to those microscopic green Speedos you’re so hot in?”

“They clash with the bruises.” I raise an eyebrow. He can’t seriously want me to wear those today. In front of his
mother
. With paddle marks on my ass.

“Eddie. I don’t want you to pretend to be someone you’re not for my family.” He folds his arms over his chest.

Ah.
That’s what this is about.

“That’s not what’s happening.” I lean on the doorframe to the closet and mimic his posture. “I’ve spent two dozen years scandalizing my family and friends; they’re pretty inured to it. But your family . . .” I open my hands in supplication. “I want them to like me.”

He crosses the room and pulls me into a hug. “They will. And you don’t have to hide the bruises if you don’t want to.”

“I’m twenty years older than you. They’re going to think I’m a middle-aged pervert taking advantage of their young son.” I flush as I say it, this sudden lack of confidence making my voice shake.

“So what? Middle-aged perverts are my
favorite
.” He affects my lilt, then he gets serious. “I like you the way you are. My family will too. You aren’t the first older guy I’ve dated, you know.”

“I’m probably closer to your mother’s age than to yours.” I huff, reaching for the lacing on my shorts as he returns to the bathroom.

“You are.”

“And she’s not going to mind?”

“I don’t let my mom pick my boyfriends for me. Wear whatever you like. I think you’re perfect.”

And then he turns on the shower and the conversation is over.

I wear the green Speedo but pull my Nantucket Reds over it. At least until we get the introductions out of the way.

Wish’s family is meeting us at the marina, which is good because I feel much less self-conscious about it than about my house. The cabin cruiser is already pulled into my boat slip, and our lunch is packed on ice in the little galley, along with a bottle of champagne, some Cokes and bottled waters, and a twelve pack of fancy microbrew. I don’t know much about either wine or beer, but I figure things are expensive because they’re good, so I bought the fancy shit. I hope Wish doesn’t know any more about these things than I do, because then I’m totally busted trying to impress his family.

The boat was cleaned and detailed after the last time I used it—I prefer the wake boat because the cruiser uses an insane amount of fuel and isn’t practical. But it is the best way to see the tournament from the lake—comfortable and luxurious.

Wish stands at the bottom of the stairs to the cabin and turns in a circle while I watch him from above. “We are
so
sleeping here tonight.” He points at the bed. “That is . . . There’s a bedroom on your boat.”

“It’s more like a cupboard.” I shrug. “But if you want to, we can sleep in it.”

“Sleep is a euphemism.” He winks at me, and I flush warm all over. “Wow.” He spins around again. “Max is gonna shit.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing there’s a toilet too.” I gesture up the stairs. “Come on, help me watch for your family.”

It turns out, I wouldn’t have needed help. His brother, though taller and a little broader, is nearly identical to Wish. Same blue eyes and brown hair. Same blinding smile.

“This is my brother, Max, and his wife, Carrie,” Wish introduces. “And this is my mom, Kelly Carver.” He grins as he helps his mom onto the deck.

She can’t be a day over fifty. Her dark hair is still short, growing in from the chemo, making her bright-blue eyes appear huge in her thin face. She’s wearing a red sundress and carrying a broad black-and-white hat.