Good Bones (18 page)

“All right,” said Chris. “Let’s go.”

The flatbed’s seats were as hard and unforgiving as milk crates and transmitted every bounce and jostle on the road. The windshield wipers squealed asthmatically. The cab reeked of old engine, and if Chris turned on the heat the air vents smelled like something had crawled in and died. But the truck ran fine, and it could handle loads that were too big even for Dylan’s pickup. Besides, Dylan thought there was something incredibly sexy about the way Chris looked while he drove the big vehicle. Chris’s sleeves were rolled above his elbows, revealing the ropy muscles of his forearms, and he was wearing a baseball cap pulled low on his head—maybe to hide the speckles of paint that had landed in his hair during the morning’s touch-up job. He had apparently gotten over whatever was making him angry earlier, because he was humming little snatches of songs, and sometimes he’d glance over at Dylan and smile.

Dylan wondered how uncomfortable it would be to have sex on top of the bench seat.

They ended up driving all the way into the city to a huge plumbing supply place frequented by a lot of the contractors Dylan knew. The place carried a good range of products from cheapo to
holy shit
. Dylan concentrated his efforts on some of the nicer midrange fixtures. He ended up choosing a large pedestal sink with an antique reproduction faucet, and a frameless glass shower enclosure. He was going more for function than historical accuracy in this room, although some of the planned detail work would assure it didn’t end up totally anachronistic. After he picked out a couple of light fixtures, a towel bar, and a mirror, Dylan found Chris near the back of the store, seemingly enraptured by an enormous bathtub.

“You could host a pool party in that thing, dude.”

Dylan frowned at it skeptically. “My water pressure’s only so-so. It’d take a year to fill it.”

“I know,” Chris said with a disappointed little sigh. “But a girl can dream.”

Dylan was pretty familiar by now with Chris’s single bathroom: a tiny space with a cracked Formica countertop over a particleboard vanity, a chipped mirror, a toilet that made alarming sounds when it was flushed, and a slightly mildewy plastic shower compartment. “You know, my master bath’s still in rough shape, but the tub’s pretty nice. You can use it anytime you want.”

Chris seemed surprised by the offer. “Yeah?”

“Sure.”

A slight curl of the lips. “Might take you up on that. I bet you got some of them smelly things too—salts or oils or some shit like that.”

“Are you casting aspersions on my masculinity?”

Ignoring the nearby pair of men in coveralls, Chris leered hugely. “Wanna go home and prove what a man you are?”

With the bathroom supplies secured onto the flatbed, they next stopped at Lowe’s, where Dylan bought some floor tile and paint. The bathroom would still need something for storage, but he was thinking that later on he’d hunt for an old shelf or something, a piece with a little character to offset the minimalist shower.

“Between today and the kitchen stuff, you’ve put a good dent in your budget,” Chris observed as they headed out of town.

“Yeah, but I’m still good. The only other really pricey part’s going to be the master bath. The rest is mostly paint and hard work.” He took a long sip of the coffee he’d picked up at the Starbucks near Lowe’s. “For upstairs I was thinking I might use some real antique fixtures. There’s this place near downtown. They specialize in salvaged stuff.”

Chris nodded but didn’t say anything. Either the traffic was taking a lot more concentration than usual or he was deep in thought. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I been thinking.”

“Oh?” Dylan wasn’t at all sure he was going to want to hear this.

“You got that big-ass kitchen, all shiny like somethin’ from a magazine, and you ain’t hardly gonna use it. And I got my old place and… and maybe sometimes I could come over and cook us dinner. If you want.”

Between the kitchen and the bathtub, it sounded as if Chris was practically going to move in with him. Hell, they already spent most of their waking hours together, working on Dylan’s place, eating and then watching TV at Chris’s, and fucking in both houses on a variety of surfaces. Despite knowing that he should be more careful, that all of this was bound to end badly, Dylan couldn’t help but smile as his heart beat fast with delight. “You can come over and cook for me any day, Chris. Every day, even.”

Chris cut his eyes briefly to the right and then looked back at the road. “What about when you got a guy over?”

“A guy?”

“Yeah. A… a date.”

Dylan was momentarily so flabbergasted that he didn’t know how to respond. He could see the way Chris’s mouth had tightened, though, the way his shoulders seemed suddenly very tense. He remembered what Kay had said about Chris thinking more of him than just convenience. Maybe she was right. She usually was, according to Rick.

“I won’t have any dates over,” Dylan said quietly.

“Right. You probably take ’em somewhere in the city. Not to a Podunk tavern where shitheads get jumped in the men’s room.”

“No, I mean I won’t have any dates, period. I don’t have anyone in my life. Just… just you.” Goddamn it—they were having a relationship talk in the slow lane of Sunset Highway.

Chris shook his head. “I seen the way guys look at you—even the ones that’ve been fooling themselves they ain’t interested in men. You could have half’a Portland dropping trou and bendin’ over for you.”

“Um… I think that’s overstating it. And anyway, I won’t. I’m not seeing anyone else, Chris.”

Now it was Chris’s turn to look shocked, so Dylan hastily added, “I’m not saying you have to… that we have… that I’m stopping you from… whatever. I mean, we can… Jesus, Chris. I suck at this.”

But Chris was smiling. “You sayin’ you’re gonna gimme your class ring and let me wear your letterman jacket?”

“I didn’t play any sports in school.”

“Built like you are?”

Dylan blushed. “I was a… late bloomer. And now you’re changing the subject. Look.” He took a deep breath. “There are things about me—bad things. And I can’t, I can’t… it won’t work long term. I won’t blame you if you don’t want to… to be with me anymore, or if you want to look for the guy you really deserve. But I’m not going to have sex with anyone else.”

Chris’s expression was troubled, but he nodded slightly and cracked his window a little to defog the interior. Dylan didn’t know what else to say, and it seemed the discussion was over because Chris just stared at the taillights in front of them.

W
HEN
they first arrived back at the farm, it was as if the entire conversation in the truck had never taken place. Chris was very businesslike as he helped Dylan unload the purchases and stow them in the living room. When that job was complete, Chris stood in the kitchen, running his fingers through his hair. “Seems a shame to dirty it up already. Wanna come over for dinner?”

Dylan should have been working on the Beaverton project. He’d done nothing but stare at a blank screen and reject every lame idea that sprang into his head. But he probably wasn’t going to be successful tonight anyway, and there was something strangely vulnerable about the way Chris was holding himself: a sort of resigned wariness to his eyes and a little hunch to his broad shoulders. “Sounds good,” Dylan said, earning a bright smile.

Dinner turned out to be thick steaks and potatoes baked just right, with crispy skins and the insides moist and soft. There were fresh chives—which Chris grudgingly admitted he’d grown himself—and a spinach salad, and big bowls of ice cream for dessert. “Kind of a feast,” Dylan said, rubbing his happily overstuffed belly.

Chris just gave his half smile. “You get to wash the dishes while I sit on my ass and watch.”

That was fair enough, and they chatted lightly as Dylan cleaned. They heard the wind rushing through the treetops and agreed that a storm was on the way. Chris had a tractor among his vehicle collection—not quite running, of course—but he thought he could get it going by the time Dylan needed it to clear blackberries.

Usually after a meal like that they’d both collapse on Chris’s ugly couch and argue good-naturedly over what to watch on TV until they ended up naked. But tonight Chris stood in the middle of his small living room, shifting slightly from foot to foot. Finally, he said, “Were you serious about that bathtub offer? ’Cause it sounded pretty good.”

Dylan smiled. “Dead serious. Come on over.”

It had begun raining, hard, and they were soaked by the time they re-entered Dylan’s kitchen. But they didn’t pause to do more than kick off their boots—“You oughtta add a mudroom back here,” Chris advised—before heading upstairs. As Dylan stripped off his wet clothes, Chris entered the bathroom. The sound of running water followed almost immediately.

“Let it run a while,” Dylan called. “Hot takes forever.” He pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants and a ratty old T-shirt and sat on his bed, imagining Chris just on the other side of the wall, wet and naked. After a while, however, it occurred to him that he could do more than imagine. He stood and padded across the room, pausing at the bathroom threshold to peek inside through the open door.

What he saw took his breath away. Chris was lying in the tub, his eyes closed and his head tipped back against the rim with a folded towel as a pillow. The heat of the water made his dark cheeks slightly ruddy, and a few tendrils of hair stuck to his skin. He must have found the gift basket of Kay’s homemade bath items—another of her craft projects. The humid air smelled strongly of lemon and spices, and the water was slightly cloudy with oil. But Dylan still had a clear view of his lover’s submerged body, of the dark curls that slightly floated at his groin, of his cock lying soft and thick against one thigh.

“This feels like fuckin’ heaven,” Chris said, without opening his eyes.

“It’s a big tub.” God, sometimes Dylan wished he could bite off his own tongue to save himself from being terminally lame.

But Chris’s mouth curled into a slight smile. “Wanna join me?”

“I don’t think it’s that big.”

“In the room, dope. Have a seat and keep me company. It’s better than lurkin’ in doorways.”

Dylan was going to sit on top of the closed toilet, but then he decided he wanted to be nearer to Chris, so he sat on the floor instead, his back against the wall and his arm leaning up against the tub. Chris was facing him, but his eyes were still closed, and after a while Dylan closed his as well. The faucet dripped with a slow
plink plink
—he should fix that one of these days—and the rain thudded dully against the window. With the steam in his nose and the moisture sinking into his skin it was a bit like being underwater, very dreamy and peaceful, and for a little while he let his problems recede from the forefront of his mind.

Chris shifted in the water, causing a slight splash, and Dylan opened his eyes. Without really planning to, he reached into the water and brushed his fingers against the characters inscribed on Chris’s leg. “What does the tat mean?”

“Wild one.”

“Really?”

Chris peeled one eyelid halfway open. “A souvenir of my misspent youth.”

“I like it.”

Chris snorted softly, but Dylan thought he looked pleased nonetheless. He looked even more pleased when Dylan’s wandering hand moved up his leg, briefly stroking the tender skin behind his knee before continuing up the outside of his thigh to his hipbone. The oil had made him feel soft and slightly slick. Dylan wondered what he would taste like.

He had to move onto his knees and scoot forward a little in order to count the ridges of Chris’s abs, to draw a line up his sternum, to feel the pebbled flesh of nipples contract under his fingertips. Chris didn’t move under his caresses, but his breaths grew a little more shallow, and, as Dylan watched avidly, his cock thickened and filled until the rosy head was bobbing in the silky water.

Chris’s upper chest and shoulders were above the water line. Dylan traced a moist trail along them with his index finger, writing words in an imaginary alphabet and drawing arabesques. Next he moved his hand down a bicep that was firm and full, even at rest. His hand dropped into the water again as he petted the inside of Chris’s elbow—so delicate—and the lightly haired forearm. When he came to the wrist, Chris flipped his own hand over and laced his fingers with Dylan’s, holding on tightly, as if he needed to be saved from drowning. “Feels good,” he whispered hoarsely.

Grunting his agreement, Dylan gently pulled his hand away. He wanted to touch Chris’s cock—or better yet, to taste it—but instead he set his palm against the hard belly and felt it move as Chris breathed. “You have nice legs,” he observed.

“That why you wanted me? ’Cause you saw my legs that first day?”

“No, it was your ass that did the trick for me.”

Chris finally peeled open his eyelids, revealing eyes so clear and blue that they reminded Dylan of Crater Lake—unexpected depths, but not cold like those waters. In fact, at the moment they burned with intensity. “What does a guy like you see in someone like me? Just my tight ass?”

Dylan couldn’t help but laugh. “I was wondering the same thing. Chris, maybe nobody’s ever told you this, but you’re goddamn amazing.”

“Yeah, I’m real pretty,” Chris said with a slight frown.

Dylan pushed the heel of his palm into Chris’s stomach. “I wasn’t talking about your looks.”

There was a long silence during which Chris stared at him so fiercely that Dylan felt as if his skull were being cracked open for a careful examination of his brain. But he couldn’t tell what was going through Chris’s head, and he was a little afraid. Had he said too much and scared his lover away? But wait—he was supposed to be avoiding getting too entangled, wasn’t he?

His formerly peaceful mood was abruptly gone, and he started to stand. But before he could get all the way to his feet, Chris was scrambling out of the tub and launching himself against him with such force that Dylan nearly toppled over. “Tell me,” he demanded throatily in Dylan’s ear. “Tell me what’s so fuckin’ amazing about me if it ain’t my ass.” He was holding Dylan tight, soaking through his clothing.