In The Absence Of Light (12 page)

The phone call with Jeff was enough to suck the life right out of me. But before I fell asleep, I unpacked my 9mm from the bag in my closet and put it under my pillow.

I wasn’t too concerned with Ulrich sneaking up on me. That wasn’t his style. He liked to watch your expression when you saw him coming.

According to rumor, it was his version of wank fodder.

I didn’t know of anyone who’d ever survived a meeting with him. But Jeff confirmed traces of semen found at one of Ulrich’s supposed shops. They just never found evidence to prove he’d actually killed anyone there.

But he did. I heard the screams on the tape he played for the man’s son who owed his boss money. The son asked me if I thought it was legit. My answer made him throw up.

I was up by three, had the steaks picked up from the local butcher by four, the beer by four thirty, and pulled into Morgan’s drive way by five on the nose.

I think he would have been impressed. I know I was.

A trail of white smoke curled up from the other side of Morgan’s house. Sweet hickory mixed with the spicy scent of crisp fall air. I grabbed the cooler and headed around the back.  Paving stones with bits of colored glass made a path beside the picket fence lined with an array of glass bottles, all sizes and shapes, and a rainbow of colors.

As I rounded the house, delicate stems of copper weighted with circles of colored glass spun on invisible strings hanging from tree limbs. Each turn caught the streaks of sunset and scattered droplets of blue, green, and orange over the grass.

Morgan stood in front of a stone hearth. Coals glowed red under the iron grate.

“That’s one hell of a grill. You must really like to cook out.”

He wiped his hands on his jeans “It’s only a grill when I have company.”

“How often is that?”

“Not often enough.”

A bucket of broken bottles sat on the stone edge containing the fire. More were lined up on a small section of wall.

“Do you use the glass to make the wind chimes?”

Morgan took the cooler and put it on the picnic table. “They’re kinetic sculptures.” He fluttered his hand next to his temple and snapped his fingers. “Do you mind if I get a beer?”

“Go ahead.” He pulled out two and offered me one.

I took it. “Are those the sculptures you wanted to show me?”

“No. They’re inside in the sunroom.” He indicated the large screened-in porch. It had to be almost as big as the house. Definitely not standard for a bungalow.

“Did you build that?”

“Yeah. I had to rebuild a lot of the outside wall when I bought the house. So I decided to do it then.”

I popped the top on the beer and took a drink. “Berry said you bought this place after your mother died.”

“Lori—I didn’t like to call her mom.”

“How come?”

“Because my mother gave birth to me and didn’t want me. Lori wanted me and she loved me. Mom isn’t a good enough word to describe her.” Morgan took out the steaks. “These are nice. Must be from Mack’s.”

“How can you tell?”

“You don’t get steaks like this at the grocery. So unless you butchered it yourself, there’s only one other place they could have come from. How do you want yours cooked?”

“Medium rare.”

“I’ll try. It’s hard to get the temperature right for grilling.” He used a poker to coax down another grate folded to the back wall of the hearth. The steaks hit the metal with a hiss.

“What do you normally use it for?”

“To melt glass.”

“Is that how you get the edges so smooth?”

“Yeah.” He added some spices to the steaks. “I made potatoes, but I used the oven. Last time I tried to bake them on here, I burned them. The time before that, I forgot about them and they disintegrated.”

“Well at least you’ve improved.”

“More like I quit trying to rush cooking my potatoes.” He turned the steaks with another iron tool, forked at the end.

“Did you make those too?”

“What?”

“The poker?”

“Uh, no. I bought those from Bill Timmons. He does ironwork. Makes fancy gates for a lot of the upscale subdivisions they’ve been building in Maysville. I needed something to turn the glass. I use fireplace pokers most of the time, but turning the glass requires special shaped ends. Especially for the small pieces.”

“From artist to cook. I’m impressed.”

Morgan tilted his head and flashed a grin. “Would you mind getting the plates? I forgot to bring them out.”

“Sure. Where are they?”

“On the counter. The potatoes are in the bowl with the silverware. Just go through the back door. The kitchen is right there.”

Everything was where Morgan said it would be. On my way through the sunroom, a row of strange shapes on the far end caught my eye.

Reddish metal clashed with fragments of colored glass as it twisted around or balanced on spikes of steel mounted to heavy wooden bases.

“If you want medium rare,” Morgan said. “You’d better hurry.”

I brought him the plates. The spices he used blended with the smell of grilling meat. He flipped the steaks and droplets of grease fell from the first grate to the second. The melted fat bubbled and turned black.

“Go have a seat.” Morgan waved the spatula at the table.

“I’m feeling kind of useless.”

“Then set the table.”

Of course, why didn’t I think of that?

I put out the silverware and had picked up the first glass when bits of colored light broke over the ground. The misshapen blobs swam across the stones making circular patterns slither up the back wall of the house to wink out. The source was another one of Morgan’s kinetic sculptures.

“Grant?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I need a plate.”

More colored light moved across my boots on my way to him.

Morgan nudged me. “Pay attention.”

I held out the plate, and he rescued the steaks from the fire. It was a physical battle not to follow the moving splashes of color with my eyes. I made it back to the table without spilling anything.

Morgan sat in front of me and speared a steak with his fork. I unwrapped the potatoes.  More glowing fragments moved over the table. I held out a hand to see what it looked like sliding over my skin.  The movement of the setting sun was minute, but it made a drastic change in how the shapes were cast and where they appeared. It was only a few minutes before they migrated their dance over the back of the house, turning the white wash into a rainbow of colored sunlight.

“If you don’t eat your steak, it’s going to get cold.” Morgan smiled at me around a bite of meat. Half his potato was gone.

I concentrated on cutting up my steak.

“It’s beautiful.” Although beautiful seemed too simple a word to describe the montage turning circles in his yard.

Morgan shrugged.

“You don’t think so?”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“It’s not quite right.”

I chewed a bite of meat. Whatever he’d put on the steak gave it a robust, warm flavor. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t get the patterns right. It’s too smooth.”

The dance of light shifted positions. I was tempted to watch them climb higher on the house, but I was afraid I’d get lost again. “Compared to what?”

“Sunlight.”

“But it is sunlight.”

“It’s not the same.”

“You’re going to have to explain what you mean.” After all, light was light.

His shoulder twitched, and he tossed thoughts in rapid succession. “I’m not sure I can.”

“Try.”

“The light. It moves in waves, and they break over objects.” He wiggled his fingers, cutting a shadow through the patch of light seeping through the last of the fall leaves. “What comes from my kinetic sculptures doesn’t flow right.” His serious expression smoothed out, and his eyes focused on the world I couldn’t see. I tried, though. I tried to catch a glimpse at whatever it was holding his attention.

Another patch of color passed over the table, turning my potato green, then blue before flickering out.

“You’re trying to make what you see, aren’t you?”

He blinked several times, and his gaze came back from wherever it had gone. Morgan resumed eating.

“Is that what you’re doing?”

He nodded.

“But it’s not right?”

“No. I can’t figure out the right angle. I think I’m close, though.” As hypnotic as the moving colors were, I wasn’t sure if I should be impressed or scared.

“Is that what it’s like?”

He drank some of his beer. “What?”

“When you…” How did I say it?

“Zone out?”

I nodded. “I guess it’s as good a word as any.”

“No. I told you, it’s not right yet. There’s more, but I’m not sure how to incorporate it into the prisms.”

I dug around in my potato. Morgan passed me a small tub of butter from the bucket of ice on the table. “Thanks.” I added a small chunk and stirred it in. “I thought prisms have edges. The shapes you make are smooth.”

“They have edges, just not on the outside. I tried the standard prism shapes, triangles, squares, anything with actual sides. Like you said, an edge. But it only split the light. I needed it to move.” He rolled his hand in a waving motion.

The movement caused his shirt to slide down his upper arm. The stark line of his collarbone went to the hard edge of his shoulder. Against the white T-shirt, Morgan’s tanned skin was a shade closer to brown sugar. “That’s not really the right word, but it’s the only one that comes close. Light isn’t easy to translate.”

“Translate? You make it sound like you’re talking about a language.”

He tilted his head. “It is. Just not what you hear.” He snapped his fingers. “And it doesn’t make actual words. But there is a rhythm and a visual tone.”

“How can you see sound?”

“Sound moves in waves, and the light moves in waves, but the light doesn’t move faster or slower, which is how sound changes pitch. The waves are constant.”

“But the tone changes?”

“Again, not like you think. Not in the same way sound changes. It breaks, splits, and alters shape depending on how it hits something. The patterns are words just not made with letters, but it still speaks. And by that, I don’t mean it talks. Like I said, it’s hard to explain.”

Apparently it was also impossible for me to understand.

The muscles in Morgan’s forearm flexed. He rolled his arm, revealing the lighter underside. The veins in his wrist made pale blue lines, making it possible to see fine white scars crisscrossing over his skin.

I caught his hand. There were no ridges to suggest the cuts had been deep. I rubbed my thumb over the ones on the heel of his palm. Those were smooth as well.

“What happened?”

“I work with glass and wire, what do you think?”

“You should wear gloves.”

“They get in the way.” Morgan relaxed his hand, exposing his palm. There were new red scratches in the center. “It’s not as bad as it used to be.”

“How bad did it used to be?” I lifted my eyes to find him watching me.

“When I first started, my fingers resembled mummies.”

“How do you keep from getting that cut up now?”

“Like they say, practice makes perfect.” He pulled free, and at the same time, his gaze slid to the edge of the table. He ate and I ate. When we finished, he gathered the plates and I picked up the empty bottles. With any other person, these extended moments of silence would have been awkward. But with Morgan, they were more like a part of him. A detail like eye color or freckles.

Was there another secret in the quiet I couldn’t see or, in this case, hear?

He put the dishes in the sink, and I dropped the bottles in the trash. When I turned, Morgan was right there. Close enough that his body heat radiated through my clothes and the musky scent of sun-warmed skin filled me with each breath.

“I want you, Grant.”

An electric chill ran up my leg, becoming a heavy weight in my groin.

There was nothing I could desire more in that moment than to take this beautiful man to bed, strip him down, taste his flesh, and bury my cock in his ass. But I couldn’t shake the nagging fear doing so would be wrong. I didn’t know if I was afraid I’d somehow ruin him or afraid of losing myself and knowing I would never be able to understand enough to give him what he deserved.

Morgan slid his hands up my chest to my face and pulled me down. His velvet lips met mine, and he invaded my mouth. The spices from the food we’d eaten left a mild burn with each stroke of his tongue.

I moaned, and Morgan drank it down. He kissed me harder, and I wrapped my arms around him. There was no more space between us, and his erection pushed against my hip from behind his jeans.

Was he going commando again? The memory of those dimples above the swell of his ass made me want to find out.