In The Absence Of Light (15 page)

“I was hoping it would at least be close.” Morgan set it down on a workbench and began disassembling the wire, releasing the pieces of glass.

“Wait.” I tried to stand, but my stiff knees refused to bend. When I finally got to my feet, the blood rushed into legs and every step turned into pins and needles. “Don’t take it apart.”

By the time I got to the bench, Morgan already had most of the glass removed.

“Why did you take it apart?”

“It wasn’t right.” His shoulder jerked, pulling his hand against the metal. The strand of copper wire he’d unwound raked the back of his hand and a crimson line darkened.

Morgan continued to work, and the tiny droplets turned into dripping lines.

“Hang on, I’ll get you a paper towel.” When I returned, his thumb was bleeding too. “Here.” I held his hand and patted the cuts until the blood slowed. “I hope you’ve had a tetanus shot in the last five years.”

“Maybe. I don’t remember.” He held his head down, and his wandering hand twitched beside his temple. Another jerk almost pulled his wrist out of my grip. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“You know.”

I smiled at him. “And what do I know?”

His bangs parted just enough for me to see his gaze locked on the floor. I cupped his chin and brought his face up. The veil of golden locks slid away, and he looked at me.

I never thought just eye contact could make me feel so important.

Morgan smiled too. “I need to go to the hardware store.”

“Can I go with you?”

His smile turned into a grin. “Sure. But you’ll have to drive.”

“I can do that.”

“We should probably eat breakfast.”

“Good idea.”

“And shower before that.”

“Yeah, we are kinda ripe.”

“Brush our teeth.”

“Mmmm.” I ran my thumb over his bottom lip. Morgan caught the tip between his teeth. “You probably shouldn’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d really like to get a shower before you suck my cock.”

“I’m just biting your thumb.”

“Keep doing that and you won’t be.”

“You did wear a condom.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I prefer to be clean.”

“Okay, just give me a minute.” Morgan returned to working on the sculpture.

“You’re still going to take it apart?”

“It won’t ever be right if I don’t. I already have too many that don’t work.” He nodded at the cabinet on the other side of the porch.

“Do you mind?”

“Go ahead.”

I walked over and opened the doors. Wide shelves were packed with coils of wire and colored glass. Some formed domes, others walls. A few had moving parts that spun when you pushed them.

“Why do you keep them in here?” They may not be right, but if they were able to put on half the show his current one did, it was a waste.

“Where else would I put them?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere. Just as long as they can be seen. People need to see these.” I picked up one with an organic shape. When I turned to the side, the layers of wire and color blended together in a way that reminded me of those 3-D images I used to find in boxes of Cracker Jacks that transformed into a new picture depending on how you held it.

But they’d been nowhere as impressive as the tiger taking shape.

“Damn, Morgan, these…”

He sat motionless at the bench with his head down.

“Morgan?” I carried the tiger with me and set it down on the table. “You okay?” I knelt.  “Morgan?”

His breath shuddered out. “Don’t ever say that.”

“Say what?”

“People should look at them.”

I leaned back a little. “Well, they should. Heck, they should be put on display. Have you ever considered having a showing?”

Morgan shot past me so fast I fell back on my ass. He fled into the backyard.

“Morgan.” I took off after him.

He stopped just in front of the trees where the disks of light spun in slow circles. Morgan’s wayward hand tangled in his hair and tic after tic assaulted his shoulders.

I caught up to him. “Hey.” I tried to turn him around, and he spun away. “Morgan, what’s wrong?”

The hand buried in his hair tightened until his knuckles turned white.

“Stop, you’re hurting yourself.” I grabbed his wrist. When he yanked again, I was ready. “Morgan, please, stop. Whatever it is, it will be okay.” At least I hoped it would be.  “Talk to me, Morgan. I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

His jaw worked hard enough to bunch his cheeks.

I crushed him to my chest. “Please tell me what’s wrong.” He struggled, and I held him tighter. “Morgan, please, please, just tell me.”

The tics slowed, and his hand opened up. I untangled his fingers. Golden strands clung to his skin. I smoothed his curls back into place.

His breath huffed against my chest.

I kissed the top of his head. “It’s okay.” I don’t know why, but I rocked him and he began moving with me. His muscles relaxed until we were molded together. “I’ve got you.”

He slid his arms around me. “Just don’t ever say that again.”

“What? Let people see your sculptures?”

He nodded and squeezed me.

“Why? They’re beautiful.” And hiding them away just seemed wrong.

“They’re mine to look at.”

“You showed me.”

He nodded.

But he also looked me in the eye, and according to Berry, it wasn’t something Morgan did. “You haven’t ever shown them to anyone, have you?”

“No.”

“Not even Jenny?”

“No.”

“Anyone?”

“Lori.”

“Just Lori.”

He exhaled a sigh.

“How come?”

“Because they’re mine and I don’t want to share them.”

“But—”

He dug his grip into my back. “No. No, Grant. No.” A wounded keen trickled into his exhale.

“All right.”  I petted him. “Okay, I won’t ask. I swear, I won’t ever ask again.” Even though I didn’t understand, I would respect it. Morgan relaxed again, becoming pliable in my arms. Holding him filled me with an indescribable comfort. As if the mere act reached inside of me and cradled my soul.

It was terrifying in a lot of ways, but like the patterns of light he captured in those drops of color, it was wondrous.

Without a doubt, there was no place, nothing as exotic or rare, as that moment right there with him.

Never again could I claim miracles didn’t happen.

Chapter Four

Durstrand had one grocery store; The Frugal Mart. It was old, worn out, the F was missing off the sign tacked to the shingled roof, and I don’t think there was a single buggy with all four working wheels. They either locked up, wobbled, or screeched to a halt at random moments, giving you the power shopper’s equivalent of whiplash.

When I first went there, I told myself the cracked tile, faded walls, and sagging aisles gave the place character. The second, it was atmosphere. The third, nostalgia.

After that, I had to concede that the place was just falling apart.

But it seemed to be where everyone shopped—shuffling down the cramped rows, hovering over the meat cooler, or wasting the cold air in the freezer section by standing with the door open—rather than traveling to the neighboring city where the supermarkets and mini-malls pockmarked the scenery like a bad case of acne that would never go away.

I made the out of town trip once, walked a mile, and endured product placement rather than putting an item where it made sense. There were plastic smiles of overworked, underpaid employees who not only didn’t want to help you, they didn’t want to be there. Crowds, lots of crowds, because everything was always on sale. And after I’d wandered aimlessly for a couple of hours, running from one side of the store to the next caught in some perverse scavenger hunt, I stood in the line. Then there was the one open line in a row of fifty closed ones trying to check out a store full of tired suburbanites, their screaming kids, and clueless teenagers.

Yup. I made the trip once.

The next week I returned to the decrepit grocery store where the bread was made by little old ladies looking to support their retirement checks and most of the canned goods were in glass jars.

Where the freezer stocked beef, pork, chicken, lamb, goat. Turkey, wild, deer, when in season, and duck, always with a sticker on the package reminding you to check for buck shot, and last but not least, rabbit. Which by the way, tastes nothing like chicken.

There were no organic sections because almost everything came from someone’s farm.

Even the hot sauces were cooked up in someone’s kitchen. Who needs a commercial touting potency when your product had a name like Five Alarm Fire and Fire In the Hole. And caution labels warning spilling the hot sauce on your wood floor would eat off the finish.

In those chain stores, there might be a hundred different cereals, gourmet frozen dinners, and every kind of cookie imaginable, but you’d never find honey organized by the kind of pollen the bees collected or moonshine jelly.

Nope. Never.

The Frugal Mart did have one thing in common with those big department stores. There was only one lane open. But then, there was only one lane.

I parked next to a guy unloading boxes of eggs and jars of milk. Both the boys helping him waved at us.

“I really appreciate this,” Morgan said.

“I asked.”

“You still didn’t have to.”

“No. But I wanted to.”

A tic jerked his shoulder up and he flicked thoughts. “You realize people are going to talk when they see us together.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“How creative they get with the rumors.”

I laughed and so did he.

An elderly couple got into the car in front of us. The wife smiled at her husband who glanced our way. They unloaded their groceries, and while the man pushed the cart back to the store, the woman took out a cell phone.

“Wow, that was fast,” I said.

Morgan sighed. “I was really hoping it wouldn’t be one of the church ladies.”

“How come?”

“Because by the end of the week, they’ll have me pregnant with your third illegitimate baby.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Could be worse.”

“Worse? How can it be worse than you getting pregnant?”

Morgan tipped his head. “I’m not sure. But that’s Betty Lawson, so I’m sure she’ll think of a way.”

She cupped her hand over her cell phone and turned in her seat.

“Does she really think we can hear her?” I said.

“Don’t know.”

She smiled and cast a quick glance our way.

“What do you think she’s saying?” I waved at her, and her eyes widened.

“Probably shouldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“She’ll tell everyone you were making eyes with her.”

“That wouldn’t be good.”

“If Marsha Wells hears about it, which she will, she’ll start sending over her daughters with pans of casserole.”

“I’m gay.”

“Then you better really hope Candice Jones doesn’t get the news while it’s fresh.”

“What will she do?”

“She’ll show up at your door and try to convince you’re just going through a phase and with the right woman you won’t be gay.”

“Let me guess, that right woman is her.”

“You got it.”

The husband returned, and his wife tried to pass him the cell phone. He declined, and while his wife returned to her call, he gave us an apologetic smile. The kind of expression begging for understanding and at the same time conveying just how helpless he was to stop it.

When you lived in a small town and someone gave you a look like that, it was gonna be bad.

“We should probably nip this in the bud,” I said.

“How do you plan on doing that?”

I caught the old man’s gaze again after he cranked up the car, and nodded at his wife. His brows crunched up. I pointed. He looked at her then me.

“What are you doing?” Morgan said.

“Just wait.” I pointed at his wife again and nodded.

He hesitantly tapped her on the shoulder. She shooed him off. He glanced at me, and I encouraged him with a wave of my hand.

He shook her by her shoulder until she yanked the phone away from her ear. Halfway through whatever she said to him, he jabbed a thumb at us.

She turned, and I slipped my hand around to the back of Morgan’s head.

“What are you—”

Our mouths met, and his words turned into a moan. I didn’t just kiss Morgan. I forced his lips apart, penetrated his mouth, and fucked him with my tongue.

He gripped my shirt, holding me where I was.  Morgan countered me by nipping my bottom lip and then seizing control.  It was my turn to moan.

When we parted, both of us panted and I was hard as a rock. I ran my thumb over Morgan’s cheek and traced the line of his jaw. His freshly shaven skin was velvet under my fingers.

I brushed another kiss close to his eye, and he laid his head to the side, exposing his neck. The soft place under his ear was too much to resist, and I sucked the skin, leaving behind a glowing red dot.

“What’s she doing?” Morgan said.

“Who?” Then I remembered what started this. I looked. Betty’s mouth hung open next to the cell phone dangling in her hand. Her husband grinned and gave us a thumbs-up as he backed out.

Morgan’s exhale brushed the shell of my ear. “When we get back, I want to pick up where we left off.”

I chuckled. “I think I can make that happen.”

Morgan started to open his door. One of the young men helping unload the truck stared at us.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone turn that red,” I said.

“I thought the same thing when you came.” Morgan lifted his head just enough for me to see his smile.

“No, I don’t.”

He shrugged.

“I do not turn red.”

Morgan got out, and the boy followed him with his eyes.

My door opened, and Morgan poked his head in. “You coming?”

I shifted in my seat.

“You better do something about that,” Morgan said. “Or you’ll have every eligible bachelorette following you home.”

“Well if they all brought casserole dishes, at least I wouldn’t have to cook.”

Morgan punched me in the arm. “C’mon. Walk it off.”

The reflection of a dark gray Bronco flashed in the side mirror. Nothing about the car was out of place, but a cold streak ran down my spine. The two men in the front seat wore white T-shirts under their flannel button-ups. Just two good old boys. That’s all. My instincts growled a warning.

“What’s wrong?” Morgan had his face tilted in the direction of the store. His wayward hand fluttered next to his head.

I rubbed my knee and made sure to favor it when I stepped out. “Just an old football injury acting up. Must be going to rain.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it tends to do that.”

“Oh.” Morgan held up a finger above his head.

“What are you doing?”

“Shh—” He closed his eyes.

A lady with a buggy full of kids walked past. She eyed Morgan then me.

Morgan turned a circle and switched hands.  He bent his wrist so his finger was horizontal. Two teenagers walk between the cars. The one with the emo hair elbowed his friend. They both laughed.

“Uh, Morgan?”

“Shh—”

I scrubbed a hand over my head.

Finally Morgan dropped his arm and headed for the store. I followed.

“What was that all about?”

The automatic doors opened with a shudder, and Morgan pulled out a buggy from the line of them in the foyer. “Do you want your own, or are we putting the stuff in the same cart?”

“One, I guess.”

“You sure? I need to get a lot.”

“Yeah, I don’t need much.”

He swung the buggy around. The second set of automatic doors screeched when they opened.

“They really should oil those,” Morgan said.

“Are you ever going to tell me what you were doing?”

“Bread is on aisle one, I need whole grain and peach. If they don’t have peach, strawberry. Have you ever tried the banana? It’s really good.” He cut a hard left, almost running over my foot.

“Hold up.”

Morgan stopped in front of the rack of bread. “Barometric pressure is too high. Been high for a week. Means no rain. At least not anytime soon. My guess would be three days of sunshine, rain starting on Monday. Then it’s going to get cold, so make sure to bring in any potted plants you have on your porch.” He put two loaves of whole grain bread in the buggy.

“Are you telling me you can tell what the barometric pressure is just by sticking your finger in the air?”

“Peach…” Morgan walked down the aisle. “They’re always moving the peach bread. And if Harold isn’t moving it around, that Hatchet lady hides it behind the apple.” He stopped again. “Sure.”

I rubbed my temple. “Sure? Sure what?”

Morgan shook his head. “Pay attention, Grant. Not paying attention is why you ran over my bike.”

“That was—”

“Barometric pressure is nothing more than how much the air weighs. Heavier the lower, lighter higher. Causes your joints to swell.”  Morgan reached behind the row of apple bread and came up with a loaf of peach. “See?” He held it up. “Hatchet strikes again. You want some, there’s another loaf back there?”

“Uh, no, I’m good.”

Morgan took it out and carried it with him to the end where there were various bags of rolls. He rearranged the bags and set the peach bread in the gap he made. “Do you think between the wheat and rye is better or the raisin and cinnamon?”

“What?”

“Let’s go with the wheat and rye. She’s shorter than me so looking up should throw her off her game.”

“Are you hiding the bread?”

“If I don’t hide the bread, then she’ll think she’s won.” Morgan pushed the cart over to the produce. “Anyhow. Barometers.” Morgan stopped beside the bananas. He picked up one bunch, then the other. “Did you know that when the barometric pressure has a rapid increase that your capillaries are more likely to clog up? Number one cause of brain aneurisms in men over thirty.” He tipped his chin up, but his gaze stayed somewhere around my arm. “You haven’t been having any headaches lately, have you?”

“No, why?”

“Just checking.” He put both bunches of bananas back and grabbed a bag of oranges. “But most of the time it just squeezes you a little.”

“The pressure?”

“What else would squeeze you?”

“I—”

“And it tingles. If you concentrate hard enough, you can actually feel your pores closing up. So that’s why, when I put my finger in the air, I can tell what the barometric pressure is.” Morgan took my arm and pushed it up. “Here you try.”

“Morgan…”

“Go on.”

I kept my arm up.

“Raise your finger?”

“I really don’t—”

“Finger, Grant. Up!”

I put up my finger. Two men walked past me. The one didn’t even notice, the other guy stopped and stared. I started to drop my arm, and Morgan pushed it back up.