In The Absence Of Light (33 page)

“Here.” He picked up my hand and poured some lube into my palm. “Slick me up.” Morgan leaned forward enough to present his cock. The lubricant turned the velvet flesh into oiled fire. He flexed his hips, pushing into the tunnel of my fist, undulating against the air. Bodies just weren’t supposed to move that way, at least not without aches and pains to pay for it.

“You like watching me.” He bit his lip.

“Who wouldn’t? You’re beautiful, Morgan.” He averted his eyes, but not in the way he did when he looked beyond. I pulled him down until our foreheads touched, until he was forced to look at me or close his eyes. “You are beautiful.”

“Sunsets are beautiful, beaches are beautiful, not men.”

“I’d rather watch you.”

His fingers disappeared again, and he pushed at the back of my knees until they hung over his hips. With all the pillows under me, my ass was right there for the taking.

“Gonna have to let me go if you want to do this.”

I pressed my thumb against the head of his cock while rolling the foreskin to the tip. Morgan’s breath shuddered out, and I’m pretty sure the jerk of his hips was completely involuntary.

“Grant.” He kissed my chin, my neck, my chest.  “I want to be inside you.” Morgan caressed the inside of my thighs down to my ass. He spread my cheeks apart and the cool air touched my opening.

I let him go, and his cock slapped my balls, then slid behind my sack. With my cheeks still spread wide, he rocked his hips and the head of his dick bumped my opening.

I’d topped enough guys to know to push down to relax my hole, but my body wasn’t listening.

“Grant?”  Morgan kissed one knee then the other.

A shiver ran down my spine. A cross between the memory of how he could bring me to the edge and the fear of not being able to get off. His cock was bigger than his fingers, curved, but he wouldn’t have the same control, and I could only hope I would enjoy this.

I’d never put much thought into the idea of how some guys didn’t like a dick in their ass for whatever reason. Lying right there, I realized I was probably one of those guys.

Worse was Morgan wanted me. The flush in his face, the heat in his eyes, with every nudge his breathing quickened.

He leaned over me, one hand beside my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’d never laugh.”

“Last time I tried this, things didn’t go very well.”

“What happened?”

I scrubbed a hand over my face. “I was young, he was impatient. I wound up needing hemorrhoid cream for friction burn.” Morgan didn’t laugh, but I did.  It was either that or cry, and damn it, I was not going to cry like some idiot.

“You like my fingers inside you.” He lowered himself down. His other arm was trapped between us, and his hand brushed my ass as he pumped his dick. My own erection withered despite the slight movement of his body stroking me.

“Your dick is bigger and…”

Morgan cocked his head.

“It’s your fingers, I don’t know why it’s different.” I brushed his hair away from his face; he watched something I couldn’t see.  “This has nothing to do with not being able to trust you.” I didn’t want him to think it was. If it had been the other way around, I’m pretty sure it’s the conclusion I would have come to.

“I know.” His gaze returned, accompanied by a twitch of his shoulder. Fingertips rubbed my opening, making small circles, then pushing enough to enter only to pull away when the ring of muscle gave in. The tease had me lifting my ass before I realized it.  He raised up on his arm again taking away all contact except for where my thighs rested on his hips and the head of his cock touched my hole. “You know it’s okay to be scared.”

“I am not…” Damn it, he was right. I would have gotten up and left, only it meant I’d have to stop touching him, and I didn’t want to stop.  I cupped Morgan’s face, and he didn’t resist when I pulled him close enough to kiss. What started as a soft brush of flesh turned into warring tongues.  He tried to pull away, but I tangled my fist into his hair. I wanted him, but I just couldn’t put it into words. There was a moment of surprise in his eyes, then his gaze darkened.

Pressure returned to my hole, and in one long push, Morgan breached my opening.  The burn caught me off guard, but it was nothing compared to the sudden sense of fullness. I can’t say it felt good, or bad, only strange. He drank down whatever sound I made and fed me his own cry of pleasure.

“God, Grant.” Morgan arched his back and what felt balls deep went deeper.  I bucked, but he didn’t pull out.  His exhale warmed my ear. “Do you want me to stop?”

The very wanton tone of his voice held me where I was. “No.”

His breath shuddered. “You feel…” Morgan hummed and rolled his body in that fluid way, grinding against me. Whatever apprehension I’d had crumbled as an electric crackle danced over my nerve endings.  “So gooood.”

He did it again, and the sudden need for friction had me drawing up my legs, setting Morgan free. He took control, sitting up on his knees, pumping his hips. I had to grab onto the headboard to keep from being shoved off the stack of pillows.

Flesh slapped together and our breathing filled the room. My cock, hard and swollen again, leaked precum on my stomach. The need to come had me gritting my teeth.  Morgan shifted his weight. It changed the angle somehow, and every thrust put pressure against my prostate.

My balls tightened and pleasure coiled in my gut.  I started to jerk off, but Morgan smacked his body against mine and I was forced to steady myself with my grip on the rungs or lose the position that set my flesh on fire. Above me, Morgan danced, his tawny muscles quivering, his chest heaving, his mouth open. His eyes were closed, but the expression on his face was pure bliss.

“Want you to come,” Morgan said. He leaned forward, balancing himself with his hands on my chest. The euphoria created by the friction condensed until it was almost pain.  “Need to see you come, Grant.”

I reached for my cock. The head was so sensitive the first contact made me jump. All I could do was grip the length of flesh, almost afraid to move because of how sensitive the nerves had become. Morgan slowed his thrusts and the rising tsunami threatened to recede. Desperation had me pumping my fist.

“That’s it,” he hissed. “That’s it. Fucking hot. You are so fucking hot.” He dropped his head low enough to bite one of my nipples. The sharp sting of pain added another layer of static. “You like that.” His bangs parted and the wickedness in his gaze spoke of devilish thoughts. “One day I’m gonna tie you down and do this to you. Maybe do it while you’re asleep, let you wake up with my cock in your ass.” His pace increased and his thrusts shortened. Cords stood out on his neck and his fingers dug into my chest.

“I think you’re the one who’s gonna come.”

“Wanna bet?” He swiveled his hips.

Lightning shot up my spine. “Oh, hell, Morgan…” Ropes of cum shot over my fist, coating my stomach, even reaching my chin. Morgan’s cry of conquest turned into an agonizing groan. With every pulse of his cock, his thrusts slowed. The heat of his cum followed his moving cock and ran down my crack.

We were going to have to change the sheets before we could go to sleep.  Morgan covered me with his body, still inside me, our skin stuck together with sweat. The hell with the sheets. I wrapped my arms around him, and he tucked his head under my chin.

For a very long time, there was only the sound of our beating hearts and labored breathing, then Morgan said, “I’ll understand if you ever change your mind.”

“About what?”

“Me.”

“I won’t.”

“You might. Things happen.”

“I’d be more likely to win the lottery and I don’t even play it.”

He kissed my collarbone, then traced it with his fingertips. “But just in case, just so you know, I would understand.”

Chapter Five

I dreamed about the day when Jeff’s solo deal went bad. When bullets got thrown around. People got shot. People died.

And for what? One sorry-ass FBI agent who’d led me on with four years’ worth of lies. Lies that I was stupid enough to swallow hook, line, and sinker.

I won’t lie. It wasn’t the first time I killed a man, but it was the first time I’d killed a man not pointing the gun at me. It was a step down the road of violence where businessmen held grudges and got even by taking out the people you cared about. The only reason I didn’t wind up with cinder blocks around my ankles was because Jeff Meyers took the blame for that killing shot. Otherwise Caruso wouldn’t have been so understanding and instead of a get-well card at my hospital bed, he would have set me up with a car bomb or something equally glorious.

Don’t think for a minute Jeff covered because he was trying to protect me, he had to bury his identity.  See, after Jeff Meyers fucked with my reputation, I let him disappear and made no attempt to stop the rumors of his demise. It was just better for the rest of the business world to think he’d been another casualty in the house fire that erased any evidence the FBI could use to connect me to the botched job.

I wanted to blame Jeff. But the only one at fault was me. I’d let my guard down and almost died because of it. I knew the rules, and I’d broken them because I’d followed my dick.

Only that wasn’t exactly true either. We had started out as nothing but sex to break the tension, but it turned into something else. I think Jeff was surprised at what grew between us, and I know for a fact he broke more than one FBI undercover rule. How he managed to keep his job, especially after that last blunder, I had no idea.

My only consolation was none of the people involved were close friends or even close associates. My people knew better than to strike up a deal with someone who was green.

Jeff might have followed me around the block and back, but he’d never learned the real ins and outs. Because I didn’t let him. At least I had enough of my wits to keep him far enough back to never figure out how I moved those articles right in front of him. Otherwise I would have been in that six by eight cell Jeff threatened me with, rather than a quaint farmhouse, in a no-where town called Durstrand.

The echo of gunfire followed me from sleep, and I lay there, staring at the ceiling. I ran a hand over the cool rumpled sheets on Morgan’s side of the bed. How long had he been up?

There was another crack.

And another.

The remaining brain fog peeled back, and I realized the gunfire was never in my dream to begin with.

I snatched my pants off the floor and ran through the house. “Morgan?”

One leg in, the other out. I tripped over my shoes. My shoulder hit the doorframe to the kitchen.

The shots kept going.

Somehow I got my pants up on my way out the back door. Morgan stood beyond the fire pit with a gun in his hand. On a far stone wall backed by a stack of hay bales, red glass bottles exploded in rapid fire.

If I hadn’t been so caught off guard, I might have stopped to admire his stance.

“Morgan.” I skidded to a halt beside him. My first instinct was to grab the gun, but I knew better.

He stopped shooting. “Good morning, Grant.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m shooting bottles.”

“No, I mean, what are you doing with that?” I almost reached for the gun. Almost.

“It’s called a gun. Or more precisely, a GLOCK G3OS. With a full capacity .45 Auto round count. Not too heavy. Not too light. Easy to conceal if you have to.”

“Why do you have it?”

“I can’t shoot the bottles with spit balls.”

“Morgan.” I waved his hand down, and he complied. “The last thing you need to have in your hand is a gun.”

“Why do you say that?” Head down, I couldn’t be sure of his expression, but his tone rang of a warning. Thing is, I don’t think I cared. He didn’t need a gun. Him of all people should never handle a gun.

“They’re dangerous.”

“Yes, they are. Which is why I took classes on the proper handling of a firearm. Or did you mean they’re dangerous in a different way?”

Definitely that tone. Cold. Hard. Daring me to challenge him.

“What if you misfire?”

“I won’t.”

“Morgan, you wear a long-sleeved shirt when you cook for a reason.”

“This isn’t cooking.”

“No, this is firing a weapon. It’s far more deadly.”

“I’m aware of how deadly it is. That’s why I bought it to begin with. With this, I can protect myself.”

“Who the hell do you need to protect yourself from?”

His gaze came up and flicked away, following the bits of colored light from the kinetic sculptures or simply watching something I couldn’t see. When he brought his attention back to me, he clenched his jaw. “I know you think your lawyer friend will fix things. But the truth is, Dillon will get out, and when he does, he will finish what he started.”

With lightning fast precision, Morgan popped the clip, put it on the edge of the fire pit, then cleared the chamber. He turned it butt first toward me.

“Do you want a turn?”

“No, I just want you to put it down before you hurt yourself. Please, Morgan. Harriet is going to take care of everything. She’s good at her job. If there’s a way to keep him in jail, she’ll find it.”

“Won’t matter what she does. He’ll still get out.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Light travels at six hundred and seventy-one million miles per hour. The light we see coming from the stars is billions of years old. Most of those stars are long gone. If you could spend a day moving at that speed, hundreds of years would pass in what felt like only months. Everything, everyone you know, would be gone. Lost to the past.”

“What does any of that have to do with you owning a gun?”

“I told you the light speaks, not in words but it has a language. It’s already been where I haven’t. It’s how I know he will get out.”

I didn’t have even one idea where to begin to argue against what he claimed. “Okay, let’s say he might get out.”

“Will, Grant. Dillon will get out.”

“Why would he come here? He’d be more likely to run and hide. Durstrand would be the first place they’d come looking for him, and he could wind up with a lot more time in jail.” If I didn’t kill him first.

“He’s not going to run. He can’t run.”

I shook my head. “Why?”

“Because he asked me one time about the things I saw.”

Morgan meant the things he saw when he went away. Hadn’t Aunt Jenny warned me never to ask Morgan a question I didn’t want answered?

“I told him, Grant. I told him, and because of it, he’ll never stop until he kills me.”

“I won’t let him hurt you.” I hoped he’d hear the vow in my voice if not read it from my soul.

Morgan’s smile was sad. “You won’t be able to stop him. Now if you excuse me, I have to practice and break the bottles.”

“Can’t you use a hammer?” A rock, anything.

“Why don’t you just say it?” Morgan tilted his head enough for me to catch a glimpse of his eyes. I wish I could say I never saw the hurt. Maybe I didn’t and just imagined it. Or felt it. “You think I can’t handle a gun because I can’t tie my shoes, tell left from right, or drive a car. Which I can sorta drive a car now. But you know what I mean. You think I’m incapable. That I’ll hurt myself. That maybe I’ll even accidentally shoot someone.” He nodded. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to say anything. I know. But I also know you’re wrong.” Again, in a blur of speed, he popped the clip back in, slid back the lock, and aimed at the bottles. Staring somewhere close to my shoulder, he fired the gun.

One bottle after the next exploded into crimson shards. Morgan never once looked at his target. And he never missed.

When the last bottle lay in shards in the metal trough underneath the wall, he once again cleared the gun. Morgan slid the clip into his pocket. His wayward hand fluttered next to his temple.

“I’m cooking French toast and eggs, but I’m out of bacon, so we’ll have ham.”

Morgan left me staring at the empty space his targets had occupied.

If I’d been shooting at the same distance, I don’t think I would have hit half as many. I didn’t know of many people who could. The ones who would have, sure as hell wouldn’t have been looking the other way.

I waited a few moments before I went back inside. Part of it was to get my mouth under control, the other part was to wait till my heart stopped clawing the inside of my ribs in an attempt to give me a heart attack.

By the time I made it to the kitchen, Morgan was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and dropping a slice of ham into the frying pan. There was no sign of the gun.

“Where did you put it?”

“It’s safe.”

“Morgan, please.” I wanted the damn thing out of there.

“I’m not a child, Grant.”

“I never said you were.”

“Then quit treating me like one.”

“I’m not. It’s just there are some things you’ve got to realize you shouldn’t do.”

“And why is that?”

“You know why.”

“Because I’m defective?”

God help me, I almost said yes. It was right there on the tip of my tongue. I wish I could have said I didn’t think he was. And I guess I didn’t in the way he feared. But I did think it. I should have known just letting it wander through my mind was all it would take for Morgan to know.

“Get out, Grant.”

“Morgan, please.”

“Get out.” Morgan’s arm jerked hard enough to yank the pan off the burner. He stopped it before it got very far, but not quick enough to avoid slapping grease over his hand.

“Fuck.”

“Here.” I started toward the sink, but he stopped me with a look.

“Just go.”

“You’re hurt.”

“Yeah, and I’ll take care of it. Now get the hell out.” Spit flecked his lips. Anger turned his cheeks crimson. Morgan’s entire body trembled with a kind of rage I never dreamed he was capable of.

But it wasn’t the kind of uncontrolled fury unleashed by circumstance; it was the raw kind born of broken faith. Which made sense if I thought about it. He’d thought I too believed in him, and I’d shattered his belief just as efficiently as a bullet to those bottles.

I went back to the bedroom and got dressed.

Morgan came to the door as I was putting on my shoes.

“Don’t come back.” The dead weight of his words was far scarier than the anger. “Not forever, but not till I’m ready.”

At least he left me a glimmer of hope. I stayed silent, because anything I said would have made things worse.

********

The plumbing in the kitchen took me half a day. Reinstalling the sink and a new cabinet ate up the rest. Afterward, I fixed the weak spot in the floor by putting down fresh OSB board, then pieced together slats of wood to fill the gap in the hardwood. It would have been easier to slap down some linoleum and be done with it, I mean, who the hell wants to deal with wood floors in the kitchen, but for some reason, I decided to do it the hard way.

Seemed like I did everything the hard way.

After about five days and four finished projects, the silence from Morgan was killing me. I desperately wanted to hear his voice, look at his beautiful eyes, touch him, taste him. I craved his scent and woke up in the middle of the night searching for him only to find the bed empty.

Since he’d told me he didn’t want to see me until he was ready, I didn’t call, I didn’t go to Toolies, and after a while, I didn’t even sleep. I just sat in the dark staring out the window, wondering what he was doing in that moment. Maybe he was sleeping, or maybe he was looking out his window wondering the same thing about me.

I didn’t want to screw things up any more than I already had, but I had to know if he was all right. Like hadn't accidentally shot himself with the damn gun.

A gun. All this over a stupid gun.

If only it were true. All this was because I doubted him. I’d shown I didn’t trust him as much as I claimed. I’d proven I was still prejudice, tainted by first impressions, spoiled by the privileges given to me because I appeared normal.

Jeff had the excuse of ignorance. I had no excuse at all. How did you apologize for something so ingrained it didn’t even feel wrong? Worse. What if there wasn’t a way?

I decided to drive out to Jenny’s. If anything, she could punch me in the head for hurting Morgan. I found a spot beside a van and walked down the hill to the red metal building. All three bay doors were up, and cars of every make and model were being pulled apart and put back together by men in coveralls.

Jenny came around the back of an old Impala. Grease painted her arms all the way to her elbows. She had a smudge on her chin, and a Band-Aid on her forehead.