Play It Again, Charlie (2 page)

Tomato plant
. Those last words still didn't make sense to him.

The man had only been in the complex for about two weeks, and yet somehow after the near-death by plant incident last week, Charlie kept seeing him, and not just in little glimpses. Every morning and most evenings now, the man was out on the balcony: working out, on the phone, watering Grayson's plants with slightly more care than he had before.

Charlie's step faltered at the thought of another clay pot flying in his direction, though to be fair, that had only happened once and wasn't likely to happen again. The man had even cleaned it up as Charlie had asked him to.

Told him to, if Charlie were being honest. He was a little ashamed of his tone at the time but hadn't had a chance to explain or apologize. Though he saw Grayson's twink every day now— couldn't help it with the man watching him as he left for work and came home— he had only actually spoken to him once after the first time.

Which was fine as far Charlie was concerned, especially now; he was tired and sore and his stomach was growling. He just wanted get to his apartment without embarrassing himself.

“Good evening, Professor!” But the slightly out-of-breath greeting brought Charlie's head up even when he knew better.

“How did you— ” A second ago there hadn't been anyone on that balcony. He would have hurried on if there was a way to do so without running away, but those eyes were twinkling down at him, and the mouth was open, for a smile or maybe just to catch his breath. Charlie squinted beyond the man as much as he could but didn't see any reason why he would be breathless, unless, of course, he had company over.

He felt his forehead tighten and pushed out a breath when that made the kid grin. It was a charming grin, something he probably aimed at everyone within a twenty-foot radius.

“Now that I've finally caught you to get a good look at you, you look like a professor,” the kid explained, coming up to his usual spot on the balcony and perching on the ledge in a way that wasn't safe. Charlie felt his hand go out, and the kid slid back down to his feet. He kept talking as though he hadn't noticed Charlie's anxious reflex and leaned over again. At least he had a shirt on this time, so Charlie could look into his eyes. “Or a
very
stern teacher,” he went on when Charlie still hadn't decided to go or stay. His voice dropped too, just for that single moment, and when Charlie blinked, not certain that anyone had just directed that terrible innuendo at him, the kid sighed and shook his head.

Then he was lazily waving one hand at Charlie's suit, which should have been replaced last year. He'd just never gotten around to it.

“Though you don't have those elbow patches.” The kid sighed again but then grinned.

“Do you always sigh like an ingenue in an old movie?” Charlie called up. It made the kid bounce back into a standing position, and Charlie abruptly realized that not only was he allowing this to continue, but he was standing below the man's balcony and looking up like some kind of limping Romeo.

“You know, I
was
going to tell you that I just washed my hair, but if it didn't work for Marilyn, I doubt it would work for me. You didn't seem to like Marilyn much, anyway, not as much as you liked Ken.” It was an invitation to look the man over, and even knowing better, Charlie did. He ignored whatever else the man was talking about.

His gaze went to the styled, honey-colored hair, then fell back to the handsome face.

“Your hair isn't just washed,” he pointed out, then worked his jaw before more slipped out,
again.
There was more heat in his cheeks now. The kid was probably used to people who either got what he was talking about or who just didn't care what he said one way or the other.

It must be nice to be so sought after. It only furthered his theory that the kid's crazy flirting was habitual. He wouldn't have to work to get someone's attention.

But he pulled back at Charlie's silence, his eyebrows going up before he drew them together. Charlie opened his mouth, and a spark reentered the kid's green eyes. He leaned back over the ledge and smiled the kind of smile that made a man's heart beat faster.

Then a voice from inside the apartment made the kid spin around, and Charlie turned before he could change his mind.

“No, wait!” the kid yelled after him, but Charlie made a vague gesture with the arm full of books and focused on the cement path at his feet.

It led him to the center and the eye-popping mess of color that thrived in the lack of light and always threatened to spill over onto the path. His couch was calling his name, and he was suddenly in a hurry to be anywhere but near that corner.

From the center there were three more paths that led to other, smaller pathways and the four wide cement staircases. Charlie turned right once he passed the center and walked carefully through the patch of rose bushes that stood guard at his door, some of them poking out in front of the rent-drop slot.

“Oh, Mr. Howard!” He shut his mouth at hearing his name, rearranging the heavy books before he turned around to face Mrs. Brown. She was across a small walkway at her doorstep; he could just see her over the pink and yellow roses.

He bit back anything his grandmother wouldn't approve of before he stepped out. When he left the path and hit dirt, his whole left leg protested. His therapist had said it was a real pain that got worse when he was tired or upset. His physical therapist had said it was the consequence of how Charlie favored his good leg. Either way, it hurt.

“Do you need help with your computer again?” He kept the exasperated note out of his voice because she was smiling up at him, not a single wrinkle that he could see in her dark skin even though her hair was pure silver and she was seventy if she was a day.

He was starting to wish her family would stop sending her all the photo attachments; he was tired of explaining to her how to download them. He was starting to think she knew how but wanted a chance to show off her grandchildren, several of whom were about his age and conveniently not seeing anyone.

“No, honey, this is yours. They put it in my mailbox.” She had an envelope in one hand. It was blue and fat, full of coupons for local businesses that he didn't need. But it had his name on it, so he thanked her and asked how she was and turned around after she answered.

He should have grabbed his cane— no one here would care if he used it— but it was back in the car, and anyway, he would have been just as awkward even with it.

From near the first set of stairs, he could hear the smooth voice of Grayson's guest, a voice he recognized instantly, and he turned sharply onto his path, just wanting his couch and the AC and a pill or two. He didn't care about food anymore.

“Wait!” Despite everything, Charlie froze at the sound of that voice addressing him. A moment later, and he wasn't bothering to hide his frown of pain as he twisted around to stare at carefully arranged strands of hair. In the evening sunlight, they looked more gold than brown. In any light, they looked soft. Close up, he could see how perfectly that crown framed the man's handsome face: the wide eyes and full mouth put him on the edge of pretty; the jaw line and arched eyebrows kept him from looking too feminine.

Charlie felt the line of tension in his back get worse as he lowered his gaze to the eyes staring expectantly at him for the second time in a few minutes. He quickly took in the rest of the man's appearance: the tight emerald-green wifebeater T-shirt, the jeans, the leather wrist cuff that was all the jewelry the man ever wore, the matching green untied high-tops.

Charlie's gaze skimmed over the jeans, fitted but not tight, the belt, buckled a little low, then headed back up. He was only two or three inches taller than the kid— a decade, maybe less, older than him— but for a moment he felt like an old, looming, hunchbacked giant in a coat and tie that were already damp and sticky in the heat.

He straightened up a second too late and looked directly into the eyes focused on him.

They were green. Not light green, but closer to hazel, and surrounded by a dark fringe of eyelashes. He'd never seen them this close before, but the expression in them was familiar, and Charlie inhaled when he remembered when he'd last seen it: stepping out of his front door early on Sunday morning to get the paper and stopping in total surprise to see the other man across the courtyard.

At least the kid had stopped too, going still for a moment before taking a few steps forward and smiling at Charlie in a slow, sleepy way. His voice had been rougher than at their first meeting, thick with exhaustion or whatever had obviously kept him out all night.

There had been a cowboy hat hanging from his neck, matching boots on his feet, and a plaid shirt dangling from one hand along with his keys and a bottle of water. A club ID bracelet had been around one wrist. His hair had been flattened, either on purpose or from the heat of a dance floor, and there had been small bruises forming along his throat.

It had been too easy to picture a man's mouth there, another body pressed close in what they called dancing now, the kid's head going back in a silent demand for more, if he could ever be silent. Charlie had curled his fingers into his palms, had looked away and then back, in case those bruises were signs of something more harmful than rough sex.

Charlie had spent his Saturday night in, rented a movie, and finished a book, which had been probably obvious with one look at him.

“Hi, neighbor!” The kid had beamed at him, adding a wave as though Charlie's silence meant that he hadn't understood the greeting. “It was country-western night,” he'd explained after that, slurring a little, and Charlie had nodded.

“And you're supposed to the Midnight Cowboy?” His voice had been strained, but the kid must have heard. He'd put out a hand and come back down the two stairs he'd managed to climb.

His laugh had been light, too bubbly for just after dawn.

“All that, and you own an actual robe and slippers too!” He'd clapped his hands under his chin, nearly dropping his shirt in the process, and Charlie had instantly looked down and remembered that he had come out in his bathrobe, well-worn but comfortable. He hadn't blushed to see his T-shirt and underwear showing, but he had retied the belt on the robe before jerking his attention back up.

“Can you really blame me?” the man had wondered out loud, his eyebrows up as though he'd truly wanted to hear Charlie's answer. But then he'd leaned his body on the wall and moved his head up and down. “Where do you come from?”

“What?” Charlie hadn't even had his coffee yet. Not that his confusion had slowed the man down; if anything, it had only encouraged him.

“I knew I was going to enjoy living here.”

“What?” That time it had been more of a demand. Charlie had crossed his arms, though he'd been perfectly aware of how that had loosened the belt of his robe.

“Uh-oh.” The singsong tone confirmed that the kid had still been tipsy, the way he'd dropped and then raised his voice. “Always the wrong thing with you. And I'm going to need to find a shirt... .” There had almost been a question in that, however, until the kid had blinked and yawned and flapped a hand at the stairs, then at his body, lean and flushed with liquor. “Want to come up?”

Charlie had felt his mouth fall open, had at least closed it before the kid had seemed to notice.

“For a night cap, er... a morning cap?” He'd gone on, and Charlie had had the brief thought that the kid had better not have driven himself home, right before he'd had the realization that the kid had been so intoxicated that he couldn't have known what he was saying, or to whom.

“Right now, you're hardly in any position to entertain anyone,” Charlie had pointed out, earning himself a long frown and another bit of innuendo.

“What position should I be in?” The kid had looked earnest enough at first glance, bright even heading toward a hangover, but when he'd seen Charlie's expression he'd straightened back up with a grin.

“Oh, go to bed,” Charlie had told him breathlessly, bending carefully to get his newspaper. “Drunken little party boy,” he'd added, too low for the kid to hear, or so he'd thought, but he'd heard echoing, soft laughter as he'd gone back inside.

“What?” Charlie raised his chin now and looked away from the intent green eyes to see that the other man wasn't alone; there was someone waiting for him at the foot of the stairs. Tall, white, blond, mid to late twenties, the same age as Grayson's guest, if more provocatively dressed, in shorts and an even tighter shirt. He was attractive, but thin. He didn't bother to hide his amusement, either.

“You dropped your... coupons, Mr... . Howard.” The same playful frown was on the kid's face as he read the label on the envelope. He looked up again as he held it out, and Charlie shifted his books as he snatched it, ignoring the long stare aimed at him, at his leg.

“I could have gotten it.” His voice rose again, and he jerked up to his full height to glare down into startled, blinking eyes. He didn't need anyone running over to help him every time he dropped something. He was more than mobile. Maybe not today, but today had been long, and he was tired.

“Okay.” The kid held up his hands in one loose gesture of surrender, and his ready agreement made the skin of Charlie's face and neck prickle with more heat. He wasn't sure why he was behaving so badly, why he couldn't stop himself from telling the kid what to do.

He readjusted his stance to take the pressure off his bad hip.

“I... . Thank you,” he started but shut up when the kid gave a shrug. The kid's shoulders were shining with a faint layer of sweat, or just an early tan, and dotted with a few freckles. It made Charlie wonder if there were any freckles to be found across the man's nose, on his cheeks... not that he was ever going to get close enough to find out, or be allowed to touch them.

After all, that gesture said clearly that the man couldn't care less if Charlie got all his mail or acted like an ass just because he was in a bit of pain today. He didn't care about Charlie at all. But Charlie lifted his gaze from warm skin and realized that the man wasn't moving away, was in fact studying him with his head angled slightly to one side.