Loose Cannon Page 18

  Despite feeling a little guilty using her memory this way, he imagined she was riding him, cupping her breast with one hand and sliding the other down between them to get herself off. Usually he’d done that for her, but in his fantasy he got to be lazy, so he lay back and closed his eyes.

  The squelching of the lotion as he jerked off was very loud in the still room.

  After a while, he admitted he wasn’t getting anywhere, so he pictured her kneeling between his legs and taking him in her mouth. It wasn’t bad or anything, and on some level the idea of being with her was pleasing, but now that he knew what it felt like to be with Church, he couldn’t work up much enthusiasm.

  That was when the front door opened. Church was home.

  The fantasy shifted, quick as a finger snap, and Church was the one sucking him.

  Sucking him hard and wet, his lips stretched wide around Miller’s cock, his grip almost too tight, his stubble scraping Miller’s thighs and balls as he took Miller deeper, and fuck, that was...that was good, that was working. Church’s cheeks hollowed as he sucked and his tongue was like velvet on the underside of Miller’s dick, and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, because he’d never gotten head like this in real life, not with such knowing enthusiasm. Miller’s left hand clenched on the sheet. He imagined Church reaching up and guiding that hand into his short hair, encouraging Miller to grab on, to thrust, to fuck his mouth, because Church could take it, because Church wanted it. Miller gave him what he wanted, fucking into Church’s mouth with small, eager thrusts, and Church didn’t try to stop him, didn’t try to push him back, only used his shoulders to shove Miller’s thighs wider apart, and there was something outrageously, terrifyingly hot about that, about Church’s weight and his size and his body between Miller’s legs. Miller stripped his cock so hard and fast that he was going to hurt in the morning, but in the meantime, he didn’t give a damn, because he was coming with blinding intensity, biting his other hand to muffle his raw groan, his body jerking like he was on the rack as come jetted warm and sticky onto his belly.

  He lay back panting.

  After a minute he got the tissues from the nightstand and cleaned himself up with shaking hands.

  It didn’t mean anything, he told himself. People jerked off about weird shit all the time. It didn’t mean you wanted it in real life.

  And Miller was so full of shit that he couldn’t even convince himself of that lie.

  There were things that Miller liked about jerking off that had little to do with what was in his head. He liked the way his muscles moved. He liked his own strength and the sheer maleness of his body. Those physical details meshed perfectly with his fantasies of women. They created a complete picture, a sense of satisfaction and rightness when he fantasized. He knew what he was doing, what his role was, what he was, when there was a woman in the picture with him.

  It was safer with a woman.

  This wasn’t what he was supposed to be, and he was ashamed about this new failure, truly, but that didn’t stop him from listening to Church get ready for bed in the living room, picturing his lean body moving, remembering Church’s proud smile at the idea of Miller’s success.

  “Damn it,” he whispered into the dark.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Despite his vague threat, Vasily didn’t come back to Moe’s, and Church started to think he might’ve gotten off easy there. His shifts stretched into a blur of bread and cleaning and bland customers handing over faded bills. Matvey shared his business knowledge with Church easily, filling the slow spells with explanations of taxes and permits and start-up costs. Church soaked it all in and decided that if it weren’t for Matvey’s fucked-up family, he’d like to be friends with the guy.

  Miller was more complicated.

  They were side by side constantly. They were riding home from the store in the truck, cooking dinner, watching hockey, planning things for the workshop, and that was all good. Church had never seen Miller like this, so excited and eager and terrified, daring to reach for what he wanted with tentative fingers like he expected to get slapped for it at any second, and Church liked the look on him.

  What wasn’t good was the weird no-touching thing they had going on.

  Ever since the night last week when roughhousing had led to Church almost kissing Miller, they’d both been very careful to keep their hands to themselves. They didn’t talk about why, obviously, since Miller’s head would explode from the effort and Church didn’t need it said out loud that Miller didn’t want him that way.

  It wasn’t until now, when it felt so odd not to touch that Church realized how handsy their friendship usually was. A clap on the shoulder here, a hip check in the kitchen there, even a tackle now and again if one of them was being particularly mouthy. Okay, that last one was almost always Church, but still. To suddenly go without all of that felt wrong. Church liked having Miller touch him. Nobody else ever really had, not since he was a little kid. In fact, the first time Miller had hugged him—when Church had gotten a B+ on a test at school—Church’s stomach had flopped over so intensely with gratitude that he’d had to pull away, biting his tongue hard enough to bleed in the process. The sheer safety of being touched by Miller had been overwhelming in its intensity, and he’d been an addict almost overnight. Miller’s hands made him less alone in the world.

  Church figured he could get used to going without it if he had to. Like, he wasn’t constantly touching Ghost, and their friendship was fine. Well, as fine as a friendship with Ghost could be. But the point was that he could do without the touching thing if it meant being able to keep Miller.

  The problem was that Miller sometimes got so excited about the workshop stuff that he’d forget that he and Church weren’t touching these days, and he’d crowd in only to catch himself at the last minute. Then he’d get all stiff and uncomfortable, like he thought Church might jump him—rabid bear style—at any second.

  Church’s dick was getting some really mixed messages, and it was driving him fucking insane. He saw on a Viagra commercial that you were supposed to go to the hospital if you’d had an erection for more than four hours, but there hadn’t been anything about what happened if you got hard a gazillion times a day without satisfaction. If he’d thought for a second Miller was doing it on purpose, he’d be pissed, but Miller didn’t work like that. He wouldn’t know how to be a tease.

  Literally the only thing keeping Church in check was the knowledge that he was seeing what he wanted to see. At least, he was pretty sure.

  Walking away from Miller in that kitchen had been like pulling his own arm off. It’d been the right thing to do, he told himself at least a dozen times a day. He didn’t want to make things harder for Miller, didn’t want to be a burden or make the guy uncomfortable. Their friendship had been bumpy enough lately. Besides, the idea of a repeat post-sex runaway was enough to make his dick flag in a matter of heartbeats.

  So yeah. Crazy-making.

  On the first Saturday that Church and Miller were both free after the dinner with Shelby, Church opened his eyes to find Miller fidgeting in the dark hallway like a kid on Christmas morning wondering if it was too early to wake up his parents.

  Spoiler alert: yes, it was. Way too early. The streetlights were still on.

  “It’s not time to go,” Church muttered. “It’s not even time to get up and get ready to go.”

  “I know.” Miller kept fidgeting in the dark.

  “Being creepy.”

  “Sorry.”

  Apparently being creepy wasn’t reason enough for Miller to go back to his room and leave Church alone, because he still didn’t go back to bed. He wasn’t making any noise, but he was radiating excitement from across the room and it was too distracting to allow for sleep.

  “Fine, I’m up,” Church groaned, stumbling out of his blankets to turn the lamp on, and Miller’s
grin flashed, bright white and pleased. “But you have to make me coffee. And breakfast. And buy me a car.”

  “Buy you a car?”

  “It’s my day off and it’s before six, dude,” Church grunted. “You’re lucky I’m not selling your kidneys on eBay.”

  Miller wasn’t even nice enough to pretend to be afraid as he went into the kitchen, which was part of why he was a lousy human being, so Church said mean things about him under his breath as he got dressed, because he was mature like that.

  * * *

  The building they’d found for the new store was nearly five thousand square feet. That was on the small size for its original purpose, but larger than Miller would’ve guesstimated he’d need for his new workshop. Otherwise, though, it was almost perfect. A small warren of back rooms would serve for an office and storage, and they’d only have to erect a single wall in the main space so he could put a showroom up front. There was space for a desk where he could take orders and payments, all the while keeping his personal work area private in the back. He’d have plenty of room for not only his equipment and tools and benches, but to store lumber, projects at various stages of completion, and finished pieces waiting for pickup or shipping.

  He could see the end result in his head as clearly as if he were holding a photograph. It was exactly what he wanted and it was his and it was perfect.

  Miller’s footsteps echoed on the hardwood as he paced, thinking, and Church leaned against the wall, yawning and making notes on a clipboard as Miller commented on what they’d need. “The skylights will have to be replaced with treated glass so the UV rays don’t warp any of the wood,” Miller mused, and Church obediently wrote it down. “We’ll have to look into ventilation. I already have a shop vac and a dust collector, but maybe I should add a ceiling-mounted air cleaner. The climate control seems good, but we’ll probably need dehumidifiers.”

  “Shelby said we need a first aid station and a fire hydrant,” Church mumbled.

  “A fire hydrant?” Miller raised an amused eyebrow. “You mean an extinguisher?”

  “Whatever, man, it’s still dark outside. I don’t like you right now.” Church was so heavy-eyed and cranky that Miller had to steel himself against a burst of affection. He had an absurd urge to scrub a hand across Church’s buzz cut, but he restrained himself, even though cutting the impulse felt scratchy against his skin, like a cheap wool sweater.

  He hadn’t realized how often he touched Church until he wasn’t supposed to anymore.

  Several hours later, when Miller’s need to do had been temporarily sated, they grabbed takeout for lunch. They ate sprawled on the floor of what would be his showroom, going over their to-do lists. Church was nearly functional by now, and while he might not know as much as Miller did about woodworking—mostly self-taught or not, he’d been doing this for a long time—Church knew enough to ask good questions, prompting useful conversations. As they worked, they kept a list of all the things they’d need to buy. A bigger metal cabinet to store materials and chemicals, for example, since Miller would be dealing in larger quantities of varnishes, stains and paints.

  They argued about how to estimate the power load and decided it’d be better to get an electrician than try to do the wiring themselves. They talked about plumbing and the tiny, dingy bathroom and the number of outlets. They debated the necessity of painting the walls to reflect the natural light better.

  It was everything Miller hadn’t dared to let himself want.

  Well. It was one of the things he hadn’t dared to let himself want.

  If his eye sometimes lingered on Church’s jawline or lips, he ignored it. If he couldn’t tear his gaze away when Church lay down and stretched his arms up over his head like he might take a nap right there on the floor, it was only natural, because Church’s T-shirt rode up, revealing a strip of bare belly and a line of black, coarse hair that disappeared into his jeans. Anyone would notice Church when he was languid and sleepy-warm like this, a small, dozy smile on his face.

  Still, as frustrating as it was trying to make his brain obey, he wouldn’t give up Church’s presence, even to avoid the anxiety. It felt right that Church was here.

  They hadn’t drafted anything formal, but from little things Church had said, Miller had the impression that he’d like to quit the bakery and take a job at the workshop when it was set up, and Miller was more than pleased with the idea. Church wouldn’t be living with him forever, after all, and it’d mean that Miller still saw him on a near-daily basis. Besides, having a shop assistant to corral clients and keep Shelby in the loop would free Miller up to do the actual labor and construction.

  Church had shown promise in the past. He’d had steady hands and a careful eye, and he’d clearly found a sensory pleasure in working with tools and wood. When Miller had a chance to train him up or get him into an apprenticeship with someone who’d had formal training, he’d be capable of doing a lot more than simply hauling lumber and calling clients. He’d be able to make pieces of his own.

  Miller had begun as a teenager looking for an escape, too. One summer his father had assigned him to work in the lumber department at Quinn’s as part of his make-Miller-learn-the-business plan. He’d picked up a lot of it by listening to the pros talk about what they wanted and why, but it wasn’t until Quinn’s hosted a free wood-turning demonstration one weekend that Miller had fallen in love. From that point, it had simply been a matter of inhaling books and saving up for equipment. So he knew what that interest looked like in someone else, and Church definitely had it.

  Miller was still months out from being able to offer Church full-time work that’d satisfy his parole, obviously, but Shelby and Miller had discussed Church’s contribution between themselves a few days back, and they’d agreed that he’d be paid for any hours that he put in. It’d give Church some savings and it was only fair. Miller would’ve had to hire someone to help him move stuff anyway, and any other assistant would want considerably more money. Church was interested enough that he’d do it for free.

  Assuming the sun was up, of course.

  * * *

  For a couple of weeks, life rumbled along pretty well for Church. Chelsey had been happy at their last meeting about how he was doing. He and Shelby were sort of getting along now that they were putting in a lot of time together working on Miller’s shop, and they managed to have an entirely bloodshed-free Thanksgiving. Except for the fact that Miller was still driving Church bugshit by being hot and having crappy boundaries, things were looking up.

  Then, on the day after Thanksgiving, Vasily returned to Moe’s. He sat in one of the booths for an hour hissing racial slurs and insults whenever there weren’t customers in the bakery.

  “Maybe you should go back to Mexico,” Vasily said.

  “I’m Puerto Rican,” Church reminded him wearily. At some point, he’d gotten tired of being asked to justify his existence. “That makes me an American citizen, asshole. Being Puerto Rican means I’m a citizen.”

  “You speak Spanish,” Vasily said, like that had anything to do with Church’s nationality. But he seemed to know he’d hit a nerve with that one, because he strolled out like he’d won the World Series or something, smug about his good aim.

  The thing was, Church didn’t speak Spanish.

  When he’d been very young, his mother would let him hold the rosary given to her on her sixteenth birthday by her abuelita, and tell him stories about her girlhood back in Guayabo. In his favorite story, she would describe celebrating La Noche de San Juan with her friends and cousins, crowding into a van and driving to the beach, where they would pile around the bonfires to listen to music and eat until their stomachs were uncomfortably full. At midnight, they would all jump backward into the ocean over and over, the girls holding hands, the boys pushing and laughing, all of them making wishes and washing off the bad luck of the previous year.

 
; Once, Church had asked her what she’d wished for.

  “Love,” she’d said, and taken the rosary away to put it back in her jewelry box, her eyes suddenly pinched.

  He hadn’t asked her about her wishes after that.

  As the years of alcoholism crawled on, Church’s father became angrier and more bitter. Sofia Church’s happiness became his enemy, and her culture, as a source of her happiness, was a frequent target. Her stories dried up, and slowly, all other reminders of her faith and family disappeared. When Church was five and said gracias instead of “thank you,” his father had broken her nose for trying to teach her son a language that her husband couldn’t speak.

  It was the last time there was any mention of Sofia Church’s heritage.

  Church’s ethnicity gave him whiplash at times. At home the color of his skin was completely ignored, and as soon as he set foot out the door, the world wouldn’t let him forget.

  A few times, Church had considered trying to learn Spanish; he’d almost asked a couple of the guys in Woodbury to teach him some, but he always lost his nerve. The idea of learning Spanish made him feel like a thief. He didn’t know any other way to explain that hot clutch of jealousy and guilt that sprang up in his chest when he thought of it. Like he was taking something that didn’t belong to him, even though he knew that it should.

  There was a tiny part of him that worried that trying to learn Spanish would be too difficult anyway. After all, he still didn’t know all the English words, and he’d been speaking that for decades now.

  Vasily came the next day, too, this time tipping over the iced-tea machine. Gallons splashed all over the floor. That turned out to only be a distraction from his real task, though, which was unplugging the cold-storage bins so that a ton of food went bad over the course of Church’s shift.