Edward Unconditionally Common Powers 3 (17 page)

Olivia rolled onto her side and smiled at him. “I know he wasn't much for telling you, but he was.”

“Father went out of his way to tell me what a disappointment I was to him. Maybe... I don't know, maybe he did love me. Once.” Edward shrugged.

She let out a breath. “If your father were alive right now, I'd tan his hide for how he treated you.” She shook her head. “Eddie had his own set of problems, and he let them spill over onto you, that's all.” She patted his hand.

“Thanks, Meemaw. But I knew how he felt about me even before he found out that I was gay. Once that happened, the gloves were off, not that he ever held much back. But at least he never hit me.” Instead, he'd never touched Edward again. Never hugged him or put his arm on Edward's shoulder in comfort or reassurance.

“Your father was... an idiot.” She pished and rolled onto her back again. He had the feeling she wanted to say something else, but had thought better of it.

They were quiet for a while, watching the clouds float by through the limbs and leaves of the big oak. Edward listened to the sounds of the world around him. No cars, no horns, none of the sounds of city life, only the birds, the bugs, and the occasional faraway moo of a cow.

Maybe he was a
Country Living
kind of guy, after all.

Olivia sat up. “I'm hungry, how about you?”

“Now you're talking.” He sat up and crossed his legs Indian-style.

She dug out the food, spread it around for them to help themselves, and they feasted.

When the last crumbs of chocolate cake had been licked from their forks, they lay back, patting their tummies.

“Oh God. I'm going to have to run twice a day for a week to work off that wedge of cake. That was the biggest slice I've ever seen.” Edward moaned.

“Nonsense. You need to gain some weight.”

“And lose my girlish figure?” He chuckled.

She stood and held out her hand to him. “Come on. We need a walk to help us digest, and I want to show you something.”

Edward stood, offered her his arm, and they walked around the house. The porch did wrap all the way around, and several doors opened onto it. At the rear of the house, they took a worn path that led over the next gentle hill. They climbed it and stood at the top.

Just below was a hollow. More oaks stood in a circle and beneath them were a dozen-or-so stone markers surrounded by blue wildflowers. A cemetery.

“I want to be buried here, Edward. Next to your grandfather.” Her voice was so soft and gentle. No fear, no trepidation. Just calm. Peace. Contentment. “Promise me. You won't let Lillian put me in the ground anywhere else.”

“I promise.” With his mother that would take a battle, but it was a battle he would win. For Olivia. He owed her that much.

Olivia wrapped her arm around his waist, leaned her head on his shoulder, and they stood there for long minutes. Then he felt her sigh and pull away.

“I want to show you the house before it gets dark.”

They went back down the hill and climbed the steps to the porch. She took out a key ring, opened the door, and they stepped inside.

The house was cool. In the sunlight that streamed through the windows and the sheer lace curtains, dust motes floated. He could smell cedar and lavender, and the faded scent of dead flowers.

Olivia had moved into the kitchen, bright and cheery with its empty open-faced cabinets and white linoleum floors. Clean but unused.

On the counter was a cut-glass vase with a bouquet of withered flowers. She removed them, opened a door under the sink, and put them in a garbage pail. “I'll throw this out later.”

She opened a drawer, took out garden clippers and a pair of gloves, and went to the back door. “I'll just be a few minutes. Look around.”

Edward nodded and went back into the empty living room. A stone fireplace with a simple thick wooden beam for a mantle stood against one wall. He went down the hall and opened door after door, finding four empty bedrooms, each with a door that opened onto the porch. There were two bathrooms. The bath fixtures were from the thirties, at least, and both had old claw-foot tubs and small black-and-white tiles on the floors and walls.

He fell in love with the house as he walked through it, imagining what he'd do if it were his.

Circling back to the kitchen, he found Olivia arranging the flowers she'd cut in the vase. “Your grandfather always liked fresh flowers in the house.”

He smiled. “It's a nice touch. Homey.”

“Yes. This was our home. When he died, I stayed for a while, but it was too hard. Everything reminded me of him. It hurt too much, so I moved to town.”

“But you keep coming back.”

“I didn't at first. But it called me home, Edward. He called me home. These days I come quite often just to be with him here.” She looked up at him, and tears welled in her eyes.

“Why didn't you move back?”

She shrugged. “It was too far from town, and I didn't want to be so isolated. Besides, when I come here now, it's special.”

Edward gathered her into his arms, and they held each other tight.

“You must have loved him so much, Meemaw.”

“I did. One day, I hope you'll find that kind of love.”

“Me too.” Sure. Somewhere over the rainbow where bluebirds and pigs fly.

He stared out the window at the hill that hid the graves of relatives he'd never known but felt closer to than his own family. This place grounded him, made him feel close to his roots, as if he were a part of something bigger than just him and his mother.

She sighed. “I suppose we should get back. That dog of yours probably needs to go for a walk.”

“Winston? Oh, he's very good about being inside for long periods. He never has an accident.”

They went outside. She folded the blanket, and he put it and the basket in the backseat. Then he held open the door for her.

Once he got behind the wheel, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks for sharing this with me, Meemaw. It was a wonderful day.”

They bumped back over the road, opened and closed the fence, and drove back to town.

Jack untangled his line for the fourth time as he swore.

Fishing was overrated. “Peace and quiet, my ass,” he grumbled.

The line came free, and he reeled it in. The hook, bait missing once more, swung around as he jerked the pole in anger and caught himself on the thigh.

“Son of a bitch!” The barbed end dug into his flesh, and he froze, knowing any more movement would embed it deeper.

It was karma. Cosmic justice. And only a small fraction of the shit he deserved for hurting Edward.

Carefully, he put down the pole, sat on the ground, and, gritting his teeth, worked the hook free of his skin. Blood welled. He grabbed the bottle of water leaning next to his tackle box, and poured it over the small wound to rinse it clean.

Staring at the hook in his hand, he couldn't tell if it was bloody or rusty. To be on the safe side, he probably needed to get a tetanus shot. Actually, he should have had one when Winston bit him, but Jack hadn't wanted anyone to know about that. Now he had a valid excuse, one he didn't mind being known.

His luck was going downhill fast. He'd better leave before he fell in the damned creek. The fish had eluded him ever since he'd arrived, only to swim up to the bank to make their presence and his ineptitude known.

After he gathered up his fishing equipment, broke down his pole, and tossed his empty beer bottles and trash in a plastic bag, he headed back to his truck.

Not a single fish. So much for catching dinner.

Oh well, there was a frozen pizza at home calling his name.

Pizza, a cold beer, and pay-per-view.

What a life.

Wednesday morning, Jack woke up on the couch in his living room. He sat up, groaned, back muscles aching, and ran his hands through his hair as he got his bearings. The TV was still on, the sound turned down low. On the coffee table was a plate with the half-eaten sandwich he'd made last night. Next to it stood a warm bottle of beer he'd only had a sip of.

He wore jeans and nothing else.

In his bedroom at the back of his house, his alarm clock was ringing. It must have been what had awakened him. He thought he'd fallen asleep around three a.m., same as the night before. He pushed to his feet and shuffled down the hall.

He slapped at the alarm, knocking the clock off the side table. It fell between the bed and the wall, still ringing.

“Fuck,” he mumbled as he got on his hands and knees to retrieve it. He reached for it, snagged it by the cord, and reeled it in. After shutting off the alarm, he placed it back on the table. He wasn't sure what was worse, the ringing or the silence.

He stood, slowly, carefully, then went to the bathroom. He needed to piss.

Standing at the toilet, he emptied his too-full bladder, flushed, and turned on the water in the shower. He slipped out of his jeans and tossed them, not caring if they landed in the proper hamper or not. His shirt from last night lay on the floor next to it.

Avoiding his own gaze in the mirror, because reality would come only too soon, he tested the temperature of the water, then stepped in. Warm water fell over his shoulders and down his back as he picked up a washcloth and soaped it up.

Like a robot, he bathed. Rinsed. Toweled off. Got out of the shower.

Showtime.

Jack looked at the mirror.

Oh yeah. He was looking rough.
Shit
. Were the bags under his eyes from only two nights of bad sleep or had they been there before? And he could have sworn the hair at his temples hadn't been that gray last week. The light in this room sucked. Maybe he should switch to those new compact fluorescent lightbulbs.

He ran the water in the sink, splashed it on his face, and then shaved. No matter how slow he went or how careful he tried to be, he cut himself. Three times.

Glanced at his reflection. It should have looked better. It didn't.

He looked ridiculous with three small pieces of toilet tissue stuck to the cuts, dots of blood holding them in place on his chin, jaw, and throat.

Running his hand over his stomach, Jack straightened and sucked in his gut. Turned to the side and exhaled. Still tight, thank God for that. There wasn't a six-pack, but there weren't any love handles, either.

He leaned closer to his reflection as he evaluated his body.

“No no no.” A gray hair nestled, like a traitor, among the light covering of dark hairs on his chest. With a frown, he plucked it out and held it up. Squinted.

It was gray all right. He didn't need new lights to see the difference between dark brown and gray.

It was the beginning of the end. The slow slide into middle age. Forty-five loomed closer, mocking him.

He wasn't ready for this.

Jack jerked away from the mirror, dropped the lone hair into the wastebasket, and brushed his teeth without further scrutiny of his forty-three-year-old body.

He had thirty minutes to get dressed, have breakfast, and get to work. He'd skip breakfast; he wasn't very hungry. Hadn't been since last weekend when Winston and Edward had flitted in and out of his life.

This was all Edward's fault.

“Morning, Chief,” Kristen said, then sipped her coffee.

“Morning.” Jack flashed Kristen a quick smile and ducked into his office, clutching the coffee he'd picked up at the drive-through, so he didn't have to stand in the kitchen and make small talk with her or anyone else.

He tossed his hat on his desk, put his coffee down, sat, and stared at the door. The last time he'd seen Edward was when he'd stormed out of Jack's office, furious and hurt. Jack replayed the scene in his head, right up to the moment he'd kissed Edward.

It had been the best kiss of Jack's life.

Edward had literally melted into him. Jack could feel the man's body give way, the tug of Edward's hands on his shirt, the complete surrender as Edward opened his mouth and let Jack inside to taste him.

Jack groaned.

He had to stop thinking about it, but all Jack wanted was to feel Edward's body beneath him, feel Edward's entire body melt against his just as it had before. Jack wanted to taste Edward again: Edward's mouth, his skin, his cock. Every inch of him.

That would be insanity.

Fuck. What Jack was going through right now was insanity. Not sleeping. Not eating. And this funk, this depression was sheer weakness. And he'd never given in to his weaknesses.

At this point in his life, it wasn't the time to start. He was right where he'd planned on being. Settled in a nice town, living in a nice house, with a nice job.

Everything nice. Simple. Easy.

No complications.

Edward was the mother of all complications.

Between taking Olivia all over town and even to San Antonio on Tuesday, Edward had hardly thought about Jack at all. He'd just been too distracted while running around with his grandmother and having lunch at her favorite Mexican restaurant in San Antonio on the Riverwalk. They'd each had two frozen margaritas, and both of them had flirted shamelessly with their young waiter. Edward hadn't talked and laughed so much in months.

Then they'd spent the rest of the afternoon walking along the river, looking at all sorts of shops. Edward even bought Winston a new leather collar that had silver Lone Star studs all the way around it.

Olivia slept on the drive home. She'd been tired but didn't look exhausted. He couldn't wait to see Winston and try on the new collar. He'd dropped Olivia off, settled her in the house, then went back to the hotel. After showing Winston the new collar, Edward had fallen into bed. He hadn't even remembered falling asleep.

Now, it was Wednesday morning, and he had the barbecue at Brian and Rush's ranch in the evening. Dressed only in a pair of black briefs, he stood staring at the small closet where he'd hung most of his clothes.

“What do you think, Winston? Blue jeans or black?”

Winston lay on the bed watching the home decorating channel.

“No opinion?” Edward held each pair up against his body. “It's sort of a casual affair. The blue ones. They're sort of scruffed up.” He put the black jeans back in the closet and draped the blue ones over a chair. “Now the shirt.”