Smoky Mountain Dreams (31 page)

“Christopher, I heard something from Darla and I think it’s
probably true.” Gareth stared with those wounded, tortured eyes that had done a
number on Christopher last summer. What had ever made him think a kiss would be
a good way to wipe that look away? It hadn’t. And neither had the blow job, or
the fuck, or anything else. But there was something so compelling in that hurt
that Christopher would’ve been willing to keep on trying anyway he could. If
Gareth had wanted that too.

“What did you hear from Darla?” Christopher asked, even
though he knew exactly what it was.

“I heard you’ve been seeing that Jesse Birch fellow. The
wealthy one. With the wife that was in that wreck.”

“Gareth—”

“Hold on now. Let me finish. Holly says you’re not with him,
but I saw you two together last weekend with my own eyes and I saw how he
looked at you. Pissed me off right hard to think of him having you. So maybe
that makes me a dick and a half—”

“Uh, yeah.”

“But I realized I can’t wait much longer to get over myself
and see if there’s a way we can try again.” He reached down into the dirty
canvas sack he carried around and pulled out an iron rose.

Gran! Oh my God, do you see this?

Sure do, and ain’t he just a
predictable, angry dumbass?

“I made this for you.” Gareth held it out. When Christopher
didn’t reach out to take it, he laid it flat on the table between them. “Took
me my entire day off this week, but it was worth it. The petals were hard to
make look delicate like that, but I just kept thinking about your face and
mouth, and the way you look so sweet, but then in bed you’re wild and hard and
strong.” He touched the iron flower and smiled sweetly at Christopher, cocking
his head, his eyes going soft. “Tell me you’ve had it better before or since
and I’ll leave you alone.”

Christopher had long since swallowed his food, and he stared
at Gareth’s finger tracing the iron rose, the tattoo on his index finger—a
small, running wolf between his second and third knuckle—and shivered as he
remembered the night they’d spent together. Then he thought of the recent sex
he’d had with Jesse, and the emotions that made it all that much better between
them.

Yes, Christopher’s body might react to Gareth’s wounded
eyes, his thick beard that had scratched so nicely when they’d kissed, and the
shameless way he’d been in bed, but lust wasn’t enough. Christopher could never
seriously be with a man who had treated him as carelessly as Gareth had. Not
when he had so much more with Jesse.

“Gareth, the rose is beautiful.”

Gareth’s face flushed with pleasure and he reached out to
take hold of Christopher’s hand, but Christopher pulled it away.

“I’m seeing Jesse Birch and it’s…we’re exclusive now. But
what really matters is that even if Jesse wasn’t in the picture, I’m not
interested in you, Gareth. I’m sorry. I can’t accept your gift.”

Gareth lowered his head like he was trying to hide his reaction
from Christopher. Finally, he looked up and said, “Well, he’s rich and I’m
poor. I guess I understand why you’d hate to walk away from a meal ticket like
that.”

Christopher bit his inner cheek, a flash of the anger he’d
had for Gareth for months now pulsing through him. “I’m not going to dignify
that with a response.”

Gareth blinked, surprised. “I didn’t mean anything bad. I
just meant—”

Christopher stood, picked up his plates, and said, “I’ve got
a show to do in forty minutes and hopefully a date with my boyfriend this
afternoon. You can think whatever you want about any of that. I’m sorry to hurt
your feelings, but the answer is no. And it would be no if Jesse was homeless
and sleeping on my couch.”

“He’s got kids,” Gareth said, slowly. “You’re good with
kids. You’d make a good father.”

Christopher paused a moment and considered Brigid’s cold
gaze and the spit in his ice cream float. “Thanks, Gareth. I’m sorry it ended
like this.”

“Good luck, Christopher. I hope he makes you happy.”

I hope so too,
Christopher
thought as he hurried to get ready for the first show of the day.

Jesse shook with rage. He could barely breathe, and he
slammed his hands against the steering wheel over and over until he
accidentally honked the horn, shocking himself into quiet. He shook his hands
out, not caring if there might be bruising, though it would make his work
harder if his fingers swelled at all.

“Fuck her,” he grit out between his teeth. “Fuck that
fucking bitch.”

Mediation was supposed to
help
this situation, but it only ever left him so angry that he couldn’t see
straight. He’d lost it in the middle of the meeting and shouted, “What do you
not understand about your religious beliefs having no bearing
whatsoever
on what your sister wanted?”

Ronnie always knew how to push his buttons. She’d tell him
she was going to pray for him—that she’d have her entire
church
pray for him. She’d explain that God
wanted
her to
have this kind of control over her sister’s life and death, otherwise He’d have
made Marcy act to change her Healthcare Power of Attorney after her marriage,
instead of leaving the decisions in the hands of her sister.

Her smug, earnest gentleness got to him the most. Like she
was so fucking calm while she dragged her sister’s death out for years and
years, keeping her chained to a bed, not a wife, mother, or sister anymore. Not
even a person.

His phone vibrated and he grabbed it from his pocket,
tempted to throw it against the windshield even though that would be a very
stupid thing to do.

Just got back from SMD. Is your meeting
over? Any chance for drinks at Puckers?

He was supposed to go home after the mediation and relieve
Amanda from her childcare duties, but fuck, he was in no way ready to face his
children. He didn’t need to take his bad mood out on them. He didn’t need to
take it out on Christopher either, but having a drink would take the edge off,
and seeing Christopher might make him feel human again. They’d texted a lot in
the week since the Cades Cove picnic, but he hadn’t
seen
him. Fuck, he missed his face.

He texted a quick reply to Christopher and then called
Amanda. “I know I said I’d be there by bedtime, but Ronnie nearly sent me over
the deep end. I’m meeting Christopher for a drink or two. I’ve got to blow off
this steam. Is it too much trouble?”

“It was until you said the name Christopher, and now you can
stay out all night as far as I’m concerned. I can get the kids up for school.
The husband can make do without me this evening.”

Of course he’d known that would be the way she’d see things,
which is why he’d already told Christopher yes, and why he’d even mentioned his
name to begin with. Amanda was on Team Get a Boyfriend and Christopher was her
favorite contender. The only contender, but still.

The drive to Puckers did nothing to calm his nerves.
Everyone on the road was an idiot and he loathed every single one of them. He
found parking and gritted out a halfway pleasant greeting to the lot attendant,
and then meandered through the bundled-up crowd on the sidewalk, his nose and
fingers cold because he’d forgotten his gloves and scarf in his haste to get to
Christopher.

A text came through letting him know that Christopher was
already there and had scored a booth in the back. It also said:

Have you ever noticed that this entire
town smells like pancakes, beer, and donuts?

That, at last, made Jesse smile. And
that
was exactly why he was aching to see Christopher.

Puckers itself was a dive of the sports bar variety located
down twelve or so steps in the basement level of one of the multi-business
buildings on Parkway. As he walked into the crowded bar, the multiple
televisions flashed with various football games—none of them the Vols, or there
would’ve been no room in the place at all.

Somehow, over all the voices and the occasional boo or cheer,
the plunking piano and tender vocals of “The Rose” by Bette Midler soared
through the thick atmosphere. He could hear it building over the clinking of
glasses and bottles and the murmuring of the patrons.

He remembered all too clearly the summer before when
Christopher had sung it as a duet with a tall woman at Smoky Mountain Dreams.
It’d been the culminating song of the show. He’d never mentioned to Christopher
seeing that performance, but it had been one of Jesse’s favorites, actually
bringing tears to his eyes. Christopher had stepped up and filled the night
with his voice, tenderly bring the song to a close with the most gently held
note Jesse had ever heard. At the time, it’d made him fall a little in love
with the man on the stage, and now, knowing Christopher as he did—his kindness,
generosity, and enthusiasm—it made the memory of the performance all that more
intense.

Still, Jesse was so angry and raw from the mediation that
the lyrics of the song felt like pressing a bruise. In some ways, he wanted to
keep pushing harder, feeling more, and in others it made him want to vomit. The
atmosphere of the room didn’t help. It was all liquor, beer, fried food, and
cheese—layers of desperation, boredom, hope, and sweat. It got his hackles up
even more.

When he spotted Christopher’s blond head bent over his
phone, typing in something and smiling, a tiny bit of the tension loosened.
Just seeing him was a relief, and he wanted to grab him and kiss him, to bury
his nose in the softness of his hair and replace the scents of the room with
that bourbon-books-and-mint smell that was Christopher. But Puckers wasn’t the
establishment for that kind of demonstration. Dammit, Gatlinburg really needed
a gay bar.

“Hey,” Jesse said, sliding in across from Christopher, his hands
aching to tug him over the table and taste his beautiful mouth. It would calm
him down. He knew it would. Something had to.

“Hey, you,” Christopher smiled, his teeth shiny in the low
light and a warm joy spreading over his face. “Guess what?”

“What?”

“I got the lead—well, after Lash, anyway.” Jesse must have
looked as confused as he felt, because Christopher went on, “You know, the lead
in this year’s big spring show? I texted you about the auditions yesterday.”

“Right. That’s awesome. I thought it would be a week or so
before you heard back?”

“They didn’t even make me wait.”

“Congrats. I’m not surprised, though. As your biggest fan, I
kind of knew it would work out.”

Christopher grinned. “Thanks.”

Jesse’s smile felt stiff. He wished he could shake off the
lingering sense of helplessness that always overpowered him when he met with
Ronnie. “Tell you what, let’s get a drink and we’ll toast it.”

“I ordered for us both. I hope you don’t mind?”

“So long as you got something strong.”

“Bourbon and Coke for you.”

“That’ll do just fine. I hope she hurries. I need it.”

Christopher’s eyebrows lowered and he leaned forward, his
hand slipping onto Jesse’s forearm, warm and reassuring. “What’s wrong?”

The waitress stopped at their booth and handed a beer to
Christopher and placed the bourbon in front of Jesse.

“Anything else for ya, sweeties?” she asked, gum smacking,
and dark spaces where more teeth should have been.

“Bring two shots of bourbon, too,” Jesse said.

Christopher’s eyes went even more soft and tender as he
gripped Jesse’s forearm again and squeezed before releasing him to take a pull
from his beer.

“Can I getcha anything to eat tonight, hon? Or is it gonna
be liquid dinner?”

“I’m good,” Jesse said. He usually enjoyed the burgers at
Puckers, but he didn’t feel like eating. Maybe when Christopher had worked his
magic on his mood, he’d be relaxed enough to get some food. Or maybe they could
just head to Christopher’s house and he could eat a different kind of meat.

“How ‘bout you, darlin’?”

Christopher smiled at her and shook his head, his brow still
creased with concern as she bustled away.

Jesse didn’t want to ruin Christopher’s accomplishment with
his bad mood, and talking about Ronnie never did any good anyway. “Tell me more
about your audition. Who were you up against? Anyone I’d remember seeing on
stage?” He sounded brusque, but he felt like an exposed nerve and he couldn’t
get himself not to sound like he was ordering Christopher to talk to him
instead of being genuinely curious.

“Martin Delroy and Shane Cruz, mainly. There were others,
but those two are my real competition for Lash’s back-up and lead parts on his
days off.” Christopher sounded cautious like he was talking to a wild animal
that might bite.

Jesse slung the drink back, taking giant swallows. The heat
of the liquor burned into his anger like an old friend. He put the glass down
empty just as the waitress showed up with the shots. Her eyebrow quirked up,
but she didn’t say anything—just took the empty, and walked away.