The Haunted Heart: Winter (18 page)

But there was no avoiding it. Kirk was so
much larger. Not just taller and broader, but muscular. His biceps,
his thighs, his pecs were all big and hard. His stomach was of the
washboard variety. And he was hairy. There was the beard, of
course, but there was also that unruly mop. I smiled faintly
remembering that there had been bits of leaves in his hair when
we’d stood in the graveyard. His chest was furry and his arms and
legs too. Undoubtedly his crotch was a bush, though he was
courteously still wearing his pajama bottoms. I say courteously,
but it was maybe a little disappointing too.

That dismayed realization forced me to stop
and think. Why was I dismayed? I’d had it in the back of my mind
when I’d come looking for Kirk.
Help me forget for tonight
.
That’s what I was asking, and Kirk was willing. But he was also
letting me set the pace. So why not be honest about it?

I lifted my head and kissed him. He kissed
me back at once, and I was again reminded of the unfamiliarity of
his taste and his scent. But it wasn’t unpleasant. He sort of
smelled like pencil shavings. I smiled at that idea and Kirk smiled
too, and kissed me harder.

Something melted inside me. He tasted sweet
beneath the whisky, like honey and smoke. And he didn’t smell like
pencil shavings, it was more like cedar wood and mint.

Heat pooled in my belly, my cock felt heavy.
I tentatively bumped my hips against Kirk’s and he bumped back. I
moaned into his mouth and he threw his leg over mine, pulling us
closer, snugging our groins up against each other — as much as was
possible giving the stretch and thrust of two now fully erect
cocks.

Kirk’s big hands splayed against my ass
cheeks, pressing me closer still as we began to awkwardly hump. I
could feel the hot imprint of his hands through the soft cotton of
my briefs. That same soft cotton, rubbing against the sensitive
head of my cock was driving me crazy. I wanted bare skin. I wanted
my naked cock rubbing against his, wanted the feel of crisp hair
and silky skin and hot wet release. I wanted Kirk to yank his
bottoms down — and my briefs too, while he was at it.

This hit and miss bunting and bouncing
against each other was frustrating and exciting all at the same
time. Again I moaned into Kirk’s mouth, and he groaned back a noise
that could have been reassuring or encouraging or equally
exasperated.

His leg tightened, his hand flattened on my
backside, forcing me into his rhythm, and we fell into a more
satisfying meter, the rough, clumsy friction assuaging that frantic
tension instead of teasing it into greater knots.

Blood beat dizzily in my ears, my heart
labored, my lungs burned, mostly proof of how totally out of shape
I was. Kirk’s hips rocked faster, he thrust harder, nuzzling the
underside of my jaw, beneath my temple, the corner of my eye. It
was moist and messy and overwhelming. Gratefully, I pushed back,
craving more, more contact.

The mattress springs squeaked. The bed frame
creaked. The frame knocked against the wall. Once, twice.
Let me
in!
Three times.

Kirk made a strangled sound. His hand slid
up to the small of my back, smoothing in a restless, feverish
caress before his arm locked around me and he went rigid. I felt
orgasm sweep through him before I ever felt that blaze of liquid
heat through soggy cotton.

Oh God.
I made a desperate sound, but
it was okay. Kirk wasn’t leaving me to stand outside on my own.
Still shivering with his own release, he shifted, reaching down,
and his big hand pushed through the fly of my dampened briefs,
closing around my cock. He was at the wrong angle and my briefs
were too tight, but Kirk was practiced. What a beautiful thing
experience was. He made it work, pumping me with a couple of long,
beautiful strokes, and then switching to quick, hard short strokes.
I threw my head back, just riding it out, gratefully accepting his
attentions.

And oh yes. There it was
. That
sensation like a charge of raw electricity crackling at the base of
my spine. So long since I’d felt this. In fact, I had intended
never to feel it again. But it was too late now, and it was almost
frightening how intensely good it was, how fierce the pleasure as
that buzz of feeling washed through my cock, my balls, the pit of
my stomach…and every nerve, muscle, cell in my body caught
light.

For those few seconds, I did forget. I felt
incandescent. Clear and bright and alive again. I was sailing in
sunlight. My heart was at peace and the sting in my eyes was, for
once, nothing to do with sorrow.

For those few seconds.

Sounds of distress wove their way through my
dreams.

I opened my eyes to a strange and utter
darkness, a confused awareness that I was not alone. But also the
clear understanding that I was not with Alan.

Kirk
. I was with Kirk. I knew it
because my dreams had not been dreams so much as a dozing reliving
of the day’s adventures. Kirk was part of those adventures.

I rolled over to face him, to face his
motionless shape beneath the blankets. I could tell he was
breathing hard, I could almost feel his heart pounding across the
short distance between us, but the sounds he made…

Tiny, smothered sounds, not even loud enough
to wake anyone from a normal sleep. The hair rose on my head.

Kirk was screaming in his sleep.

Behind the unconscious mask of his face, his
firmly pressed lips and closed eyes, he was screaming. Like someone
buried alive. Like someone trapped in a burning house or beneath an
avalanche of ice. Screaming and screaming and screaming for help
that would never come.

“Kirk,” I whispered. I reached out to touch
him.

The next thing I knew I was flat on my back,
Kirk’s forearm was crushing my throat like a steel bar, and I felt
the blood thumping in my ears.

“Kkhh…” I had to fight to get that much
sound out. Bright lights burst behind my eyes, I hit blindly at his
head, connected with his ear, his jaw. It made no difference.
“Kkhhk!”

Just as suddenly, the weight lifted. I could
breathe again. I dragged in frantic gulps of sweet, bed-warmed air.
The lamp flashed on, blinding me for an instant.

“Jesus Christ!” Kirk’s voice was horrified.
“Flynn?”

He knelt over me, hair standing up, eyes
black with horror. “Are you —?” His voice gave out as though he’d
run out of air. Which made two of us.

“Kay!” I squawked, scrambling back, out of
reach. I leaned against the headboard, putting a hand to my
pulverized throat muscles. I forced out, “I’m okay.”

His mouth hung open stupidly, his eyes were
huge, transfixed. “I don’t know what…I’m sorry, Flynn. I’m…”

“It’s okay.” I had my breath back and it was
easier to speak, although my throat muscles still felt
squashed.

“Did I — are you hurt?” His voice still came
in winded gulps. But then who knew how long he had been fighting
for his life before I woke him up.

I shook my head.

“I didn’t realize. I didn’t know it was
you.”

“It’s okay. My fault. I shouldn’t have
startled you.” I couldn’t stand to see Kirk look like that. So
frightened and sick. He regarded his hands like they were
malignant. “Kirk!” I put my hands over his. “I’m fine. Really. You
didn’t hurt me.” My mistreated vocal cords cracked on the last
word, which made him wince.

I laughed, which wasn’t any better.

“I didn’t remember you were here.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

“I haven’t had one of those in a long
time.”

“This trip would give anyone
nightmares.”

He risked another guilty, pained glance at
me. “Flynn...” He shook his head.

That time my laugh sounded more natural.

Kirk didn’t laugh. “I could have killed
you.”

Yeah, I’d noticed that. “You didn’t. Didn’t
even hurt me, really.”

He scrubbed his face with the heels of his
hands and said in that same exhausted voice, “I’m sorry. You
probably better sleep alone.”

“No. Come on. I’m fine. I’m not
worried.”

“Maybe you should be.”

“No, I shouldn’t.” I glanced at the clock on
the bedside table. “Anyway, we’ve only got a couple more hours
before we have to get up. Let’s get some sleep while we can.”

“I think I’ll go work out.” He sounded dull.
Defeated.

“Kirk.” I scooted over and wrapped my arms
around him. I said against his hair. “Lie down with me. We’re both
tired. We’re okay here.”

I could feel how divided he was, but then he
seemed to give in, his shoulders slumping, his body leaning against
mine. I hugged him and then we moved slowly, wearily crawling
beneath the sheets and blankets, Kirk taking my former spot, me
taking his. He turned out the bedside lamp. He slid his arm beneath
my shoulders. I wrapped mine over his chest.

I’m pretty sure I dozed off before he
did.

“Maybe you could write a book about Ines,” I
called through the adjoining open door the next morning as we
dressed and packed. “If the stories and legends are right, and
ghosts want the truth to be known, well, a book would take care of
that.”

Kirk’s voice floated back, “Except I’m a
playwright.”

“You could write a play.”

“It doesn’t work like that. I’d need someone
to produce it.” He appeared in the doorway, looking surprisingly
rested for someone who’d spent a fairly action-packed night. “I
guess I could try my hand at writing some kind of article about
her. Maybe for a historical magazine? If you think that’s what she
wants.”

I tossed my toothbrush into my kitbag which
was already in my carryall. “I’m just going by what the experts
say.”

When Kirk didn’t answer, I glanced at him.
He was very still, his brown gaze fixed on my arms. With the drapes
wide open and daylight flooding in — and me wearing only my jeans —
the deep, ugly scars on my arms stood out in stark relief.

Kirk’s eyes raised to mine. He said thickly,
“That wasn’t a cry for help.”

“No.” Sudden, ferocious rage flared inside
me because I didn’t want him to see or know that much, because for
a few hours I had been unconsciously happy, because last night I
had felt something for him and I was afraid to even consider the
possibility of what that might mean. I smiled at him. “No, it
wasn’t. And when this fucking year is over, when these next fucking
ten months are over and done, I’m going to finish the job.”

There. It was said. Now we both knew the
rules of engagement.

Kirk said very quietly, “Is that the
agreement? The agreement you have with your parents?”

“That’s it. I won’t try to harm myself for
one year. One more year. And in return they won’t try to lock me up
like I’m an animal.”

Kirk swallowed, his gaze never wavering from
mine, as though I were indeed a dangerous animal he was keeping at
bay by will alone.

I said nastily, “Don’t worry. It won’t be on
your watch.”

The fact that he didn’t answer, didn’t
respond, just kept staring at me, wordless and appalled, made me
angrier still. “I’m not crazy,” I said. “I’m not deranged,
delusional or depressed. It’s very simple. I don’t want to live
without Alan. I
won’t
live without him. There isn’t anything
for me on this goddamned planet without him.”

Kirk stirred, said, “It’s still — I mean,
it’s not that long —”

“Really? Because it seems endless night to
me.” I summoned another of those no doubt alarming smiles. “I’m not
going to feel any different in one year or one hundred years. If
Alan is gone then I want off the planet too. That’s all. It would
be nice if people could respect that, but that’s okay. I can wait a
year.”

And yet even as I said it, insisted it, an
odd…weariness seemed to flood me, douse the bright flames of my
fury, wash away my certainty.

Was I? Was I really going to kill myself?
Was there really nothing left? More, was I really going to do that
to the people who loved me, were fighting to save me? People
I
loved. If there was one thing I’d learned in the last
twenty-four hours, it was how short life was — how long death — and
how there was never enough love to go around.

Kirk was still standing there, motionless. I
glanced at the clock and said shortly, “We should go.”

He turned back to his room without a
word.

We let the radio fill the silence between us
on the drive back to Baton Rouge.

We were flying past the sign for the Myrtles
Plantation when Linkin Park’s “Shadow of the Day” came on.

Sometimes goodbye’s the only way.

We listened without speaking to the lyrics.
They seemed uncomfortably applicable, so it was a relief when Kirk
leaned forward and snapped off the radio.

I glanced at him. He stared back at me with
bleak eyes. I started to speak, but he beat me to it.

“Just so you don’t misunderstand what I was
saying last night. It’s one thing to give yourself permission to
grieve. It’s another to let loss define your life. If you let the
loss become more important than everything that went before, you
make everything that went before meaningless.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking
about.”

“The hell I don’t.”

“You don’t know me. You didn’t know Alan.
You have no right to sit in judgment.”

“You think you’re the only person in the
world who lost someone he loved? Jesus, Flynn. You keep saying
you’re not a kid, but that’s the attitude of an egotistical child.
Death is part of life.”

I gripped the wheel so hard, my knuckles
turned white. “And that’s the stupidest comment people can make.
Death is part of life
! No, it’s not. Death is death. It’s
the
end
of life. It’s the end of everything.”

“Everybody dies, Flynn. It’s a scheduled
part of the program. It’s how the world is meant to work. Everybody
eventually loses someone they love. It’s sad. It’s the way it is.
It’s life. You don’t get to kill yourself because it hurts so
much.”