Chapter 8 #4
“No, I agree.” Chary pawed through the pharmaceuticals at his side. “This is… quite a lot. Thank you. Even if it was only to sweeten me into talking. Or… otherwise.”
“Maybe, maybe not. You were in there awhile. It didn’t sound like jerking off.”
Chary flushed very red for man who had just confronted and turned down otherwise. “How do you know so much of disguises?”
“Ah, that’s the job, some days. And I know a man. Can’t grow his own mustache to save him.”
“Oh?” Chary looked up. “And yet…?”
“I’ve never seen him without one.”
“That’s unfortunate. And dedicated. I wonder why.”
“He saw it as an inseparable part of him, and so, now it is.” Laurie shrugged. “You can’t control how people see you. But what they see…”
“To a certain extent, I suppose.” Chary’s hand hovered over the jelly, plucked it up with long fingers. He scooched closer to the vanity. “I’ll try this first off.”
And hell if Laurie knew why he was going to offer himself, but he was. It maybe had something to do with how trustingly Chary had put himself in his hands, how close they were, how reluctant he’d felt to have to step back. The blanks. The union lecture.
Also how Chary hadn’t assumed he would assist him.
Laurie had practically assumed it, and now that it wasn’t going to happen, he wanted to find a way to get back there somehow.
“Hey.” He intercepted the man. Not so much that he wouldn’t have an out to the door, but far enough.
Chary stopped, wariness in his eyes. “What now?”
“It might be easier done by another, don’t you think?”
“Are you… volunteering?”
“Consider it an apology.”
Chary looked skeptical, unsure.
“I’m a pushy bastard, I know.” Laurie twitched his fingers. “If you’ll let me?”
The petrolatum worked a treat, though it made the glue release in gooey strings that utterly destroyed the false beard.
Laurie didn’t mind and was glad to see it go in pieces.
But it was a messy job and took the greater part of a half hour.
Chary meanwhile turned pallid with fatigue, and Laurie was recalling his days as a stand-in valet.
Not that Chary acted like any of the manor set Laurie’d ever attended to.
He sat as awkwardly as a person could, being tended: stiff and reactive, pulling back for space at times, pressing too close at others.
It wasn’t just the near-kiss—though there was plenty of tension there—but as though he wasn’t used to it.
Wasn’t used to being attended to, to being touched.
It was another tally on the side of unexpected, unusual things about Chary Wright. Why couldn’t he have just been the usual sort of capitalist prick—like Tjofabier Raberding?
Well, by definition, he still was.
The glue, though tenacious, hadn’t affected Chary’s skin beyond the inch or so on his jawline, where he had ripped a piece of wig free and pinpricks of blood now seeped.
Laurie patted a last bit of Vaseline over the spot, then paused.
He spent a moment staring down at the man’s upturned face, clean and sharp-hollowed once more.
His breathing had slowed to soft contentedness, like he was near sleep. Laurie let go.
“All set.”
Chary didn’t respond. He’d propped himself up on his palms, and his chest rose and fell, his upper body a delicate curl against the bed.
Laurie watched his ribs sink and appear.
He had the waist of a debutante, something straight out of queer caricature—it wanted Laurie’s hands around, wanted freeing from the threadbare shirt.
Below, too-small blue jeans were worn to white threads, patched by someone (who?) with small, neat stitches.
The button fly was barely holding on, especially in light of—
In light of that erection.
“You could have had me,” Chary said abruptly, “and left the story alone. Both.”
Their knees were entangled but opposing magnets; Laurie couldn’t bring himself to back away entirely yet.
“Yeah?” he murmured. “I could?”
Laurie wanted to.
Chary’s hands clenched on the bedcover, over and over. “Yes.” His brow creased minutely. His eyes were closed—no longer relaxed. A man refusing to wake. “You could.”
Laurie could get closer. He could crawl over Chary and onto the bed, because it felt right. He could because the man was like softened caramel, plenty buttered to sing his truths—
But—dead brother. Also possibly a murderer. Definitely still a rich man who was hiding something.
“Now,” Chary said tentatively.
Aw, dammit.
“Ah, look…” Laurie tried, and cleared his throat again. “You’re tired.”
“Yes,” Chary said, suddenly flat. Laurie winced.
“So, I’ll come back later, after you’ve slept some. Noonish? You’ll be here—or at your Fifth Avenue place?”
Chary’s chin was in his chest. “Here. I don’t believe I’ll make it there today.”
“And you’ll help me? For the sake of the truth? The bigger story? For the gaffers who died? I didn’t lie, Chary. You’re the best man to help me right now.”
“The bigger story.” Chary shook his head and pursed soft, flushed lips. “For the truth,” he said at last. “Those poor dead men.”