Chapter 17 #2
Laurie scooched closer. Still reclined, nonthreatening, inviting confidence. “Chary. Please trust me. You have my honesty now and going forward. The truth. You know who I am and what I write. I’m not going to sell your story, or August’s, I promise.”
Chary glared, the un-pomaded fall of blond hair and dark eyes the only things visible from over his shoulder. The Fallen Angel—unsure and betrayed, frowning terribly, utterly stunning in his vulnerability.
“If you did want to tell me something, to unburden yourself,” Laurie said, “whatever you tell me, I won’t do anything with it without your permission. I swear it. I just want to get to the bottom of these deaths. I need your help. I need to see all of it clearly.”
They were very close. Did Chary know that all he had to do was twist a little, put down a hand, and he’d be there with Laurie, mouth and hands and hips looming?
“Why’d you let me stay here,” Laurie whispered, “play your lover and tend you, if you don’t trust me?”
“Who says I trust you?”
Laurie waited through three unstable, mirrored breaths. “Don’t you?”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Herbert and his Stetson were closer now, pacing the rows. Close enough to get a pretty good eyeful of both of them. Perfect.
He touched Chary’s shoulder.
“Here. I changed my mind. I think you should kiss me. Right now. In front of your bigot foreman.”
“What?” Chary’s body opened up to him at last in surprise, twisting to face him. He swallowed visibly again, eyes wide and locked on Laurie’s. “Whatever for? Right now? You would go so far as that?”
Laurie remained reclined on elbows. Chary could flatten him if he wanted—or not.
“Yeah,” Laurie said roughly. He would, and farther.
He’d already imagined it, on the train, in the rooming house—last night.
This morning. Chary displacing his limbs, Chary’s taut, sinewy chest meeting his tongue.
Laurie’s knees pushed far up, held against the sweet curve beneath Chary’s ribs.
He’d never been with a man as tall as him.
There’d be a lot of accommodation, repositioning.
Nothing the same way twice, like his expressions.
“Why not?”
“It sounds dangerous,” Chary said. He leaned in anyway.
“I’ll keep my eyes open,” Laurie promised. “I’ve done more dangerous things than this.”
“This is your modus operandi. You only want me to trust you. Tell you everything. It won’t work.”
Liar. Of course it would work. “So what? C’mon,” Laurie said. “Just quickly. Or come close enough to feign it. Else what am I out here f—”
Chary’s lips weren’t cold. They were sunburn-pink and warm, champagne-sweet. Trembling. Soft, then firm.
Laurie didn’t know where his breath had gone. He’d promised to keep his eyes open.
He heard Mr. Herbert’s steps in the sandy soil halt, heard the whoosh of rope drawn through gloves stop. A soft curse.
But Chary’s lips had been on his: there and gone. And were still close enough to feel their warmth.
“Not enough,” Laurie muttered. Truth in double meaning.
Chary paused, curled over him. His eyes were wide. “No.” He shook his head. “He hasn’t run,” he whispered. “Staring.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Laurie could see Mr. Herbert was indeed staring. But kissing wasn’t evidence—as long as neither of their mouths went lower—he didn’t know Maine jurisprudence, but sodomy was pretty much the same anywhere, pricks in holes—
“Then I wouldn’t stop,” Laurie said recklessly, “if I were you.”
Chary surged down, pausing just before contact. His inhales were shaky against Laurie’s lips, sucking at his breath. Laurie moved his lips side to side, not pressing forward but barely touching. Encouragement. Slow and sure.
Chary made a noise in his throat like surprise. He put an arm across Laurie, hand palm-flat on the blanket beside his hip. Possessive, showy. Fearless.
Or maybe just necessary balance. The next kiss wasn’t pressing, but devouring, leaned-in, leaving Laurie as breathless and teetering as he would’ve been if they’d been standing.
Chary pushed in close but not too far, sucked Laurie’s upper lip in and bit it lightly, gasping.
Then did it again. Or maybe Laurie had done it; he had his right hand on Chary’s neck and was pulling him closer, opening his mouth—
Mr. Herbert’s steps crunched.
Chary stiffened. Laurie glanced over.
They watched the man make his retreat: a straight-shouldered, lowered-hat kind, all the way to the end of the sloping field and out of sight. He’d left the row-marking undone, stakes and rope fallen right where he’d been.
“It’s done,” Chary whispered, brow furrowed. He looked conflicted. His breath was short. “Yes?”
“Yeah.” Laurie let him go, and there was another retreat: Chary straightened and put his shaking hands in his lap. “I’ll say.”
Laurie sat up, too. I’ve done more dangerous things than this. He had—but also, he’d never actually kissed a man in front of someone before. Not outside of like company, or in the daylight, not for any story. Not a kiss like that.
And Mr. Herbert had walked away, stiff with anger. Probably to report to the man who’d hired him: August.
Laurie suddenly understood, though, why Chary had had that gun at 2nd Street.
“Uh.” He needed something to say. “You’re good at kissing.”
Not that! Not with surprise in his voice.
Chary pressed his cheek into his shoulder. “Well,” he muttered, “I am not a na?ve.”
“Hey, no. I didn’t say that.” He paused. “Are you?”
Chary didn’t look over. “Good Lord.” He pulled his book back into his reach and faced pointedly forward. Then spoke primly: “It didn’t work, you know.”
Laurie, despite himself, laughed. “Yeah, sure. And you killed your brother, Chary Wright. C’mon.”
From behind his book, he thought he saw Chary smile.