“What the fuck?”
“I’ll be seeing you again, come next full moon.” After a final leer and a wink, the man returned to business. “Now, you need plywood, right?”
The exchange unnerved Seth, sending “Run! Run!” messages to his brain. He forgot about locating Internet access. Instead, he hauled ass back to the farmhouse, where he plugged in his phone and then rummaged through the kitchen cabinets for a hasty lunch. Didn’t Monica believe in quick and easy? Not a single heat-and-eat meal. But damn if Seth intended to head back into town and risk getting sniffed again. What the fuck was wrong with these people? And damn if he’d understood half of what the guy at the Feed and Seed had said, and it had nothing to do with the man’s heavy accent. It was like these people spoke their own language.
A can of soup later, he searched through drawers and closets, finally locating a rusted toolbox. His patch job wasn’t pretty, but at least it might keep animals out of the house until he arranged something better. He’d hoped to simply put the whole estate on the market and head home, but he’d already figured on a new paint job, a floor refinish, and new appliances to get the place in sellable condition. An antique store might take the fridge, but no one would even consider buying a house without a dishwasher. Hell, no wonder Monica bought mostly cookable food—she probably knew there was no microwave. Only two burners on the stove heated, but the oven seemed to work fine. Now if only Seth cooked.
He stared at the scarred kitchen table, picturing his mother, father, Aunt Irene, and, more often than not, Dusty, sitting down for Sunday dinner. There’d been fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, fried okra, stewed tomatoes, and hot buttermilk biscuits. The soup he ate didn’t even make a proper appetizer. His mouth watered at the memory of Aunt Irene’s macaroni pie. And she’d always had cake or pie for dessert. His gaze wandered to the glass cake plate and cover on the buffet, normally the domain of red velvet, coconut, or some other kind of made-from-scratch masterpiece. He couldn’t sell a hand-me-down heirloom, could he? But what use would he ever have for a cake plate?
Depressed, he wandered into the sitting room, where an ancient console TV took up way too much space, but wasn’t hooked up to cable or satellite. How the hell had his aunt survived without network programming?
His phone now somewhat charged, Seth plopped down on the settee, but couldn’t get a signal. With no TV, no Internet, and no cell phone, he gave up and went to bed out of boredom at eight thirty.
Once in bed, one thought rose foremost in his mind. Dusty Livingston. After all these years. Seth recalled hiding out with him in a tent fort, whispering secrets. Dustin standing up for him when classmates shouted taunts of “outsider” and “half blood,” whatever the hell that meant. “Dusty and Seth, the terrible twosome,” a Sunday school teacher once named them.
Damn, but the boy had grown into a fine man. Something about him called to Seth. Maybe his confident stance, the intelligence burning in his eyes, or the lopsided grin that made him appear so approachable. He definitely presented a startling contrast to Seth’s self-serving acquaintances back home, or the boyfriend who’d dropped him like a hot rock.
Evicting his fickle ex-lover from his mind, Seth concentrated on the doctor. Firm pecs appeared to be hiding beneath Dusty’s cotton scrubs, and the lightweight material had done nothing to conceal a well-formed backside.
He breathed deeply, trying to recapture the scent of Dustin’s cologne, or was the intoxicating fragrance the man’s natural smell— spicy and sweet with an underlying earthiness? Seth’s cock swelled. In his mind’s eye, he worked his way up Dusty’s sides, sliding eager fingers over strong pecs while burying his nose in the crook of the doctor’s neck. Seth’s hips snapped up almost of their own volition, sliding his erection to nestle between two tempting mounds of flesh in his imagination.
Seth drew his fingers over his chest, stopping to caress a nipple to full hardness, while he snaked his other hand down to slide beneath the elastic of his boxers. He encircled rigid flesh, slowly pumping up and down before bringing the fingers of his other hand to his mouth to add a bit of lubrication before sliding them down past his balls.
Seth arched his back, thrusting into his fist while creating erotic images involving the good doctor and an examination table. Those stirrup thingies might come in handy, and he imagined lying flat on his back, legs spread, while Dustin stood ready at the end of the table. Seth paused to remove his boxers and fling them to the floor, then resumed stroking, his moistened fingers playing with his hole.
Dusty’s cock would be long and hard, rising from a bed of copper curls. He’d push in, slowly, green eyes boring into Seth’s. Breath caught in Seth’s throat and he moved his hand faster to the makebelieve pressure of Dustin’s entry into his body.
“Oh God!” Barreling toward the finish line and picking up speed, Seth rocked back and forth between the fist in front of him and the finger behind. When he reached the point of no return, he sailed on past, body bowing, orgasm slamming into him with the force of a runaway freight train. His grip grew slippery, but still he pumped, come erupting from him in rhythmic spurts. He moaned, thrashing on the bed, aftershocks shuddering through him, too numerous to count.
“That one scored at least a seven on the Richter scale,” he muttered, rolling away from the damp sheets to a dry spot and then promptly falling asleep.
DUSTINlay awake, watching TV with the sound off and trying to let go of the whirlwind of emotions he’d experienced during the day. Seth McDaniel—someone he’d despaired of ever seeing again—in the flesh. He’d often pleaded with Irene to keep contact with her next of kin “just in case Seth gets lonely up there,” a mere half-truth. In reality, each week that went by without a letter had driven a spike deeper into Dustin’s heart. Every time he’d tried to call, Seth’s grandmother insisted Seth wasn’t home, even on the occasions when he’d heard his best friend’s voice in the background.
Had Seth not wanted to talk to him? Given how close they’d been, Dustin found it hard to believe, and Seth had certainly seemed friendly enough today, if a little reserved.He came for his phone, numb nuts,Dustin’s conscience chided. Oddly enough, his conscience sounded exactly like Monica, who’d often berated the man she’d never even met for deserting his aunt and the town where he was, in essence, a prince.
Had Dustin made a mistake in sending Monica to pick Seth up? He should have gone himself, but couldn’t get away from his practice, and Monica had promised to be on her best behavior. But the sister he’d chosen for himself when nature didn’t provide one possessed a mind of her own, and “best behavior” could be interpreted anywhere from “I didn’t kill him” to “we went out for tea and scones.”
Dustin heaved a sigh. Those thoughts weren’t getting him anywhere. Seth had come back, announced his intentions to leave again, and would soon be gone. He hadn’t come to reconnect and had his own life somewhere else. The proverbial light bulb came on, and Dustin dashed up the stairs of his log A-frame to what used to be his childhood bedroom, now converted into an office, fired up his computer, and then searched for the site Irene had mentioned.
After a few missteps, he finally located Seth McDaniel’s profile. Feeling a bit voyeuristic, but rationalizing that Seth wouldn’t have created the profile if he didn’t want people to read it, Dustin studied the “about me” blurb. Profession: photographer. Status: single. Relief surged through Dustin that he couldn’t rightly explain.
He clicked on “Photos” and “Random,” his mouth dropping open at the gorgeous pictures of what must have been older buildings in Chicago. Church spires, an interesting but ill-kept doorway, an aged wall, orange-and-red brick crumbling.
A folder marked “Pictures of Friends” was nearly empty, though Seth’s profile stated he had more than a thousand. Did Seth actually know a thousand people? Personally?
A stunning fair-haired hunk identified as “Michael” drew Dustin’s attention. Seated with Seth at a restaurant, the blond stared at the camera while Seth’s eyes focused on Michael.
Guilt eating at him didn’t stop Dustin from reading a few comments from Seth’s page, mostly about “Michael” and “marriage.” Dustin’s heart skipped a beat until he realized Michael wasn’t marrying Seth.
His heart broke in two when he found a recent post made by Seth. “My aunt died. I always planned to one day visit her again, but now it’s too late.” Not a damned soul had responded. Over one thousand “friends,” and no one offered any sympathy? It took a half hour to figure out how to create an anonymous profile and add Seth with the “friend” option. Damn. Seth had to accept the offer of friendship. Having never felt the need to spend much time on such sites, only when he tried anyway did Dustin realize he didn’t have to create a profile to comment on Seth’s post. After ruminating on the right thing to say, he typed in a reply to what he considered a plea for support. He wrote, “I understand your pain, man, and am right here with you.”
He studied a few more pictures of Seth, wondering if they were self-portraits. In each and every one, Seth appeared somber, nearly depressed, and definitely lonely. Dustin raised his fingertips to the computer screen, lightly brushing them over Seth’s forlorn face. “Oh, Seth, life wasn’t as good to you as I imagined, was it?”
When at last he made his way back to bed, he closed his eyes, only to find the lonely image embedded on his lids.
The next day, Dustin’s resolve to maintain distance gave way and he made a trip to Irene’s house “just to be neighborly.” He pulled into the yard to discover Seth struggling with a stepladder. “Here, let me help you,” Dustin said, climbing out of the truck in time to steady the base for Seth.
“Thanks. A piece of tin up there was flapping in the wind last night.”
