What if Trevor hadn’t left? What if Trevor—and Trevor, understand, could be Trevor or another Trevor, or another—had been his? What if he’d had someone when the call came about Mom and Dad? What if, after he’d told Jack—so young, so scared, trying to act so tough—he’d been able to call someone and say, I’m scared? I’m too young and too scared and I have to act tough for Jack because now I’m all he has?
What if all these years he hadn’t been alone?
He tried to stop thinking, then, because ouch, fuck, but then, Rye prowled into his mind like a sleek cat. What did Rye think of this and what did Rye think of that and what would Rye look like spread out naked in Charlie’s bed, pointed chin tipped up to bare his throat as he screamed and screamed, body shaking with pleasure, and let Charlie see it? And where, where did that thought come from?
Charlie almost never thought about sex. He certainly didn’t think about having sex with people. But now Rye.
As if summoned by the thought, Rye padded into the woodshop, Jane and Marmot following. Jane rolled in the curls of wood on the floor as she usually did and Marmot darted around the room, sniffing this corner and pawing at that tool.
Rye hovered. Charlie tried very hard to ignore him.
It was hard to ignore someone who rearranged the very molecules of your being like a magnet did filings.
Like a third curious cat, Rye peered at the lathe.
“You make chair legs and shit?”
Charlie smiled at the image of his whole woodshop filled with thousands of chair legs.
“I make bowls mostly, but yes, this is the tool you’d turn chair legs on.”
He held up one of the bowls that was waiting for a coat of mineral oil.
“Wow.”
Rye touched the satiny wood with reverent fingertips.
“Can I try?”
Charlie imagined his fingers caught in the lathe, broken bones, spurts of blood. He blew out a breath, conjuring windshield wipers to clear those images from his mind.
“Sure,” he forced himself to say.
He clamped a chunk of scrap wood into the lathe and marked the center.
“It’s about the angle of approach. You’re the blade and you encounter the wood at different angles to change its shape into what you want.”
He handed Rye the roughing gauge and a pair of safety glasses, and set the handrest so the rotating wood cleared it.
“So if we’re gonna make a bowl, we start here.”
He reached around Rye, chest to Rye’s back, and held Rye’s hand at the correct angle.
“Anchor your hand here, hold the gauge steady, and when I start the lathe, just move in a little bit. We’ll just be taking the edge off.”
Rye nodded. His hair smelled like Charlie’s shampoo, but it smelled different on Rye. Darker, sensual, a garden at night.
He hit the power switch and the lathe began to spin. Rye’s hair fluttered and Charlie anchored him with his arms, holding him steady.
“Slowly,” he cautioned, hand light on Rye’s. “And hold tight.”
Rye held so tight the gauge juddered when it hit the wood and Charlie clamped down on Rye’s hand to keep it from hurting him.
“It’s fine. Just go real slow.”
He guided Rye’s hand slowly and surely until the very tip of the gauge kissed the block, snicking off the barest whisper of wood. They pulled back, angled the gauge again, and slid forward, taking off another layer.
Slowly, gently, with his hand on Rye’s, they shaped the curved edge of the bottom of a bowl. After a few minutes they were one body, breathing, pressing forward, pulling back, and changing angle together.
Charlie breathed in the scent of Rye’s night blossom hair mingled with the fresh flick of wood shavings. It smelled like home.
When he stopped the lathe, Rye looked up at him, eyes wide, pupils nearly swallowing the gray of his irises. He blinked and slid his safety glasses off.
It seemed like he looked at Charlie forever. Charlie’s heart pounded so hard he was sure it was audible in the sudden silence. A faint flush pinked Rye’s cheeks and he licked his lips. Then he slid his hand around Charlie’s neck and swallowed hard.
“I wanna kiss you,” he said, voice rough. “And it’s not a thank you or a payment. It’s cuz that was hot as fuck and you’re hot as fuck and...and...”
Charlie couldn’t find any words. His entire being throbbed for Rye and all he could do was incline his head.
Rye’s extraordinary eyes fluttered closed in the moment before his lips met Charlie’s.
The last time Rye kissed him it had felt impersonal, and Charlie had ended it immediately.
This kiss just showed Charlie by comparison how impersonal that kiss had been. This was the real Rye kiss, he realized. This kiss was hot and lingering, and Rye’s mouth was sweet, his tongue luscious, his teeth sharp. Rye’s other hand cupped Charlie’s jaw, like he was afraid Charlie might pull away. So Charlie leaned closer and gathered Rye to him.