Cherry Pie (5 page)

John nearly gasped aloud as he watched Connor come. What was he thinking of? Who? How did he taste?

It was the last question that got John’s feet moving—backward. He kept one hand on the wall to guide him, and as soon as he made it back around the corner, he turned and went down as quietly as he’d gone up. He felt the sweat trickling between his shoulder blades, and his hands were shaking. He went straight to his room. For the first time in over a year, he planned to do exactly what Connor had done. He hoped like hell it was enough. It had to be enough.

“What color?” John asked as Connor tentatively sipped his boiling-hot coffee and made a face. He was sitting on that porch step again, and every so often he’d dust his hand across those handprints. John didn’t think he even realized he was doing it.

John was lounging on the bench, one leg draped over the arm while his other foot pushed it in a lazy swing. He’d been worried that he wouldn’t be able to face Connor this morning. He felt slightly dirty for secretly watching him masturbate last night, but it was a comfortably good feeling. One he hadn’t had in a long time, and he’d missed it. A couple of times last night he’d gotten off thinking about Connor and getting very dirty with him. Strangely enough, he felt more relaxed around Connor this morning. Sex did that to a man. He grinned into his coffee cup. His grin faded as he belatedly remembered it hadn’t been real sex. But it was the best sex he’d had in years.

“Don’t know. What do you want?” Connor’s answer was characteristically short. And self-effacing, which John was beginning to realize was also characteristic of Connor.

“I want what you want,” John answered, just to be difficult.

Connor looked at him then. He raised his eyebrows. “Do you?”

John blinked at him rapidly a few times, various scenarios left over from last night’s fantasies racing through his head. Connor’s eyes narrowed just a bit, as if he knew what John was thinking.

“Do you?” he asked again, quieter than before.

“Yes,” John practically whispered, caught in the moment.

“Then I want yellow,” Connor told him with a grin.

He turned back to the street and took another sip as John took a deep breath and tried to recover his equilibrium. What had he been thinking? Of course Connor hadn’t been talking about sex. But now that John was thinking about it again…well, he could see he was going to have a hard time getting his mind off that track.

“Then yellow it is,” he agreed. He stood up and prayed that Connor kept his eyes on the street. His flannel pants did nothing to hide his erection. He quickly turned to the door. “I’ll get dressed, and we’ll go to the hardware store for paint.”

“Today?”

Connor sounded strange. It wouldn’t have been noticeable in anyone else. But John had become used to his even tones and calm demeanor. “Yes. Today.”

Connor set his coffee cup down on the step beside him. He clasped his hands between his knees. “All right.”

John sighed. He’d forgotten for a second how hard it was for Connor, seeing people in Mercury again. “All right,” he said gently. Connor didn’t move, so John went inside to change.

“Connor.”

The voice wasn’t exactly welcoming. John looked up and flinched. It was a cop. An older guy. His badge said SHERIFF.

Connor didn’t turn from the paint display for almost a minute. The man just waited. Connor slid the yellow card back in its slot and then turned. “Mr. Wilkins.”

“I’m sheriff now,” he told Connor. “People around here use the title.”

Connor tilted his head. “Do they?”

John was surprised at Connor’s attitude. Clearly there was some history here. John silently cursed Connor’s reluctance to talk about himself. He didn’t like not knowing what was happening. He felt vulnerable. He didn’t know what Connor needed him to do.

“How long are you in town for?” the sheriff asked. He didn’t sound as if he wanted Connor around at all.

Connor shrugged. “Don’t know.”

The sheriff’s mouth moved as if he were chewing on his cheek. “I got your records from your probation officer.”

Connor looked around, so John did too. The only other person in the store was the clerk, and he was watering some plants near the door. He didn’t turn around. Connor’s tense shoulders relaxed a bit, and John took a step closer. He wished he hadn’t. The sheriff’s red-rimmed eyes fell on him. He was a big, balding bruiser of a man, with a nose and cheeks marked by broken capillaries.

“I hear this boy’s staying with you.”

John didn’t like the tone of that. “He’s staying in his old room, yes.” His response was cool. He hadn’t done anything wrong, and neither had Connor. At least not in Mercury. It suddenly occurred to John that he had no idea why Connor had been in jail. He felt like a fool. That should have been his first question when Connor had asked to stay. But something about the tall, quiet man had made it irrelevant at the time.

The sheriff crossed his arms and widened his stance. That never boded well when they did it in the movies. “You got a job?”

“Who? Me?” John asked in surprise.

The sheriff looked at him as if he were mentally challenged. “No. Connor.”

“N—”

John cut Connor off. “Yes. He works for me.”

The sheriff looked even grimmer at John’s answer, if that were possible. “Doin’ what?”

“He’s helping me fix up the house. He knows it better than anyone.”

“I don’t want any panhandling or vagrancy, you hear?” He spoke harshly to Connor. “What’s he paying you?”

“Room and board.” Connor’s cheeks were red, but John thought it was more from anger than embarrassment.

“And anything else he needs until he figures out what he’s going to do,” John added. “He has no need to panhandle and is in no way a vagrant.”

The sheriff glared at John, clearly angry at his interference. So be it. John really didn’t care.

“I knew you were in prison.” The sheriff’s statement was smug. “I kept an eye on you for your mama.”

Connor’s nostrils were flared with anger. “You tell her?”

“Not until the end. When she wanted me to go get you and bring you home. I had to tell her why I couldn’t.”

Connor paled. “You bastard,” he whispered. John took another step closer. He was gritting his teeth to stay quiet.

“Didn’t tell her why.” The sheriff’s tone had changed, as if he’d said what he wanted to say. “Just told her you’d gotten in some trouble, and I was going to help you out.”

“You mean you lied, as usual.” Connor’s voice was lower than normal, menacing.

“Watch your tone, boy,” Sheriff Wilkins said with a tight smile. “Your mama isn’t around to make me forget what a little bastard you are.”

“She didn’t want you,” Connor told him quietly. “That’s what’s stuck in your craw. She never did, and we all knew it. ’Cause you weren’t man enough to take my daddy’s place.”

Okay
. John’s heart was pounding. This was turning very ugly, very fast.

“I’m not your football coach anymore, boy,” Sheriff Wilkins said angrily. “I’m the law. I can get your sorry ass right back where it came from—behind bars.” He narrowed his eyes. “I’m watching you. You better not fuck up around here.” With that he turned and walked out of the store.

Connor turned back to the paint display. His hands were unsteady as he picked up the same yellow card. “I like this butter yellow. You?”

John glanced at the card. He hardly noticed the colors on it. “Yes.” He stepped right up next to Connor as if looking at the color. “We need to talk,” he said quietly.

Connor nodded. “I figured we’d have to, sooner or later.” He sounded resigned. “You still want the paint?” He looked at John out of the corner of his eye.

“Yes,” John said. He took Connor’s elbow and guided him to the counter, waving at the clerk to come over. “Then I’m going to buy you some new clothes, and then we’re going to talk.”

“I don’t need new clothes.” John just looked at him, taking in his gray T-shirt and those damned jeans that he couldn’t stop picturing around Connor’s thighs. “Fine,” Connor ground out. “I get that you don’t want Wilkins to think you’re not paying me.”

John shook his head. “It has nothing to do with Wilkins and everything to do with my sanity,” he told Connor right before the clerk walked up. “We’ll take two gallons of the butter yellow, please.”

Chapter Seven

“Talk.”

They barely made it through the front door before John slammed it behind Conn and gave the order. Conn remembered how hard it had been to learn to take orders. Then he’d gotten very good at it. He forced himself not to flinch. “What do you want to know?”

“First I want to know what you were in prison for.” John sighed, and Conn looked over his shoulder at him. John stood there, one hand on his hip and the other buried in his hair. He had dark hair—that’s why Conn could see the gray. And it was too long. The cut had been good once. Now it was starting to curl, just thick enough for John to get a good handful. Conn focused on that hand. “I should have asked before. But I’ve never been very smart about those things.”

“Short on common sense? I never would have guessed that about you.”

“You couldn’t tell when I didn’t ask the pertinent questions?” John asked wryly. “Then you’re short a couple of dollars too.” His hand fell to his side, and Conn inexplicably missed it caught in John’s dark hair. “Come on. I need a drink.”

“So do I.” Conn hadn’t wanted a drink this bad in almost two years. He’d been addicted to drugs, to drink, whatever could made him not feel anything. But the funny thing was, once he stopped, it wasn’t that hard to leave the drugs and alcohol behind. There were lots of other ways to keep the feelings away. Or so he thought until he got back to Mercury. This old town made him feel too much. And now John was the one pulling the emotions up.

“Well, you don’t get one. I did at least catch the part about rehab when you were talking to Evan at the shelter.”

Conn grinned sarcastically. “You do all right in the sense department, I think.” He followed John into the kitchen and caught the cold can of Coke John tossed him from across the room. “Thanks.” He popped the top and took a swig. Sugar and caffeine had a little hit of their own, didn’t they? And Coke would clean him out, burn the past out of him like rust off an old battery.

“I’m growing old waiting over here.” John pulled out a chair and sat down at the big kitchen table. It was bright red. Conn loved that damn table. It was so John. Trying so hard to be country and traditional but just not quite making it.

“How old are you?” Conn asked. He sat down at the table opposite John. He was curious. He’d guessed around late thirties, early forties. But the hair had fooled him. He’d been looking at John more and more the last couple of weeks, and his face didn’t seem so old. And he had a killer body, lean and toned, not an ounce of fat on him. He liked to eat—Conn knew that—but he worked pretty hard around the house. He looked like he was a runner, but he hadn’t run since Conn had gotten here.

John squinted at him and pursed his lips. “I’m thirty-five, and stop trying to change the subject.”

“How’d you get so rich?” Conn asked, ignoring the last part of John’s answer.

John looked as if he weren’t going to answer, but changed his mind. “You ever hear of Town Square? The Internet game?”

Conn nodded as he took a drink. He set the can down on a placemat. He’d noticed that John would come and move the can if he set it on the wood. He learned quickly. “I never played it. Never had a computer or anything to play it on, but I’ve seen people play it. Damn near everyone on the planet plays it, I hear. You play?”

John shook his head. “Nope. I created it.”

Conn’s eyes went wide. “No shit.”

John nodded. “No shit.” He put his beer down on the table. “How’d you know I was rich?”

“You don’t work.” Conn shrugged. “You don’t seem to care about money one way or the other. Only really rich people can live like that.”

“Well, I’m really rich. Which is why you should have let me buy you more clothes today.”

Conn frowned at him. “I don’t need any more. A couple pair of shorts, my jeans, a few T-shirts. I’m good.”

“Exactly two pair of the cheapest shorts you could find at the freaking dollar store. Hello? Dollar store?” John shook his head. “And a five-pack of white undershirts. Oh, and you generously allowed me to buy you a matching pack of boxers.”

Conn couldn’t stop the grin that escaped. “You insisted on socks too. Don’t forget the socks.”

“How could I forget the socks?” John answered with a thump to his forehead. He smiled softly at Connor. “Okay, enough procrastinating. Your turn.”

Conn leaned his elbows on the table and turned the Coke can in circles between his hands. “I was an addict. You name it, I probably tried it. Although I couldn’t tell you for sure because most of the time I didn’t bother to ask what they were giving me, as long it made me forget my name.”

“That doesn’t sound like the guy sitting in front of me.” There was no censure in John’s words, just a statement.

Conn sat back and drummed his thumbs on his thighs. “It wasn’t. That guy is gone. For good.”

“Okay, good to know.” John took a sip of beer, leaning toward Conn, his elbows on the table. “But you don’t go to jail for being an addict.”

Conn laughed humorlessly. “Oh, yes, you do. Maybe not for being one, but for possession. Georgia does not like drug addicts.”

“Where in Georgia? Atlanta?” John sat back, mirroring Conn’s position. “Start from the beginning.”

“Yeah, Atlanta. I got a football scholarship to Georgia Tech. Blew my knee out in the second game my freshman year. Lost football scholarship.” He waved good-bye. “Bye-bye, Georgia Tech. Hello, pain pills. And lots of them.”

“Ah,” John said as he nodded. “How long?”

“Before I moved from pain pills to the heavier stuff? A couple of years. I got some shit jobs and still had a few contacts on the team to get pills for a couple of years. But the more pills I took, the fewer jobs. Funny how that works.” Conn took a deep breath and blew it out roughly. “So I started paying with other things.”

John just sat there watching him, the look on his face interested but nonjudgmental. “How long did that go on?”