The Rebuilding Year (8 page)

“I wouldn’t believe you. You’re not one for a quickie.” Ryan choked. “All right, not the way I meant that to come out. You take longer in the shower than anyone I know. I have no knowledge of…other things.”

John let go of Ryan’s arm as if it burned him. Because the words, the closeness, were reminding him how long it had been since he’d had sex of any kind. Too long, if wrestling on the floor with a
guy
could make him hard. Damn, he needed that shower.

“Okay, you first,” he said. “I’ll start cleanup here. But you
will
do your share.”

“Yes, Mother.” Ryan left the kitchen, limping a little more than usual, and headed up the stairs. From the sound of the footsteps, he went into the bathroom without pausing in his own room. He’d be coming out of the bathroom draped in just a towel, skin damp from the shower. As he had sometimes done before. John knew how Ryan’s chest and arms would look, sparse dark curls over hard muscle, rounded biceps and strong forearms, flat lean stomach. John shook his head hard to get rid of the image of a half-naked man upstairs.

Jesus, he needed to get out of the house. Although not tonight. There was a bowl of candy waiting by the door. And he should find candles for inside the pumpkins. He thought there were a couple of tea lights above the stove.

He located the candles and dug out a lighter. The pumpkins weren’t as heavy now that they were scooped out. He set his by the door and Ryan’s by the top of the steps where it would be seen first. It wasn’t really that bad. It had a kind of rakish charm.

John set a candle firmly inside each one and lit them. The sky was losing its color. The youngest trick-or-treaters would be out soon. The candles flickered, casting a homey glow on the yellow paint of the porch. John went down to the walkway and turned to consider the placement, his head on one side.

It looked like Halloween. He peered closer. Yes, that was a rubber bat hanging from the porch light. And a pipe-cleaner spider above the doorbell. He couldn’t help smiling. When he was a kid, a house with cool pumpkins was a good bet for plentiful candy. He hoped he’d bought enough.

The door opened and Ryan limped out. He wore a fresh T-shirt and jeans with bare feet, and his hair was wet and clean. He came down the steps to join John, and turned to gaze at the pumpkins. “Okay, so now I’m really embarrassed.”

“No.” John stepped closer. Ryan smelled of soap, and lemon shampoo. At least as far as John could tell over his own pervasive pumpkin cologne. “It looks great. It looks like home.”

“I like Halloween. I guess I’m just a kid at heart.”

John touched a muscled forearm with one finger. “Pretty big kid.”

“You’re bigger. It’s been a while since I lost a pumpkin-guts battle.” Ryan’s eyes were colorless in the deepening gloom.

For a moment John just stood and breathed, his lungs filled with candle smoke and dried leaves and lemon shampoo. Something was moving, changing inside him, but he didn’t know what. Then Ryan laughed and headed back up the steps. “You go shower. I’ll listen for the doorbell, and work on cleaning the kitchen some. Although you haven’t done much, as far as I can see. You
will
do your share.”

The return quip wouldn’t come. John trailed after Ryan into the house and headed up the stairs two at a time. He needed a shower. He needed to get the drying goo out of his hair, needed the warm water cascading down. And maybe he needed his own hand, in the wet rushing darkness. Because there was no willing woman in this home that he and Ryan were making, and his body was feeling that lack acutely right now.

The Copper Stein was crowded on a November Saturday night. Ryan ran his gaze around the barroom. His beer glass was half empty again. He would have sworn it was full just a moment ago. Across from him, John sipped from his own glass and licked the foam from his lips. Ryan blinked and then looked away.
Not watching a guy lick his mouth.

Ryan felt restless, itchy. Med school was smoothing out after midterms, from overwhelming to doable. The house was becoming a familiar haven. Stepping in the door was coming home. He didn’t know why he felt so discontented. Maybe he was missing the excitement of fighting fires. There was no denying that sitting in class looking at slides didn’t compare to climbing into his gear and walking into the smoke.

Ryan found he no longer missed his buddies from the firehouse as much. John was good company. Sure, there were a couple of the guys he’d started e-mailing again. It was nice to keep in touch. But none of them had been as easy to be with as this man across the table. The firefighters’ lives were different from his now, and their e-mail exchanges were superficial. With John, he could joke about deer stopping traffic on the parkway, or discuss the ethics of using embryos for research, and get an appropriate response. Or he could sit in silence, like tonight, and feel at ease.

Except tonight, he didn’t. Lately, there were just times when his skin felt too small for his body. Or he would wake up from the weirdest dreams, so hard he was aching, and not remember which girl he’d been dreaming about. He’d decided he needed to get laid. It had been over a year, after all.

Which was fricking unbelievable, for Ryan Ward, playboy of the SDFD. There had never been a shortage of willing women around the firehouse. Ryan hadn’t been the biggest sleaze in the place, but he had definitely taken what was offered when he was in the mood. Not as often as his ex-roommate Jason, but enough. He’d even had a few girls who came back for more, for a week or a month. Until he started to detect clinging. At which time he’d shrugged them off and gone after the next new thing. The old Ryan did sex. He didn’t do relationships.

So he hadn’t had the right to complain when Marla, the current flavor of the month when he was injured, took one look at his hospitalized corpse and said no thank you. He hadn’t wanted her around anyway. At first it was the pain. Then the work of healing and rebuilding had taken all his energy. He hadn’t had time for anyone, not even family. And then there were the scars.

Ryan flushed, remembering, and drank deeply to cover it. The waitress was passing by, and he grabbed her arm to order a refill. She smiled perfunctorily, but the new glass arrived promptly. He tipped her well.

He drank again slowly. Once, when he’d nearly healed, he’d thought he might try dating. He’d wanted to be sure everything…worked. But the girl he’d hooked up with had been too lightweight for him to go through with it. Even Ryan had his limits, and…he closed his eyes.
Not remembering. Not thinking about that.
He had been the one to get up out of the bed and leave, after all. He clung to that.

“Are you okay?” John asked.

“I’m fine.” Ryan opened his eyes and looked around again. He was looking for someone a little older. Older but hot, of course. Someone who would be up for a little recreational activity without making too much out of it. But intelligent enough not to be totally fixated on appearances.
You could add wealthy to that list, owns a Ferrari, wants to put you through med school. Not asking too much, right?

He shook his head.
Shut up. I just want to get laid.
“So,” he said to John, “who do you think is the hottest woman in here?”

John looked startled. Ryan realized that for all the stuff they talked about, he and John seldom discussed sex. He wasn’t sure why, they just didn’t. But John looked around willingly enough and then pointed discreetly. “Over there in the red dress.”

“Her?” Ryan took a closer look. “Jesus, she’s a kid half your age. They should card her twice.”

“You said hottest, not the one I would go for,” John pointed out mildly. “I still have eyes and she still has…um.”

“Tits.”

“Oh yeah.”

“So who would you go for, if you were looking for a date?”

John took a longer look. “Maybe the blonde with the blue blouse. She looks cute but smart. Or did you mean just a pickup?”

Ryan winced, which annoyed him. This was obviously why he didn’t talk about sex with John. Because it somehow came out too…significant. “Yeah, a hookup for the night.”

“Hm. Hard to judge if a woman is the type.” John frowned. “Over there, the three woman at the corner table. All fairly cute, the right age, a little drunk and egging each other on. One of them might go for it.”

Ryan looked over. He hadn’t had to chase a woman in forever. When you wore the uniform, unless you were a slug, they would come to you. Those girls were okay, he guessed. Two brunettes and an obvious bottle blonde. They were drinking mixed drinks and laughing a little too loudly. And eyeing the men at the bar.

“Good eye,” he said. “You going to go for it?”

John colored. “Not my thing. I don’t date much, and I like to get to know someone pretty well before I take them to bed.”

Ryan tossed back the last of his beer and stood, leaving the cane under the table. “Then wish me luck.”

John looked startled, but didn’t comment.

Ryan walked toward the women, keeping his stride as even as he possibly could. The beer wasn’t helping, but he disguised a lurch as an effort to dodge the waitress. The women were still smiling as he reached their table.

“I couldn’t help but notice you ladies laughing,” he said with his best charming smile. “Are we men really that amusing to you, or are you all just in a really good mood?”

They looked him up and down with frank appraisal, and then the blonde slid around and tapped one long lacquered nail on the single free chair. “Why don’t you have a seat and find out?” she said. “I’m Rhonda.”

“Ryan.” He slid the chair out and sat carefully. Nothing screwed up yet. The women turned to him, and he started the delicate game of flirt and response.

Half an hour later he had all three phone numbers, although one of the brunettes was dancing with a salesman from Duluth. The other two women were giving a good impression of being fascinated with the exploits of Ryan the fireman and soon to be MD. He had no illusions. Two A-list professions for dating were the thing keeping their attention. Ryan had bought them all another round of drinks, although he’d stuck to beer. If the women were leaving soon, he hoped the bartender was planning to take their keys.

Rhonda, the blonde, was actually the smartest of the three. She was clearly the leader of the group. The little brunette periodically glanced at her for approval. Ryan and Rhonda had verbally danced around the idea of going “somewhere else” for a while now. They both knew what was potentially on offer.

Ryan glanced over at John’s table. The older man had been sitting alone, sipping his beer and listening to the acoustic guitarist play. But now, that blonde with the blue shirt had wandered over his way. She stood chatting, one hand on what had been Ryan’s chair. She was prettier than Ryan had realized from a distance. She wore silver-framed glasses, which she pushed up her small straight nose with one finger. She said something to John, and the man laughed.

John had a great laugh. It was deep and resonant, and you just knew there was nothing fake about it. Not like the plastic laughter the women at Ryan’s table seemed to let loose with at the slightest hint of amusement. They were just trying too freaking hard. Suddenly Ryan was tired of the whole game of maneuvering and pretending.

He stood abruptly. “Listen, ladies. It’s been great meeting you. But I think I’ve had one more beer than is really good for me. I’d better catch up with my ride before he leaves without me. You have a great evening, and maybe I’ll see you around.”

“You have my number,” Rhonda reminded him, running a fingernail over the back of his hand. “You can always call me.” She slid the tip of her pink tongue over her pouty lower lip.

Ryan watched that slick motion. She was pretty. She was also built. He wasn’t sure what he was doing walking away from that. But somehow, an early night in his own bed with a bottle of baby oil sounded more appealing than facing a real live woman across the sheets.

He heard John chuckle again. The sound seemed to pull him across the room. “Maybe I’ll call when I’m a bit more sober.”

His walk back to the other table wasn’t as smooth as before. Twice he put a hand out on a chair for support. When he glanced back, the two women were eyeing him speculatively. Wondering if he was a gimp, or just really drunk, he thought. But John looked up at him with clear, unchanging eyes. “Going? Staying? What?”

“I could use a ride home,” Ryan told him. “Unless.” He suddenly realized he might be the one interrupting. “If you were staying for a while, I can catch a cab.”

“No, that’s fine. I was just chatting with Mary here, while she waits for her husband to arrive.”

Ryan blinked.
Married.
It was a relief. Neither of them was getting lucky tonight. It made things more fair, he thought. “Your husband is a lucky man,” he said gallantly to the blonde.

She seemed startled, but said, “Thank you.”

John fished under the table, and passed Ryan his cane as he stood up. “Here. You might want this. Beer not being good for walking in a straight line.”

Ryan took it, feeling a sudden wash of sentimentality. “You’re a good friend, John. And I think I’m a little drunk.”

John gave him an odd smile. “Just a little. Come on. We’ll go home.”

The cool air outside sobered Ryan a bit. He took his cane more firmly in hand and trailed John toward the truck. “I could have picked up one of those women,” he said truculently. “I just didn’t want to.”