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  There was no sound in the kitchen other than their gasps and the sound of the table scraping slightly on the floor as Morgan moved into him. Chris shut his eyes tightly and pressed his fingertips into the table above his head, clenching every muscle he could, and then his balls lifted and tightened and he was bucking underneath Morgan as he came with shuddering force against the wood.

  Chris thought his orgasm went on for a lot longer than it probably really did, but the aftershocks and muscle twitches made it seem like forever. He let his body take over and just went with it, making little jerks against the table and going as limp as he could. He did that for a while until he realized Morgan hadn’t come, and with a huge effort, Chris lifted his head and looked back over his shoulder in question.

  Morgan’s eyes burned into him, the gray turned to steel and icy-hot on Chris as he waited. Chris met his gaze steadily, his body still twitching, and realized what Morgan was after. Chris watched him for ten seconds, counting the time in his head, and then gave Morgan one small nod.

  Morgan came instantly with a wrench and a deep groan, the cords on his neck standing out and his fingers leaving indentations on Chris’s hips. Chris could feel Morgan pulsing and coming, the warm fluid filling the condom, and had a moment of regret that they weren’t skin to skin. Then there was weight on top of him, pushing Chris into the table, and Chris felt Morgan’s heart beating steady and fast against his back.

  There was no talking, just their shared breaths and the sound of his blood rushing in his ears. Chris had his cheek flat against the table and the heaviness of Morgan on top of him, Morgan’s dick still giving faint, tiny twitches. Chris blinked twice, drowsiness sneaking up fast. “Mm,” he managed, and felt Morgan grin against his skin.

  “Sno Balls are an aphrodisiac. Who knew.”

  “Me,” Chris chuckled, wincing slightly as Morgan pulled out. He’d be a little sore tomorrow. Good, this kind of fucking deserved a lingering memory. “You never asked. I could have told you.”

  “I’ll find more,” Morgan snorted, stripping himself of the condom and tying it off before discarding it in the trash. “I’ll keep you well supplied in disgusting pink sponge cake if it gets me sex like that.”

  Chris grinned and turned around to face him, pulling up his shorts and leaning against the table. “Of course you will. God, I love you.”

  The words were out before he’d even registered what they were, and then there was no taking them back. He hadn’t meant to say it and wasn’t sure even now exactly what he meant. Both of them looked at each other in the small space, and then Chris saw Morgan’s face change. Something flickered behind his eyes and then vanished, and his expression shuttered closed in the space of a moment.

  Chris opened his mouth to speak, to say something, anything, but it seemed there were no words left. He watched warily as Morgan finished doing up his pants and stood in the middle of the floor.

  “I’ll just…,” Morgan said and trailed off, seemingly not the only one with nothing to say. He looked around the kitchen, and Chris realized with a sick feeling that Morgan was looking for his keys. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Morgan finally said, taking a step to the countertop and snagging his keys. “After I finish teaching.” And then he was gone, the kitchen ringing loud in the sudden silence.

  Chris stayed where he was for a long time, looking at the uneaten Sno Ball still on the counter.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “WHAT DO you mean, you don’t know?” Tucker closed his locker and looked around to where Chris was lounging on Tucker’s bunk.

  “What’s hard to get about that? ‘I don’t know’ means I don’t know. I have no idea. Not one damn clue.” He stopped himself from adding “and I don’t give a shit,” because that wasn’t exactly true.

  “Uh-huh,” Tucker said, sprawling next to Chris and shoving at his leg. “Move over.”

  Chris sighed and shifted over, giving Tucker room to stretch out. “I really don’t, Tucker. We just… stopped.”

  Tucker studied him, dark eyes looking for something. “You stopped.”

  “Are you really going to sit there and repeat everything I say? Because that’s not helpful.”

  Tucker’s eyes lit up. “So you want help.”

  “No,” Chris snapped. “Can you drop it? Christ.”

  “Oh, fine,” Tucker groused, his need for gossip obviously not appeased. “I’ll mind my own business, if that’s what you’re tellin’ me.” He looked hopeful, as if waiting for Chris to change his mind and pour out the secrets of the last several weeks.

  “That’s what I’m telling you,” Chris said, although a part of him really did wish for someone he could just… talk to. Someone who would listen and nod and offer him a beer, and then drag his sorry ass home when he was too drunk to drive. He darted another glance at Tucker, wondering how bad it would be if he just told the guy what had happened. Tucker was cool, he wouldn’t judge Chris, and hell. Chris might get that beer out of it after all.

  He was just opening his mouth to maybe suggest they hang out tomorrow after their shift when Rich poked his head into Tucker’s dorm. “McBride. Shanahan’s out front for you.”

  One minute Tucker had been lying next to where Chris was sitting; the next minute he was across the room with a guilty expression. “Gotcha,” Tucker said to Rich. “Comin’.” And then he was gone without a backward glance, leaving Chris where he was.

  Right. Tucker wasn’t his best bet.

  Chris made a face and heaved himself up before realizing he had nowhere else in the station to go. The last place he wanted to be was out front, watching Shanahan and Tucker make eyes at each other while pretending not to. He’d already worked out that morning, so the weight room held no appeal. Chris guessed maybe he could head out the side door and shoot some baskets on their small court, but it was late September and still too hot to do that at one in the afternoon.

  His decision was made for him while he lingered in the doorway of Tucker’s room, trying to make up his mind. Voices in the short hallway made him look up to see Tucker tugging Chance toward his dorm with pleading eyes and a tempting grin, his hands wandering under Chance’s T-shirt.

  Chris skedaddled the other way as fast as he could, in no hurry at all to face the tall captain that Tucker lived with. He turned the corner, but not before he heard Chance say, “…the fuck was that guy doing in there.”

  “Cap, let it be,” Tucker answered, and Chris could practically hear the eye roll that accompanied it.

  Right, the basketball court it was, then.

  HE STARTED a four-day break from work the next day. Chris had always loved his four-days; they usually allowed him to ride and relax or take a minivacation to Vegas or somewhere else close by. If his days off were during the week, he loved how uncrowded the malls and stores were, so a lot of his errands got done during that time.

  Chris wondered when he started dreading his four-days.

  The first one after he and Morgan stopped seeing each other came up on him suddenly. He hadn’t made any plans for it, and Chris hadn’t realized how much… space Morgan had taken up. It had been a while since Chris had to cook just for himself, and sleeping alone had become the exception rather than the rule. By the end of the second day, Chris found himself frantically checking the fire department’s hire list on the computer to see if he could pick up a couple of days of overtime, and he learned to plan a little bit better after that.

  This four-day was full. Chris had made sure of that well before it was upon him. He finished throwing things into his backpack and took one last look around his bedroom, ensuring he had what he needed for a three-day trip. There wasn’t much to take, other than a couple of T-shirts and some clean boxers, so he grabbed his cell phone and slung his pack over his shoulder.

  The bike started smoothly and rumbled beneath his thighs, giving Chris the peaceful, satisfied feeling he’d had far too little of lately. He rolled down his driveway and clicked the remote to lower the door, giving one last lo
ok at the house and reminding himself that yes, he’d left the key in the watering can for Maria.

  His ride up to the central valley was uneventful, save for a small rock being tossed up by a car in front of him and cracking against his face shield. It didn’t faze him, however, and Chris was pleased with himself when his bike didn’t even wobble. He caught himself thinking about Morgan only once before his brain actively realized it and he forced the man from his mind. It didn’t matter if Chris thought Morgan would enjoy the scenic ride; clearly Chris wouldn’t get the chance to ask him. The sting that that brought was unexpected and sharp.

  He shoved the dangerous thought away before it could distract him. Chris concentrated on finding the row of mailboxes that signaled the tiny road he was looking for. It came up fast on his right and he turned smoothly, clouds of dust rising behind him and startling a covey of quail. The smell of almonds hit him almost immediately, even over the fumes of his exhaust and through his helmet.

  Chris didn’t need to look to know that the almond orchards were bare, the trees stripped of their nuts nearly six weeks ago and sent off to packing and delivery facilities up and down the central California valley. It had been the same with this orchard for thirty-five years, longer than he’d been alive. There’d be almonds in the house, though. Roasted and salted, raw and plain, baked and sugared, Chris knew there’d be little dishes of them throughout the house and a jar of them in the kitchen. There always was.

  He regretted not coming two months earlier, when the rows and rows of almond trees would have been in full bloom and the ground was so covered in white almond blossoms that it looked like snowfall. Chris loved snapping pictures of the orchard when it looked like that. Sometimes a heavy breeze would stir the blossoms from the ground and the petals from the trees, and he’d stand in the middle with a camera while they whirled around him and landed in his hair and on his clothes. One of his favorite pictures he’d ever taken had been of the orchard, a photograph he’d developed in black and white and still kept on his desk at home.

  The house came into sight over the rise of a hill, and Chris pulled around to the side of the garage, cutting his engine and taking his helmet off immediately. His hands still vibrated from the long ride, and he had a little trouble getting his gloves off, finally settling for using his teeth to pull at the fingers. The smell of almonds was strong and pungent in his nostrils, and Chris wondered how long it would take this time before he became immune once more to the smell of the nuts.

  He looked up at the house as he crossed the lawn to the front door, familiar columns flanking the front steps and the swing on the porch looking as inviting as ever. Pulling open the screen, Chris used the back of his hand to bang at the door while he used his teeth to pull at his other glove. He waited, turning again to look at the rolling green lawn with the small picnic table and chairs in the shade of one of the oaks.

  When the door finally opened, a tall man stood peering out into the late-afternoon sunlight. Chris gave him a half smile.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “CHRISTOPHER, REALLY. Would it have been so hard to call and tell us you were coming?” His mother clucked and set a plateful of ice cream and cherry pie in front of him, probably made from the cherries that Greta Nelson down the road canned in June.

  “Did you give my room away?” Chris forked in a bite of pie and ice cream and sighed happily. Greta’s cherries for sure.

  “Your mother wanted to turn it into a sewing room,” his father said, accepting the scotch and soda from Chris’s mother, the same way he’d accepted it for as long as Chris could remember. “I managed to hold her off.”

  “John,” his mother scolded, frowning at Chris and shaking her head. “I said no such thing. I said I wanted to turn that den of yours into a sewing room, except your pipe smoke is most likely permanently etched into the walls and carpeting.”

  “Right,” his father said thoughtfully. “It was my den. What a terrible idea.” He sipped his drink and winked at Chris over the rim of the glass.

  Chris grinned around a bite of pie, and something tight inside his chest loosened the littlest bit. “So if my room’s still here, how come I have to call? I thought this was home.”

  His mother brushed her hand over Chris’s hair as she sat down opposite his father with her own slice of cherry pie. “Of course it’s home, darling. Don’t listen to your father.”

  “You were the one who told him he should have called, Maribel.”

  “Well, John, it wasn’t nice to scare him into thinking we gave his room away!”

  Chris dropped his fork on his empty plate and chuckled. “All right,” he said, holding up a hand in supplication. “I should have called. I’ll remember that next time.”

  “Maybe it wouldn’t be such a surprise if you visited more than three times a year,” his mother said, sighing.

  “Enough, Mom,” Chris finally said, pushing back his chair. “I get it. I’m going up to take a shower.” He stood and shouldered his backpack again, heading for the stairs.

  “Get a clean towel from the linen closet,” his mother called back, and Chris grunted in response as he climbed the steps.

  A cool shower and a good scrub down rid Chris of the grime he’d accumulated on the three-hour ride, and he emerged from the bathroom feeling fresher and smelling a hell of a lot better than he had when he’d gone in.

  His room was exactly the same as it had been the last time he’d visited, nearly four months ago now. Before Morgan, a little voice whispered, but Chris squelched that thought before it could even fully form itself. He had come home for a reason, and Morgan wasn’t it.

  The rest of his evening was quiet, his parents having been invited to some anniversary party by one of the neighbors. His mother tried convincing him to go as she slid a plate of pot roast and potatoes in front of him.

  “The Daytons would love to see you,” she said, ignoring the frown from Chris’s father when no such plate appeared in front of him.

  “Maribel. I’m starving.”

  “We’re going to a party. You think there won’t be food?”

  Chris took a bite of tender meat and wondered how many times he’d sat in the same chair at the same table and listened to the same gentle bickering between his parents. It was comforting, which was what he supposed he’d been after all along. “I’m tired, Mom. Early night in front of the TV.”

  They left the house half an hour later, and Chris breathed a sigh of relief. He loved coming home, he really did, but it took him at least a day and a half to get used to his parents again. And that was usually about the time he had to turn around and leave. Chris made a note to try and stay longer on his next trip, ignoring the fact that it was the same promise he always made and never seemed to follow through with.

  He tried relaxing in front of the television, but when he couldn’t make his leg stop jiggling, Chris realized something in him was too keyed up to sit still for long. He shut off the TV and made a quick trip upstairs, grabbing his digital camera and a blanket. He left the house by way of the back door, heading straight into the orchard and realizing he was already growing accustomed to the almond smell.

  Chris took a zig-zag path until he knew he was near the center of the orchard. He spread his blanket out on the ground and lay down on his back and looked up through the trees. It was technically still summer, though late in the season, and the sky was only beginning to darken. Chris loved how the light lingered, as if reluctant to leave, even though it’d be back again in just ten hours. He raised the camera to his eye and looked through it.

  Tree branches and deep green-brown leaves crowded the small view square. Chris found himself regretting once again that he hadn’t come earlier in the year to see everything covered in velvet white petals, but he’d been so busy with work and riding—and Morgan, that same damn voice whispered—that he’d just not found the time. And now what did he have to show for it? A tired psyche and a sore heart, and Chris thought that if he let himself dwell on it he
’d be opening the door on things that he didn’t have a name for.

  So he took pictures instead, sitting up sometimes to get a different angle of the orchard and the sky through the trees. He took pictures until the stars winked on and he knew his meager flash wouldn’t do any good, and then he let the camera fall to his side and Chris just lay in the middle of his parents’ almond trees and watched the night.

  He didn’t know he’d fallen asleep until he woke up, breathing heavily and his hand over his cock on top of his shorts. His dick was like iron, a hard, solid thing under his hand, and before Chris could stop himself he slid his fingers under his waistband. He didn’t bother trying to fool himself into thinking it was something other than Morgan that had woken him up; he might have been stupid enough to tell Morgan he loved him, but Chris wasn’t idiot enough to pretend that he hadn’t been dreaming of him.

  The problem was, Chris realized as he traced his cock with shaking fingers, that the dream hadn’t had the soft, surreal quality that most dreams did. The kind of dream that let you know you were dreaming right from the start. No, this one hadn’t been like that; it had been vivid and real and sensory, and almost an exact replica of the real thing.

  They’d been in the shower; Chris remembered it well. Morgan had been pliant and relaxed and warm from the water and didn’t protest when Chris had put on a condom and lubed them both up. Chris had made it last for a long time, long enough that Morgan had said please in a low, rough tone. And then Chris had come almost instantly, the one word enough to push him over.

  His dream had been like that. A barely audible plea and a hard clenching around his cock, and now Chris was awake and needy and stroking himself. He had no lube, but it didn’t matter. He liked the feel of friction and the very slight burn. The smell of almonds was everywhere, but it wasn’t strong enough to drown out Chris’s sense-memory of the apple shampoo Morgan favored and the way he smelled after sex.