Cards on the Table - lanyon Josh. Страница 22

Peter traced the lines of Jacob's chin, his jaw, ivory skin already dark with whiskers. He had an appealing little dent in his chin, and his mouth was full and smiling. What an unexpected blessing, to have a man looking at him with gentle, patient eyes, to have a man open and waiting underneath him.

Peter leaned over him, and Jacob smiled with his eyes wide open. Peter smiled, too, and kissed him. His mouth was sweet and Peter could feel Jacob's hands reaching for him, tugging him closer, arms moving around his neck, those long, slender fingers sliding into his hair, a tender touch on his scalp. Then he felt Jacob's hands moving down the long length of his back, Jacob's chest against his, the coarse black hair tickling his skin, and Peter held on to his hips, pulled him up, still kissing him, reached to the bedside table for a condom.

He knocked over the EMS radio he had turned off earlier, when he opened his bedroom door and invited this stranger inside. It hit the hardwood floor and the battery popped out, but he didn't stop to pick it up, not with urgent hands tugging him close, and Jacob's beautiful dark eyes inviting him in, saying, Take me, I'm yours. Tonight I'm yours. * * * * *

The crystal blue light of an Alaskan spring morning filled the bedroom. Jacob was sitting on the side of the bed, the delicate bones of his vertebrae making an elegant curve down his back. Peter could see the bruises more clearly now. Most of them were old, nearly faded, just a faint blush of pale yellow or lavender. But they were unmistakably bruises, the marks of a fist.

Jacob picked up the pieces of the radio and fit the battery back into the slot. «Is this right? Do you need it turned on?»

Peter shook his head. «The fire station can manage without me for a few more minutes. Anyway, half the people on the island are volunteer firefighters. Jacob, listen.» Peter reached for him, put his hand flat against Jacob's back, traced his fingers gently down the line of bruises. «I don't mean to pry…» He stopped, wondering if he was about to make a mistake. «Is there anything I can do? Do you need some help?»

Jacob set the radio down on the table and climbed back across the bed on his hands and knees, leaned over, and kissed Peter on the mouth.

Peter studied his face. Jacob's eyes were clear, relaxed and happy after a night of easy loving. His own face probably looked the same, and Peter didn't want to put any shadows back on Jacob's face with careless words.

Jacob touched a finger to Peter's mouth, as if he wanted to keep him from speaking. «I know you saw the bruises. I'm not trying to hide them. But I don't want you to worry, Peter. I'm not going back to California. I took a new job with a symphony in Montreal, and I'm going straight there where I leave here. Did I tell you I was a musician?»

«No, you didn't. Hmmm, let me think.» Peter traced Jacob's lips, then lifted one of his hands, studied the elegant long fingers. «I play the cymbals.»

Peter laughed and shook his head. «Now, that's the first thing you've said that I don't believe. Violinist. No, cello.»

«That would have been a very clever guess if I hadn't come to your hotel with a duffel bag and a cello, Peter. It's hard to sneak around with a cello. I'm a composer, as well. That's what I really love. I dream of…» He looked across the room, and the window painted his face in bright, clear sunlight. «Well. I have lots of dreams. I want to write beautiful music, music that's powerful, that can wrap around you and touch your soul. I want to make love with beautiful men, men with gentle hands. Like you, Peter. Men who know how to cook and fuck and laugh.» Jacob's dark eyes looked down into his, smiling, and he leaned over until he could touch his nose against Peter's in a butterfly kiss. «Men who can fuck, and then cook breakfast.»

Peter laughed and climbed out of bed. «Then I guess I better make you a breakfast you can dream about.» * * * * *

The kitchen smelled like heaven. Four loaves of bread baking in the oven, freshly ground coffee, bacon on the grill, a big ceramic bowl of fresh blueberries brought in by the gardener, Nelson. Peter had used a quarter pound of butter in the cinnamon bread alone.

The dining room adjoined the kitchen, and there were already a couple of hotel guests at the table. Some groups stayed in their rooms, or in the big, formal living room, where you could keep a lot of space around yourself. The men staying at the hotel now were dining room guys, passing sections of the newspaper to each other across the table and making drowsy morning conversation. Casper, the big retired Marine down for his fourth year, filled everyone's cup from the coffeepot on the buffet.

He looked up when Peter started bringing in the food and putting serving dishes in the warmers. «That smells good, Peter. Five more minutes I was gonna start twitching with hunger.»

Peter laughed and turned to him. «Uh-oh! The casseroles have five more minutes to cook. But I'll try to get something delicious out here before anyone starts to twitch. I feel like some music this morning, Casper. What would you like to listen to?» Casper shrugged. «You can choose.»

Jacob walked into the dining room, blowing across the top of a golden brown pottery mug of coffee. He was just out of the shower, his hair curling on his forehead, dressed in soft old jeans and a white T-shirt. «What would our musician like to hear?» Jacob smiled at him from across the room. «Let me take care of the music.»

Peter was back working in the kitchen when he heard the sweet, sorrowful sounds of Jacob's cello. The music sounded familiar, like a song he'd heard a long time ago, and forgotten. He leaned in the doorway to the dining room, drying his hands on the linen cup towel tucked into the waistband of his cords. Jacob was sitting in the corner, his cello between his knees, bare feet, and he was playing with his head bent over the instrument. His lashes were dark against his cheeks. Peter felt his heart do a slow stumble in his chest, at the beauty of the morning, the beauty of the music, happiness moving like a gentle wind through his hotel.

Travis, who worked the night shift and always stayed for breakfast, came in and pulled up a chair. Jacob looked up, smiled shyly at Peter, and then bent his head over the cello again.

Peter looked at Casper, who was at least his age, maybe a bit older – forty-five, if Peter had to guess. «That music,» he said, his voice quiet. «I almost recognize it, but I can't place it.» Casper put a hand over his chest. «Eric Clapton, man. 'River of Tears.'»

Travis had the slack weary face and red-rimmed eyes of a kid who had been up all night surfing the Net, trying to keep himself awake. His freshman psychology book lay untouched on the polished hardwood counter of the hotel's reception desk. Casper was keeping an eye on him. Maybe it was the eye of a retired Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant for a lonely young vet just back from the war and out of the Corps. Travis seemed lost, like he didn't know what to do now, and he wasn't sleeping well or eating right. His lanky frame was getting thinner, and he came to work wreathed in bourbon fumes a lot more often than Peter was happy with.

Peter wasn't sure if there was something more intimate starting up between Travis and Casper. He actually suspected young Travis wasn't gay. Peter got the feeling he was trying it on, looking for an identity that fit him better than Marine Corps green. How many times had someone called him a fag in high school, in boot camp, before he started to wonder if maybe they were right, and seeing something in him he couldn't see in himself?

Peter had told Travis's parents that he could come out to Alaska after he got out of the Marine Corps and work at the hotel while he started college. Peter had bought the hotel from them when Travis was just a kid, and they'd happily moved to Seattle. Travis had told him more than once that he'd hated living in Seattle, and that Alaska was his real home.