Glass Tidings Read online

  Gray closed his eyes, needing a moment before he turned back to the naked man in his bathroom. When he did, Eddie was leaning out the door, which at least meant Gray didn’t need to concentrate on keeping his eyes on Eddie’s face. Eddie’s arms were full of balled-up jeans, T-shirt, and jacket.

  “Do you . . .?”

  He didn’t make Eddie finish the sentence. Simply walked back and took the bloody clothes in his arms. “Of course. If you’ve got anything else dirty, I can take that too.”

  Eddie blushed, looking away. “No. I mean, yes, but . . . you don’t have to.”

  “I’m doing a load. No sense wasting water.”

  Leaving the door wide open behind him, Eddie strode back to where the mouth of his duffel spilled laundry like vomit on the bathroom floor. He crouched down. Still naked.

  Gray stared at the ceiling.

  Eddie didn’t shave. Anything.

  In seconds, his guest was back with another armful of dirty laundry. More T-shirts and socks and another pair of jeans. No underwear.

  Great.

  Picturing Eddie going commando under his jeans was going to be his new hobby, probably. Not wanting to be treated like some kind of creeper in his own home didn’t mean he was fucking dead.

  “Thanks.”

  Gray probably said something in reply, but leaving as soon as possible seemed like the best plan all around. In the basement, he set the washer on presoak and made sure to drizzle the concentrated detergent directly on top of the blood stains. Then he changed his mind and gave the jeans a quick hand wash in the utility sink next to the dryer, unable to stand the thought of all that blood swishing around with Eddie’s clothes in the wash.

  Another application of detergent and he turned the washing machine back on, dumping the jeans on top of the rest of the soaking clothes. He stood over the open machine, the remaining cold water rushing in, hoping he hadn’t just turned Eddie’s shower into a scalding spray. He’d never run a load of laundry through the wash and taken a shower at the same time in this house, and Brady hadn’t lived here long enough to move much more than a pair of sleep pants from his place.

  Brady never even left a toothbrush here. Smart move if you’re already planning to ditch your boyfriend and move to the city. Cuts down on the drama, I guess.

  Shaking his head, Gray dropped the washer lid into place and headed back upstairs. There were sheets on the bed in the guest room, but he’d made that bed up two years ago and no one had slept in it since. If they weren’t actually dusty, the sheets had to be stale as hell. He might as well strip the bed and remake it while Eddie was in the shower. No guarantees the man was going to stick around for the night, but if he did, the least Gray could do was offer him a bed that didn’t smell like neglect and loneliness.

  Gray expected the homely task, the normalcy of it, to settle him down. Instead, a rising tension twisted itself in a knot between his shoulder blades until his back ached.

  The sounds of water rushing through the pipes, the patter of spray in the shower, the sudden silence of the water shutting off . . . all of it rang like brass bells in the silence of the house. Or what had been silence and was now a symphony of noise, of another person’s movements in and out of rooms that hadn’t been entered by anyone but Gray in months. Years, now. He caught himself on the stairs, one hand on the railing, frozen in the middle of a step, listening to the bathroom door open and footsteps drift down the hall.

  How strange.

  This was what it would have sounded like if Brady had moved in.

  He never thought about Brady anymore. He refused to let himself. But these noises . . .

  His hand ached on the railing, the grooved wood digging into his fingers. Unlocking them took conscious thought. Gray headed to the kitchen, where he poured himself a Scotch.

  Or started to.

  His hand stilled on the bottle.

  He’d been thinking about this very Scotch when he’d noticed the commotion on his street from the reading room at the back of the house. The deep night outside his windows had lit up as flashing lights wrapped around from the street, honeying the pencil-straight trunks of the pine trees that ran along his property line and screened him from his neighbors’ prying eyes and noisy children.

  Too many lights. The dark wood of his window sashes had glittered.

  The sound of a driver standing on the brakes never failed to make Gray flinch, but the damn town planners had put a stop sign just over the crest of the hill that rose to the left of his front door. And even though everyone who drove these streets was local and there was theoretically a safe stopping distance, that hair-raising noise goose-pebbled his skin too often as it was. He spent most of his time in the reading room to mute it as much as possible.

  Reading was the only thing that helped him find sleep these days.

  A novel and two ounces of Scotch. That was his Sominex. His counting sheep.

  Four bedrooms and you fall asleep on the couch three nights out of four. That’s pathetic.

  Maybe a little more than two ounces of Scotch lately. The postapocalyptic monk preserving knowledge from before the end of the world was almost too fascinating when he was supposed to be reading himself to sleep.

  He’d laid the book facedown on the couch and heaved himself to his feet. He would look. Satisfy his curiosity and then return to the Order of St. Leibowitz. The last thing he’d wanted was to end up stuck in a conversation at midnight with people he avoided speaking to unless they were in his shop. But small-town helpfulness had been drilled into him from birth by his mother, and while he didn’t believe in ghosts, he was pretty sure she’d come back to haunt him anyway if he walked away from a neighbor in need.

  Gray had expected to make a polite offer of help that would be equally politely declined, and to be back in his kitchen pouring himself that drink before he had a chance to get cold. And if he’d thought Christine would be on the scene, he might not have done even that. Seeing her had been a surprise. She had seniority. The new cop—two years in town still made him the “new cop”—should’ve been on the graveyard shift. Bumping into old friends he’d cut himself off from was always uncomfortable, and Gray avoided it whenever possible, damn it.

  And now?

  Now he had a tense, jumpy stranger in his guest bathroom and a sudden urge to lock up the silver.

  His hand on the Scotch bottle still, Gray blinked as the strangeness of this night settled over him like a prickly blanket.

  Talk about deserving a drink.

  He poured himself a couple of ounces. Before he had the chance to toss it back, a throat cleared behind him.

  “Thanks for the shower.”

  Every time Eddie spoke, Gray was surprised by the deepness of his voice. It seemed impossible for so much bass to push its way out of a chest so skinny.

  “By the time I got to Texas, the only thing I was gonna want more than something to eat that didn’t come in a carton, was a shower.”

  Gray dumped the Scotch in the sink, inhaling as a burst of peat and booze hit his nose. He kept his back to his houseguest and turned toward the refrigerator as if he’d been prompted. “I can offer soup and a sandwich.”

  “Thanks.”

  The strangeness of having someone in his kitchen, of feeling an axis of energy outside of himself in these quiet rooms, lay on Gray’s skin like wet paint. It made him self-conscious, clumsy with being observed as he fumbled the opener onto the lip of the soup can and twisted the handle. The silence itched at him.

  “And tea,” he barked out, surprising himself.

  “Tea?” Eddie’s voice radiated skepticism.

  “Tea,” he said firmly. “Good for stress.”

  His guest muttered something under his breath that sounded like if you say so, but Gray opted not to hear it. He pushed the button on the electric kettle and then opened a cabinet, knocking silver tins around until he found the one he wanted, something caffeine-free. Hibiscus. That would do.

  “Holy shit. Is tha
t all tea? What are you, my grandma?”

  The snarky question poked at a sore spot. Middle-aged gay man/tea drinker. God, he was such a catch. But explaining how easy it was for him to start collecting things, even things he didn’t care about, because all distractions were welcome, was a conversational minefield.

  Nope. Better to change the subject. Maybe even learn something about his guest.

  “Your grandma’s a big tea drinker?”

  No answer from behind him. Gray glanced over his shoulder.

  Eddie was staring at the tabletop, scraping at an old scar in the wood, shoulders hunched up around his ears.

  Gray opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it without a word. It was late. Eddie’s bloody clothes were swirling in his washing machine downstairs. If the man didn’t want to talk about his grandma, Gray had no business pushing.

  Two minutes later, the water was boiling and the microwave beeped. He felt like a waiter, setting the bowl and teacup in front of Eddie. He hadn’t cooked for anyone other than himself in years. Not that heating up soup and throwing cold cuts on bread counted as cooking.

  When Eddie finished the soup, Gray slid a plated sandwich onto the table at his elbow and sat down across from him with his own mug of tea.

  A bellyful of solid food was putting a contented gloss on his visitor.

  “Do you think that cop will come by tonight?” Eddie asked as he pulled his mug of tea close and took a sniff. He scrunched his nose up and stuck his tongue out to taste test.

  Gray tried not to stare. “I doubt it. Probably not until morning.”

  The tea passed whatever test Eddie’s tongue was running, and he took a sip, grimacing at the taste.

  “I like mine with sugar and milk,” Gray said, tilting his head at the counter where he’d left the sugar caddy. “Milk’s in the fridge.”

  “Kinda fancy,” Eddie said, lifting the teacup up to eye level and then lowering it to look at Gray’s. “Aren’t they supposed to match?”

  Gray shook his head, memories of his mom tugging at the back of his throat until he swallowed. “None of them match. It’s an eclectic collection.”

  “Looks like weeds on mine.” Eddie pursed his mouth at the spiky lavender flowers and dark-green leaves that circled his cup.

  Gray told himself it wasn’t an intentional insult, but his hands tightened on the delicate handle. “They’re thistles. My mom’s family was from Scotland.”

  “You got a lot of old crap your family pawned off on you?” Eddie asked as he stood up and walked over to the counter. This time the rudeness felt purposeful, like he wanted to push Gray’s buttons.

  Gray kept his voice level.

  “I don’t think it’s crap, and I’m happy to have memories of my parents here with me. But yes, I have a lot of family heirlooms.”

  “Whoa.” The laughter that rumbled under Eddie’s voice was a little too sharp to be friendly. “Like this . . . this toadstool sugar thing. I mean, come on.”

  He spun around on one heel to face Gray, crossing his arms and cocking one hip. Gray was pretty sure the guy was reaching for defiance, but he was landing on Sassy Gay Best Friend, which didn’t particularly work for him.

  “Doesn’t really suit you,” Eddie said with a tilt of his head at the silliness in question.

  “I think it does.”

  “No way. I’d never wanna—” Eddie cut himself off with a flush, biting his lip. He shrugged and turned back to the counter to spoon way too much sugar into his tea, before heading back to the table and digging in to his sandwich. “You don’t seem like the goofy-sugar-bowl sort.”

  Gray’s mouth twisted. No, he didn’t. He wasn’t. But he liked having his mom’s things around the house. His dad’s books on the shelves in the library. His grandfather’s walking cane in the umbrella basket in the foyer. His grandmother’s botanical drawings on the walls of his bedroom. His home felt less empty with his family in it.

  “I’d be uptight too with a total stranger spending the night in my house. I’d be pissed, for sure.” Eddie glanced up at him, as if checking for a reaction.

  Everything about Eddie was elevated, turned on, and hyped up. As if he’d put on another whole new personality. From sullen stranger on the street to hustler in the bathroom to harmless, chatty man in the kitchen—Gray’s head was spinning with how many different Eddies he’d met in less than an hour.

  And the subtle maneuvering for information, as if straight answers to direct questions were not to be trusted. As if Eddie were thinking, Is this guy pissed or what? Am I in danger here?

  Gray didn’t think Eddie would believe anything he said anyway, so he kept his mouth shut and let him run on. He’d changed subjects again, wondering aloud now about Christine and how long she would expect him to stick around, with temporary monologue diversions to ruminate on how sincerely Eddie wanted to “do the right thing” followed by a bit about how he’d missed out on some seasonal work due to “circumstances.”

  Gray got the impression Eddie’s desire to do the right thing was more aspirational than a surety and depended heavily on the town’s police department paying for his lodgings. And the “circumstances” probably didn’t do Eddie any credit, since that was the only thing he didn’t elaborate on.

  I don’t care.

  Kind of nice having someone rattle around the place though.

  Listening to Eddie chatter over his food left Gray in a foggy, dissociative state. Words rushed past him, dribbled out of him at the proper moments. But all he could think about was what it would sound like to unlock his door tomorrow after a long day at work and hear someone moving through the rooms of his house. Maybe there would be music playing. Maybe he would smell food, scrambled eggs or tomato soup. His cupboards were pretty bare, but he could stop at the store on the way home and pick up . . . what? Steaks? Stuff for a stir-fry? He had no idea what kind of food Eddie liked, other than that the man had a sincere appreciation for a roast beef sandwich when hungry.

  Don’t be stupid. You don’t even know this guy. Plus, he doesn’t want to stay. He was trying to hit the road when he still had blood on his clothes.

  That thought stopped Gray’s mental free fall in its tracks, the air leaking out of his barely born enthusiasm like a balloon he’d poked with a pin.

  The thought that a slug of Scotch would go nicely in his tea and would cap off this shit-tastic day pushed into his brain with such insistence Gray was shocked out of his own jaded pessimism.

  Whoa. Slow down there, Sparky.

  Before he could stop himself, he swapped the raging-hangover-the-next-day option for a different kind of insanity. And danger.

  “You could stay.”

  Eddie looked up from where he was huddled over his plate, teeth sunk into the thick sandwich.

  Gray licked his lips. Tossed back the last of the tea and let his cup clatter against the saucer.

  “You can stay. Here. With me. For a couple of days. If you wanted to. It’s, uh . . . a nice town.”

  Jesus Christ. He was so fucking stupid, it ought to be outlawed. The entire town shut down at 6 p.m. every day except for a couple of local restaurants and one bar. Half the population was retirement age, and the rest were families with kids. Not a hotbed of activity to interest even a temporary visitor.

  Gray’s shop brought more outside visitors than anything except the annual summer Taste of Clear Lake street festival.

  He was so pathetic.

  He didn’t care.

  He wanted Eddie to stay.

  Dark hair hung in Eddie’s face as he paused with his mouth open over his plate. His eyes narrowed, and after a moment, his mouth shut with a sharp click of his teeth snapping together. Eddie stared at him, as if trying to bore a hole into Gray’s skull and read his mind with his laser-like gaze.

  Gray kept his face neutral, unsure of what expressions might read as serial killer or creepy pervert.

  He wasn’t entirely sure creepy pervert would scare Eddie off—he seemed to
have a disturbingly practiced response to that kind of thing—but Gray was committed to proving he wasn’t that or a serial killer.

  He never wanted to feel as slimy as he’d felt in the bathroom upstairs.

  After another minute, all the tiny muscles of Eddie’s face relaxed, melting the toughness away in an instant, leaving a shy smile behind in its wake.

  The sweetness of that smile stung so hard, Gray could barely resist the urge to look down, look away, look anywhere but at Eddie.

  “I’ve got people expecting me in Texas, or else I’d be seriously tempted,” Eddie said, glancing away as he spoke.

  He was obviously lying. Whether about the people waiting for him or being tempted by Gray’s offer didn’t really matter, but Gray found himself hoping against every instinct he had that Eddie was in possession of some seriously awesome friends or family who just couldn’t live without him.

  If they let him hitchhike to see them, they’re probably not all that awesome. Or, you know, real.

  Gray dropped his gaze and stared at his teacup. Silence settled awkwardly between them. Gray bit his lip and kept his head down.

  If he looked up, saw Eddie sitting across from him with that shy smile still, all kinds of things Gray usually kept to himself might be read as easily as large print on his own face.

  Gray’s brain flung him out of sleep and into the predawn dark with one burning thought.

  Drugs.

  After turning down Gray’s offer last night, Eddie had guarded his duffel like Smaug on his pile of gold, huddled over it in the bathroom. Jerking it out of Gray’s hands and hiding it in the guest room as if afraid to leave it out in the open where someone else might be inclined to examine it.

  Falling asleep had been weird. Gray’s awareness of the man down the hall had kept him up for ages, his ears perking and his skin twitching at every random creak and sigh of the old house settling in the night.

  He was pretty sure Eddie was deeply unconscious. Between the trauma, the hot shower, and the full belly, Gray’s guest had barely been able to keep his eyes open by the time he swallowed the dregs of his tea.

  Until you dropped your why-don’t-you-stay bombshell on him. Asleep? He’s probably huddled in a corner with a baseball bat across his knees, convinced you’re going to sneak in in the middle of the night and crawl into bed with him.