Don't Read in the Closet: Volume Four (48 page)

ring. As he handed it to me he growled, “Number 205.”

****

We spent hours in the ER waiting room and finally they took me

back to be checked out and then I had to spend three more hours

getting x-rays and a cast. It turns out when I tripped on whatever the

fuck was under that water I broke one of the bones in the bottom of

my leg. The doctor said I needed to stay off it for at least a week and

Charles took that as an open invitation to be my nursemaid.

It’s been five days and every damn night he lets himself in with

my keys and sets up shop in my kitchen. He spends hours cooking and

babbling and playing with the kittens. I didn’t think I can take it much

longer. Goddammit, I just wanted to be left alone. I was going to snap

soon. It doesn’t help that the kittens, my kittens, had adopted him.

Charlie, in particular, will curl up in his lap anytime he stops moving

long enough. Lucy, Chloe and Oscar were bribed with catnip toys

from his shop. They’re all traitors.

Silence broke through my senses and I realized Charles had asked

me something. I gave him a withering look that showed just how

much I didn’t want him to be here. “Huh?”

“I asked if you wanted some dessert.” He tried to look patient but

I could tell he was beginning to get annoyed with me. I was tired, in

pain and annoyed and for some reason, it all bubbled over right then.

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“No, Chaz, I don’t want dessert. I want you to leave. Why are you

here? Why do you keep coming back? Get the fuck out and leave my

keys!” As I was yelling, I could see a storm cloud coming over his

features.

“My name is Charles, not Chaz, and I am here because you don’t

have anyone else. You think you can take care of yourself when you

can barely walk across the room. Fine. See if I give a flying rat’s ass.”

He threw the keys at the couch next to me and slammed the door

as he left. “Good riddance, Chaz” I shouted at the door, sure he could

still hear me in the hallway.

I felt a wave of triumph wash over me. Finally, I had gotten rid of

my busy body neighbor. I could do whatever I wanted to. As I sat

there reveling in my success, a shadow came over me when I realized

I didn’t have anything I wanted to do. I stubbornly stared at the

television for a few more hours before I dragged myself off to bed.

By the time I woke up the next morning, I realized I might have

made a mistake. I really did need some help to get around and feed

myself and take care of the kittens. I hobbled out to the kitchen and

microwaved some leftovers from yesterday, poured enough cat food

for a couple of days into the cat feeder, and planted myself on the

couch for the day, the four kittens draped in varying positions around

and on me.

By the time Dr. Phil rolled around I wanted to scratch my eyes

out. I was sure Charles would come back tonight. He was too much of

a do-gooder not to. He just wanted to make a point last night. But 6:00

came and went with no sign of Charles.

Around 7:30 there was a knock on the door. My heart leapt. He

came after all. Then I berated myself. I couldn’t care less if he showed

up or not. I shuffled to the door and pulled it open, preparing to call

him Chaz just to annoy him. But when I opened the door, it was a guy

standing there with a pizza, not Charles.

“I didn’t order a pizza.”

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“No, a Charles Greyson ordered it to be sent over to you. He also

asked that we remind you to feed the kittens when we delivered the

pizza.”

“Huh?”

“Charles Greyson reminds you to feed the kittens and paid for this

pizza to be delivered here. Do you want it or not?”

“Um, Sure.”

I took the pizza and closed the door. I didn’t know how to deal

with the disappointment that it hadn’t been Charles at the door. His

do-gooder nature wouldn’t let me go hungry when he knew I couldn’t

feed myself but he was obviously done with me. That thought shot a

splinter into that wall I had built around my heart for so long.

I didn’t know what to do. Part of me was angry at myself for

driving him away. Part of me was angry at him for getting close

enough to cause that splinter. I let the angry at him part take over. He

had no right. And I was going to tell him so.

I let that anger flow through me like a righteous river and give me

strength. It numbed the pain I was feeling, both physical and

emotional. I grabbed the pizza box and stumbled out the door and

down my stairs. By the time I made it over to his building and up his

stairs the pain was starting to edge out over my anger and I was

beginning to regret my plan. But I was almost there.

I got to his door and leaned against the door frame to gather my

strength. Then I slammed a fist into his door three times.

“OPEN THIS DOOR, CHAZ. I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!”

The door swung open and Charles stood there looking flushed and

magnificent in his outrage. He looked like he could barely speak but

managed to get out, “My name is Charles, not Chaz.”

“What is the meaning of this?” I hissed as I held up the pizza box,

before I threw it to the ground just outside his door. I really needed

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 281

this confrontation to be over so I could collapse. Pain was pulsing up

through my leg and making me dizzy.

“You kicked me out. You said you never wanted to see me again.

I didn’t want you to starve while stewing in your pride. Excuse me.

And while we’re asking questions, what is the meaning of this?” He

waved his arm towards me, clearly indicating my presence at his door.

I wanted to look away from him, to gather my thoughts. Why had

I come over here again? But his eyes bored into me and wouldn’t let

me go.

I have no fucking clue how it happened but all of the sudden I had

pulled him towards me and was kissing him like I needed

him more than breath itself.

****

take over my brain for a good ten seconds before I started kissing him

back. It was everything I had hoped for while staring out the window

at my beautiful stranger for all those weeks, but more real because I

felt his strength and his vulnerability wash over me like waves on the

shore. This was my beautiful stranger who fed kittens and looked

hotter than a man should be allowed. But it was also Job, who was

prickly and proud and didn’t let people in. Then all of the sudden it

was gone.

“Wha…?”

I looked down and it appeared that Job had fainted in my hallway.

It was in that moment that it hit me that he had walked all the way

down his stairs, across the courtyard and up my stairs to get here. On

his broken leg. Oh my God.

I looped my arms under his shoulder and did my best to drag him

into my apartment but he was really heavy. In the end I got to where I

could lean him up against my couch. I grabbed a damp cloth from the

kitchen and wiped his face while I was trying to wake him up.

Eventually, I got him alert enough to stand up and let me help him

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 282

hop to the bed. I gave him some painkillers, helped him undress and

tucked him in.

Then I stared at him. Did I get into bed with him? Was there any

way I could do anything else, knowing he was in here asleep? After a

few minutes of deliberation I stripped to my boxers and climbed in

next to him. I spooned against him, being careful not to jostle his

broken leg.

At first I just listened to him breathing and reveled in holding him

in my arms. But, after about thirty minutes I fell asleep as well.

I woke up as Job became restless in my arms. I glanced over at the

clock. We had been asleep for about four hours. He rolled over and

faced me, looking a little uncertain. I could see the defensiveness

building behind his eyes so before he had the chance to say something

stupid or yell at me again, I kissed him. This one had all the passion of

the first one but was much gentler.

I laced my fingers into his hair and held him close so he would

have to work at it if he wanted to break the kiss. He didn’t want to. He

wrapped his arms behind me and pulled our hips together. I could feel

his cock rubbing against mine and it just about melted all my bones.

Except the one that matters, of course. I squirmed to get closer and my

leg knocked into his cast. He let out a pained grunt and I pulled back.

“Sorry”

“Fucking broken leg. Not your fault.”

He pulled me back closer to him but didn’t try to kiss me. He

tucked my head onto his shoulder and put his arm around me. You

could have knocked me over with a feather if I hadn’t already been

lying down. Job, who had spent the last week yelling at me and telling

me to get out was
cuddling
with me. He didn’t say anything so I just

enjoyed the moment.

After a good while of just laying there, I began to trace his tattoos.

He had them all over his torso and his arms. I had seen them over the

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course of the week while I had been taking care of him but I hadn’t

had a chance to get a good look until now.

Below his belly button in a gothic script was “Job 3:3.” I traced it

a few times before I asked him what it meant. He got quiet for a few

minutes and I thought he wasn’t going to answer. But then he started

out with a whisper saying,

“That was my first tat. I got it the week after I ran away from

home. See, I grew up in this really religious house. My parents were

really into all that church stuff and I was their poster child. Until one

day my best friend kissed me. I had never kissed anyone or even

wanted to kiss anyone before that. My mom walked in on us and she

threw Aaron out, calling him nasty names and told him never to come

back. All I could do was sit and watch, I was so stunned. The next day

he killed himself and I overheard my mom saying it was the devil

taking back his own. So I ran away. Growing up in church I knew the

story of Job. God made a bet with Satan saying Satan could do

whatever he wanted to Job and he would still remain faithful. So

Satan took everything from him. All his stuff, his land, his family.

That verse is when Job says, ‘Let the day of my birth be erased…let

that day be turned to darkness.’ That’s sort of how I felt after Aaron

was gone. I lost my family, my best friend, my future. That’s when I

started calling myself Job.”

He sort of startled then, as if he realized he had just said more than

two sentences in a row. “I’ve never told that to anyone. Not even the

guy who did the tat.”

“What’s your real name?”

He gave a little snort then and said, “Jacob Obadiah Bain. Even

my initials wanted me to be Job.”

Rather than let him stew over what he had revealed, I began to

trace his other tattoos. There was one of some flowers on his forearm

and I asked him about that one next.

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“I got that one when old Mrs. Rosenbaum died. She was this

sweet little lady who let me crash in a room over her garage before I

was old enough to get my own place. She loved her yard. She had

these great big Oleander trees all around it. They stank something

awful but she loved them. She would sit there on her porch staring at

those trees and feeding all the damn cats in the whole neighborhood. I

started feeding the kittens down in the courtyard cause I knew she

woulda been heartbroken to see ‘em starve to death.”

We went on like this until I had asked about all his tattoos. I was

surprised he was willing to share that much but I wasn’t going to

argue. When I had asked about the last one we lapsed into silence for

awhile. Then I rolled over on one arm and gave him a playful smile