Great Restorations - 10. Chapter 10

HE SPENT Saturday crashed on Bruce‘s leather sectional, watching college football and gorging himself on the kind of food he couldn‘t get in Edgewood. Bruce, never one to let his routines be upset, guest or no guest, didn‘t emerge from his bedroom until after noon. Sawyer held up a container as he shuffled by. “Pad Thai?”

Hair askew, robe tied in a crooked knot, Bruce gave him the finger. He reappeared a few minutes later with a steaming mug of coffee and stood over the U-shaped couch, lip curled. “That‘s disgusting.”

“Which part?” Sawyer took stock of the empty beer bottles, takeout containers, and previous night’s pizza boxes. “Actually, I don‘t recommend the Thai. Not as good as I remember.” He belched.

“I was referring” — Bruce picked up the sheet Sawyer had slept on last night and held it between his fingertips— “to the mass of filth you‘ve created in my living room.”

Sawyer popped the lid off another beer. “You do realize they have a name for people like you.”

“Clean?”

“Obsessive-compulsive. Loosen the fuck up for once.” Sawyer curled over his takeout container with renewed vigor.

“Okay. I‘m not going to be able to take a week of this.” Bruce railroaded most of the trash into a pile and sat down next to Sawyer. “What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“Uh uh.” Bruce waved his finger in Sawyer’s face. “Coy doesn’t work with Uncle Bruce, remember?”

Sawyer slurped noodles.

“Sawyer?”

“Go away, Bruce. You‘re bringing me down.”

“I really doubt you could sink much lower.”

“You know, you should take these pep talks on the road. You‘ve got a gift.”

“Which is why you should be grateful you’re getting one for free.” Bruce made a grab for the remote, but Sawyer was quicker.

“I don‘t want to talk about it.”

“Yet you clearly need to.”

Fuck you, Sawyer mouthed, then stuffed another gob of noodles in his mouth.

Bruce plunged his hand behind the jumble of cushions and re-emerged with another remote. With an evil smile, he flicked off the television, then took a large slurp of coffee. “I’m trying to help you with your relationship crisis,” he said, plunking his bare feet onto the coffee table. “It’s what people do when their best friend is acting like a twelve-year-old girl. Now, should we go buy you a training bra and some sparkly nail polish or are you going to tell me what happened with Marc?”

Like a rebellious child, Sawyer pushed the power switch on his own remote and the television clicked on. Nonchalantly, Bruce used his remote to turn it off. “I can do this all day, Calhoun. My life is that exciting. Now spill.”

A cell phone trilled. Before Sawyer even registered that it was his, Bruce shot forward and scooped it off the table, shamelessly peering at the display. “It‘s your man.” He held it out. “Want it?”

“No.”

“That‘s mature.” The phone fell silent, turning over to voicemail, and Bruce set it down between them. “Seriously,” he said, enough genuine concern in his tone that Sawyer looked at him in surprise. “What the hell happened?”

“I broke my own rules,” Sawyer answered, matching Bruce‘s even tone. “It didn’t end well.”

Bruce digested his words. “It’s over?”

“Never started, not in any way that mattered.”

“Well, that’s one giant fucking lie.”

Sawyer took a long swig of beer, pointed his remote at the television, and hit the power button. A stadium packed with cheering fans burst across the screen. “Yeah,” he said. “I know. Which is why I’m trashing your living room and getting drunk at noon. Does that meet your honesty quota, Dr. Banner?”

After a long, searching look, Bruce settled in next to him to watch the game.

***

MARC called once more that day. And once on Sunday. Sawyer didn‘t answer either time, and Marc didn‘t leave any messages. Monday began at six a.m. and turned into a nightmare of such epic proportions that Sawyer didn‘t even look at his personal cell phone until midnight, when he found it buried in the bundle of blankets on Bruce‘s couch.

Fifteen missed calls. All Marc. With bloodshot eyes, Sawyer stared at the display, conflicted. Then, very deliberately, he pushed it under his pillow. Tuesday brought an additional twelve calls from Marc, all before noon. Then nothing.

***

SAWYER should‘ve felt on top of the world. In a matter of days, he‘d single-handedly defused a dozen crises, reshaped a slipshod and unproductive department, and repaired his working relationship with his coworkers and subordinates. Not bad.

He still hadn‘t managed to evict Marc from his thoughts.

As a reward for surviving the week, he rounded up his team on Friday afternoon and took them out for dinner and drinks. Dinner lasted thirty minutes, but four hours later the liquor was still flowing. “Guess I rode you guys pretty hard these past few days,” he told Trish, his admin.

She had the good grace to agree without calling him a slave-driving bastard.

“Now don‘t go fucking it all up again,” he said as she handed him a shot. He squinted at the liquid swirling in the glass, and she giggled.

“No problem, boss.” She hiccupped. “Thanks for taking us out.”

Sawyer glanced around the bar, grinning. “They deserve it. It‘s been a hell of a week.” The vodka slid down his throat like water.

Trish handed him another. “It‘s been nice to have you around again. I mean it!” she squeaked when he jabbed her in the ribs. “Once you got over your little snit.”

Which he wasn‘t over, really. Not at all. He downed the next shot, then frowned into the empty glass until Trish replaced it with another, this one filled to the brim. “To Sawyer!” someone yelled, and the group raised their glasses, clapping and whistling. It seemed only polite to join in.

An hour later, he poured Trish into a cab and slapped a twenty into the driver‘s hand. “Make sure she gets in the door, okay?”

The cabbie winked. “No problem.” As he drove off into the thick Friday night traffic, Sawyer rocked back on his heels. The city was a pleasant blur around him. Tingling with alcohol and an ache he‘d been ignoring all week, he hailed his own cab and rattled off an address. It slipped from his tongue easily, unhampered by the vodka, which Sawyer took as a clear sign: he deserved this.

Kurt lived in a reclaimed building near the river. Several of the factories and warehouses around his had been remodeled and turned into condos, but others languished empty. His was a neighborhood in transition. In places, the streets were deserted, riddled with broken streetlamps and crude graffiti. In others, the yuppie lifestyle had established a foothold with coffee houses and gourmet food stores. Some developer had shoehorned a new playground into the empty lot next to Kurt‘s building, filled it with jungle gyms, swings, and seesaws, and so far, it had escaped any serious vandalism.

Entranced by the row of plastic rocking dinosaurs, Sawyer tripped over the curb. He caught himself before he fell on his face, but it was a close thing. Laughing, he waved off the driver‘s concern and meandered over to the door of Kurt‘s building. He blinked at the intercom, but the numbers refused to come into focus. His finger felt thick and clumsy. With a halfhearted shrug, he stabbed at the third button from the left.

“Yes?” a woman‘s voice answered.

“Hi!” Sawyer pressed his face against the speaker. “Who are you?”

After a pause, “Who are you trying to buzz?”

Sawyer opened his mouth to answer, but couldn‘t remember.

“Hello?”

“Oh! Kurt. I want Kurt.” As an afterthought, he added, “Please.”

“He‘s in number three.”

“I pressed three,” Sawyer sang into the speaker.

“Asshole.” A burst of static sent Sawyer stumbling backward. The intercom went dead.

“Now that was rude.” Bracing himself on the bricks, he spent another couple of minutes squinting at the numbers. “Stop moving, you little bastards. Ah, fuck it.” He lifted his palm to smack them all at once, but a hand caught his before it made contact.

“Sawyer?”

Sawyer blinked to clear his vision, had little success, but he recognized the voice. “Hey! I was just trying to call you.” He crowded into Kurt‘s personal space, and the fuzzy details sharpened.

Long enough to brush his shoulders, Kurt‘s thick black hair was loose and tucked behind his ears. His favorite wire-rimmed glasses were perched on his nose, magnifying the gold streaks in his brown eyes. As broad as Sawyer and two inches taller, he was one of the few men Sawyer had met who could physically overpower him, a condition he‘d tested on more than one occasion. Clumsily, he ran his hands through Kurt‘s hair. “Miss me?”

“Always,” was Kurt‘s amused reply. He bent to show Sawyer just how much. Already dizzy, the kiss sent Sawyer reeling against the wall. Laughing, Kurt caught him under the arms and pushed him inside.

Operating under alcohol-induced fatigue and intense sexual frustration was similar to being sick with a high fever, Sawyer decided. His limbs felt heavy, his face hot, and the idea that he probably should‘ve gone back to Bruce‘s instead of coming to see Kurt niggled in the back of his brain.

Kurt led him up one set of stairs, then another. Two doors, facing each other across a narrow hall, occupied the third floor landing. Both were standing open. “You were expecting me,” Sawyer purred in Kurt‘s ear as they stumbled up the last steps.

“Actually, no.” Kurt nodded at the woman standing in the second doorway. “Thanks, Sarah.”

Sarah folded her sweater closed over her flannel pants and T-shirt. Her pinched expression was at odds with her reply. “No problem, hon.” With a curt wave, she retreated inside her apartment.

Kurt steered Sawyer into his. “Here, hold this wall,” he said, twisting away from Sawyer‘s roving hands. “I‘m going to lock up.”

Giddy, Sawyer waited until Kurt‘s back was turned, then tackled him against the door. “Surprise,‖ he breathed into Kurt‘s ear, rucking up his shirt to get at the skin underneath.

Kurt turned them until they were chest to chest, with Sawyer‘s back to the door. “It‘s not really a surprise. Bruce said you were in town.”

“You know what?” Sawyer slid Kurt‘s sweatpants down over his hips. “You talk to Bruce about me too much and not enough to me about what you should be saying.”

Kurt snickered and kissed his neck. “I think you left your grammar back at the bar, hotshot.”

“Grammar‘s overrated,” Sawyer said. He pushed the sweats lower, over the curve of Kurt‘s ass. “Kind of like, you know… that other thing.”

Kurt stroked his back. “Krispy Kreme donuts?”

“No,” Sawyer said, too loudly. He dug his fingers into Kurt‘s hips and dropped his head against his shoulder. “That other other thing,” he whispered.

He hadn‘t noticed the lag in his clumsy seduction until Kurt sighed and cupped the back of his neck in his hand. He tilted Sawyer‘s face up and kissed his forehead. “Ready for bed?”

Sawyer rolled his eyes. “That‘s why I‘m here.”

Without answering, Kurt took his hand and led him down the hall to his bedroom. “Take off your shirt,” he instructed while he pulled the spread down.

“Just my shirt?” That didn‘t fit in with the plan. Indignant, Sawyer set his hands on his hips. “What about the rest?”

“Just the shirt for now.” Kurt helped him with the buttons. Together they stripped it off, Sawyer stealing kisses as often as Kurt allowed. “Lie down,” Kurt said quietly. Confused, Sawyer obeyed, sinking onto the mattress with a groan.

“Feels good,” he said.

“I bet.”

With a series of gentle tugs, Kurt pried off Sawyer‘s shoes and socks. Then he sat on the end of the bed, stroking one of Sawyer‘s calves, a fond, sad smile on his face. Finally, Sawyer started to squirm. He held out his arms. “Come here.”

With a low laugh, Kurt obeyed and spent a few minutes returning Sawyer‘s enthusiastic kisses. To Sawyer‘s annoyance, the warm glow in his chest expanded, but never ignited. More agitated than aroused, he pushed Kurt away. “Go grab what we need,” he said, determined. He was going to shake Marc from his system.

Chin propped on his palm, Kurt grinned. “Sure.” He traced a finger over Sawyer‘s forehead. “Stay put.”

As if he were capable of doing anything else. Though it couldn‘t hurt to use the time wisely. He unfastened the clasp on his slacks and pushed them down. The material tangled around his thighs, and with a growl of defeat, he fell back to the bed. Kurt‘s familiar laughter made him scowl. “I left some of the work for you,” Sawyer mumbled.

“I think I can manage.” Kurt worked the pants free and tossed them on the floor. “Here you go,” he said, perching on the edge of the mattress. In one hand he held a glass of water. In the other, four Advil.

“Huh.” Sawyer swallowed the pills one by one and chased them with the rest of the water. “You‘re smart.”

“So they tell me.”

“What about the other things you were supposed to get?”

“You mean, the other other things?” Kurt smoothed Sawyer‘s hair back when he murmured an affirmative. “I‘ll get them in a minute.”

Sawyer‘s eyes felt heavy, so he closed them. “Okay.” He turned his face into Kurt‘s hand. “I trust you.”

“Yeah. I figured that‘s why you came.”

***

SAWYER woke up feeling like hell. Luckily, the first thing he saw when he peeled his eyes open was another tall glass of water, dripping with condensation, and a bottle of painkillers. Swallowing a whimper, he took the pills, drank the water, and curled back up under the blankets.

The next time he woke, the sun was higher, not shining directly in the window, and he felt human. He made it into the bathroom without any major mishaps, attacked the packaging on the new toothbrush propped against the mirror, then stood under a scalding shower for fifteen minutes.

It was the smell of fresh coffee that drove him out. He pushed the curtain back to find Kurt standing in the doorway, holding two mugs. Sawyer scrubbed a towel over his hair before reaching for one. “Marry me.”

“No way. You‘re a complete slob. We‘d kill each other within a month.”

Sawyer wrapped the towel around his waist, then scratched his chin, more self-conscious than he wanted to admit. “My clothes?”

Kurt wrinkled his nose. “If you want them, they‘re folded on a chair in the bedroom. But you did leave a few things here last time that‘ll get you home without being arrested for indecent exposure. Also, they don‘t reek.”

“Always a plus.”

Kurt produced a plastic bag for his clothes, fed him a piece of toast, and, when the time came for Sawyer to leave, filled a Styrofoam cup with more coffee. That was when things turned awkward, at least for Sawyer.

“I‘m sorry,” he said, standing half in and half out of the apartment, clutching his rumpled suit. He didn‘t say for what. No sense stating the obvious. Besides, Kurt was a smart guy.

Kurt kissed him and gave him a gentle shove out the door. “Don‘t be. I’ve always known the score. Good luck.” He winked, and Sawyer smiled.

Things were always easy with Kurt, Sawyer mused on the ride back to Bruce‘s apartment. Easy and honest. So why couldn‘t he work up more than a passing affection for the man? Why was he hung up on some guy who made every single day more difficult than the one before?

He let himself in, calling, “Lucy, I‘m home,” and tossed his bag of clothes onto the sofa. A detour into the kitchen brought him face to face with Bruce. “Morning,” Sawyer said.

Bruce didn‘t return the greeting. He stood motionless in the center of the room, phone to his ear. Pale, lips pressed into a thin line, he spoke into the receiver. “He just got in. Hang on.” Slowly, he handed the phone to Sawyer.

Sawyer took it. “What‘s wrong?” he asked, but Bruce didn‘t answer. Dread churning in his stomach, Sawyer cleared his throat. “Hello?”

“Sawyer! Finally.”

“Karen?”

“Yeah. Tell Bruce I‘m sorry to bother him, but I‘ve been trying to reach you since yesterday, and I didn‘t know who else to call. I couldn‘t get through on your cell.”

“I’ve been using my work phone this week.” Pathetic excuse, but it would have to do.

“Oh,” she said after a long pause.

Sawyer‘s head started to pound again. “I’ve been busy.” He waited through another long silence. “Karen? Is everything okay?”

“I‘m sorry. This is just—didn‘t Marc call you?”

Sawyer dodged the question. Feeling sicker by the second, he asked, “Has something happened?”

“You don‘t know.” Karen sniffed. “Yes. Something‘s happened.”

“What?” He steadied himself on the counter. Bruce laid a supportive hand on his shoulder. “Is Marc okay?”

“He—it‘s not him. It‘s May.”

“She‘s sick?”

Karen‘s voice broke. “She died on Tuesday.”