Discovering Me #2
No one in his life ever stays; maybe he’s finally found the one who will.
Jeremy Collins wants his boyfriend and live-in lover Cole Alston to stick around for the long haul, because Jeremy is definitely falling in love. But their relationship is still a secret from everyone except Jeremy’s best friend Bethann. And after eight years under the thumb of an abusive ex, Cole finally has choices about his future—choices that might take him far away from Jeremy.
When Bethann asks Jeremy for a huge, life-altering favor, suddenly the whole town is in his business. Rather than reassure Cole, Jeremy's explanations have the opposite effect and Cole withdraws. Something is going on in Cole's mind that Jeremy doesn't understand, and to get Cole to talk, Jeremy will need to confront his own deepest fears.
This title was previously published but no significant changes have been made.
Talk about an emotional read. Cole's past breaks your heart and Jeremy's past isn't exactly a sunny walk in the park either. They may have survived separately but together they begin to heal and thrive, but that doesn't mean everything is free and clear the minute they find each other. Unearthing Cole may be Cole's story and Understanding Jeremy may be told from Jeremy's side but you really need to read both books to have a complete story. There is only a few secondary characters but each one serves a purpose, none of them are there to just "pad the pages". So if you're looking for a sexy read that will tug at your heart, AM Arthur's Discovering Me duology is definitely for you, they burn up the pages and make your heart pound for multiple reasons, having a few tissues handy won't hurt either.
RATING:
AM Arthur
A.M. Arthur was born and raised in the same kind of small town that she likes to write about, a stone's throw from both beach resorts and generational farmland. She's been creating stories in her head since she was a child and scribbling them down nearly as long, in a losing battle to make the fictional voices stop. She credits an early fascination with male friendships (bromance hadn't been coined yet back then) with her later discovery of and subsequent love affair with m/m romance stories. A.M. Arthur's work is available from Carina Press, SMP Swerve, and Briggs-King Books.
When not exorcising the voices in her head, she toils away in a retail job that tests her patience and gives her lots of story fodder. She can also be found in her kitchen, pretending she's an amateur chef and trying to not poison herself or others with her cuisine experiments.
Chapter One
COLE HAD the nightmare again. Third one this week. I did the same thing as every other time: I grabbed his arms when he woke up thrashing and screaming. Held him tight to the bed until the shaking stopped and he fell back asleep. This time it was nearly 5:00 a.m., and those few, heart-pounding minutes it took to calm him left me wide awake, sleep running away fast like a thief in the night.
I watched his face in the murky light afforded to me by the half-closed drapes on the bedroom window, still surprised such a precious gift was curled up in my bed, mumbling incoherently as he chased after sleep once more. His golden-blond hair had grown out a bit in the two months since we’d met, and it curled around his ears and chin. He hadn’t shaved in a few days—the beard burn warming my ass served as a lovely reminder—and more honey-colored hair covered his neck and chin.
Beneath the cover of blankets, the same pretty color nested around the cock I worshiped as often as he’d let me, spackled the scrotum I so adored sucking on, and left a thin trail from his navel to his dick. He told me once his ex-asshole liked him clean-shaven all over.
I told him I adored his body hair and that he could grow a beard worthy of Duck Dynasty for all I cared if it made him happy. Cole rewarded that comment with a blow job that had my eyeballs rolling back in my head and a lot of nonsense spewing out of my mouth.
In the six-ish weeks since his mother’s hoarded property was sorted and sold at auction, Cole had nightmares maybe once a week. Nightmares, I was certain, of the eight years he’d spent living in fear of his ex, Martin Palone. Nightmares, I was also certain, that were exacerbated by Martin’s sudden appearance at the preauction viewing.
I could never properly explain the rage I’d felt that day at seeing the man who’d caused Cole so much pain for so many years. The man who’d put fear in his eyes and scars on his body. The man Cole had agreed to speak with in private, even though I’d rather cut my own balls off than allow Martin within twenty feet of Cole again. I’d waited outside the shell of Cole’s mother’s house while they talked, silently boiling in my own anger, resenting Martin’s very existence.
Cole never told me exactly what Martin said, only that he believed Martin was out of our lives for good. Only he wasn’t out, not really. He existed in Cole’s tainted memories, in the nightmares, and in the moments when Cole still flinched over a too-fast movement or a dropped dinner plate. Cole was far from healed. Maybe he never would fully heal, but we’d take it all one day at a time like we had so far.
He muttered something, nose scrunching. A hand skated out, seeking something. I slid my hand into range, and soon warm fingers clasped mine. Cole settled, and I smiled against my pillow. His breathing deepened. The lines around his eyes relaxed. Once he’d been asleep for a few minutes, I slipped smoothly out of bed.
The third-floor bedroom was toasty warm, as it usually stayed all year long—a blessing in the February cold, but less so at the height of summer. I put on a pair of flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt before padding down to the second floor, careful to avoid the creakiest stairs. I had a pot of coffee brewing before I snuck down to the first-floor laundry room and out onto the back porch to snatch up the morning paper.
On my way past the door that led into the antiques shop on the first floor of my house, I reached out to test the knob. I remembered locking it soundly behind me the previous evening after close, but the test was a funny habit I’d picked up after forgetting to lock it one night about six months ago. Nothing had happened, no one had broken into either my house or the store, but it had rattled me because it was the first time I’d forgotten in the four years since I’d moved to Franklin. I’ve double-checked every night since.
I settled on the sofa with the paper and a mug of coffee. I read each section, stopping for more coffee whenever the brown mug bottomed out, keeping the comic page and crossword for last. I was halfway through the crossword when the alarm clock blared overhead. Seven on the dot.
I hadn’t turned it off when I left the bedroom because Cole had volunteered to get up early and join me on today’s pick. He’d never been on a farm pick before, he said last night over dinner, and he wanted to know more about my business. He still hadn’t settled on a career path for himself—starting over completely at twenty-eight was hard for anyone, but especially for someone like Cole, who’d been stifled for so long. He spent hours some evenings poring over different online universities, reading about degrees and job opportunities. Nothing ever captured his attention for longer than an hour.
He had time to figure it all out. I liked having him in my life, and he seemed content to stay—even if he had insisted on giving me rent money on January first, and again yesterday, when the calendar shifted us into February. The need for that kind of independence was in direct odds with the fact that we shared a room and a bed every night like lovers, not like roommates. And Cole only had a set amount of money from the auction, which was slowly supplemented by additional sales of his mother’s collection of items from both online and the shop.
Unfortunately, the original bid for the land fell through, and it had to go up through a realtor, which left Cole without the large windfall he’d been expecting. He had to wait until the land sold to get that money, which could be a day or a year from now, and I didn’t want to take more from him until he had a job.
So I accepted the envelopes of cash and tucked them into a drawer in my downstairs office. I’d get it back to him somehow.
The hundred-year-old floorboards creaked overhead, followed by the rush of water in the pipes. I smiled and went upstairs to join him, telling myself that all the coffee I’d imbibed needed releasing, and it did. The bathroom door was closed to keep in steam, but not locked. I didn’t have to rattle the knob to know that. Cole had spent two years taking five-minute showers behind locked doors. Freeing himself of Martin’s shadow had freed him of that fear.
I knocked loudly so he wouldn’t be startled—I was taking no chances after this morning’s nightmare—then let myself in. I took a minute to relieve myself of the coffee, and then stripped out of my clothes and climbed into the shower.
Cole paused in the middle of rinsing shampoo from his golden hair. He grinned, and the simple beauty of it hit me in the chest. He didn’t smile at very many people, and I treasured each one I received. Looked forward to the next one, too. But the smile didn’t erase the dark shadows beneath his eyes or the weary way he stood beneath the hot spray.
“Morning,” I said, scooting close enough to get a little water on my skin.
“Hey.” Cole finished rinsing his hair before leaning in for a kiss. “Mmm, coffee.”
“You taste like peppermint.”
“Brushed my teeth first. When I woke up, my mouth tasted like ass.”
The flirty way he said that reminded me exactly why his mouth tasted like that, and my dick pulsed with the memory. Last night was only the second time Cole had ever rimmed me, and it had been fantastic. Rimmed me open and then fucked me senseless.
God. I tried to get my rising cock to calm down.
Unlike me—who’d been up for hours and had ingested half a pot of coffee—Cole simply looked tired. He wasn’t very sexual first thing in the morning, and especially not after a night of bad dreams. We washed together, all elbows and arms and wet skin, a comfortable thing I truly enjoyed. My persistent erection hung around until the end, when Cole stepped out and grabbed a towel.
I palmed some shower gel and took hold of the problem, sliding my fingers around my hot skin, feeling pleasure buzz through my body. Sometimes Cole hung around while I beat off, but this morning the nightmares were really bothering him. I dragged back memories of last night, of the way he’d licked and fingered my opening until I was begging him to fill me with his cock. My hand jerked fast, faster, up and down my length. I slid my left hand around to my crease, down past the faint heat of beard burn to my entrance. Pressed a finger inside, and that was it. I groaned and shot against the tiles, steam rising around me while my orgasm rippled down my spine. Fast and fun, but nowhere near as mind-blowing as Cole coaxing an orgasm out of me.
Cole wasn’t in the bedroom when I finally got out. I dressed for the day in old jeans and a flannel shirt over a white undershirt. We’d be outside in the cold most of the day, so layers were a must.
I found him in the kitchen, mixing a bowl of pancake batter while a mug of coffee cooled on the counter nearby. He looked good there in front of the marble countertop, dressed in the same green sweater he’d worn the first day we met.
When I bought this house and set up the store, I ripped the guts out of the second floor. I decided if I was remodeling anyway, I’d give myself the living space I’d always wanted. That included an open floor plan and an enormous gourmet kitchen.
The wide-eyed surprise on Cole’s face the first time he saw the kitchen was among my favorite nonsexual memories of him.
“I thought we’d need a robust breakfast before a long day of picking,” he said.
“Good call.”
I took the two-sided griddle out of the drawer beneath the broiler and put it flat side up over two burners on the gas range. We went through the motions of making breakfast with the ease of a couple who’d done it for years, when it had barely been months. We ate at the counter, side by side on matching stools.
Our first few weeks together, Cole had torn through his food at every meal as though he expected someone to snatch it away at any moment. And after spending two years on the run, terrified his ex-asshole would find him, never sure when he’d be able to stop, the habit made perfect sense. He always finished before I’d get halfway. Lately, though, he’d slowed his pace, taking the time to really taste and enjoy the meals we prepared together or separately. My habit of chewing each bite a careful fifteen times set my own eating pace far behind the average person—a habit burned into me when I was eight years old.
Watching your childhood best friend choke to death on improperly chewed food would put the fear of asphyxiation into anyone.
Cole drank his coffee while I polished off my final pancake. “How early were you up?” he asked.
“Around five.”
“Because of me again?”
I took extra time chewing a mouthful of pancake and syrup, hating that he’d asked and I wouldn’t lie. He always told me he didn’t remember the nightmares themselves, only the fear and dread left over from them. He knew he’d had bad dreams. “Yes, but it’s fine, babe. You know that.”
He put his mug down and scrubbed both hands over his face hard enough to redden the skin. I almost grabbed his wrists, but he stopped and heaved a weary sigh. “I’m sorry I’m still such a mess.”
“Hey, stop it.” We’d had versions of this conversation biweekly since the auction, and I didn’t know how many more times we could have it before my calm disappeared. I dropped my fork and spun my stool to face him, but he’d already slipped off the other side.
He put the island between us, gaze stuck on the marble surface. I froze, unsure if I should chase him or give him the space he’d taken for himself. Despite the huge strides he’d made toward healing in these last two months or so, he still had a long way to go. I knew that. I’d accepted that. But my patience only stretched so far.
“Cole, it was a nightmare.” Obvious, yes, but at least he was looking at me with his wide blue eyes. “You’ve had them before, and you’ll have more. I don’t care. Losing a few hours of sleep once in a while isn’t a big deal for me.”
“It’s a big deal for me.” He didn’t sound upset. Resigned maybe, and tired. “You shouldn’t have to deal with my shit, let it interrupt your life.”
“Nothing about you being here interrupts my life. Hell, I barely had a life before I met you. You being here makes me happy, Cole. You make me happy. Nightmares are simply your mind’s way of getting out all the bad stuff up there. It’ll take time to work through it all.” Words I’d said before. Words he still needed to hear.
Unless something else was bothering him beyond the nightmare and my two-hour loss of sleep. A chill snaked down my spine. “Are you not happy here?” I asked, dreading the answer once my brain had acknowledged the question. We hadn’t known each other very long, and neither of us had ever used the L-word, but things were good.
Weren’t they?
Cole blinked hard several times. “Of course I’m happy here. I love being here. You make me happy too, Jeremy. I promise.”
“Good.” I didn’t know what I’d have done if he’d said anything else. I didn’t want to know that, ever. “Please, no more apologizing for your nightmares. I’d rather have you screaming yourself awake every night than holding all that shit in, letting it eat you alive. You’re too precious for that to happen, hear me?”
He nodded, his angular face softening with the brightness of his smile. He circled back to me, and I stood so I could sweep him into a hug. My arms cinched tight around his waist and he pressed his face into the crook of my neck, leaning in. I took his weight gladly. I’d always been strong enough to stand for us both.
Cole turned his head. “I hear you, I swear, every time you say I’m precious and you’re happy. I do.”
“Sometimes it just bears repeating.”
“Yeah. Hope you don’t get too sick of repeating yourself.”
I pressed a kiss to the side of his head. “Not sick of it yet.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“Anything, babe.”
WE HIT the road a little after eight. Tisdale’s farm was a good ninety-minute drive north from Franklin, almost on North Carolina’s border with Virginia. Arthur Tisdale had called me up a few days ago, looking for folks interested in buying off his land. I’d wanted to get into his various barns and outbuildings for over two years now, and I’d been denied access every time I’d asked. The excitement of Arthur’s call had been tempered by the reason for it—he’d been handed a “six months, maybe less” diagnosis from his oncologist after his third battle with lung cancer. He needed to start selling so his children didn’t get stuck with sixty years of collecting.
Cole knew all of this, and he still insisted on going with me to the farm.
Watching Cole clean his parents’ hoarded property back in December had been an exercise in patience with a dash of heartache on the side. The job had been too big for one man, and I’d been selfishly glad when he’d agreed to my business proposal: I’d dig out the treasures and sell them for a fee. We’d both made money, he’d gotten the property clear, and here we were, living together in Franklin over my shop. Cole hadn’t come back intending to stay, though, and sometimes I saw the wanderlust in his eyes—times when he didn’t think I was watching.
I didn’t know what I’d do if he decided he wanted to move on.
The closer we got to Tisdale’s, the tenser Cole got. I saw it in the way he sat up straighter, how he balled his hands in his lap. He still got nervous meeting new people, and I had no idea how he’d react to a farm as full of junk as his parents’ had been. I turned off the highway, and soon we were winding along a dirt road into a deeply wooded area. The only sign I was going the right way was a faded blue mailbox with “Tisdale” printed on it in peeling paint.
“Must be the place,” I said, even though it obviously was. From the moment we cleared the line of trees past the mailbox turnoff, the landscape was dotted with machinery—rusted-out cars, trucks missing doors, parts of farm equipment, bike and motorcycle frames. More metal than I could identify, twisted through with weeds and saplings.
“Holy cow,” Cole said. He leaned forward in his seat, peering out the van’s windshield. He seemed more amazed than horrified, and I took that as a good sign.
The dirt track that served as a driveway wound through the weedy, woody terrain, past two rusting sheds and into a circular parking area in front of a farmhouse that wouldn’t be out of place in a horror film. The two-story structure looked one nor’easter away from collapsing, as did the barn a few hundred yards away.
I parked the van behind an ancient Ford pickup, leaving the keys in the ignition, because who was going to steal it way out here? Cole unbuckled his seatbelt, and I did the same, taking my cues from him. I tried to see this collected property from his point of view—as a scary, hoarded mess—but all I saw out there was potential profit.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded and flashed me a smile I knew he didn’t feel, because it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’m good. Let’s go meet Mr. Tisdale.”
Positive he wasn’t ready for this and that bringing him had been a bad idea, I climbed out of the van. The air seemed warmer this deep in the woods, but still had a chill that made me hike up the zipper on my coat. Our van doors slamming shut echoed off the porch. I aimed for the front door.
“Here, you!”
The deep voice boomed behind us and Cole jumped a mile. I squeezed his wrist lightly and then let go. Arthur Tisdale limped toward us from the direction of the barn, leaning heavily on a thick, twisted cane that looked like he’d taken it out of the woods and polished it himself. He was average height and thin as a rail, with bushy white hair and eyebrows.
“You Collins?” he asked when he hobbled nearer.
“Yes, sir, Jeremy Collins,” I replied. “This is Cole Alston.”
We all traded handshakes, and I was impressed with Tisdale’s grip.
“Thank you for allowing us to come up and take a look around your property,” Cole said before I could.
“It’s time, son, it’s time,” Tisdale said. “I ain’t lookin’ to gouge you, but I ain’t givin’ it away either.”
“I’m sure we can work things out to both of our advantages,” I said. “Is there any particular area that’s off-limits for picking?”
“Nope. Y’can even look through the house if ya want. Got lotsa stuff in the attic and cellar too.”
“Can we start there?”
“Sure can.”
The best items were often kept close to the owner, so I wanted to get a look at the attic and his home while I had the most money in my pocket. Cole hesitated at the front door for only a moment, and then he followed us inside the old farmhouse.
BY MIDDAY, I’d rooted through the attic, root cellar, two unused bedrooms, and a messy place downstairs that might have been a den at one time. I’d collected a decent pile of items and spent less money that I expected. Tisdale was incredibly reasonable with pricing his antiques. Cole mostly watched and listened, sometimes asking questions about why I wanted a particular piece. He did, however, find my favorite pick of the day so far, which was an 1862 US Bridesburg musket. The nipple and ramrod were missing, but the musket itself was in fantastic shape for its age. I’d had a collector friend on the hook for one of those for years, and he’d be extremely excited to get a photo of this find e-mailed to him.
Tisdale disappeared into his kitchen while Cole and I loaded the van from the house pick. My stomach was grumbling, those pancakes long gone. We’d packed sandwiches in a cooler, and I was about to suggest we eat before hitting the exterior buildings. Tisdale surprised me by poking his head out the front door and yelling, “Got lunch on. You boys get in here and eat.”
A stockpot of something spicy was bubbling on the old gas range in the kitchen. We helped ourselves to bowls of chili and oyster crackers. Tisdale poured us sweet tea in Mason jars.
“Is there meat in here?” Cole asked.
“You one of those veggie-terrians?” Tisdale replied, and I wasn’t sure if he was exaggerating the word on purpose or not.
“No, sir, I just don’t recognize the flavor.”
“Venison, son. Neighbor brings me meat every autumn. I freeze some, make chili with some. Keeps real well all winter.”
“I’ve never had venison. It’s very good.”
It was extremely good. I’d had venison steaks before, but never in chili. The slightly gamey flavor went well with the beans and spices in the sauce, and I was disappointed when I got too full to eat more.
“You boys go on out to the barn,” Tisdale said. “Gonna wash up and rest awhile. I’ll join ya in a bit.”
We thanked him for our very tasty, very filling lunch and then headed outside. In the bright afternoon sunshine, I finally noticed the strained way Cole walked, like he was forcing himself to take each step. His eyes were pinched, his face a little pale even after eating all that hot chili.
“Are you ready to go?” I asked.
He stopped walking and shook his head. “It’s too soon. You haven’t picked outside yet.”
That hadn’t answered my question. He’d gotten very close to his fill of being around junk-piled rooms and layers of dirt. The barn wasn’t going to be pleasant, and we both had heavy-duty work gloves, but not even hard rubber and work boots could protect his eyes or mind. He’d grown up around this kind of collecting (or hoarding, in his mother’s case), and he’d gotten out, left it behind. Today was his attempt at facing those memories, but he could only stand it for so long.
“You tell me if you need a break, hear me?” I said.
“Yeah.”
The kitchen was on the other side of the house, so I leaned in and kissed him. A gentle, supportive kiss I didn’t dare deepen if I’d wanted to. The last thing I wanted to risk was Tisdale running us off his land with a shotgun if he rabidly disliked the fact that we were a couple.
Except for my best friend Bethann, no one in Franklin knew I was bisexual or that Cole was anything other than a rent-paying roommate. Folks knew I was a widower, that I’d moved to town not long after my wife died of anaphylactic shock, and that I didn’t date. So far, no one seemed to have figured out Cole was gay, and he didn’t advertise the fact. Until Cole, I hadn’t been attracted to a man in a long, long time. He brought out a side of me I’d forgotten, a side I embraced when I was with him. But this thing between us was still so fragile, so uncertain. Not yet permanent.
I wouldn’t out either of us without a long conversation. Living in a small town was safer in the metaphorical closet—at least for now.
The kiss put a little color into Cole’s cheeks, and he smiled.
Our initial investigation into the barn didn’t yield much. Holes in the roof had leaked years’ worth of rain and snow into the rotting structure, destroying anything made of paper, leather, or wood. The metal was rusted. Most of it would be better off at a scrap yard. By the time I dug some bicycle frames out of a somewhat protected stall, Tisdale had joined us again. I bought the frames for a steal.
Cole surprised me by asking for a price on a wooden chair with only three legs. Tisdale looked at me like he was crazy, and I had to admit, I was curious what Cole wanted with a three-legged chair. Tisdale said he could take it for free. Cole pressed some money into his hand, and I saw a flash of Lincoln’s face.
After Cole and I lugged the chair and frames to the van, he grabbed my elbow, his eyes pinched. I knew before he said anything. “You mind if I sit here for a while?”
“You want to leave?” I asked.
“No, I don’t want to interrupt this. It’s your business. I just….” He shook his head, frowning like he’d failed an easy test and couldn’t quite believe it. “I can’t handle more today. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m proud of you for all this.”
“The barn’s just too”—his eyes flashed with some dark memory—“smells too much like my parents’ house, you know? The rot.”
“I get it.” Behind the shield the van provided from the barn, I pulled him into a hug. His heart was pounding rapidly, and I held him a minute until it calmed. I didn’t want to let go because he fit in my arms perfectly, but we were burning daylight and it was a long drive home.
“Find something that’ll make you rich,” he said as I headed back to the barn.
I gave a thumbs-up.
No such luck on the first floor of the barn. Tisdale had a handful of outbuildings to inspect, plus all of the things strewn around the land, but I wanted a peek into his hayloft first. He said he’d put a few old railroad lanterns up there a decade or two ago, and those were always collectible, especially with the glass intact.
The ladder up to the loft was broken in several places, the wood soft in others. I scrambled up fast and the boards groaned beneath my weight. My heart jumped. I shone my flashlight into the gloom, sure this was a bad idea. A lump of moldy cardboard boxes sat a few yards away, across a floor littered with straw and old feed sacks. I picked my way to it, sliding my feet, testing for strength like I was crossing a frozen lake in March.
“You okay up there?” Tisdale yelled somewhere down below.
COLE HAD the nightmare again. Third one this week. I did the same thing as every other time: I grabbed his arms when he woke up thrashing and screaming. Held him tight to the bed until the shaking stopped and he fell back asleep. This time it was nearly 5:00 a.m., and those few, heart-pounding minutes it took to calm him left me wide awake, sleep running away fast like a thief in the night.
I watched his face in the murky light afforded to me by the half-closed drapes on the bedroom window, still surprised such a precious gift was curled up in my bed, mumbling incoherently as he chased after sleep once more. His golden-blond hair had grown out a bit in the two months since we’d met, and it curled around his ears and chin. He hadn’t shaved in a few days—the beard burn warming my ass served as a lovely reminder—and more honey-colored hair covered his neck and chin.
Beneath the cover of blankets, the same pretty color nested around the cock I worshiped as often as he’d let me, spackled the scrotum I so adored sucking on, and left a thin trail from his navel to his dick. He told me once his ex-asshole liked him clean-shaven all over.
I told him I adored his body hair and that he could grow a beard worthy of Duck Dynasty for all I cared if it made him happy. Cole rewarded that comment with a blow job that had my eyeballs rolling back in my head and a lot of nonsense spewing out of my mouth.
In the six-ish weeks since his mother’s hoarded property was sorted and sold at auction, Cole had nightmares maybe once a week. Nightmares, I was certain, of the eight years he’d spent living in fear of his ex, Martin Palone. Nightmares, I was also certain, that were exacerbated by Martin’s sudden appearance at the preauction viewing.
I could never properly explain the rage I’d felt that day at seeing the man who’d caused Cole so much pain for so many years. The man who’d put fear in his eyes and scars on his body. The man Cole had agreed to speak with in private, even though I’d rather cut my own balls off than allow Martin within twenty feet of Cole again. I’d waited outside the shell of Cole’s mother’s house while they talked, silently boiling in my own anger, resenting Martin’s very existence.
Cole never told me exactly what Martin said, only that he believed Martin was out of our lives for good. Only he wasn’t out, not really. He existed in Cole’s tainted memories, in the nightmares, and in the moments when Cole still flinched over a too-fast movement or a dropped dinner plate. Cole was far from healed. Maybe he never would fully heal, but we’d take it all one day at a time like we had so far.
He muttered something, nose scrunching. A hand skated out, seeking something. I slid my hand into range, and soon warm fingers clasped mine. Cole settled, and I smiled against my pillow. His breathing deepened. The lines around his eyes relaxed. Once he’d been asleep for a few minutes, I slipped smoothly out of bed.
The third-floor bedroom was toasty warm, as it usually stayed all year long—a blessing in the February cold, but less so at the height of summer. I put on a pair of flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt before padding down to the second floor, careful to avoid the creakiest stairs. I had a pot of coffee brewing before I snuck down to the first-floor laundry room and out onto the back porch to snatch up the morning paper.
On my way past the door that led into the antiques shop on the first floor of my house, I reached out to test the knob. I remembered locking it soundly behind me the previous evening after close, but the test was a funny habit I’d picked up after forgetting to lock it one night about six months ago. Nothing had happened, no one had broken into either my house or the store, but it had rattled me because it was the first time I’d forgotten in the four years since I’d moved to Franklin. I’ve double-checked every night since.
I settled on the sofa with the paper and a mug of coffee. I read each section, stopping for more coffee whenever the brown mug bottomed out, keeping the comic page and crossword for last. I was halfway through the crossword when the alarm clock blared overhead. Seven on the dot.
I hadn’t turned it off when I left the bedroom because Cole had volunteered to get up early and join me on today’s pick. He’d never been on a farm pick before, he said last night over dinner, and he wanted to know more about my business. He still hadn’t settled on a career path for himself—starting over completely at twenty-eight was hard for anyone, but especially for someone like Cole, who’d been stifled for so long. He spent hours some evenings poring over different online universities, reading about degrees and job opportunities. Nothing ever captured his attention for longer than an hour.
He had time to figure it all out. I liked having him in my life, and he seemed content to stay—even if he had insisted on giving me rent money on January first, and again yesterday, when the calendar shifted us into February. The need for that kind of independence was in direct odds with the fact that we shared a room and a bed every night like lovers, not like roommates. And Cole only had a set amount of money from the auction, which was slowly supplemented by additional sales of his mother’s collection of items from both online and the shop.
Unfortunately, the original bid for the land fell through, and it had to go up through a realtor, which left Cole without the large windfall he’d been expecting. He had to wait until the land sold to get that money, which could be a day or a year from now, and I didn’t want to take more from him until he had a job.
So I accepted the envelopes of cash and tucked them into a drawer in my downstairs office. I’d get it back to him somehow.
The hundred-year-old floorboards creaked overhead, followed by the rush of water in the pipes. I smiled and went upstairs to join him, telling myself that all the coffee I’d imbibed needed releasing, and it did. The bathroom door was closed to keep in steam, but not locked. I didn’t have to rattle the knob to know that. Cole had spent two years taking five-minute showers behind locked doors. Freeing himself of Martin’s shadow had freed him of that fear.
I knocked loudly so he wouldn’t be startled—I was taking no chances after this morning’s nightmare—then let myself in. I took a minute to relieve myself of the coffee, and then stripped out of my clothes and climbed into the shower.
Cole paused in the middle of rinsing shampoo from his golden hair. He grinned, and the simple beauty of it hit me in the chest. He didn’t smile at very many people, and I treasured each one I received. Looked forward to the next one, too. But the smile didn’t erase the dark shadows beneath his eyes or the weary way he stood beneath the hot spray.
“Morning,” I said, scooting close enough to get a little water on my skin.
“Hey.” Cole finished rinsing his hair before leaning in for a kiss. “Mmm, coffee.”
“You taste like peppermint.”
“Brushed my teeth first. When I woke up, my mouth tasted like ass.”
The flirty way he said that reminded me exactly why his mouth tasted like that, and my dick pulsed with the memory. Last night was only the second time Cole had ever rimmed me, and it had been fantastic. Rimmed me open and then fucked me senseless.
God. I tried to get my rising cock to calm down.
Unlike me—who’d been up for hours and had ingested half a pot of coffee—Cole simply looked tired. He wasn’t very sexual first thing in the morning, and especially not after a night of bad dreams. We washed together, all elbows and arms and wet skin, a comfortable thing I truly enjoyed. My persistent erection hung around until the end, when Cole stepped out and grabbed a towel.
I palmed some shower gel and took hold of the problem, sliding my fingers around my hot skin, feeling pleasure buzz through my body. Sometimes Cole hung around while I beat off, but this morning the nightmares were really bothering him. I dragged back memories of last night, of the way he’d licked and fingered my opening until I was begging him to fill me with his cock. My hand jerked fast, faster, up and down my length. I slid my left hand around to my crease, down past the faint heat of beard burn to my entrance. Pressed a finger inside, and that was it. I groaned and shot against the tiles, steam rising around me while my orgasm rippled down my spine. Fast and fun, but nowhere near as mind-blowing as Cole coaxing an orgasm out of me.
Cole wasn’t in the bedroom when I finally got out. I dressed for the day in old jeans and a flannel shirt over a white undershirt. We’d be outside in the cold most of the day, so layers were a must.
I found him in the kitchen, mixing a bowl of pancake batter while a mug of coffee cooled on the counter nearby. He looked good there in front of the marble countertop, dressed in the same green sweater he’d worn the first day we met.
When I bought this house and set up the store, I ripped the guts out of the second floor. I decided if I was remodeling anyway, I’d give myself the living space I’d always wanted. That included an open floor plan and an enormous gourmet kitchen.
The wide-eyed surprise on Cole’s face the first time he saw the kitchen was among my favorite nonsexual memories of him.
“I thought we’d need a robust breakfast before a long day of picking,” he said.
“Good call.”
I took the two-sided griddle out of the drawer beneath the broiler and put it flat side up over two burners on the gas range. We went through the motions of making breakfast with the ease of a couple who’d done it for years, when it had barely been months. We ate at the counter, side by side on matching stools.
Our first few weeks together, Cole had torn through his food at every meal as though he expected someone to snatch it away at any moment. And after spending two years on the run, terrified his ex-asshole would find him, never sure when he’d be able to stop, the habit made perfect sense. He always finished before I’d get halfway. Lately, though, he’d slowed his pace, taking the time to really taste and enjoy the meals we prepared together or separately. My habit of chewing each bite a careful fifteen times set my own eating pace far behind the average person—a habit burned into me when I was eight years old.
Watching your childhood best friend choke to death on improperly chewed food would put the fear of asphyxiation into anyone.
Cole drank his coffee while I polished off my final pancake. “How early were you up?” he asked.
“Around five.”
“Because of me again?”
I took extra time chewing a mouthful of pancake and syrup, hating that he’d asked and I wouldn’t lie. He always told me he didn’t remember the nightmares themselves, only the fear and dread left over from them. He knew he’d had bad dreams. “Yes, but it’s fine, babe. You know that.”
He put his mug down and scrubbed both hands over his face hard enough to redden the skin. I almost grabbed his wrists, but he stopped and heaved a weary sigh. “I’m sorry I’m still such a mess.”
“Hey, stop it.” We’d had versions of this conversation biweekly since the auction, and I didn’t know how many more times we could have it before my calm disappeared. I dropped my fork and spun my stool to face him, but he’d already slipped off the other side.
He put the island between us, gaze stuck on the marble surface. I froze, unsure if I should chase him or give him the space he’d taken for himself. Despite the huge strides he’d made toward healing in these last two months or so, he still had a long way to go. I knew that. I’d accepted that. But my patience only stretched so far.
“Cole, it was a nightmare.” Obvious, yes, but at least he was looking at me with his wide blue eyes. “You’ve had them before, and you’ll have more. I don’t care. Losing a few hours of sleep once in a while isn’t a big deal for me.”
“It’s a big deal for me.” He didn’t sound upset. Resigned maybe, and tired. “You shouldn’t have to deal with my shit, let it interrupt your life.”
“Nothing about you being here interrupts my life. Hell, I barely had a life before I met you. You being here makes me happy, Cole. You make me happy. Nightmares are simply your mind’s way of getting out all the bad stuff up there. It’ll take time to work through it all.” Words I’d said before. Words he still needed to hear.
Unless something else was bothering him beyond the nightmare and my two-hour loss of sleep. A chill snaked down my spine. “Are you not happy here?” I asked, dreading the answer once my brain had acknowledged the question. We hadn’t known each other very long, and neither of us had ever used the L-word, but things were good.
Weren’t they?
Cole blinked hard several times. “Of course I’m happy here. I love being here. You make me happy too, Jeremy. I promise.”
“Good.” I didn’t know what I’d have done if he’d said anything else. I didn’t want to know that, ever. “Please, no more apologizing for your nightmares. I’d rather have you screaming yourself awake every night than holding all that shit in, letting it eat you alive. You’re too precious for that to happen, hear me?”
He nodded, his angular face softening with the brightness of his smile. He circled back to me, and I stood so I could sweep him into a hug. My arms cinched tight around his waist and he pressed his face into the crook of my neck, leaning in. I took his weight gladly. I’d always been strong enough to stand for us both.
Cole turned his head. “I hear you, I swear, every time you say I’m precious and you’re happy. I do.”
“Sometimes it just bears repeating.”
“Yeah. Hope you don’t get too sick of repeating yourself.”
I pressed a kiss to the side of his head. “Not sick of it yet.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“Anything, babe.”
WE HIT the road a little after eight. Tisdale’s farm was a good ninety-minute drive north from Franklin, almost on North Carolina’s border with Virginia. Arthur Tisdale had called me up a few days ago, looking for folks interested in buying off his land. I’d wanted to get into his various barns and outbuildings for over two years now, and I’d been denied access every time I’d asked. The excitement of Arthur’s call had been tempered by the reason for it—he’d been handed a “six months, maybe less” diagnosis from his oncologist after his third battle with lung cancer. He needed to start selling so his children didn’t get stuck with sixty years of collecting.
Cole knew all of this, and he still insisted on going with me to the farm.
Watching Cole clean his parents’ hoarded property back in December had been an exercise in patience with a dash of heartache on the side. The job had been too big for one man, and I’d been selfishly glad when he’d agreed to my business proposal: I’d dig out the treasures and sell them for a fee. We’d both made money, he’d gotten the property clear, and here we were, living together in Franklin over my shop. Cole hadn’t come back intending to stay, though, and sometimes I saw the wanderlust in his eyes—times when he didn’t think I was watching.
I didn’t know what I’d do if he decided he wanted to move on.
The closer we got to Tisdale’s, the tenser Cole got. I saw it in the way he sat up straighter, how he balled his hands in his lap. He still got nervous meeting new people, and I had no idea how he’d react to a farm as full of junk as his parents’ had been. I turned off the highway, and soon we were winding along a dirt road into a deeply wooded area. The only sign I was going the right way was a faded blue mailbox with “Tisdale” printed on it in peeling paint.
“Must be the place,” I said, even though it obviously was. From the moment we cleared the line of trees past the mailbox turnoff, the landscape was dotted with machinery—rusted-out cars, trucks missing doors, parts of farm equipment, bike and motorcycle frames. More metal than I could identify, twisted through with weeds and saplings.
“Holy cow,” Cole said. He leaned forward in his seat, peering out the van’s windshield. He seemed more amazed than horrified, and I took that as a good sign.
The dirt track that served as a driveway wound through the weedy, woody terrain, past two rusting sheds and into a circular parking area in front of a farmhouse that wouldn’t be out of place in a horror film. The two-story structure looked one nor’easter away from collapsing, as did the barn a few hundred yards away.
I parked the van behind an ancient Ford pickup, leaving the keys in the ignition, because who was going to steal it way out here? Cole unbuckled his seatbelt, and I did the same, taking my cues from him. I tried to see this collected property from his point of view—as a scary, hoarded mess—but all I saw out there was potential profit.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded and flashed me a smile I knew he didn’t feel, because it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’m good. Let’s go meet Mr. Tisdale.”
Positive he wasn’t ready for this and that bringing him had been a bad idea, I climbed out of the van. The air seemed warmer this deep in the woods, but still had a chill that made me hike up the zipper on my coat. Our van doors slamming shut echoed off the porch. I aimed for the front door.
“Here, you!”
The deep voice boomed behind us and Cole jumped a mile. I squeezed his wrist lightly and then let go. Arthur Tisdale limped toward us from the direction of the barn, leaning heavily on a thick, twisted cane that looked like he’d taken it out of the woods and polished it himself. He was average height and thin as a rail, with bushy white hair and eyebrows.
“You Collins?” he asked when he hobbled nearer.
“Yes, sir, Jeremy Collins,” I replied. “This is Cole Alston.”
We all traded handshakes, and I was impressed with Tisdale’s grip.
“Thank you for allowing us to come up and take a look around your property,” Cole said before I could.
“It’s time, son, it’s time,” Tisdale said. “I ain’t lookin’ to gouge you, but I ain’t givin’ it away either.”
“I’m sure we can work things out to both of our advantages,” I said. “Is there any particular area that’s off-limits for picking?”
“Nope. Y’can even look through the house if ya want. Got lotsa stuff in the attic and cellar too.”
“Can we start there?”
“Sure can.”
The best items were often kept close to the owner, so I wanted to get a look at the attic and his home while I had the most money in my pocket. Cole hesitated at the front door for only a moment, and then he followed us inside the old farmhouse.
BY MIDDAY, I’d rooted through the attic, root cellar, two unused bedrooms, and a messy place downstairs that might have been a den at one time. I’d collected a decent pile of items and spent less money that I expected. Tisdale was incredibly reasonable with pricing his antiques. Cole mostly watched and listened, sometimes asking questions about why I wanted a particular piece. He did, however, find my favorite pick of the day so far, which was an 1862 US Bridesburg musket. The nipple and ramrod were missing, but the musket itself was in fantastic shape for its age. I’d had a collector friend on the hook for one of those for years, and he’d be extremely excited to get a photo of this find e-mailed to him.
Tisdale disappeared into his kitchen while Cole and I loaded the van from the house pick. My stomach was grumbling, those pancakes long gone. We’d packed sandwiches in a cooler, and I was about to suggest we eat before hitting the exterior buildings. Tisdale surprised me by poking his head out the front door and yelling, “Got lunch on. You boys get in here and eat.”
A stockpot of something spicy was bubbling on the old gas range in the kitchen. We helped ourselves to bowls of chili and oyster crackers. Tisdale poured us sweet tea in Mason jars.
“Is there meat in here?” Cole asked.
“You one of those veggie-terrians?” Tisdale replied, and I wasn’t sure if he was exaggerating the word on purpose or not.
“No, sir, I just don’t recognize the flavor.”
“Venison, son. Neighbor brings me meat every autumn. I freeze some, make chili with some. Keeps real well all winter.”
“I’ve never had venison. It’s very good.”
It was extremely good. I’d had venison steaks before, but never in chili. The slightly gamey flavor went well with the beans and spices in the sauce, and I was disappointed when I got too full to eat more.
“You boys go on out to the barn,” Tisdale said. “Gonna wash up and rest awhile. I’ll join ya in a bit.”
We thanked him for our very tasty, very filling lunch and then headed outside. In the bright afternoon sunshine, I finally noticed the strained way Cole walked, like he was forcing himself to take each step. His eyes were pinched, his face a little pale even after eating all that hot chili.
“Are you ready to go?” I asked.
He stopped walking and shook his head. “It’s too soon. You haven’t picked outside yet.”
That hadn’t answered my question. He’d gotten very close to his fill of being around junk-piled rooms and layers of dirt. The barn wasn’t going to be pleasant, and we both had heavy-duty work gloves, but not even hard rubber and work boots could protect his eyes or mind. He’d grown up around this kind of collecting (or hoarding, in his mother’s case), and he’d gotten out, left it behind. Today was his attempt at facing those memories, but he could only stand it for so long.
“You tell me if you need a break, hear me?” I said.
“Yeah.”
The kitchen was on the other side of the house, so I leaned in and kissed him. A gentle, supportive kiss I didn’t dare deepen if I’d wanted to. The last thing I wanted to risk was Tisdale running us off his land with a shotgun if he rabidly disliked the fact that we were a couple.
Except for my best friend Bethann, no one in Franklin knew I was bisexual or that Cole was anything other than a rent-paying roommate. Folks knew I was a widower, that I’d moved to town not long after my wife died of anaphylactic shock, and that I didn’t date. So far, no one seemed to have figured out Cole was gay, and he didn’t advertise the fact. Until Cole, I hadn’t been attracted to a man in a long, long time. He brought out a side of me I’d forgotten, a side I embraced when I was with him. But this thing between us was still so fragile, so uncertain. Not yet permanent.
I wouldn’t out either of us without a long conversation. Living in a small town was safer in the metaphorical closet—at least for now.
The kiss put a little color into Cole’s cheeks, and he smiled.
Our initial investigation into the barn didn’t yield much. Holes in the roof had leaked years’ worth of rain and snow into the rotting structure, destroying anything made of paper, leather, or wood. The metal was rusted. Most of it would be better off at a scrap yard. By the time I dug some bicycle frames out of a somewhat protected stall, Tisdale had joined us again. I bought the frames for a steal.
Cole surprised me by asking for a price on a wooden chair with only three legs. Tisdale looked at me like he was crazy, and I had to admit, I was curious what Cole wanted with a three-legged chair. Tisdale said he could take it for free. Cole pressed some money into his hand, and I saw a flash of Lincoln’s face.
After Cole and I lugged the chair and frames to the van, he grabbed my elbow, his eyes pinched. I knew before he said anything. “You mind if I sit here for a while?”
“You want to leave?” I asked.
“No, I don’t want to interrupt this. It’s your business. I just….” He shook his head, frowning like he’d failed an easy test and couldn’t quite believe it. “I can’t handle more today. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m proud of you for all this.”
“The barn’s just too”—his eyes flashed with some dark memory—“smells too much like my parents’ house, you know? The rot.”
“I get it.” Behind the shield the van provided from the barn, I pulled him into a hug. His heart was pounding rapidly, and I held him a minute until it calmed. I didn’t want to let go because he fit in my arms perfectly, but we were burning daylight and it was a long drive home.
“Find something that’ll make you rich,” he said as I headed back to the barn.
I gave a thumbs-up.
No such luck on the first floor of the barn. Tisdale had a handful of outbuildings to inspect, plus all of the things strewn around the land, but I wanted a peek into his hayloft first. He said he’d put a few old railroad lanterns up there a decade or two ago, and those were always collectible, especially with the glass intact.
The ladder up to the loft was broken in several places, the wood soft in others. I scrambled up fast and the boards groaned beneath my weight. My heart jumped. I shone my flashlight into the gloom, sure this was a bad idea. A lump of moldy cardboard boxes sat a few yards away, across a floor littered with straw and old feed sacks. I picked my way to it, sliding my feet, testing for strength like I was crossing a frozen lake in March.
“You okay up there?” Tisdale yelled somewhere down below.
“Sure thing.”
I inched closer. Wood snapped. I froze, listening.
Snap. Pop.
“Shit.”
I started backing up, and then the whole hayloft floor gave out, and I fell.
I inched closer. Wood snapped. I froze, listening.
Snap. Pop.
“Shit.”
I started backing up, and then the whole hayloft floor gave out, and I fell.
A.M. Arthur was born and raised in the same kind of small town that she likes to write about, a stone's throw from both beach resorts and generational farmland. She's been creating stories in her head since she was a child and scribbling them down nearly as long, in a losing battle to make the fictional voices stop. She credits an early fascination with male friendships (bromance hadn't been coined yet back then) with her later discovery of and subsequent love affair with m/m romance stories. A.M. Arthur's work is available from Carina Press, SMP Swerve, and Briggs-King Books.
When not exorcising the voices in her head, she toils away in a retail job that tests her patience and gives her lots of story fodder. She can also be found in her kitchen, pretending she's an amateur chef and trying to not poison herself or others with her cuisine experiments.
Understanding Jeremy #2
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