A Friend in the Dark - Gregory Ashe Page 0,33

chasing him with kisses. That hand played with the hem of Rufus’s T-shirt, inching it up, the fingers tracing what felt like a sunrise across Rufus’s belly, an arc of heat and light that made Rufus want to squeeze his eyes shut. Sam rucked up the shirt higher, splaying one hand across Rufus’s chest, the calluses sending Rufus’s brain into overdrive, and he remembered reading A Brief Guide to the Ancient World, and the index, pumice, erotic uses of, and then Sam was pulling back.

Rufus was flying. And not the brief suspension before the lurch, the fall, the pop and snap, but like he was a projectile from a slingshot. Falling up into the stars, rocketing through the troposphere, the stratosphere, still going—still flying.

Grinning, Sam drew his touch back to fingertips, tracing something on Rufus’s chest. “Freckles,” he whispered, leaning down for another kiss. His lips touched Rufus’s.

Freckles.

Maddie’s voice cut through the static in Rufus’s brain, echoing that nickname over and over. Then it was like someone had switched the knob on an old television and the black-and-white snow was replaced with images of his surreal day. Eating at BlueMoon with Sam watching him from across the table. Rummaging through Natalie’s bedroom. Tromping through Alphabet City. Sam working that beanie back over Rufus’s hair. Yankee’s gurgling last breaths. Heckler pocketing Jake’s missing phone.

“Stop,” Rufus said, crashing back to earth breathless and panicked. “Hang on.”

Sam stopped, but he had that little furrow again, the one that had made Rufus think about crossword puzzles in bed. The cute one, although Rufus shoved the thought away as soon as it came.

“What?” Sam asked.

“Jake’s dead. And his killer had his own brains blown out. I can’t do this right now.”

Stretching back, Sam worked his shoulders. Rufus was suddenly reminded of how big Sam was, towering over him like that. “Ok,” Sam said slowly. “But it’s just a fuck.”

There it is, Rufus thought. Like every guy before Sam he’d dropped trou for. “Yeah. Just a fuck.” Rufus shimmied out from underneath and got to his feet. That nervous sense of hope that’d been growing like a balloon in his chest popped like a needle had pricked it.

Riffling his hair, Sam stared at him. “What’s going on with you? We’re both feeling shitty. I’m horny. You desperately need to get boned. I don’t get what the big deal is.” Then Sam rolled one huge shoulder. “Besides, you’re so damn cute, the way you get protective and go on and on.”

Rufus had turned to stare at Sam as he spoke, a line working its way between his brows as he frowned. “No, thanks,” he said simply.

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“It’s just sex, Rufus. It’s supposed to be fun. A way to blow off some steam. Feel alive.”

“I know how dopamine works—don’t talk to me like I’m stupid.”

Something had changed in the room.

Sam slid off the bed. “Yeah,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Forget it.” Rufus walked toward the bathroom. “You can stay,” he called over his shoulder. “But no sex.” Then he closed the door, locked it, and sat on the toilet lid.

Heavy steps moved in the other room, and then Sam’s voice filtered through the closed door. “Probably better if I find somewhere else tonight.”

Rufus wiped his nose on the back of his hand and said, “There’s a… a YMCA on the West Side. Cheap hostel rooms.”

“Yeah, thanks.” The silence that followed was its own kind of thunder, and then Sam said, “Are you ok? Like, can I get you something? Do something?”

“I’m fine,” Rufus told the door. “But promise you won’t go running off half-cocked tomorrow without at least saying something to me first.”

The doorknob jittered, as though Sam might have tested it—or maybe just bumped it. When Sam spoke, it was that same locked-down voice that gave nothing away. “I think it might be better if we go our own ways. I don’t want to drag you into something. You should lie low for a few days. Take a trip or something. And….” More of that tremendous silence. “Thanks.”

Then the steps moved away, and the apartment’s front door opened and closed, and the old boards in the hallway creaked away from the room.

Rufus stared at his hands until they’d gotten so blurry, he couldn’t see more than something abstract—like the hands Pablo Picasso would paint. And it pissed him off that Sam walking out that door could make Rufus cry like Alice had during her adventures in Wonderland.

CHAPTER TEN

Sam walked west—he figured west was the best way to get to the