smile that never faded, the crinkle of the skin around her eyes,
the birthday cake visible on the table over her shoulder, the hand she had on the
knee of whoever sat beside her just outside the crop of the photo.
Why was she smiling and how long after that moment until she died?
“I"m sorry.”
He ran a thumb over her hair. That hair had been what he was remembering
when the kid sat at the bar next to him, distracting him.
The black-and-white newspaper print left the color of her hair to Lincoln"s
memory. Long and red, framing her face, fanning out over the highway where she
lay contorted, the red hair with a deeper shade of red sticking to it, matting it to her
face. He"d never forget how she looked in that moment.
The note sat across the room on the empty plate, mashed potato remnants
seeping through to leave dark blotches here and there.
Seemed like someone wanted to make sure he never forgot.
He scoffed out loud. Fat chance.
But he had to forget. Didn"t he? He had to stop reliving every detail. Nancy
was counting on him. He couldn"t keep a job if he couldn"t stay sober.
He should take the notes and the photo to the cops. Nothing in the threats
were specific, but it still had to be illegal—harassment if nothing else.
Hell, the cops would probably just laugh at his ass. It wasn"t like anyone had
come after Lincoln. They were only words. Sent by her husband, no doubt. Lincoln
had already done enough to the man. He didn"t need to send the cops to his house.
He couldn"t blame the man for hating him.
He tucked the obituary and the new photo into his wallet and hid the note in
the nightstand drawer with the other letters. He stripped off his clothes, turned off
Breathe
33
the light, and crawled onto the bed, forcing himself to think of something else—
anything else.
The kid from the bar. That"d work.
The light hair that looked like someone had run his fingers through it. The
hint of toned muscles just starting to soften or fade, like a young man who had kept
fit all his life but no longer bothered. The nervous eyes that confirmed the kid"s
touch. He was gay but new to the experience.
Lincoln took his dick in his hand and gave a few strokes to encourage his
arousal. It didn"t take much time. Not with the image of the kid kneeling before
him, that tempting mouth on his dick.
He came, his body pulsating, his mind clearing of everything except the guy
staring up at him, licking the cum off his lips.
If only that release lasted as long as the whiskey.
If only it were enough to chase away the question that lingered. Were the
threats he"d received the empty words of a grieving husband—words Lincoln
deserved—or was someone about to make him pay more than he already had?
* * *
Jay opened the door and tripped over the stack of empty pizza boxes he"d left
there the night before, a reminder to take them out with the rest of the garbage.
Too bad trash collection was three days earlier.
One year she"d been gone, and he still couldn"t get the schedule right. How
hard was it to remember one lousy day a week? Good thing he"d dropped out of
college the week after the funeral. Apparently when your wife died, your brain cells
died with her.
That was the only way to explain what he"d done at the bar. He"d been coming
on to that guy. No doubt about that. Jay kicked the pizza boxes aside and staggered
to the kitchen sink.
He couldn"t deny his attraction to the dark-haired man. Was it because he was
the first gay guy Jay had talked to? Or was it the serious eyes, the dark skin, the
way the man"s throat worked as he swallowed long gulps of the beer?
What must it be like for a gay man like Dark Eyes living in a small town?
There were no gay bars for him to patronize. How did he find other men? Was he as
lonely as Jay? And why did Jay care about the man"s emotional or sexual state
anyway?
He flipped on the light above the kitchen sink and squinted as he opened the
cupboard. No
the birthday cake visible on the table over her shoulder, the hand she had on the
knee of whoever sat beside her just outside the crop of the photo.
Why was she smiling and how long after that moment until she died?
“I"m sorry.”
He ran a thumb over her hair. That hair had been what he was remembering
when the kid sat at the bar next to him, distracting him.
The black-and-white newspaper print left the color of her hair to Lincoln"s
memory. Long and red, framing her face, fanning out over the highway where she
lay contorted, the red hair with a deeper shade of red sticking to it, matting it to her
face. He"d never forget how she looked in that moment.
The note sat across the room on the empty plate, mashed potato remnants
seeping through to leave dark blotches here and there.
Seemed like someone wanted to make sure he never forgot.
He scoffed out loud. Fat chance.
But he had to forget. Didn"t he? He had to stop reliving every detail. Nancy
was counting on him. He couldn"t keep a job if he couldn"t stay sober.
He should take the notes and the photo to the cops. Nothing in the threats
were specific, but it still had to be illegal—harassment if nothing else.
Hell, the cops would probably just laugh at his ass. It wasn"t like anyone had
come after Lincoln. They were only words. Sent by her husband, no doubt. Lincoln
had already done enough to the man. He didn"t need to send the cops to his house.
He couldn"t blame the man for hating him.
He tucked the obituary and the new photo into his wallet and hid the note in
the nightstand drawer with the other letters. He stripped off his clothes, turned off
Breathe
33
the light, and crawled onto the bed, forcing himself to think of something else—
anything else.
The kid from the bar. That"d work.
The light hair that looked like someone had run his fingers through it. The
hint of toned muscles just starting to soften or fade, like a young man who had kept
fit all his life but no longer bothered. The nervous eyes that confirmed the kid"s
touch. He was gay but new to the experience.
Lincoln took his dick in his hand and gave a few strokes to encourage his
arousal. It didn"t take much time. Not with the image of the kid kneeling before
him, that tempting mouth on his dick.
He came, his body pulsating, his mind clearing of everything except the guy
staring up at him, licking the cum off his lips.
If only that release lasted as long as the whiskey.
If only it were enough to chase away the question that lingered. Were the
threats he"d received the empty words of a grieving husband—words Lincoln
deserved—or was someone about to make him pay more than he already had?
* * *
Jay opened the door and tripped over the stack of empty pizza boxes he"d left
there the night before, a reminder to take them out with the rest of the garbage.
Too bad trash collection was three days earlier.
One year she"d been gone, and he still couldn"t get the schedule right. How
hard was it to remember one lousy day a week? Good thing he"d dropped out of
college the week after the funeral. Apparently when your wife died, your brain cells
died with her.
That was the only way to explain what he"d done at the bar. He"d been coming
on to that guy. No doubt about that. Jay kicked the pizza boxes aside and staggered
to the kitchen sink.
He couldn"t deny his attraction to the dark-haired man. Was it because he was
the first gay guy Jay had talked to? Or was it the serious eyes, the dark skin, the
way the man"s throat worked as he swallowed long gulps of the beer?
What must it be like for a gay man like Dark Eyes living in a small town?
There were no gay bars for him to patronize. How did he find other men? Was he as
lonely as Jay? And why did Jay care about the man"s emotional or sexual state
anyway?
He flipped on the light above the kitchen sink and squinted as he opened the
cupboard. No
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