Owen
Chapter 15
by Roy Reinikainen
Katherine Verner, Owen's landlady, looked terrible, a shrunken shadow of her normal self, huddled beneath a pile of blankets, propped up with several pillows, the several tubes and wires sneaking out from beneath the blankets carrying information about her well being to instruments surrounding the head of her bed. 'But,' Owen told himself, 'at least she was awake.' Gunther, her husband, lay in the next room, looking worse than his wife. He had yet to wake up after his and Katherine's harrowing escape from their burning house.
The old woman's grey-white hair was in total disarray, the deep lines of her face, each with its own story to tell, made her a forlorn figure surrounded by the beeps, clicks, and clacks of the various electronic gadgetry.
She gave Owen a feeble smile as he sat at her bedside, holding her hand, and acknowledged Lucas' presence with a slight crinkling at the corners of her eyes and hint of a tired smile.
Suddenly, the jagged line read-outs of the monitors spiked, her eyes flashed and her grip on Owen's hand strengthened. "Damn that man for being so stingy," she complained, the barest hint of her German accent still detectable.
Owen looked up in alarm, first at the jagged lines and flashing numbers, then turned to the nurse who came running into the room, trailing a wide-eyed assistant. "I'm alright, nurse," Katherine snapped at the young woman. "I'm just sorely upset with my husband." Her features smoothed for a moment.
"The old man is doing okay, is he?" she asked the young woman.
"Yes, ma'am," the nurse responded, adjusting the machinery, her follower retreating back into the hallway.
"He'll recover?" Katherine Verner probed, trying to follow the nurse with her eyes as the woman bustled from one machine to another. When the nurse confirmed this as well, the old woman's eyebrows lowered, her irritation returning in full force.
"Good," she spat. "Then I'll be able to tell him exactly what I think of him and his penny-pinching ways." She heaved a deep breath, causing the numbers on a couple of the machines to flash. "The old goat," she grumbled, giving Owen the barest hint of a satisfied grin.
The nurse shook her head and reset the monitors, checked the various tubes leading both into and out of Mrs. Verner, then left the room with a backward glance at the two young men who sat at the elderly woman's bedside.
"Why are you upset with your husband, Mrs. Verner?" Lucas asked, leaning closer, so she wouldn't have to squint to see him. "You were both lucky to escape the fire. The police officer we spoke with told us he was amazed that people your age could get out of the building with no more injuries than you suffered."
"Yes, well . . ." Mrs. Verner chuckled, seeming to mellow her mood. "Gunther and I can move fast, if we must." She tried to stifle a rattling cough, which belied her claim that she was feeling fine. "We can move fast. I'm just glad we don't have to very often." Her eyes crinkled. "Lemme tell you, boys, there's nothing like a blazing inferno lapping at your heels to make one decide they'd better turn on the afterburners." She chuckled. "Why, I'd be willing to bet that I scorched my . . ." She hesitated, her eyes shifting from side to side. "Well, let's just say I like the heat, but not that much heat, or so close." Her feeble laugh degenerated into a worrisome, rattling cough.
"Katherine," Owen asked, resting a hand on her forehead after brushing a wispy strand of hair back away from her face. It was a gesture he often saw his mother make, and for some reason it comforted him. "Why are you upset with Gunther?"
"I told the old goat to get the wiring fixed," she groused, her voice rising as she spoke, "but, noooo, it would be too expensive." She looked toward Lucas, seeming to deflate as the jagged lines on the monitors danced a sawtoothed course across the screens. "We're on a fixed income, y'see, and I'll admit it would have been expensive to have everything redone, but now this happens, and look where we are." She snuggled down into the blankets. "At least I'm warm."
"You mean, you think an electrical short started the fire at your house?" Owen asked.
Katherine rolled her head from side to side. "I don't know about a short, or even what that means. I think the fire started with that old portable heater of Gunther's. The thing should have been tossed years ago.
"You know," she glanced in Lucas' direction. "I'd be willing to bet ol' Gunther has the first dollar he ever earned, stashed someplace. The old tightwad. It could have been the electric, I suppose," she continued, in a rapid return to the subject, "but it could just as easily have been him putting the fool thing too close to the bedroom drapes, or something." She sank back into the pillows, exhausted.
"We'll never know for sure, I guess."
"The police and your neighbors seem to think the fire was intentionally set by someone who was at your place a few minutes before the neighbors noticed the fire." Lucas watched for her reaction to Owen's statement.
Katherine lowered her brows and focused intently on Owen. "You mean that snooty fellow who's been giving you all that trouble, showing up at weird times and looking into your windows?" Owen nodded, ignoring Lucas' sharp jab of attention.
"Nope," she said, giving her head a decisive shake. "Couldn't have been him." She glanced toward Lucas. "He was out there pounding on Owen's door just as the wind was picking up and it was beginning t'snow. Gunther went out onto the porch to see what was the problem. Let in lots of cold air, he did, what with the wind. And, it was beginning to snow," she repeated, shivering. "I hate winter." Owen tried to suppress a grin as the old woman repeated what he'd been telling Lucas for the past couple days.
"Gunther assured the young man Owen wasn't home. He was at school and wouldn't get home till after eight. Always calls us, he does, to see if there's anything Gunther or I need. So . . . ," she continued. "It wasn't after eight. We hadn't gotten a call, so we knew he wasn't at home." Katherine Verner's eyes flashed.
"The snooty little bugger got all indignant and huffy, and stomped off, saying he had a date, or something. By then it was blowing hard and it was snowing bad, and 'course I was complaining." She grimaced. "That's when Gunther drug out that infernal electric heater of his." Her eyes flashed.
"Damn thing sparks every time it's plugged in. Now, look where we are, in a hospital, homeless, just because I griped about the cold." She looked from Lucas to Owen.
"Don't get old, boys. Getting old is not for the faint of heart. It seems to be cold all the time. It's scary. Getting old, that is. I never thought I'd get old, but look at me! Sometime, when I wasn't looking, old age just snuck up on me." She grinned. "I'm still a young woman inside this wrinkled old shell." Her face took on a calculating look. "Now Gunther . . . hmm . . . I'm not sure if he still feels young inside." She heaved a sigh. "I guess I should admit to myself that I'm an old lady, who's cold and afraid. Me, I'm scared of something, most of the time." She looked around the room and then down at her arm and the plastic tubing, as if seeing it for the first time, a wart grown unnoticed. Her lips twisted and she shook her head in resignation.
"You stay safe, Owen." She smiled. "Thank you for coming to visit. My daughter is going to take Gunther and me in. She was here a little before you boys arrived. It'll be warm there." She frowned.
"Do you have someplace to live, sweetheart?" She focused on the man holding her hand.
Owen grinned. "Yes ma'am. I do." He glanced up at Lucas. "My friend, here, rescued me. I'm stayin' at his place for a while."
Katherine Verner's eyes focused on Lucas. "You're the young man Owen spoke of? The one that was so nice to him at the airport?" She reached out and took Lucas' hand.
"Yes ma'am, though I didn't really rescue him. I just helped him out a little."
"Good for you, Lucas," she said with some force. "Owen is a good person to know, and a better person to have as a friend." She smiled at them both and then seemed to relax.
"Now, boys, I'm tired. Thanks for visiting, and for the flowers. I'll let Gunther know you've been by. He'll be happy to know you're okay, Owen, and that you've got someone looking out after you."
First Owen, and then Lucas, leaned over the bed's railing and kissed her forehead. "You get well, Mrs. Verner," Lucas urged. "Once your husband's up and around, you both'll have to come visit Owen and me at our place."
"It's warm?"
"We can make it as warm as you want," Lucas laughed.
"Good," she smiled, her eyelids drooping. "I accept. We'll be there."
Sam closed the mailbox then turned and headed back toward the house, his feet crunching on the gravel drive. 'Something has happened,' he told himself. 'Three days without a letter! Owen's never gone three days without a letter, even when he was in the middle of studying for tests.'
"Something has happened." He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. The last he'd heard, Owen was planning on spending Thanksgiving with Lucas, one of his friends from school, and his family.
"I know I'm gonna feel out of place," he'd worried, in his letter to Sam. "Lucas and his folks probably have more money than everyone in Riverton put together, and there I'll be, a country boy, not sure which fork to use, or which glass to drink from.
"It's like that a lot, Sam," he'd written. "I try to fit in, yet I know I don't. I'm sorta like the McKenzie's chickens. Remember?" Sam could almost hear Owen's laughter, as he continued. "I'm sorta like that goose of theirs that was adopted by the chickens. I never have figured out how that happened. Anyhow, that's me. I'm the goose, surrounded by a bunch of rich chickens. They all know how to behave, and I feel like some big clunky goose.
"Still . . ." He'd continued. "I'm sure they're going to have some good food. I don't eat nearly as well as I'd like. Everything's so expensive! And, it's so damned cold. My jacket's not nearly warm enough, but it's all I've got.
"I've been savin' whatever I can, so I can buy the girls and Jonah a nice gift. I promised Opie that I'd bring her something whenever I come home.
"I miss you, Sam, more'n I can say. There's not a minute that goes by that I'm not missin' you and wondering how you're doing. Until tomorrow," he'd concluded. "I love you."
"I tell you, Jonathan." Maxine Hyder lowered her voice and leaned across the grocery store counter, glancing from one side to the other to see if anyone else might be within hearing distance. "That doctor seems to fancy Bea, always asking how things are going at home, and stuff like that. As if how things were going were any business of his," she huffed, drawing herself up in righteous indignation.
"If I were you, I'd watch him whenever he's around your wife. No tellin' what a man like that might do."
"Do?" Jonathan asked.
"You know." Maxine glanced from side to side and lowered her voice. "Why would a man his age not be married and have a slew of kids running around causing havoc for everyone? I'll just let you think on that one," she finished, standing straight and crossing her arms, giving him a meaningful glance and nod of her head.
"Why, I've heard stories that'd curl your hair." She glanced at Jonathan, and amended her statement. "If you had any, that is." She smiled.
"'Bout the doctor, those stories are . . ."
Maxine gave him a knowing look and shrugged.
"Seems, on one hand." Jonathan seemed to struggle with his thoughts. "Seems, you're callin' him a fag on one hand, and saying he's diddling my wife, on the other. Doesn't seem to be a guy can do both. He's either or. So, which is it?"
Maxine slowly shook her head looking sorely disappointed. "Jonathan, Jonathan, Jonathan," she murmured. "You've not got any imagination!"
The stone-faced woman paused to press a quick key-code, and the metal door swung pen, revealing a stark room, furnished with a battered wooden table and four equally battered wooden chairs. The woman stepped aside, a silent invitation for Owen and Lucas to enter.
"Gentlemen," she murmured. "Mr. Wilkins will be here shortly. He's being brought from his cell."
After a quick glance at one another, the two men gingerly sidled past the guard, into the sterile room, both jumping in surprise when the door clicked shut. Lucas noticed Owen appeared to be as ill at ease as he.
"Cell?" Lucas murmured, looking around. "Do you suppose it's more dreary than this?" He gestured to the brightly lit, tile-floored room. Without waiting for an answer, he continued. "Whatever it's like, it's not what Bailey's accustomed to." He held out a placating hand.
"Okay. I know that look. It's the same one my mother perfected when I was a child. I'll behave myself." He pulled out a chair and lowered himself onto the seat.
"I wonder if anyone has told Bailey that Mrs. Verner has spoken with the police, and told them she didn't believe he could not possibly be responsible for the fire."
After making a circuit of the small room, Owen joined Lucas, making a face as he sat. "I'm a little tender," he explained, squirming slightly, and grinning at Lucas' pleased smile. "That thing of yours should be declared a dangerous weapon." He winked and grinned. "Of course, if I didn't invite you to use your weapon on me so many times during the past day, I wouldn't be feeling like you're still inside me."
He fidgeted slightly, finally finding comfortable position. "I don't know how the police work things," he continued, returning to his earlier thoughts. "It's been three days since she told you and me. The police would certainly have had enough time to get the same information. I'm sure they interviewed her, as soon as they found out she was awake." He turned toward Lucas. "Mrs. Verner sort of fades in and out, going from one thought to another. If the police didn't have a lot of patience, they may not have gotten the whole story."
"Imagine. Four nights in this place." Lucas tried to suppress a shudder at the thought. "I imagine he'll be letting everyone know how badly he's being treated."
Before Owen could do more than give Lucas an exasperated look, a door opened and Bailey shuffled into the room, his orange slippers one size too large for his feet, dragging the floor. Bailey's eyes widened slightly as both Owen and Lucas stood, shock written on their faces.
His eyes were dull and sunken, above dark smudges. He nervously ran his fingers through his short hair, in a vain effort to coax it into place, and compressed his lips, drawing from a well of courage he never knew he possessed, to stand straight and meet his visitors. He paused a moment, then entered the room, giving no indication that he heard the metal door close behind him.
The orange jumpsuit was rumpled and had dark stains beneath each arm pit. Its sleeves and pant legs were sloppily rolled up, while the closely-clipped hair of Bailey's chest was visible at the open collar.
Bailey held out a warning hand as Owen moved to give him a hug.
"You're supposed to stay on that side of the table" he warned, his voice rough with disuse. "Though I appreciate the thought." He cleared his throat, and appeared to try and work some moisture into his dry mouth. His gaze shifted to Lucas, who made an effort to hide his surprise at his friend's appearance.
"Hello, Lucas," Bailey acknowledged Lucas' nod and nervous smile of greeting. "Thank you . . . both, for coming to visit." He tilted his head in the direction of the door he had come through. "It's wonderful to get out of that place . . . even for just a few minutes." He huffed a silent laugh, as he took an available chair and sat with a tired umph. Lucas and Owen slowly followed his lead.
"My father visited for a short while yesterday," Bailey explained, "but stayed only a few minutes. We stared at one another. Neither of us knew quite what to say to one another . . . under the circumstances. I . . ." He hesitated, color darkening his cheeks. "I was angry that he might even consider the possibility of me doing something like what I've been accused of. I imagine he was looking at me with disappointment." He sighed. "I'm not the son he would like me to be. So," Bailey concluded. "we sat in silence for a few moments until he felt as if he'd done his duty, then we both happily parted ways."
"We'll stay as long as we're allowed," Owen promised. "Right now, there's nothing more important than visiting with you." He glanced toward Lucas . "You're our friend, and we want to give you whatever support we can."
Bailey blinked twice and opened his mouth, as if to speak, but bowed his head instead, overcome with emotion.
"Are you doing okay?" Lucas asked, his voice low. He was more moved by Bailey's situation, and appearance, than he would have thought possible.
"I've been better, but I can see how things could be much worse than they are. It took a couple days . . . and nights, to arrive at that conclusion." He took a deep breath, absently toying with the folded sleeve of his jumpsuit. "So, I guess . . . overall, I'd have to say I'm doing as well as can be expected."
He stared at a point on the opposite side of the room, and spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. "No one has beaten me . . . or raped me. I'm thankful for that." He missed Owen and Lucas' quick glance at one another. Bailey continued. "There have been some fights, though. In other cells," he added, as an afterthought. "They have me in a cell by myself.
"I don't know about other people being raped, or things. Maybe that's what the screams at night are all about . . . and the vomiting." He looked up, with haunted eyes. "I don't know." He opened a hand in helplessness, where it rested on the table, then slowly closed his trembling fingers.
He tried to grin, a crooked twisting of his lips. "Your visit is . . . more than I would have expected, considering our past history." He lowered his head. "Thank you . . . both . . . for thinking of me."
"Lucas," Owen turned to his friend. "Would you mind if Bailey and I have a little talk . . . just the two of us?" Lucas noticed Bailey flick a curious glance in Owen's direction. Up to that point Bailey had been sitting in total dejection on the opposite side of the table, looking at anything but the men sitting across from him. Lucas licked his lips, glanced at Bailey then Owen before he slid out of his chair. At his knock, a guard opened the door and looked inside. Lucas spoke to him for a moment then left, with a backward glance over his shoulder.
Bailey faced Owen, stripped of his finery. He'd obviously not shaved or slept well during the past four nights, during which he'd awaited whatever fate would serve. He smelled of fear and confusion, and though he tried to hide it, he trembled with exhaustion and dread.
He faced Owen with hands clasped on top of the table, trying his best to act calm and collected, the master of his surroundings. It was an act he soon seemed to realize he could not master, and gave up, sinking back into his chair.
Owen gently rested a hand atop Bailey's, causing the man's eyes to widen.
"You're not supposed to do that," he warned.
"Let them try and stop me," Owen grumbled. "You need a comforting touch." He tightened his fingers. "You're not alone, Bailey. Maybe Lucas and I, and your father, are not with you . . . in your cell, but we are with you." He took a deep breath. "That may not offer much comfort, but you are not alone. Don't be angry with your father. I'm sure he's doing whatever he can to see that you're out of here as soon as possible. He just . . ." Owen shrugged. "I know it's not the same, but this whole thing is difficult for him and your mother too."
Bailey tried to speak, but gave up, mouthing his thank you, rather than trust his voice.
"Be honest with me, okay?" Owen murmured, not removing his hand. After a moment's hesitation, Bailey jerked a nod and moistened his lips.
"Why do you act the way you do?" Before Bailey had an opportunity to respond, Owen continued. "I know that's not what you expected me to ask, but I think it's a really important question that you need to think about before you leave here. I mean, you've got everything in the world going in your favor. You're a nice looking man; you're rich; I'm sure you can't be dumb; you've got every opportunity possible at your disposal. Why . . .?" Owen seemed at a loss for words.
Bailey studied the far wall of the room. When he opened his mouth to speak, Owen interrupted with both his voice and a squeeze of Bailey's hand.
"An honest answer . . . remember? No one's here but you 'n me, and no matter what, I will not repeat anything you tell me."
Bailey retreated into a longer silence, closed his eyes, and bowed his head. His first attempt to speak was not much more than a hoarse croak. He cleared his throat and gave Owen a pleading look, but looked away when it became obvious Owen would accept nothing but the truth. He took a deep breath and began speaking in a voice barely louder than the room's ventilation system.
"I . . ." He swallowed. "I don't." He swallowed again. "I don't want to be alone." He lowered his eyes and bit his lip. "I'm not talking about in here." He gestured vaguely with his free hand to the room, and the jail as a whole. "I'm happy about being alone, here. It's in the outside world where I'm afraid of being alone. I'm afraid no one will like me." He looked up with a determined look.
"I mean, look at me, Owen." He glanced at the man across the table, as if seeking permission to use his name. Owen nodded once and gave him an encouraging squeeze of his hand.
"I've got nothing but money." He shook his head. "Oh, okay, I'm decent looking, but I've got nothing to offer someone, compared with someone like Lucas." He paused, "or you. You say I'm smart." He huffed a silent laugh. "I'm not. It's an act." He continued to study the opposite side of the room.
"An act," he repeated. "Just like my whole life." Owen silently waited for him to continue. "I've played the part of Bailey-the-dandy for so long, it has become reality for me." He held up a placating hand, removing his hand from beneath Owen's.
"Okay . . . okay. Honest, right?" Owen nodded.
"Not all of the dandy act is an act. I . . ." He seemed to lower his voice even further.
"I'm afraid no one will like me if I don't flaunt my money, or car, or whatever. If I don't . . . stand out . . . I'll just fade into the background. No one will notice me. I already know that no one likes me. That's a given." He heaved a shrug. "I've got nothing to offer someone." He looked up.
"I mean, look at you! You're so . . . natural. You attract friends without even trying. I've watched you, you know?" Owen nodded. "You're always smiling, always surrounded by people who enjoy your company. You laugh. You make others laugh. They want to be around you, to touch you." Bailey bowed his head. "I know what those people are feeling. I've felt it too. You're somebody special. You don't have money, or a fancy car, or any of the things I grew up with, yet look at you. Everyone wants to be your friend."
"I have my bad days too, Bailey. Everyone does." Owen linked his fingers with Bailey's.
"There's no pretense in your soul, Owen. You are exactly as you appear. You're refreshing. Lucas sees it. Everyone sees it the moment they meet you. You . . . you . . . engulf . . . them with . . ." He searched for the correct word and seemed to pull it out of the air. "You surround them with niceness!" His voice had risen, causing him to glance around to see if someone would complain.
"I mean, look at what you're doing today. You didn't have to come all the way downtown just to see me. You didn't have to do what you're doing right now . . . sit here with me and be . . . nice." His eyes flicked to their linked fingers. "You didn't have to touch me." His voice lowered, becoming introspective.
"I wouldn't have done the same for you." He glanced up and then at his fingers, linked with Owen's. "Not a pretty picture is it? Me, I mean."
"Bailey . . . I believe you've got the wrong picture of yourself." Bailey raised his eyebrows, asking for an explanation. "Have you ever thought that you're trying too hard? So you call yourself a dandy. Nothing's wrong with that. But why try'n be more of a dandy than you really are? No one can fault being well groomed or wearing nice clothes, but there's a difference between being well turned out, and the image of yourself you show the world. Allow yourself to be less than perfect . . . at least once in a while. Try to relax a little. Try to smile from time to time. The world will not end if you fail at something you attempt, a time or two. Don't try to control everything and everyone around you." Owen looked around the spartan room and grinned. "Learn something from every opportunity. Even this one.
"The clothes you're wearing; the place you've been sleepin'; everything that you've experienced the last few days; let these things make Bailey a better man." Owen leaned forward.
"Learn to laugh. Learn to tease and have fun. Smile. Don't look so serious all the time."
"I . . . I can't do all that."
Owen held up a restraining hand. "Of course not. Not right away, at least. Take things in small steps. Start off by tryin' to smile. Allow yourself to not appear perfectly groomed . . . once in awhile. Don't try to impress people with your privilege. People want to make friends. If you give people the slightest chance, they'll be your friend. Don't talk about yourself all the time. Show some interest in what the person you're talking to does, or what they think about . . . whatever. They'll love it. Learn to listen.
"Oh, I know, it'll be hard, but remember you're not creatin' a whole new person." Owen grinned, and then winked. "You're just fine tunin' the man that already exists.
"Deep down, you're a good man. I would consider it an honor to be your friend. But, you have to understand that I can be your friend, nothing more, just like I am Lucas' friend. The man I love is back home.
"I know what you mean by feelin' afraid and alone. I feel that way all the time. Right now, I'm in a place that's alien to me. It's no fun bein' afraid. It's no fun bein' alone. You have no reason to be either . . . afraid, or alone. You're home, surrounded by the people and things you know."
Owen ignored the tear as it left a shiny trail over Bailey's cheek.
"Now," Owen said in a decisive voice. "Enough of me preachin' at you. I'm thinkin' you've received the message. So, stand up and let me give you a hug."
Bailey scooted his chair back and stood, unconsciously trying to smooth out the wrinkles of his jump suit. When he realized what he was doing, he let his hand hang at his side and grinned. It was a jerky attempt at first, but he was a quick study, and the tentative grin settled into a shy smile.
"Thank you, Owen . . ." He took a convulsive swallow. "For taking time to talk to me. I'll do my best to repaint Bailey in more friendly colors." When their embrace ended, he said. "Thank you also for being my friend. Having just one, I don't feel quite so alone."
Owen squeezed his shoulder. "Soon, you'll have many more, I'm sure."
Bailey wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jumpsuit and gave Owen another tentative smile. "I hope so. I'll . . . try . . . to do what you've urged."
They both looked up as a police officer opened the door and stuck her head into the room. "Time's up, gentlemen."
Bailey acknowledged the officer. "Thanks, my . . . friend," he said, as he passed Owen, sniffing as he and the officer left the room. He nodded a farewell to Lucas, who had stood when the door to the room opened, then followed the police officer, seemingly at peace with himself. Owen followed Bailey out of the room, glancing in the direction of his retreating back. He was walking calmly, standing tall.
Lucas followed Owen's gaze, then smiled when Owen draped an arm over his shoulder. "What happened in there?"
"Nothing much," Owen responded, slipping on his winter coat and urging Lucas toward the reception area. "Bailey and I just talked about . . . things."
"Things? What sort of things?"
"Lucas," he murmured, nudging his friend with his hip. "Don't push. We just had a heart-to-heart talk, and I'm feelin' good. In fact, I need food," he concluded, changing the subject.
"What's Chinese food taste like?" He ushered Lucas out into the blustery afternoon. "Do the Chinese enjoy gooey desserts?"
Bailey could feel Owen's and Lucas' eyes on him as he was escorted back to his cell. He squared his shoulders, straightened his back, and took even steps, not looking back. For some reason he couldn't quite identify, he felt good . . . almost giddy.
Owen, the man he'd chased after for so long, had told him that he'd like for the two of them to be friends. 'Friends,' Bailey exulted, stepping into his cell and sitting on the edge of the squeaky bed, resting his elbows on his knees. 'No one has ever asked to be my friend.'
The good feeling seemed to spread throughout his chest. 'And he means it! He's not just saying it to make me feel good.'
Bailey leaned forward, covering his face with his hands. 'I treated him so badly. I've given him not a single reason to treat me well, yet he does.' Bailey lay back, propping himself up on his elbows, staring into the distance.
"Friends!" he said aloud, as he lay flat on his back, his exhaustion disappearing, to be replaced with a feeling of contentment. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry, or both.
'He thinks I can change from what I've been . . . from the way I've behaved.' He studied the ceiling of his cell. 'Is he right? Has the way I've always behaved been an act, or is it the real me? And, if it is the real me, do I have the courage to change?' He closed his eyes, recalling the sincerity in Owen's face. 'He thinks I can do it. He thinks there's someone inside me that is worthy of being his friend.'
Bailey bit his lower lip. 'I don't know if he's correct, but I'm damned well going to try to find that person, for his sake . . . and for mine.'
Bailey interlaced his fingers, cradling his head as his feeling of well being continued to grow. "Friends," he murmured, closing his eyes and surrendering himself to the first peaceful sleep he'd had since he arrived in jail.
Sam knelt near the foot of the bed, the bed clothes tangled beneath his knees. Jonah lay in front of him, on his back, one leg on either side of Sam, his knees slightly bent. The corners of his slightly parted lips were curved upward in a satisfied smile.
"Damn, that was good," he grinned, trying to catch his breath as he watched Sam through slitted eyes. His softening penis twitched and oozed a thick dollop of sperm onto his belly as he watched Sam drool the load he'd just sucked from Jonah, onto his hand.
"Oh yeah," he murmured, as Sam began to slowly masturbate himself using Jonah's sperm for lubrication. "Can I make it better for you?" he asked. "Tell me what you want me to do."
"Wanna see your butt hole," Sam managed, his eyes never leaving Jonah's. "I want to spray against your hole."
"Hot damn!" Jonah scrambled into a new position. "Like this?" he asked, resting his head and shoulders on the pillows, damp with the sweat of their earlier lovemaking. He inhaled deeply. 'Sam sleeps with these pillows,' he thought. The scent seemed to trigger some deep, animal instinct in his brain, and his cock instantly started to thicken. He knew how much Sam enjoyed the sight, the taste, and the feel of his hole, and he never tired of giving Sam access to it whenever he wanted.
"Damn nice," Sam groaned, wiping the spongy head of his erection over the puckered skin, leaving a glistening trail behind. He gripped his cock harder, as Jonah pushed his erection between his spread legs, giving Sam a show as he slowly stroked himself. His penis bounced as he released it, and began to run a forefinger over his tight hole.
"Y'like it Sam?" he teased, slipping his finger past the puckered skin of the tight sphincter, up to the first knuckle. "Hmmmm. I can still feel your sperm," he murmured, withdrawing his finger and wiping a wet trail over his own ass cheek, enjoying the sound of Sam's sharp indrawn breath.
He cupped his low hanging testicles as he urged Sam on. "C'mon, Handsome. Shoot your load, then lick it off. I love it when your lick my asshole."
The dirty talk, as much as the sight of the fleshy pink hole only inches away, was driving Sam crazy. Jonah had called earlier, saying he was able to get away, and wanted to play. "I wanna have you inside me, Sam," he's whispered into the phone. He exhaled a ragged breath. "When I'm walking home, I want to feel your stuff ooze out of my hole and run down my leg."
"You want it?" Sam asked, his voice ragged with passion as his orgasm approached. Jonah's hole seemed to pulse with expectation. "Inside, or out?" he added as Jonah spread his cheeks far apart.
"Inside," Jonah groaned, spreading his ass cheeks wide.
Sam touched the tip of his penis to the pink hole, then pushed. He had inserted half the head when he could hold back no longer. The intense sensation engulfed him, spreading from his groin to his entire body. At the same time, Jonah, pushed back, his sphincter snapping tightly as it captured the invader. The cock throbbed once, and a moment later Jonah felt the first surge of Sam's sperm being shot into his hole, followed closely by a second and a third.
"Damn," Sam sighed, collapsing over Jonah's back. "That gets better each time."
Jonah's laugh was so much like his brother's, Sam was momentarily unsure who he was with. "So right," Jonah sighed. "I wish you could leave it in me as we sleep. That way, you'd already be inside, if you wanted to lose another load during the night."
Sam chuckled as he kissed Jonah's neck, and his softening erection slipped free. "First, we'd need to be able to spend a night together." He rolled to Jonah's side and the two men began to cuddle. "I'm just thankful that you're able to get away at all."
"Next time, I'm going to poke you," Jonah said, in a dreamy voice, struggling to remain awake. "Next time . . . lover," he mumbled, as he surrendered himself to sleep.
'Lover?' Sam repeated to himself, feeling each slow breath Jonah took. 'Is that how he sees me?' Jonah snuggled closer. 'Is that what I am?' Sam asked himself.
'Ohhhh, Owen.'
~ to be contnued ~
My stories on Nifty include: Phalen (located in the Gay College Section) Phalen - Finding Happiness (Gay College Section) Phalen - Reputation and Honor (Coming Soon) Chris (Gay College Section) Leith (Gay College Section) Owen (Gay College Section) Wesley (Adult Relationships Section) Jess (Gay Incest Section) Travis (Gay Incest Section)
I hope you enjoy them all.