Owen
Chapter Nine
by Roy Reinikainen
The small table was draped in a red and white tablecloth. An, as yet untouched, precisely folded white linen napkin indicated someone would soon be joining Lucas who sat staring at the entrance to the small Italian restaurant. He idly toyed with a piece of wax broken from the heavily laden Chianti wine bottle and its accompanying candle, as he waited.
The conversation of the room's diners paused briefly as someone entered, allowing the dull howl of the wind and a gust of frigid air to penetrate the room, an icy accent to the mournful noise outside.
Owen hastily closed the door behind him, his cheeks red from the cold, the ever-present bag hanging snugly against his side. He rubbed his bare hands together, scanned the room, and then brushed his fingers through his short hair. The moment he saw Lucas he did his best to hide the fact that he was cold, smiling a silent greeting as he made his way across the crowded room.
"Hi'ya Lucas," he said, as he lowered himself into the chair and removed his bag, setting it on the floor at his side. "Sorta chilly outside." He slipped off his light denim jacket and draped it across the back of his chair, his eyes seeking out the kitchen, the source of the heady aromas.
"Remember," he commented, absently smiling thanks at the waitress who set the mug of steaming hot cider before him, Lucas had asked to be delivered the moment Owen arrived. "Tonight, I'm buying dinner. Every time we've gone out, either you or your sister has paid the bill. T'night, it's my turn."
He sipped his cider and smiled his appreciation at the warmth spreading through his body. "I hear we're supposed t'have a blizzard hit us in the next couple days." His smile brightened. "Isn't it exciting? I'm findin' I don't much like the cold, but I've never seen a blizzard." He looked toward the restaurant's window, and the heavily bundled people passing by. "During a blizzard, does it get any colder than it already is?" Lucas noticed how Owen was cradling the steaming mug of cider with both hands, which appeared red and raw from the cold . . . and Owen's lack of gloves.
He nodded, confident Owen wouldn't be so excited if he knew exactly what a blizzard was like. "Much colder," he warned. "Of course, there's snow . . . which falls horizontally . . . because of the wind, and there's sleet. Ice," he continued, watching Owen's eyebrows rise, fractionally. "Snow drifts, loss of power from downed power lines. And then, there always seems to be a fire which destroys someone's home, due to a faulty fireplace, or something. Lots of slipping and sliding and running into things." He held up a finger to make a point. "I'm talking about both cars and people."
Owen made a slight face. "Maybe, I shouldn't be so excited, then. Though I would like to see snow." He glanced over his shoulder. "Colder, huh?" He shook his head in wonder.
"You'd better plan on staying home during the storm," Lucas warned. "Your jacket isn't going to be enough to protect you from the weather."
"It was always good enough for the most severe weather, back home." Owen chuckled, taking another sip of cider. "I never would have imagined things could get this cold. If a guy's never experienced weather like this, it's hard to imagine what it's like." He paused, and then gave Lucas an undecipherable look. "Colder?" Lucas nodded. "Y'sure?" Lucas watched Owen swallow, the concept of a blizzard sinking in.
'If only I thought he would accept one of my coats,' Lucas thought to himself as he watched his friend. 'I'd be happy to give him one. Self reliance is laudable, but it can also be taken to an extreme . . . and that's exactly what he's doing. I know he's saving so he can buy a gift for his brother and sisters, but still . . .' Lucas studied Owen, who was looking around the restaurant with a smile. 'I wonder if he even has a blanket' back in his apartment,' Lucas mused.
He didn't let his thoughts show on his face as he noticed Owen was now watching him over the top of the menu. The waitress refilled their mugs, once more enveloping both men in the fragrance of apples, cinnamon and cloves. She blushed at Owen's smile of thanks and then moved on to another table. Owen studied the menu for a moment longer and then pointed to an entry.
"I'm gonna have that!" He grinned, turning the menu for Lucas to see what he'd selected. "Don't ask me to pronounce it, but with all those letters in the name it's gotta be filling." He winked. "Actually, it's the same thing we had to eat the other night." He gave Lucas a playful look. "Do you think I should order two desserts, or would that make everyone in here assume I'm a pig?"
The door opened, letting in another cold blast of air. Someone barked a complaint, and . . . Bailey, closed the door.
"Oh, shit," Lucas mumbled, wondering if he would be able to hide behind the large menu. "Don't turn around, but Bailey just walked in, and he looks . . . angry." One of the waitresses approached and asked if he would like a table. He brushed her request aside and walked toward Lucas and Owen, leaving the bewildered waitress behind.
"Well," he said, removing his hat and standing at the side of the table with hands on hips and speaking in a voice loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "I asked you to dinner," he continued, looking directly at Owen, who returned the look, seemingly not bothered by the scene Bailey was causing. Bailey scanned the restaurant with contempt. "I wouldn't have taken you to a hole like this, either." There was the sound of a choked-off cough in the otherwise deadly silent room.
"But, nooo," Bailey sneered. "You were busy," he said, with a disparaging curl on his lips. "Now, I find you having dinner with someone else!" This time the silence was broken by the sound of a snicker, abruptly silenced by another diner.
"Shhh, I want to hear this," someone else whispered. "This is better than television."
"You think he might ask the blond guy to go outside for a fist fight, or something?" Someone else murmured. The person was quickly silenced, but not before someone responded in a voice loud enough for Bailey to hear.
"Nah, the blond hunk would take Miss Priss, in a moment. Wouldn't even work up a sweat." There were a few chuckles.
Bailey cast a scathing glance over the entire restaurant before turning back to where Owen sat, sipping his hot cider. He set the cup down with exaggerated care and turned toward the outraged man.
"Bailey." Owen spoke in a calm voice. "Bailey," Owen repeated, waiting for the man to turn away from the barely suppressed laughter rippling through the restaurant. "I thought I made it clear to you. I can be friends with whomever I choose. By behaving as you are, you are assumin' things about me which may not be true. I do not want to go out with you. I tried to be nice about it, but you won't take no for an answer. So . . . please, leave me alone. Stop following me. Stop hanging around where I work. Stop coming to my apartment and looking in my windows. Stop assuming I will fall all over myself to be your friend or accept your offers of a trip to someplace warm."
"A trip?" Someone murmured in surprise. Owen's eyes barely flicked in the direction of the comment.
"I don't want to be a friend to anyone who behaves the way you do. I can't be bought, so stop trying. I wish you all the best, and hope you find someone on whom you can lavish your affections, but that person will not be me. Now, please go . . . leave me alone." An expectant hush descended as everyone waited for Bailey's response.
At this point, the restaurant owner, a very large woman, wearing a tomato sauce-stained white apron, a white cloth tied around her dark hair, and a towel draped over her shoulder, advanced on Bailey, clear intent written on her face. Her large hands were opening and closing as if she could barely wait to wrap them around his neck and squeeze . . . hard. Bailey's eyebrows rose and he took a reflexive step backward.
She snapped the towel from her shoulder in his direction causing him to jump. "Out, Mr. Fancy Pants," she said in a gravelly Italian accented voice. "That was your only warning. If you're not outa here by the time I count to three, I'll escort you to the door, and there's no guaranteeing that I won't break your arm, or something, in the process. I just loooove to hear things. . ." She paused, and then finished in a menacing voice, accompanied by another flick of her towel. "Snap!"
Bailey flinched. She straightened and crossed her arms over her ample bosom. "Have I made myself clear?"
"Damn, this is exciting," someone said, loud enough to be heard over the silence.
Owen seemed to have already dismissed Bailey, turning his attention to his mug of cider. Lucas was trying to follow Owen's casual lead and was studying his menu trying to ignore Bailey's angry gaze and raspy breathing. The only people who were paying attention to Bailey were the other diners . . . and the woman who had begun to advance on him, a wicked gleam in her eyes.
"You'll be sorry," he muttered in Owen's direction before he drew himself up and attempted to make a dignified, though hasty retreat, looking over his shoulder once to find the large woman one step behind. He quickly stepped aside in order to avoid colliding with a seated diner, only to smash into a waitress, and her tray of food.
The waitress and nearby diners yelped in surprise as the food seemed to fly through the air in slow motion until the majority of it hit Bailey in the chest with a wet splat, immediately followed by the sound of breaking crockery. Someone snorted their amusement at the sight of the immaculately dressed man now covered with morsels of food which slid off his clothing to land on the floor, creating forlorn mounds of food bathed in red and white sauce.
"Oh!" Bailey's voice screeched upward as he stopped and held his arms to his side, examining his ruined coat and trousers, the restaurant owner momentarily forgotten. The waitress, her eyes wide, covered her mouth with both hands, but couldn't control her laughter when Bailey picked a stray meatball from the hat he held in his hand, and tossed it to the floor as he attempted to gather the tattered shreds of his dignity about him, while standing in front of a hostile audience. He absently brushed at himself, his hand coming away coated in tomato sauce.
"Two . . ." The restaurant owner resumed her countdown, bringing Bailey back to his senses. He quickly turned, slipping slightly on the spilled food, and then lurched toward the door. With a withering last glance over his shoulder he slammed the door, leaving a mess on the floor, a bewildered waitress, and a room full of diners who all were suddenly talking.
The owner turned and brushed her hands, as if completing a disagreeable task, patted the waitress on the shoulder in understanding, and looked around the room with her fists on her hips, her feet firmly planted on either side of what had once been a plate of lasagna. The diners quieted, anxious to hear what she might say.
"Alright everyone. Now that the trash has been taken out you can return to your meals." Her Italian accent suddenly reappeared, replacing the drawl of someone from the depths of the Southern United States. "Chocolate cannoli are about ready to come out of the oven. How many of you will have one? On the house!" She counted the hastily raised hands and hustled back into the kitchen, with the words, "The friggin' things better not have burned," trailing behind her.
"Easy, Lucas," Owen murmured, troubled by the scowl on Lucas' face as he continued to study the menu. "If you let him upset you, he's won. He knows which buttons to press to make you angry, and he'll do it again and again, just so he can get your attention. Don't give him the satisfaction, and don't ruin our nice dinner by worryin' about his threats. He's full of hot air. I imagine he's been makin' threats since he was a kid." Owen glanced to where the staff was busily cleaning up the spilled food.
"Sure glad that wasn't our meal," he murmured, turning back to Lucas, who had marginally relaxed.
Lucas inhaled slowly and nodded. "You're right, of course. But, he assumed things about you Owen, and then broadcast those assumptions to everyone in the room. Doesn't that upset you?"
Owen softly snorted, and shook his head. "No, his assumptions don't hurt me, and everyone here realizes where they came from . . . so, they're meaningless." He reached across the table and gave Lucas' hand a brief squeeze. "If I'm not bothered, you shouldn't be. In fact, you should be pleased." At Lucas' questioning expression, he continued. "He didn't talk to you!" They both laughed, and Lucas seemed to be regain his earlier mood.
"Now, about dessert. Should we tell the nice lady that we'll have a couple of those chocolate thingies as an appetizer? I always say, it's best to both start and finish a meal with dessert." He raised his eyebrows in query, his eyes twinkling, and then added in a lower voice. "I've never had a canolli. Are they any good?" Lucas couldn't help but laugh.
"You're amazing, Mr. Carver," Lucas teased, shaking his head in admiration. "You say you're a country boy; so where'd you get the insights into human nature?"
Owen shrugged, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. "Thanks, Lucas; I'm glad you think so. I think you're pretty amazin' too.
Lucas glanced up in time to wonder at the reason for the flush of pink on Owen's cheeks.
Jonah had no sooner closed the screen door and set down his book bag before his father started in. "Where you been, boy?" He screamed, standing at the doorway to the dining room, with both fists on his hips.
"I've been walking home from the bus . . . thinking."
Jonathan Carver snorted in derision. "I'm the one who does the thinkin' around here. Your job is to do what I tell you to do, and to be here when I need you, not off gallivanting around, sitting under some tree, thinking about things you have no business thinking about. Why, I should . . ."
"What?" Jonah interrupted, cursing himself for raising his voice. "Take me out into the fields and beat me, like you did Owen?" His mother's startled glance darted to her husband at the same time both Abigail and Opie tried to muffle their surprise at the scene playing out before them. The two girls quickly backed away when their father turned to them, his face flushing an angry red.
"If it'll make you feel better . . . Pops . . . I'm ready. You can beat on me for all your worth, and it won't change a thing. I am capable of thinking for myself, and acting in my own best interests. And that's exactly what I have been doin'.
"Now, if you're gonna beat me, let's get it over with. If you're not, I'm going to my room and study."
"That's another thing. I need you 'round here. You're gonna quit school and start workin' for a change."
Jonah seemed genuinely shocked. "What?" He flicked a glance toward his mother who seemed as surprised as he, and then back to his father. "You can't be serious." He paused. "No, I see that you are." He took a deep breath, prepared to go where only Owen had gone before.
"The answer is, no. I will not quit school. I am good in school, and I'm going to use what I've learned, and what I will learn in college, to learn modern methods of farming, like Sam."
"Won't be this farm you're helping," Jonathan shouted. And, don't mention that person's name in this house."
"Be that as it may," Jonah responded in a calm voice. "I will not quit school. I will continue to do the chores you set for me to do to the best of my ability, but I will go to school, and I will go to college, just like my . . . brother."
Jonathan grabbed his son by the shoulder. One of the girls whimpered in the background, causing him to flick a glance in their direction.
Jonah lowered his voice and met his father's eyes, realizing that they were the same height. "Take . . . your . . . hand . . . off . . . of . . . my . . . shoulder," he said, deliberately pausing between each word. "And do not . . . ever . . . touch me like that again." Jonathan slowly released his son and lowered his hand to his side, continuing to flex his fingers as his eyes darted from side to side, as if seeking something or someone to hit.
"I am your son," Jonah waited until he was able to reestablish eye contact with his father. "Being your son gives you the right to discipline me whenever I've done something wrong. But . . . I have done nothing wrong. I ask you to have the same respect for me that you expect me to show you. If you can find it in yourself to treat, not only me, but the rest of the family, well, all of us will find it much easier to treat you with the same respect." He took a deep breath and decided to plunge on.
"You have to realize, Pops, that you'll get more out of each of us if you treat us well. We're not some . . . animals, like you seem to think. We are your family. So, treat us like we mean something to you."
Jonah turned to his mother. "I apologize, Mama. I've been behavin' badly. There is no excuse for me shouting in the house. His mother gave him a tight lipped nod, accepting his apology, and then turned back to the kitchen. Jonah winked at his two sisters as he turned toward the hallway, and gathered them to him, one on each side, leaving their father to silently fume.
Sam had not been able to get Jonah out of his mind, and had decided to go for a walk through the moonlit town. 'I really like Jonah,' Sam thought, crunching along the gravel drive, the buildings of the town's main street, a dim silhouette. 'In fact, I think I may be likin' him too much.'
He could almost see Owen, his merry eyes hiding the pain he faced at home. Jonah was hiding the same sort of pain, and like Owen, Sam wanted to comfort him. But, it was one thing to comfort Owen, the man he loved, and who loved him. It was another thing entirely to be attracted to Owen's brother, for whatever reason.
'What would Owen think about my feelings? What would he say about my fantasies?'
Those fantasies made Sam uncomfortable and excited, in equal measure. Uncomfortable because he felt as if he were betraying Owen; excited because Jonah was such an attractive person, both physically and emotionally. The couple times he'd hugged Jonah, it was all he could do to let him go, especially when he found Jonah melting into the embrace. Then, he'd made the mistake of kissing Jonah on the cheek. Afterward, that the only way he'd been able to get his erection to go down was to masturbate. And, whom did he fantasize about while he lay in bed stroking himself with his eyes closed? . . . Jonah!
He'd imagined Jonah climbing on top of him. They had kissed, and then Jonah had slowly slid his cock into Sam's anxious hole as their tongues meshed.
Jonah had been gentle though awkward, as he made love to someone for the first time. Sam had often seen the prominent mound of Jonah's groin, now . . . in his imagination, at least . . . the penis stretched his hole, as Jonah slowly rocked his hips.
Between furious kisses, Jonah had nuzzled his neck, nibbled on his ears, and murmured how wonderful it was, to finally be inside him.
"I've dreamt of this for months," Jonah had murmured, close to his ear. "Every time I'd see you, I'd wonder what it would be like to be . . . inside you . . . to shoot in your hole." Sam had imagined how Jonah's motions had become more frantic as his orgasm approached.
He had braced himself above Sam on hands and knees, his feet digging into the rumpled bed clothes with each thrust. "Ohhh, Sam," He moaned, twitching as he pumped his sperm into Sam's ass. "Oh, Sam," he repeated with a shaky voice, husky with emotion. "I'm fallin' in love with you."
Sam had awakened and sat up, realizing Jonah's words were only part of a dream. "No," he'd said aloud in the darkness. "You can't." He had paused and had wiped a hand across a sweaty brow. "I can't."
The telephone in the living room rang, a raucous sound his mother insisted on because she was hard of hearing. 'That thing can wake the dead,' Sam thought has he pushed back his desk chair and trotted down the short hallway in his underwear. 'One thing nice about having the home to myself is that I can wear as little as I want and not have to worry about Mother or Dad.'
He picked up the receiver, and answered in a breathless voice. "Hello!" He almost shouted, afraid that the person might be ready to hang up. "Hello," he answered again in a more normal voice, hoping it might be Owen calling.
"Hi'ya, Sam." The voice was low. It took him a moment to place it.
"Jonah! Hey, how'ya doin?" He playfully lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper. "Are you whispering 'cause it's the middle of the night?"
"Can I come by?" Jonah responded, deadly serious. "I'm needin' a hug, real bad."
"Your father?"
He could hear a sigh. "Yeah, who else? I'm gonna have to sneak out, but I always feel so much better after you've hugged me. . ." His voice trailed off. "It won't take much t'make me feel better, 'cause I'm at the bottom of the well . . . but . . . could I?"
"Of course! I don't want you to get into any trouble though, especially with what your father already thinks of me. He can't do anythin' to me, but he can to you. You're always welcome, you know that. I just want you to be sure of what you're doin'."
"I know. Things have been all out'a whack over here, Sam. Mama's hardly talkin' to anyone. She looks awful. The girls are cryin' all the time and Pops . . . well . . . he's bein' himself." There was a dry chuckle. "In other words, I don't think anything he could do could make things much worse."
"It's your call. Are you planning on staying the night?" Sam asked.
There was a brief hesitation. "No, that'd be harder to hide, even though an uninterrupted night's sleep would be welcome." He paused. "Truly." There was another pause. "So, I'm gonna come by, but I can't stay too long. I just need to be held, and . . ." He paused. "See'ya."
Sam was slow hanging up. 'The poor guy,' he thought, as he slowly walked through the darkened house to his brightly lit bedroom. He slipped on a pair of clean underwear, closed his textbooks, and turned out the light, thankful it was Friday, and there wasn't any school tomorrow.
He returned to the living room and then walked out onto the porch, vowing to oil the squeaky screen door, and sat down, the brilliant swath of the Milky Way the only light. He swallowed in a throat gone suddenly dry. "Oh, Owen," he said aloud, his voice not much more than a raspy croak. "I'm feelin' you'd want me to do . . . whatever it is I think is right." He sighed and sank back into the cushions of the chair. "I'm gonna do whatever it takes to keep Jonah from hurting so."
Less than a mile away, Jonah slowly replaced the telephone receiver, trying his best to be quiet. He took a couple steps across the living room on stocking feet before he saw the ghostly outline of his mother in her white robe, standing in the hallway. She had both hands clasped beneath her chin and was watching him with wide dark eyes.
"Mama?" He murmured, walking to her and tenderly taking her hands in his. "I just gotta get out of here for a bit." She gave him a sad smile and an understanding nod, squeezing his hands.
"I know, sweetheart." She looked toward his room. "I'll open your bedroom window. You can climb back in. That way no one'll hear the front door open." He nodded his appreciation.
"Are you gonna be okay?" He asked, holding her at arm's length. "I mean, with how things are? I can get away for a bit, but you . . ."
She leaned close and kissed his cheek. "I'll be okay. I apologize, sweetheart . . . for not being a better mama to you, your brother, and the girls. I so wanted to be a good mother to you all. I've . . . tried, but it appears I've been very slow figuring things out, and my inaction has caused all of us pain. None of us can go on like we have been." She swallowed, tightening her grasp on his hands.
"I was proud of what you told your father. You showed more courage than I ever have." She grinned. "He's still wonderin' what ran over him."
"Y'sure you're okay?" She nodded a response, and squeezed his hand.
"Now, you hurry along. I expect Sam'll be waitin' for you." She tenderly ran her fingertips over his smooth cheek, noticing his eyes widen with surprise at her comment.
"Don't be worryin' what I'll be thinkin', sweetheart. We all take comfort where we can find it. Sam's a good man. He gave Owen a good measure of comfort. He'll treat you well too." She made a shooing motion with one hand, while reluctantly releasing him with the other. "Now, go."
He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "I love you, Mama," he murmured, close to her ear. "I feel awful I've never told you that before." He held her in a tight embrace, the fresh fragrance of her hair filling his nose. After a moment, he released her, snatched-up a pair of waiting tennis shoes, and hurried through the living room, intensely aware of the lump in his throat. Once outside, he immediately slipped into the shoes and ran, finding his way to Sam's in the darkness, guided by the crunch of gravel beneath his feet and the light of the stars overhead. Around him the fireflies danced, reflecting his excitement.
In only minutes, he rounded the bend in the road and headed up Sam's drive, the different type of gravel underfoot changing the sound of each stride. He saw Sam look up from where he was sitting on the home's porch, and then stand. Jonah slowed to a walk and stopped at the foot of the porch steps, looking up at his friend's slender body, suddenly shy.
It was a big step he was about to take, and he knew that once taken, he could not return. He had thought about what would be right for him, and whether anything he did would hurt his brother. He didn't recall exactly when he had decided that a man . . . Sam . . . was what was right. Perhaps it was after the gentle kiss on the cheek.
He'd finally given up trying to analyze his feelings. He looked up at the man he had been fantasizing about and then silently stepped into Sam's embrace. 'This is what's right for me,' he thought, feeling his emotions surge, surrendering himself to the warmth of another man's body and the feeling of being loved.
"Ohhh," Jonah sighed, after a few moments, his head resting on Sam's shoulder and his hands feeling the bare skin of Sam's back, as well as the waistband of his underwear. He wasn't quite ready to cup Sam's buttocks. Not yet. For now . . . tonight . . . this was enough. Someone, other than his mother, genuinely cared for him. It was almost too much to handle. He took a shaky breath. "Ohhh," he repeated. "You have no idea how much better I'm feelin' 'cause'a this." Sam tightened the embrace.
"Shhh. I understand." He ran an open hand over Jonah's back, and then through the hair on the back of Jonah's head, running its silkiness through his fingers.
"Sam . . ." The word was barely more than a breath of air against his ear.
"Hmm?"
"Would . . . would you kiss me?"
Sam slowly backed up and looked into Jonah's hungry eyes. "Like I did last time?" Jonah shook his head, once.
"No . . . a real . . . kiss." He hurried on. "I don't want anything to go further'n that, but I've been dreamin' of what it would be like to be kissed . . ." He bowed his head, unable to meet Sam's eyes. "Kissed by you." He looked up, feeling the heat of a blush on his cheeks.
"If y'can't, 'cause of Owen, I'll understand . . ."
"Shhh. Whatever I do will not change what I feel for Owen. I know that, but can you live with it?" Sam paused while Jonah thought about what he'd just been asked. "Don't allow yourself to fall in love with me, Jonah . . . please. You may think that's what you're feelin', but a hug, a kiss . . . or anything else, is not the same as love. Can you remember that? I don't want to be the one to hurt you. And, if you allow yourself to fall in love with me, I will . . . eventually, hurt you."
Jonah thought for a moment. "What I'm feelin' isn't love?" Sam shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly, into a wry smile.
"You can't let it become love . . . just as I can't. I will not be the one to hurt Owen, and I don't believe you want that to happen, either.
"No . . . never. I don't want you to do something that you're gonna have a tough time dealing with, either. Just to help me out."
"I won't."
Jonah's eyes remained anxious . . . hungry. "Please," he whimpered. He watched Sam lean closer. He lowered his eyelids and took a sharp breath through his nose as his lips touched Sam's, and then groaned, deep in his throat, as Sam's tongue found his.
~ to be continued ~
Thank you for taking the time to read my work. I always welcome your email and enjoy hearing your thoughts. If you would like me to send you a pic of the character(s), please ask.
My other stories on Nifty include: Phalen (located in the Gay College Section) Phalen - Finding Happiness (Gay College Section) Chris (Gay College Section) Leith (Gay College Section) Owen (Gay College Section Wesley (Adult Relationships Section) Jess (Gay Incest Section)
I hope you enjoy them all.