The courtroom is full of chatter. The judge uses his gavel to call order and gives his final thoughts on the case before calling on the jury to announce their verdict. I can feel the white-hot heat in my stomach. Growing. Overtaking all of my organs like a dragon destroying a medieval village.
The courtroom goes completely silent.
"The jury finds the defendant, Tyson Crawford, guilty of vehicular manslaughter."
"Manslaughter?!" I am up out of my seat without even knowing it. "He isn't dead! Sean didn't die!"
It is no use. Two police officers approach me and slap handcuffs on my wrists. I struggle. I shout louder. The men overtake me and usher me toward the door. Jack is standing by the exit and he sees me and laughs a deep, diabolical laugh.
"I always knew you'd be a disappointment."
I jolt awake to find myself sitting in the passenger seat of Greyson.
Though the dream ends before I get tossed in a dark, dungeon-like cell like it normally does, I do not enjoy the alternate ending of Jack being my undertaker any better.
"How was your nap, sleepyhead?" Jack asks beside me at the wheel. I realize I fell asleep on the way back to the cabin after we picked up lumber down in town.
A whiff of phantom whiskey catches my nose and my head pounds like a single hammer slamming against a nail. I suddenly want to punch his teeth down his throat all over again. I grunt a general sigh of disapproval and stare out the window as we turn onto the long gravel path that leads up to the cabin.
Seeing my reflection in the side mirror as we pass shadowy pine makes me frown at the extra fullness of my face.
"Well," I think to myself, "what am I supposed to do besides sit around and eat? I have no license. All of my friends don't talk to me."
I shake the negative thoughts out of my head as we pull up in front of the house.
We unload the wood out of the back of the truck and walk it carefully down the side of the house. Jack directs me in laying it down beside the area that is already marked off for the cement patio on the basement level and then we make the hike back up the hill. After the sixth and final trip, I am already sore and achy. It's clear, however, that Jack could easily go a few more rounds. His sweat-soaked shirt clings to his powerful chest like a second skin. His curly chest hair can be seen through the almost transparent cotton. The sweat "V" is creeping closer to his nipples, which builds a weird sense of anticipation in my mind. He lifts his arm to wipe the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, and in doing so, the bottom of his shirt lifts a little, giving me a peek at his furry stomach.
I look away when I realize what I am doing.
Eww.
Thankfully, he has me start digging the holes for the vertical support beams which means I don't have to look at him for a while. As I work exhaustingly on eight pits that will keep the base of each wood column securely rooted, Jack mixes the cement up with an old hand crank mixer.
When he finishes, he lifts the beams, I help guide them into the holes, and we take turns pouring some cement into each one. This sets a pretty sturdy foundation. Before I can sit for a break, Jack pulls a ladder from inside the basement and is climbing up it in no time. He announces that his goal is to make the outside frame and lay the floor support beams before the sun sets.
My stomach growls loud enough for the world to hear. Jack stops what he is doing and tells me to go make some sandwiches and fill up the water jug. Needless to say, I am obliged to get out of the afternoon heat and take a break inside.
***
I hand the last plank up to Jack as I notice the sun sink along the treeline. He hammers the final frame plank in place and looks down at me.
"Well," he says as he wipes his brow again.
This time he reveals wet, hairy armpits when his big arms raise to his head. The translucent tee holds nothing to the imagination anymore. His dark ringlets press against the cloth. His silver dollar-sized nipples are perfectly presented. Even the dark spot of his belly button is hard to look away from.
"I'd say that we done good." Jack chuckles and it gets me to chuckle.
"Yeah," I agree.
"I figured you would have whined my ear off and called it a day by noon. I am impressed."
I feel my ears warm with a surge of annoyance. "I am so glad I can impress you." Sarcasm is my best defense.
Turning from Jack, a soft pounding behind my eyes reminds me how shitty I felt this morning. As I enter the sliding door on the basement level, I swear that I hear Jack call after me, but I only have one thing in mind: a nice relaxing shower.
The tub I was manhandled into this morning is old school. Brass claw feet. Deep, garden variety. It's right in the middle of the room, like the showcase piece at an upscale hotel. I reach across the rim and turn the water nobs. Then I yank the clear shower curtain around the oval track that is suspended from the ceiling.
Growing up, it was only a tub, but the shower unit must have been added over the past decade. Thoughts of splashing around with my bath toys as Jack made bubble mohawks on my head and reminding me the drain monster would get me if I took too long float into my mind. Yet the memories seem to wash away as I step into the strong spray of the shower head.
My thoughts of the long-ago tub are not the only things that spiral down the drain. My day's aches and pains also ease. I feel completely relaxed. Lathering up my body makes my skin feel fresh and it seems to bring a familiar warmth to my insides. Even as the warm water starts to run cooler, I feel rejuvenated. I find myself humming "Summer of 69" as though the shower is transporting me to another place in time. A time when things were easier, but a place no different than where I am now.
My fortress of solitude is unexpectedly interrupted by a knock at the door and, before I can respond, Jack pushes into the room.
"Hey. I am leaving you some ibuprofen here on the sink. I am not sure how you are feeling, but it always helps at the end of a long day."
"Thanks. I still can't shake this headache. It was a terrible idea working all day while fighting whiskey's revenge."
He starts talking about what he is making for dinner but I am not paying much attention, for I can see Jack's six-foot-something stature discombobulated through the steamy curtain. Raising one hand to his face, he looks like a taller, life-like version of Dali's Scream. For some reason, this strikes me as hilarious and I bust out in a rift of laughter.
"What?" Jack asks, stopping his explanation of how he enjoys his turkey burgers mid-sentence.
"Nothing," I reply catching my breath. I see him shift his weight back to a standing position from his lean against the sink.
"Well, finish up so I can have some warm water." He turns and heads for the door. "Oh, I put a towel on the commode for you, Bryan Adams." With that, he was gone.
In his absence, I am left wondering how long he was listening to me sing in the shower before he barged in.
YOU ARE READING
His Woods (MxM)
Romance(Previously known as Breaking the Beast) Tyson knows he isn't perfect, but he doesn't think he deserves a summer stuck at the old holiday cabin with his dad's friend, Jack. After he gets kicked out of college and assigned probation, Tyson has to lea...
