Midwinter Night's Dream (6 page)

Oh, don’t go there. Way out of your league, Lockhart.

Joe donned his jeans and a thermal Henley, turned around, and slicked his hair off his forehead. He tilted his chin down and favored Errol with that delicious boyish grin. “Sure you don’t want a shower before I turn off the generator?”

Drying his hands, Errol racked his brain. That stance…that face…so familiar. Joe looked like…no. Couldn’t be.

Yes, it could.

Fascinated, Errol strode over to Joe, who stared at him. Errol stared back. “My God. You’re not Joe. You’re…Blake Huffington.”

Frowning, he shook his head and picked up one of the towels. “I’m Joe.”

Errol narrowed his eyes and leaned in. “You’re Escalade’s spokesmodel. You’re on TV, in magazines. In
movies
. Holy crap. What are you doing out here?”

Joe looked away. “I’m not Blake Huffington. At this place, at this time, I’m Joe Blake.”

“But you’re famous, Blake.”

“Joe. It’s Joe. Blake is my last name, and Huffington is an agent’s fabrication. I’m just Joe, cabin dweller, skillet cooker, rescuer of guys trapped in snow banks.” Joe grabbed the second towel and headed for the bathroom, and Errol dogged his steps.

“I have to say, I’m a fan.” In fact, Errol loved those ads, especially the designer jockstrap one—full pouch, butt cheeks naked and round as a peach, split down the middle. Errol had salivated over Blake’s every line, curve, and shadow. And the magazine spreads about the movies—wow. Cameos, but talk about potential action hero. “I love your work.”

Joe snorted and shook his head. “That’s not work.”

“Sure it is. Working on set, Hollywood parties, travel to exotic locations. Waxing.” Okay, so parts of it weren’t so glamorous. But acting, modeling, money—those all sounded pretty damn good.

“No. Work is something you do to earn an honest living. Something that makes a difference.” He draped the towels over the rod, pushed past Errol, and headed for the fireplace. Errol followed.

“Modeling makes a difference.”

Joe snorted. “Not in a real way. I’m sick of modeling. Sick of the attention.” In front of the hearth, he fisted his hands on his hips. “Do you know what I used to do, before I was the spokesmodel for the latest designer briefs?”

“No.”

“I was a fireman. That’s how I was ‘discovered.’” Joe made air quotes. “I agreed to do a charity calendar to raise money for kids, and…” Joe got that faraway look for a moment, then continued. “The next thing I know, an agent representing a big-name designer calls, begging me to do an underwear ad. Just one. Well, one campaign turned into another, and before I knew it, I didn’t have time to be a fireman anymore.”

“Isn’t the underwear gig a lot more lucrative than being a fireman?”

Joe’s expression hardened. “The reason I knew what to do when I found you unconscious in a snow drift was because of my background as a paramedic and firefighter, not because I look good in tight trunks and boxer briefs.”

Errol tried for humor. “And jockstraps.”

Joe didn’t smile. He turned and faced the fire, resting both hands on the mantel.

Errol winced. Sore subject, apparently. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that firefighting wasn’t rewarding. Of course I’m thankful for your expertise in saving me. It just seems like you’d make better money modeling.”

Joe’s dark gaze bored into him. “Money isn’t everything, Errol.”

“It is when you don’t have any,” he shot back. Joe was being an asshole. He should try living on ramen for a month.

Joe remained silent, lips pressed together, knuckles white as he gripped the mantel. Then he said, “Touché. But there are other ways to earn a living.” He paused, looking into the fire. “More important ways.”

“At least you were making a good wage.” Errol flopped on the couch. “I’d love to be an underwear model.”

“Is that what the telegram business was? Trying to break into modeling?”

It was trying to keep my head above water
. “Trying to break back into acting. But modeling would pay the bills better than telegrams.” Errol looked at his sock-covered feet. One toe poked through a hole on the left.
Get used to aerated socks, ’cause they’re gonna get worse
. “I’ll be unemployed after this is all over.”

“Why?”

“Undelivered telegram, remember? No way to check in with the boss? It’s not exactly a high-powered job with benefits.”

Joe dropped onto the opposite end of the couch. He rested his elbows on his knees and clenched his hands together. The firelight brought out chestnut highlights in his damp hair and gilded his profile.

The flames crackled, and sap popped, filling the air with the rich scent of cedar. It was cozy and warm in front of the blaze, sort of like the setting of a romantic comedy, the kind of situation that lent itself to a first kiss scene.
You’re delusional, Lockhart. Keep dreaming
. He needed to get his mind on a different track. “Why have you decided to quit modeling?”

Joe shifted and turned toward him. “My days consist of working out and going to either a movie set for some bit part or to a studio to strut around in the latest Escalade creation. At the end of the day, I go back to an empty apartment. I don’t see friends and family from home, and the paparazzi follow me wherever I go. Hell, I’ve had to hire body doubles to shake them. They’re like parasites.”

Camera-bearing bugs. Hmm
. Errol waited.

For a moment, Joe stared at him with a haunted expression, eyes filled with pain. “I have no privacy, no personal life. Here I can be myself without looking over my shoulder.”

All that sounded…sad. The paparazzi would put a major damper on having a private love life. Since Errol had never heard a thing about Blake Huffington being gay, Joe must be in the closet. Maybe that was part of the decision—Joe wanted the freedom to get out and meet some guys.

As much as Errol wanted to bring up the subject of orientation, he doubted Joe wanted him to know. It might establish rapport if Errol said something first, but he’d have to wait for an opening. “Well, you definitely don’t have to look over your shoulder out here. There’s bound to be ten vertical feet of snow between you and anyone with a camera.”

Joe grunted and stared at the fire. Then his gaze met Errol’s. “Where are you from?”

“I grew up in a tiny town in Wyoming.” The kind of town where he’d had to keep his orientation under wraps until he got hundreds of miles away. “Left for college, and haven’t been back in four years.”

“Surely you haven’t been doing the telegram gig that long.”

Errol sighed.
Stick to basics. You don’t want pity
. “I have a degree in theater. After I graduated”—
and my dad disowned me
—“I moved here and lived with my grandmother, but she died a few months after I arrived.” He’d been homeless once again.

“I’m sorry.” And Joe did look sympathetic.

“Thanks. I’d planned to work for a couple of years and save enough money to move to California, but it’s hard to get into a theater company here. I got a couple of small parts, and then a company offered me a job directing a kids’ summer acting group.” At the time, Carson had seemed like the real thing: a dashing older man with connections, out and proud, who wanted a young man on his arm. True love had seemed a reasonable trade-off for the Hollywood lights. Instead he’d gotten a nightmare. “It…didn’t work out.”

“You couldn’t work with a different theater troupe?”

Hard to bounce back after an accusation of stealing a play
. Carson had so royally screwed him over. “Denver’s a pretty small theater community.”

Joe cocked his head. “What about moving somewhere with better opportunities?”

Errol laughed. “I’d love to, but moving takes money.”

Joe looked down and grimaced. “What will you do after we get out of here?”

“Not sure. I might try getting a job at a club.”

“A strip joint?”

Would he ever live down the gold lamé thong? “I told you, I don’t take it all off. Maybe work as a dancer.”

“What kind of dancer?”

Errol took a breath and went for broke. “Most of the gay clubs hire scantily clad platform dancers.”

Joe grinned, and his gaze roved Errol’s face for a moment. “Definitely more glamorous than telegrams.”

Errol slugged his shoulder. “Not all of us have the goods to sell the world’s best-fitting briefs.”

Joe jostled him back, gently. “Someone else’s goods will have to do the job from here on out.”

At least the gay part hadn’t seemed to bother Joe, even if he hadn’t reciprocated with his own status. Admittedly, Joe had more to lose than Errol, and they didn’t know each other well.

The silence stretched out until Errol couldn’t stand it any longer.

“I’m sorry I interrupted your alone time. You must not get much of it.” Errol looked down, letting his hair shield his face. “I always seem to end up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Hey,” Joe said, giving Errol’s shoulder a squeeze. “You’re not in the wrong place. I’m enjoying the company.”

The heat of that simple touch poured through Errol, sweet and liquid, and then the hand disappeared. “If you’re not working in Hollywood, what will you do?”

Joe gazed into the fire for so long Errol thought he wouldn’t answer. Then Joe said, “I want to go back to my old job as a firefighter and paramedic.”

“Will you be able to go back?”

“The captain is receptive. I’ll meet with him after the holidays and discuss it.”

“If you liked it so much…”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you leave?”

Joe stiffened, shoulders hunched, and didn’t answer. He continued to look at the fire. “Look, I’m going to read for a while. Sure you don’t want a shower? There should be enough in the heater tank, and I haven’t turned off the generator.”

And dismissed
. Errol gave up and tried to get a surreptitious sniff of himself. “Sure.”

He must smell.

Chapter Six

Joe paced in front of the fireplace and glanced at the bathroom door. Why had he told Errol all that? After the man recognized “Blake Huffington,” Joe should have brushed off the attention instead of launching into all the reasons he couldn’t stand it anymore. Hell, he’d come to the brink of telling Errol about Bryce, and Errol was a virtual stranger.

The guy was too easy to talk to.

At least Errol hadn’t lapsed into simpering adoration and “Yes, Joe. No, Joe. Whatever you say, Joe.” Errol had even challenged him about Joe’s lack of appreciation for the Escalade position. No one had done that in…forever, except Gretchen.

Errol was too perceptive. As much as the guy liked to joke, he had zeroed in on the essential question: why Joe had left in the first place. As much as Joe needed to get that tangle of feelings out, as sympathetic as he was sure Errol would be, telling Errol wasn’t happening. His chest tightened to a deep ache.

He’d had to leave two years ago…

Because part of him had died with Bryce, and every shift at the station had been a horrible reminder. Because fire had the potential for casualties, and Joe hadn’t dealt with his own loss. Because he’d felt raw inside, cut open and bleeding from the loss of Bryce, and unable to talk to anyone about it.

Most of the firefighters at his house hadn’t approved of LGBT individuals, and they’d already driven away one openly gay man. God knew what they’d have done if Joe had told them the real extent of his relationship with Bryce.

Running to California had been easier than admitting to anyone else that he had loved Bryce and lost everything when the burning floor gave way in that condemned building.

The water came on again in the bathroom, the old taps screeching their displeasure in the shower. The gold thong lay under the straight chair by the bed. Errol must have gone commando. Joe strode to his duffel bag and pulled out a new package of Escalade briefs. They’d be a size too large but would be more comfortable than commando. Joe crossed to the bathroom door and waited. When the water shut off, he knocked.

There was the squeak of bare feet on porcelain, and then the door opened a crack. Errol peered through the opening, hair dark with water, smelling of Joe’s cedar-and-green-tea-scented soap. “You need to get in here?”

“Nope.” Joe held up the pack. “Thought you might like these. They haven’t been opened.”

Errol glanced at the silver-and-black sleeve holding the sky-blue briefs and then met Joe’s gaze. “Are you sure? They’re expensive—”

“They give them to me by the truckload. If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never go through them all.”

A pair of creases formed between Errol’s brows as he clutched the edge of the door. “I can pay you.”

Suddenly it struck Joe that Errol might wonder about some ulterior motive. “Nah. Merry Christmas.” Joe pushed the package through the space between the door and the jamb and let go.

Errol caught it. “Um, thanks.”

“Yep.”

Joe turned away, and the door closed behind him. Since Errol had undressed in the bathroom, Joe would bet the guy would re-dress in there. Just as well, as the last thing Joe needed was to have an alert, healthy, and naked Errol running around. The guy was making cracks in Joe’s walls.

Joe moved to the bathroom door. “I’m going to grab some wood and fill the snow bucket.”

“Okay.” It came out muffled through the door.

Lacing up his boots, Joe considered how long he could stay outside without seeming obvious about it.

Long enough to ensure a fully clothed Errol.

* * * *

Why did time seem to drag when the weather was crappy? Errol stared out the windows and sipped at his tepid coffee. The afternoon had passed slowly. Joe continued to read, but Errol felt cross-eyed from spending all afternoon with a book. There was nothing in view but the fleeing light and the whirling snow. A forest was out there, but he couldn’t see a thing. No going outside—it was a whiteout. A snow drift would have buried Bessie by now, poor girl. The seventy-five bucks in his pocket might not be enough for a tow, let alone repairs.

Andrew would help.

No
. Despite what material comforts Andrew offered, Errol wasn’t selling out, wasn’t going to sacrifice his body for a place to live. His back gave a twinge, and he stretched.