Could he have ever been that person?
Bruce directed him as he needed, and he followed the instructions without complaint, but within twenty minutes he was sweating from the heavy lifting. Bruce, however, never showed any sign of exhaustion. How many hours had he already worked today? Where did he get the endurance? Gabriel recognised Bruce’s singular focus for doing what he loved, but there must have been something else behind it, the drive to keep going. He was precise and thorough without flagging. A few cuts here and there, skill that was more than talent yet more than experience. Gabriel could only look on.
Well, not exactly look.
More like ogle.
Bruce lengthened and leaned and lifted, muscles bulging as he set about his trade, a sheen of sweat coating his skin. Gabriel struggled to focus on what he was meant to be doing, even more so because if he distracted Bruce, he’d draw attention to how much Gabriel devoured him with his eyes. Becoming friends again with Bruce was like being let back into the candy store but not being allowed to buy anything.
Not even a taste.
‘You alright there?’ Bruce said without looking up. ‘You’re wobbling.’
No, he most definitely was not alright. This was torture.
‘Yeah. Fine. Sorry.’
Bruce tilted his head. He was practically lying across the piece of wood, bent at the waist, his round solid arse jutting out … Gabriel parted his dry lips. The whole thing was too much.
‘Maybe we should take a break,’ Bruce said.
Yes, please. He shrugged. ‘If you want.’
Bruce straightened and stretched his back. ‘Yeah, I want. Grab a seat and I’ll get us a couple of drinks.’
Downtime with Bruce. Nothing unusual about that. They’d done it before. And he was thirsty. It wasn’t like they’d be getting drunk together because Bruce didn’t drink. They’d cool down, he’d wet the desert in his mouth, and they’d get back to it.
But water wouldn’t quench all of Gabriel’s thirst.
He sat on the edge of the stage looking out at the empty stalls. To think that it could all be turned into apartments, perhaps with a theatre room—oh, the cruel irony—or some other communal space. All this—the seats, the lighting, the ornate ceiling—all gutted and thrown away for the wealthy to have a three by two, driving their four by fours, and escaping the nine to five. It didn’t add up to much.
Bruce returned, dropped next to him, and held out a bottle of sparkling water. Their legs touched and Gabriel’s blood fizzed.
‘Water okay?’
He nodded. Bruce’s timber-and-varnish scent entered Gabriel’s nose, coated his tongue and caressed its way into Gabriel’s body. Once in, it gripped his throat as surely as if Bruce held him by the neck, fingers pressing into his skin, the shock and the pleasure shooting down his torso into the bottom of his gut and lower … lower … He almost moaned, but his teeth clamped down painfully on his lip to stop it before he doused his need with a long drink of cold water.
‘It’s like when we used to sit on my verandah some nights,’ Bruce said.
Gabriel choked and spluttered. Bruce’s hand landed quick on Gabriel’s back and pounded until Gabriel held up his hand for him to stop. Throat cleared, Bruce’s hand lingered, skin tingling beneath its heat and heaviness.
What had they been talking about? The verandah.
‘I was thinking that myself earlier, except we don’t have the stars tonight.’
‘Not even the stars of Rivervue theatre,’ Bruce said in a big voice, his hand arcing across the space in front of him like he was lighting up a marquee.
‘I always preferred it when it was just us,’ he said in a soft voice, his thumb tapping the top of the bottle. Alcohol had nothing on weakening his resolve; all he had to do was be in Bruce’s presence. The only way to stop his feelings from coming out, from making their way over the wall, was to speak quietly in the hope that Bruce didn’t hear.
But Bruce had always heard him.
‘Me too.’ He took a drink. ‘One of my best memories of being in that house.’
‘Come off it.’ He nudged the redhead.
‘It’s true. No shouting, no screaming, no fighting of any kind. Just you and me.’
It wasn’t just Jason who had brought trouble. Bruce’s father had run off, his mother had quietly become an alcoholic as a way of coping, and his sister Rachel had become one as well, only not so quietly. Bruce had kept everything together as much as possible. Those hands of his could build anything, but some things were beyond repair.
‘I’m sorry you’ve had it so tough.’
‘Nah, don’t be.’ He touched his head to Gabriel’s. ‘I prefer to focus on the good anyway.’ He sighed. ‘I almost lost the house, actually.’ Bruce drank, like the taste of saying something so personal was off.
Gabriel had noticed long ago that Bruce rarely told people about his troubles, preferring everyone to think all was well. It was always an honour whenever Bruce shared the things others never got to see.
‘How?’
‘Couldn’t pay the mortgage.’ Another drink.
‘You’ve still got a mortgage on it?’
‘I took one out about a year ago to pay Rachel for her half. I would have been alright if I hadn’t broken my arm and lost a lot of work. Then the debts started mounting.’
‘You broke your arm?’
Bruce held up the right one and traced his finger across the middle of his forearm. ‘You can’t see anything. It healed fine but put me out of action for weeks.’ His let his arm fall.
Gabriel wanted to touch the place where the break had been, run his thumb over it and make sure Bruce had healed. But it was best to keep his hands to himself.
‘I’m sorry that things had gotten so bad.’
‘It all worked out in the end, thanks
