Forgive and Forget(17)

“Tom, it’s me, it’s Joe. It’s okay. No one’s going to hurt you. You were having a nightmare. You remember me, right?”

Tom? Was that his name? He blinked down, his eyes meeting wide eyes the color of the ocean. The seaside…. “Joe?”

A shaky smile came onto the man’s face. “Yeah, that’s right. It’s Joe.”

Sweet, jittery, bashful Joe, who had taken him in and been so kind to him. Joe, whose handsome face was filled with such tenderness, flooding Tom’s entire being with a feeling he couldn’t describe but wanted to bask in. It had been so long since anyone looked at him that way. He couldn’t remember, but he could feel it. He found himself unable to move. Instead, he lowered himself, wrapping his hands around Joe’s head as he nuzzled his face in the crook of Joe’s neck. Just for a minute. He needed someone to hold on to. Someone he could trust. He didn’t know Joe, but for some strange reason, he felt he could trust him. He desperately wanted to.

“What’s happening to me, Joe? Why can’t I remember?”

Joe wrapped his arms tightly around Tom’s back, rubbing comfortingly with strong hands. It had been so long since he’d trusted someone or felt like he wasn’t alone. Was he alone? Why did the thought of trusting someone—anyone—leave him feeling cold?

“I don’t know what’s happening, but we’ll figure it out, okay?” Joe’s voice was almost a whisper, the sadness and pain subtly woven into his mellow baritone akin to Tom’s. For a moment it was almost as if Joe had read his thoughts. What would have happened to him if Joe hadn’t found him? Somehow he felt there was more than one answer to that question, none of which resulted in anything good. Was it just gratitude that had Tom feeling attached to Joe?

How could he not remember anything about himself, yet put his trust so completely in this man? He was practical, he knew that. Procedure, discipline, levelheadedness were words that came to mind when he thought of himself. His attraction to Joe might not have been foreign to him, but the depth of feelings swirling about his head was very new. Yet for every sensible rebuttal his head offered, his heart overruled each and every one.

Tom pulled back slightly, looking into Joe’s eyes, and he lowered his gaze down to Joe’s lips. What did Joe taste like? Sweet like his pies? Warm like his smile? It occurred to Tom that he was somewhat of a sappy romantic, which felt at odds with the source of his current predicament. It was hard to concentrate with Joe under him. Speaking of hard….

Something stirred down south, and Joe’s eyes widened, as did Tom’s. Tom scrambled up, and quickly deposited himself on the end of the couch, his hands clamped tightly on his lap while Joe sat himself on the other end, looking everywhere but at Tom. He turned on the small lamp, his gaze on the floor.

Good God, what the hell was wrong with him? How could just thinking about a kiss make him hard so quickly? Joe probably thought he was some kind of pervert, wrestling him to the ground and then getting hard like that.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. That’s never happened before.” The man had saved his life, and this was how he showed his gratitude? “At least I don’t think so. I, uh, maybe it’s been a while for me too.” Tom needed to calm down. This really wasn’t the time or place. When he glanced at Joe, he noticed how Joe’s cheeks were flushed, his legs crossed, and he darted his gaze around the room to avoid Tom. “Would you mind if I use your bathroom?”

“You don’t have to ask, Tom. This is your home while you’re here,” Joe replied somewhat unsteadily. He cleared his throat and motioned to the kitchen. “I’m going to, um, get some water.”

Tom nodded and sat there.

Joe didn’t budge.

“Should I…? Okay, I’ll go first.” Tom jumped to his feet and rushed down the hall to the bathroom. He closed the door and went to the sink, where he splashed his face with cold water. What the hell was wrong with him? He wiped the excess water from his face before studying himself in the mirror, willing himself to remember something—anything. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and tried to recall. It was all in there beyond the veil of blurred shapes and colors. Faceless people, muffled voices. What if his memory didn’t come back? He quickly shook himself. Whatever happened, he’d figure it out. He was a survivor. Holding up one of his hands, he flexed his fingers, his bruised and reddened skin stretching over his knuckles. Whoever had hurt him, he’d hurt them back. At least that was something.

With a sigh, he dried his face and turned off the light before heading into the living room. Joe was huddled in the armchair under his blanket. He was pretending to be asleep. Tom had no idea how he knew that, but he did. With a small smile, he went back to the couch. If Joe wanted to pretend whatever had happened hadn’t happened, then Tom would go along with it. He owed Joe that much.

Tom woke the next morning to the most amazing smells: the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the mouthwatering whiff of baked pastries. His stomach growled, demanding to be introduced to the source of such decadence. Getting up, he stretched and noticed his jeans and T-shirt had been cleaned and carefully draped over Joe’s armchair, along with his leather jacket. The clock on the mantel said it was nine in the morning. Wow, had he really slept that late? Guessing by his reaction, sleeping in wasn’t something he did often, and considering he’d slept on a couch, he was even more surprised by it. How early had Joe gotten up to get Tom’s clothes washed and bake whatever smelled so good?