Short story: “Storm”

I’m participating in a fun little short story blog exchange in a Google+ group I’m in. We were given a picture as inspiration, and this is the result of where my brain took it. It’s entirely unedited/unbeta’d, so keep that in mind. Enjoy!

Storm

Rain pelted down as Trace drove along the deserted stretch of state road. He had heard the thunder in the distance but figured he had plenty of time before the rain arrived. He’d been wrong. Before he knew what hit him, he was on an unlit road off the Interstate, miles from anywhere, barely able to see through the heavy downpour. In the distance, a bolt of lightning streaked the sky, and the answering thunderclap was so loud it made Trace jump and jerk the wheel of his Jeep.

He couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead; he slowed to a crawl. A glance at the clock told him he wouldn’t be home until after midnight at the rate he was going. He swore under his breath and gritted his teeth. He should’ve let his cousins put him up for the night.

Something ran across the road. Even at his low speed, Trace couldn’t avoid it. He slammed on the brakes, but his Jeep skidded on the slick road, barely avoiding whatever-it-was and careening into the ditch. He spun the steering wheel in a vain attempt to control the car, but it was too late. It rolled, and he let go of the wheel to scrunch himself as small as possible, bracing for impact.

Miraculously, the Jeep rolled enough times to sit upright. The good news was, Trace was bruised but not broken. The bad news was, he was stuck off the road in the middle of nowhere during a thunderstorm. He shifted enough to feel exactly where he’d gotten thumped as the car went off the road. A bruised rib or two, a sprained ankle, a cut on his arm—who knew what that was from—and a lump forming on his forehead. He reached down to feel for his cell phone and came up with a crushed lump of parts. It must have slipped from his pocket and smashed under his boot.

He wasn’t nearly as quiet with his foul mouth this time. Like it or not, he was stuck until such time as he could either hike to the nearest house or someone happened by. Either way, he would have to sit there overnight. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

A short time later, someone knocked on his window. He opened his eyes and looked out, but there was nothing there. A shadow moved across the front of his Jeep, but he determined that to be a swaying tree branch. The rain did seem to have let up somewhat, however, and he could see out of the windows. Beyond the few trees clustered near his current location, there was a vast field. At the edge of it was a house.

Trace said a quick prayer and unfastened his seat belt. The house was close enough that he could reach it within a reasonable amount of time. He would be soaked even with his umbrella after a trek across the field, but it would be worth it to get to a phone. Ignoring the vague feeling in his gut that he shouldn’t go, he made to get out of the car. That was easier said than done. Something was blocking the door, and he could only open it partway. The passenger door was smashed in from where the Jeep had landed when it went off the road before it rolled. Trace had to climb in back and exit through the rear driver’s side door.

Eventually he made it out, slightly stiff but in one piece. He followed the road a short way then cut across the field toward the house. The rain was still coming down, but it had slowed, and the thunder and lightning were much farther off. As he approached the house, he saw it was far bigger than it had looked from the road. He stood in awe at the end of the stone walkway, staring up at the huge home.

He slipped a little on the stones as he made his way to the door. At last, wet and shivering despite his umbrella and hooded sweatshirt, he stood on the front porch and knocked. For several minutes, nothing happened. Eventually, a light went on in the foyer and the deadbolt clicked. When the door opened, Trace stared into the last face he had expected to see.

“A-Angel? Angel Zamora?” he asked, his teeth chattering.

The tall, dark-haired man illuminated from behind peered out at him. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“Trace Watson. We went to school together.” Trace pulled his sweatshirt tighter and shivered.

Angel’s eyes widened. “Oh, my god. I haven’t seen you in—how long has it been?”

“C-can I c-come in?” Trace asked. “I’m f-freezing.”

Turning from surprised to wary, Angel stepped back a pace. “I don’t know…”

“I j-just need to use your phone,” Trace said. “My car…it rolled into a ditch, and there’s the storm…”

Angel eyed Trace up and down. “All right. Come in.” He stepped aside.

Trace entered the foyer, and his eyes grew big. The house was even grander than it had appeared from the outside. Even from where he stood Trace could see how enormous it was. He tried unsuccessfully to keep his mouth closed and his eyes only on Angel, whose lips twitched at Trace’s awed expression.

It was plenty warm inside, but Trace was chilled through. Angel’s eyes softened and he put a hand on Trace’s shoulder. “You’re nearly frozen,” he said. “Maybe you should have a hot shower and some coffee before you call anyone.”

“N-no,” Trace mumbled, clenching his jaw against his shivering. “I’ll warm up soon enough.”

Angel frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t leave you like this. Come on.”

He led Trace up the spiral staircase and around the bend to the right. They walked past several closed doors, and as they traveled the length of the hallway, it illuminated ahead of them automatically. Trace didn’t see any lights; it was as though the walls themselves emitted a soft, golden glow.

At last they reached the end. Angel pushed open the door to the outer chamber of a large bathroom. There were mirrors on two walls, one of which had a counter and three stools. Along the other, the mirrors reached the floor. On the remaining wall was another door through which Trace caught sight of a sink. Next to the door was a built-in shelf stocked with towels and bottles of what must have been shampoo and soap.

Trace was warmer now after their trek through the house. He peeled off his soaked hoodie but held onto it, unsure where to set it. Angel held out his hand.

“Here,” he said. “I’ll take it.”

For a moment, Trace just stood there. He didn’t want to be rude, but he wasn’t sure how to voice his concern. “I, um, left my bag in my Jeep,” he said.

“Ah,” Angel replied. Once again, he looked Trace over. “I think I have some clothes that will fit you. I’ll bring them while you’re in the shower.”

“Okay.” Trace made no move to go in the bathroom.

“Was there something else?” Angel sounded amused.

“No,” Trace replied and hurried to the inner room.

“You might want a towel,” Angel called after him.

“Right. A towel.” Trace reached around the corner and pulled one from the shelf, causing an entire stack to topple to the floor.

At that, Angel really did laugh, and Trace’s face burned. He stepped back out and hastily scooped the towels in an effort to cram them back into place. He’d been in the house less than fifteen minutes and had already managed to be as rude as possible. He glanced at Angel, but the other man didn’t seem especially bothered.

“Don’t worry about it,” Angel told him. “I’ll take care of it. Go on, and I’ll get your wet clothes and the towels when I come back with something for you to wear.”

Trace, who had returned his gaze to the floor, looked up to reply, but Angel was already gone. Shrugging, Trace closed the bathroom door and stripped down. Just getting his soggy jeans off was enough to feel better. His legs were almost numb from the cold. He turned on the spray and went to adjust it, but he hardly needed to move the tap. Warm water of just the right temperature poured down. Trace stepped inside and drew the curtain, sighing with contentment at the feel of the water on his icy skin.

He realized too late he’d forgotten a washcloth, but it didn’t seem to matter. He spotted a clean, fresh one underneath the bottle of soap at the edge of the tub. Grateful that Angel seemed to know how to stock his bathroom—or had a housekeeper who did—Trace picked up both and began to wash. Vaguely, he heard the door open and close again. He assumed it was Angel, delivering the dry clothes.

The shower felt fantastic, but Trace didn’t want to stay in there too long. He’d already been rude enough to Angel, who had graciously allowed him in despite misgivings. Reluctantly, Trace shut off the shower and emerged to dry off and dress. As he did so, he noticed for the first time that he didn’t feel any pain from his injuries. A peek at his arm revealed the cut was no longer visible. Perhaps he had only imagined it in his state of panic.

He dropped the towel to the floor and looked at the neat stack of clothes setting on the closed toilet. On top was his wallet, and just underneath sat a pair of what had to have been silk boxer briefs. Trace flushed; he hadn’t even known there was such a thing. He picked them up and almost moaned. They were buttery soft in his hands. Of course someone as obviously wealthy as Angel would own nothing less. He slipped them on and sucked in his breath at the way they felt.

In order to get his mind off the fact that he was wearing another man’s incredibly expensive underwear, he quickly pulled on the rest of the clothes—a pair of “casual” khaki trousers and a royal blue button-down shirt. He definitely felt overdressed for making a simple phone call to a tow truck. He picked up the towel and stood there for a moment, unsure where to put it. Just as he was about to emerge and look for Angel to ask what to do with the towel, there was a knock on the door.

Angel’s voice came drifting through. “Are you all set?”

“Yes,” Trace replied, opening the door.

“Why don’t you come back down and have that cup of coffee?” Angel suggested.

“Sure. That sounds good.”

Actually, it sounded a little weird. Trace was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the overt display of wealth. He just wanted to make his phone call and get away. He felt guilty about that; Angel had been nothing but kind since the first awkward moments on the porch. Trace followed him out, deciding a cup of coffee wouldn’t hurt, especially if he was going to be stuck waiting for any length of time. It was already late. As he passed the shelf, he noticed the towels had already been replaced, and it looked as though nothing had been touched.

They descended the stairs and returned to the foyer. Instead of entering the sitting room at their right,, Angel led Trace further into the house to a cozy study filled with plush chairs. There was a desk in one corner and a shelf of books in another. It was the homiest room Trace had seen yet in this house. They settled into a couple of the chairs, and Trace looked down to see a silver tray with all the necessaries for a steaming cup of coffee. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes and inhaling the aroma.

When he looked to Angel, the other man was smiling, his eyes and mouth crinkling with suppressed laughter. Trace scowled; he was cold and tired, that was all. Angel didn’t bother hiding his chuckle any longer.

“What?” Trace snapped.

He regretted it a moment later when Angel’s expression lost all indication of humor. “Nothing,” he replied. “Go ahead, help yourself.”

Tension clung to them as Trace poured the hot liquid into his cup and added milk and sugar. He carefully kept his eyes on his drink, avoiding Angel’s gaze. After a few moments, during which he didn’t hear so much as a spoon clink, he looked up again. Angel was sitting perfectly still, watching him. He hadn’t taken any coffee himself.

“I’m sorry,” Trace said. “I’m being rude. I’ll finish up and call for a truck.”

“It’s all right.” Angel’s eyes flicked away from Trace briefly. “I’m just not used to having company.”

Trace frowned. “You live alone in this place?”

“Do you see anyone else?” Angel gestured around.

“That doesn’t sound like much fun,” Trace commented.

“It’s not.”

“Then why—”

Angel cut him off. “I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s talk about something else. You don’t have to rush on my account—take your time warming up.” Angel smiled, but there was something behind it Trace couldn’t pinpoint. “Tell me what you’ve been doing for the last…ten years, is it?”

“About that, yeah. Well, to be honest, nothing terribly interesting. I work in customer service at the grocery store. I do a bit of volunteering at my church.” He shrugged. “It’s just regular life, I guess.” He took a tentative sip of coffee, decided it was cool enough, and took a longer drink.

“That sounds…nice,” Angel said, his voice colored wistful.

“It’s okay,” Trace said. “Earns me enough to support my music habit.”

“Oh?” Angel leaned forward. “Music?”

“Yeah. I play in a band. Bass and back-up vocals.” His cheeks grew warm under Angel’s watchful eye.

“Nice.”

“Listen, I’m finished. If you show me your phone, I’ll call for a tow and be out of here as soon as they show up.” Trace stood.

Angel followed him to his feet. “There’s one right on the desk there.”

Trace crossed the room to the desk and picked up the phone. He cradled it between his cheek and his shoulder while he withdrew his wallet and searched for his emergency roadside card. Once he had dialed, he pressed the phone back to his ear. Instead of ringing, he got a high-pitched squeal that made him hold the phone away until it stopped. Following that, there was a garbled message and a beep, then silence.

Turning to Angel, Trace held out the phone. “I don’t think it’s working,” he said.

Angel glanced out the tall window behind the desk. “Must be from the storm. Sometimes there’s no reception.” He sighed. “Only thing to do is wait it out and try again. If the storm passes, they’ll have it working again by morning. Do you have to be somewhere?”

“No. I don’t have to work tomorrow.” Trace fidgeted.

“I can just as easily let you stay here for the night.” Angel gestured around. “I have plenty of space.”

In spite of the circumstances, Trace laughed softly. “I can see that.” He sobered. “Still, I don’t want to put you out or anything.”

Angel’s dark eyes were fixed on him, and it made his insides squirm. “It’s no trouble. Are you hungry?”

“A little,” Trace admitted.

“Come on, then. We can go to the kitchen and find something for you to eat.” He turned around and headed out the door, Trace hurrying along behind him.

*

Light filtered in through lace curtains, and Trace stirred in his bed. He nestled down further in the comforter, reluctant to come fully awake. The mattress was soft beneath him, the blankets warm and cozy. A sense of utter contentment filled him; it had been the best night’s sleep he’d had in ages.

That thought lasted all of eight seconds before he sat up with a jolt, the bed covers falling down to his waist. Glancing down at himself, he remembered he wasn’t in his own bed, and he wasn’t wearing his own pajamas. The events of the previous night flooded back into his mind: the storm; the shower; the phone call; Angel. He scrubbed at his face and breathed slowly in an effort to calm down.

When he thought he was ready, he kicked off the covers and swung his feet over the side of the bed. He had just gotten to his feet when there was a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” he called, as though he didn’t know.

A low chuckle. “It’s me, Angel.”

Trace’s first thought was, You certainly are. Followed by, Damn! “Come in,” he said, his voice wavering.

The door opened and Angel stepped in with a tray. “Thought I’d bring breakfast to you. I wasn’t sure how you would be doing after last night. I was worried you might have some effects from the cold.”

Trace stretched, testing his muscles. “I’m fine. Better than, actually. That bed is comfortable.”

Angel’s smile lit his face. “I’m glad. Now eat something. You’ll want your strength so you don’t get sick.”

“Yes, Mom,” Trace teased. But he sat back down on the bed and accepted the plate of food from the tray.

Pulling up a chair, Angel joined him. There was a second plate, and they ate in silence for a few minutes. Eventually, Trace’s curiosity got the better of him.

“So, I told you what I’ve been doing. Where have you been these last ten years? You disappeared after school, and no one could even locate you for our class reunion a few months ago.”

Angel averted his eyes and poked at his eggs with his fork. “I’ve been here,” he said.

“That whole time?” Trace frowned and put down his toast.

“Yes. You could say I inherited this house and needed to take care of it.” Angel resumed his breakfast.

“Well, you might have told someone. This is the middle of nowhere, but there were people who would’ve liked to see you.”

“That would have been a bad idea.” Angel set his plate back on the tray. “I probably shouldn’t have let you come in, but…”

“But what? I was a soggy mess last night and you felt sorry enough for me?” Trace stabbed at a potato, irritation rising.

“Well, yes,” Angel said. He put a hand on Trace’s wrist. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

His fingers almost burned where they touched Trace’s skin, and his eyes were dark with something that made Trace shudder. “Then explain it to me,” he demanded.

For several heartbeats, neither of them moved, then Angel shook himself and withdrew his hand. “Not yet,” he said.

They moved apart, and Trace finished his food without another word. He returned his empty plate to the tray, and Angel carted it away, the door swinging shut behind him, leaving Trace alone and bewildered.

*

Rain continued to pelt against the windows, and the thunder and lightning showed no signs of letting up either. After three more failed attempts at calling for a tow, Trace gave up. He would simply have to wait until the storms passed before trying again. He only had one more day of vacation, so he hoped everything would blow over before then. Otherwise, he would be screwed for not showing up at work.

Meanwhile, he and Angel continued to pass the time in other ways. For some of the day, Angel disappeared from his sight, leaving him with nothing to do but wander around looking in all the rooms in awe. The rest of the time, they curled up in Angel’s study, talking.

It seemed Angel had not had much contact with the world in most of the time since they’d known each other. He wouldn’t say why, only that he had “help” of an unspecified nature in getting groceries and keeping the house in order. Eager for news, he tossed questions at Trace, hanging on his every word and soaking in as much information as he could.

Sometime after lunch, conversation turned to their school days. Angel asked after several classmates, and Trace provided as many details as he was able. He’d kept track of a few of the ones who, like him, had stayed local or had moved back, and a few more sporadically online. Talking about that made Trace wonder if Angel had any access to the outside world at all. He shook his head of the thought; obviously he did, or he wouldn’t have a phone. He didn’t seem to be one for other forms of communication, though.

While they talked, they moved to sit together on the plush sofa. Eventually, Angel inquired about a girl, Morgan, they had both known, and that was where Trace faltered. If Angel wanted to keep his past a secret, Trace was no more inclined to share his own, especially when it came to Morgan. She was the last person he wanted to think about.

“I don’t know what she’s doing now,” Trace said. That, at least, was honest. He hadn’t seen her in six months.

“Didn’t the two of you used to be close?” Angel asked.

Trace stared at his hands. “Yeah.”

“Something happened?”

“A lot of things happened.” Trace looked sideways at Angel. “You said there’s a lot I don’t know about you. Well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me, either.”

“And I suppose you don’t plan to tell me.” Angel rested a hand on Trace’s knee, and it made Trace shiver.

“No,” he replied. “Not unless you plan to do the same.” He rested a hand on top of Angel’s.

“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” Angel whispered.

“I know.”

Without planning it, they had moved closer so their legs touched. Trace’s heart sped up, and he swallowed thickly. The air in the study crackled, and the hair on Trace’s arms stood on end. A bolt of lightning shot from the sky at almost the same moment the thunderclap sounded. Startled, he pulled back.

“What the hell was that?” The tingling in his skin receded, but the air was still heavy with electricity.

“Lightning strike, probably right on the grounds.” Angel gripped Trace’s hand. “We’re fine.” He squeezed a little and let go.

“You don’t seem bothered,” Trace muttered.

“The house is out in the open.” He raised one shoulder in a casual shrug. “It’s not the first time.”

“Well, it freaked the crap out of me. Can we just go do something else?”

“Sure.” Angel stood up and pulled Trace to his feet. “We can go explore the library.”

It didn’t bother Trace at all when Angel didn’t let go of his hand this time.

*

The library was at the end of a long hallway. Like all the rooms, it illuminated the moment they stepped in, but it almost wasn’t necessary. Despite the rain, the library was bright from the many tall windows. In between them, the walls were lined floor to ceiling with shelves upon shelves of books. Trace sucked in his breath at the sight.

“Oh,” he said softly.

Angel let go of his hand and stepped over to one of the window seats. “Go ahead,” he prompted. “Might as well find something to read while your stuck here.”

Trace wanted to say that he didn’t feel stuck, that he felt sorry for disturbing Angel’s quiet, solitary life. But he was far too busy scanning the nearest shelf. He looked up at the books above his head, wondering if there was a stool. He shifted and turned to ask Angel, but before the words left his mouth, his toe nudged something, and he looked down. There was a shelf ladder he hadn’t noticed before right next to him. He slid the ladder so he could climb it to see the shelves too high to reach.

At the top of the ladder, Trace paused and glanced down at Angel. He was seated beneath one of the windows, his head down and his eyes on the carpet beneath his feet. His dark hair was back from his face, and his lips were slightly parted as though he were concentrating. Trace’s stomach tightened at the sight of Angel’s smooth, muscular arms, and his mouth went dry. He inhaled several times to regain his composure—his thoughts were definitely drifting in a less-than-appropriate direction—but he only succeeded in making himself lightheaded. Before he could react and balance himself, he tilted and slipped from the ladder.

Trace went limp, bracing himself for an impact that never arrived. Instead, he landed heavily in Angel’s outstretched arms. For a moment, he was too shocked to move or even breathe. How had Angel crossed the room fast enough? He shook his head in an attempt to think properly again, which Angel interpreted as discomfort. He set trace on his feet. Legs shaking, Trace stumbled forward, and Angel put out his hands to steady him.

Slowly, Trace raised his eyes. They were close, both breathing fast from the near miss—or possibly something else. The electric prickle vaulted up Trace’s spine, but this time he was certain it had nothing to do with the storm; he wondered if it ever had. Before he could over-think anything, he put his hand on the back of Angel’s neck. Willingly, Angel drew closer, and their lips met, merging and melting together.

Without warning, Angel backed Trace into the shelf, the kiss becoming deeper, more aggressive. Trace gave back as good as he got, and they pushed against each other, slamming into the shelf hard enough to cause books to tumble to the floor around them.The air crackled, and one of the windows banged open, allowing the cool wind to swirl past them. Both men ignored it in favor of exploring each other.

When the heat was too much to bear, Trace dragged his mouth from Angel’s. “St-stop,” he panted.

Breathing equally hard, Angel said, “I’m sorry.”

“No!” Trace put a hand on his cheek. “It’s just…” His neck grew hot. “I don’t want to ruin a pair of borrowed underwear.”

Angel’s mouth dropped open. A half second later, his lips stretched into a wide grin and he threw his head back, laughing. He pushed away from the shelf and grabbed Trace’s hand. Full of joy, Trace joined Angel’s laughter and allowed himself to be pulled from the library.

Together, they ran through the house, blazing a trail along the many halls between the library and the bedrooms. Up the stairs and down the corridor they hurried, full of playful shoves and grabs at each other as well as a stolen kiss or three. At last they found their way to the room Trace had slept in, tumbling inside and closing the door.

There was no preamble, no ritual, no delicacy. They pulled at each other’s clothes frantically until they lay naked on the bed. Even then, they didn’t slow down; their lovemaking was a tangled mass of heat and desperation and gladness and longing, their bodies woven together until they were both spent and sated.

Afterward, Trace lay on his back, Angel’s head pillowed on his chest. He ran his fingers through Angel’s dark locks, relishing their coarse texture. He breathed a small sigh of contentment, causing Angel to tip his head to peer at him through his long, dark lashes.

“Tell me,” Angel said quietly.

Trace stilled his hand. “Tell you what?”

“About her. I know you were lying earlier. You know what happened to her.”

Frowning, Trace said, “Now? This is a hell of a time.” When Angel’s expression didn’t change, he said, “She disappeared. We were going to get married.” He swallowed, the pain now a manageable background noise. “She broke it off two days before the wedding, no explanation other than that it was all a lie. I saw her a few times for about a year after, but then she just…vanished.”

Angel sat up and looked down at Trace. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his eyes full of sorrow.

Trace propped himself on his elbows. “What? Why?”

“I lied too.”

Grabbing his wrist, Trace said, “Lied about what?”

“Everything,” Angel said. “I know what happened to her. She’s like me. They must have gotten to her.”

“What the hell? You’d better explain this!” Trace demanded. His heart pounded.

Instead of speaking, Angel held out his hand, palm up. He closed his eyes, and a small, white orb appeared there, hovering above his hand. “Magic,” he whispered. “They locked me here, isolated. I can’t leave, and none of this is real.” He hung his head.

The walls around them dissolved, and they were in a small, shabby room. Like the library, it was lined with books, but nothing near as grand. When he looked down, Trace discovered he was clad in his own clothes. He raised his eyes and caught the view out the window. There was no rain, no lightning—only the sun beating against the glass.

“Why did you bring me here?” he demanded.

“I didn’t,” Angel said. “Not on purpose, anyway. I-I used magic. I was so lonely! So I begged the magic to make someone come. This is what happened.” Tears streamed down his face.

Horrified, Trace backed away from him. “No…”

“This is what they did to her, too. I know it is. It’s why I asked about her. If they find me, if they know I brought someone here—” Panic replaced the sadness.

“I’ll go,” Trace said. “I’ll leave, and no one has to know what you did. I promise, I won’t say anything.”

Angel nodded. “Yes. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I never meant to love you.” He touched Trace’s cheek lightly then stepped away to open the door. “You’ll find your car back on the road, intact.”

Beyond where they stood, Trace saw the clear blue sky and felt the cool breeze. He walked slowly forward, stopping on the threshold. He looked back at Angel. On a whim, he grabbed his hand. “Come with me,” he said.

“I can’t.”

“Why not? What will happen?”

“I don’t know. I think I cease to be.” He swallowed. “I die.”

Trace nodded and let go. “I didn’t mean to love you either,” he said just before he stepped outside.

With a click, the door shut behind him. Trace walked fifty paces before turning around to look. The house appeared just as it had the night before. Incapable of moving, Trace stood and stared. His heart was filled with grief.

Please, he thought. Let it rain. When nothing happened, he turned his face to the sky and shouted, “If you loved me, you would make it rain!”

Thick storm clouds rolled in, and an enormous bolt of lightning touched down somewhere behind the house, answered by a thunderous boom. A moment later, the heavens opened, and rain pelted down on Trace. He stayed where he was long enough to become thoroughly soaked before dashing back towards the house to pound on the door.