Janice Johnson - From Father to Son

Lately, though, he’d found himself noticing who lived where. His excitement had sharpened, even before he’d made a conscious decision to start again.

Really he should wait until fall, when darkness came earlier. He’d noticed, though, that parents were letting their children stay up much later these days, perhaps because it was summer. Nine or ten o’clock, and there were still games of tag going on in the street. What were those parents thinking? Anything could happen to their children, out in the dark.

Of course, he wouldn’t hurt them. He only allowed himself to look. Looking was enough.

This rambler didn’t even have a fence, which meant no dog, either. Dogs were a nuisance, although fortunately their families often took them in at night. He moved quietly along the side of the house, staying out of the light cast through the kitchen window. The next window was dark; dining room, he thought. The one after that was dark, too; master bedroom, he hoped.

The two smaller windows were bathrooms. He heard water running, muffled voices. It was the next window that interested him. A light was on in the room; somebody had already pulled the curtains, which were blue cotton with spaceships rocketing between bright golden stars. The hand that had pulled them was careless, though. There was a crack on one side, enough for him to see into a little boy’s bedroom.

To get close, he had to step into the flower bed, which he didn’t like. He’d have to remember to scuff the dirt before he left, so no obvious footprints remained. The thorny cane of a rosebush snagged his pants, and he stifled a curse. But the boy was alone in the room, taking his pajamas from beneath his pillow. He was old enough to get undressed and dressed himself.

This close to the window, the man heard the mother call, “Chad? Did you brush your teeth?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“I’ll be there in a minute to tuck you in.”

The boy took off his shirt and dropped it in an open hamper. His back to the man, he kicked off his sneakers, pulled off his socks and then his jeans and briefs. Filled with intense pleasure and the sharp arrow of anticipation—turn around, turn around—the man unzipped his pants. So quietly. He loved knowing he was invisible out here.

He reached down to touch himself.

CHAPTER FOUR

NIALL HAD HEARD THE VEHICLE pull into the driveway—he was always aware of things like that, even when it likely had nothing to do with him. SUV or pickup, he had decided, from the deep sound of the engine. He was mildly surprised when, a minute later, someone knocked on his door.

He was less surprised to find his brother on his doorstep. They occasionally dropped by each other’s homes. That had been the sum total of their relationship outside of work, until a little over a year ago when Duncan met Jane, who insisted on inviting Niall to dinner and suchlike. He’d been Duncan’s best man at the wedding, too, an odd experience.

Am I his best friend? he had wondered. If I were getting married, who would I ask to stand beside me?

The answer had disturbed him. Duncan, of course. But sometime in the past year he’d settled into the realization that he loved his big brother, who probably loved him, too. The fact that they weren’t very good at showing how they felt didn’t mean the emotion wasn’t there.

“Hey,” he said now. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Duncan followed him in then looked around with the exact same, faintly appalled expression he had every time he came there. It said, How the hell can you live in a shoebox?

The main room of the cottage had a kitchenette, table with two chairs, sofa, one bookcase and a stand with a TV and DVD player. Not much floor space left over. It was as if the place had been designed for child-size furniture, although that wasn’t the case. Enid had told Niall that her husband had decided they needed a rental, and had built the cottage with that in mind. He hadn’t wanted to give up too much yard, though; apparently he’d had a big vegetable garden. Niall didn’t mind the close quarters, but obviously Duncan did. His visit would be short. It wouldn’t take long before he’d start looking uneasy, possibly claustrophobic, and would depart as abruptly as he’d arrived.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.