Dirty Laundry: A Tucker Springs Novel #3

wasn’t half as interested in the moths as he was in the way Adam lit up like a Christmas tree when he talked about them. Denver found himself wondering how the hell someone came into such a thing, studying moth family trees or whatever, and then he realized he could ask. That proved almost as entertaining as the rest of it.
    “My uncle got me into it. He’s a professor at Iowa State University and lives just outside Ames. He’s into wine—grows grapes, bottles it, sells it. Everyone in his family works at the vineyard, and it’s a job for them, but to him it’s a hobby. He wanted to do everything organically, which was hard since they live next to a golf course. He kept bees too, in part for the grapes, but he’s the one who introduced me to the idea of pollinators and how important they are. I made a state fair project out of it, used it to land a scholarship and everything.”
    Denver could just see this guy getting caught up in bees and grapes. He had a dopey focus about him, like he was the kind of guy who’d need to be reminded to stop and eat. “So what do you do when you’re not studying moths?”
    The question seemed to embarrass Adam. “Not much, I suppose.”
    “No pollinator bowling leagues, huh?”
    He’d meant it as a joke, but something about the comment had Adam looking, if not ashamed, forlorn in a way that hinted at more to his story. “Mostly the entomology grad students hang out together outside of classes and grad work, yeah.”
    “You say that like that doesn’t include you,” Denver observed.
    Adam reached over his shoulder to rub at his neck. “It used to. I . . . had a falling out with one of them, and it’s been hard to be with them since. Plus I moved out of the house we were all renting.” He looked pained. “Sometimes I wonder if that was smart.”
    “Moving out on your own? Why isn’t that smart—money tight?”
    Adam shook his head. “No, it’s not that. It’s just . . . harder, being on my own. Harder than I thought.”
    “Sometimes hard’s good,” Denver pointed out.
    “Sometimes.” Adam rubbed at his neck again.
    A scuffle near the bar drew Denver’s attention, and he stepped away from the door to loom ominously. Once things settled back down, he returned to his station, where Adam stood huddled against a support pillar, nervously eyeing the dance floor. He looked so lost, not quite out of place but definitely rudderless. Denver couldn’t decide if he wanted to wrap him up in a blanket or fuck him into security. Maybe both.
    Denver noticed Adam rubbing his neck again, except this time it wasn’t just a nervous gesture. He seemed focused on his shoulder.
    “You hurt yourself or something?” Denver asked him, motioning to where Adam kept rubbing.
    “Oh—no, not really.” Adam pulled his hand away as if he’d been caught cheating. “Just had a lot of data entry today. Makes me sore.”
    “Here,” Denver said, motioning to the stool, “have a seat.”
    He liked the way Adam did what he was told, not arguing, not asking why. He just sat down on the stool and looked expectantly at Denver. If Denver had thought he could get away with it, he’d have tacked on a good boy , but he wasn’t sure yet how that would play. So he didn’t say anything, just moved behind Adam and put his big hands on those beautiful, slender shoulders. Then he kneaded once, experimentally.
    With a whimper, Adam went boneless and sagged back into Denver’s hands.
    Denver smiled to himself and fell into the massage, keeping one eye on the floor and one on the door while he worked his entomology student over. He loved the way Adam felt in his hands, so slight and frail he could break him in two, but at the same time strong, his muscles resisting and fighting before ultimately relenting to Denver’s touch.
    He missed the glasses, though.
    He loved everything about Adam, to be honest. On so many levels, Adam was the same as every other twiggy youth Denver picked up at Lights Out, but in plenty of other ways he wasn’t, and they seemed to be important points of departure. To start, Adam wasn’t the usual barely legal Denver took home. Even when his tricks weren’t still wet behind the ears, they tended to be on the simple side. El liked to make jokes about how a month’s worth of Denver’s tricks could probably combine their brainpower enough to run a can opener. Not Adam.
    It was weird how even now as Adam melted into Denver’s kneading hands, he still seemed . . .