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Good Question

Good Question

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Good Question

Länge:
101 Seiten
1 Stunde
Herausgeber:
Freigegeben:
Apr 3, 2013
ISBN:
9781623804381
Format:
Buch

Beschreibung

Q&A: Book One

Ever since Jamison Coburn lost his father, he’s been locked up tight, not just because of the heartache but also because if he wants to be like the man he so admired, embracing his attraction to other men is impossible.

Lonnie Bellerose is simply minding his own business when he pulls up at his twin sister’s house, intent on painting a mural in her new nursery. He doesn’t expect to meet anyone like the tall, dark, handsome, and silent handyman. Their first kiss is as spontaneous as their attraction, but Jamison quickly pushes Lonnie away. No biggy. Lonnie knows all about rejection. He’s used to it, has come to expect it.

Perhaps an unexpected weekend together housesitting might set them free of their pasts to become the men they can be together—that is, if Jamison can get past his denial and Lonnie can learn to trust that he's worth loving after all.

Herausgeber:
Freigegeben:
Apr 3, 2013
ISBN:
9781623804381
Format:
Buch

Über den Autor


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Buchvorschau

Good Question - Dawn Kimberly Johnson

Robert.

Chapter One

COME on, dude. Go out with us. You don’t hafta do no talkin’.

Not again.

The whine in Torpedo’s voice set Jamison’s teeth on edge, but he ignored him, concentrating instead on helping Lincoln unload the kitchen cabinets from the back of the van. Despite the early hour, the temperature and his exertion already had Jamison itching to strip off his T-shirt.

Kimmy says Pearl really likes the look of you, Torpedo said. He put a hand on his hip and affected a high-pitched, lilting tone. "He’s foine! All those tattoos on those big ol’ arms, girl! I need to get ahold of some of that! Lincoln and Jamison continued to ignore him as they carefully lowered the first box to the ground. Jam, I’m talkin’ to you, man."

Enough, Torp! Lincoln snapped.

Then and only then did Torp scramble up and away from his leisurely position against the side of the van. Sorry, Linc, he said, stepping forward to offer a hand, but the other two simply glared at him.

Get in the van and get the other containers ready to offload, Lincoln instructed. Torp hopped aboard, walked deep into the van, and began checking the labels so he could get them on deck in the proper order.

When Jamison and Lincoln returned from depositing the first box of cabinetry in the kitchen, Torp had the next two boxes nearly ready to offload. But instead of sliding the first forward, his gaze and concentration were unfortunately pulled away by the noisy approach of a car and the shrieking application of a parking brake from just behind their unloading area.

Jamison looked over his shoulder just as the car’s engine shut off. It was an old and oddly purple Volkswagon Beetle, driven by a young black woman—no, a man. He stepped from the car, then leaned back in to retrieve a large drawing pad and case of… pens? Pencils? Paints? Jamison couldn’t guess. His skin was a light coffee color, and he was fit and lean, solidly built. He probably worked out some. Not as much as Jamison, but some, and his mane of spongy, dark curls was held back out of his face by a yellow bandana. It reminded Jamison of how his mother used to control her hair when she was cooking a big dinner.

Hello, the young man said as he rushed by them, juggling his items into a better position to carry and almost tripping over his own feet, before walking through the open door of the house where they were installing the new kitchen.

Jamison!

Huh? he asked, jerking toward Lincoln.

What are you looking at? his boss asked.

N-nothing. Jamison felt his face grow warm with shame. Sorry. He’d been looking at the way the blue tank top and charcoal-gray cargo shorts hung on the new arrival’s slender form as he’d walked into the house.

That’s the client’s brother. Some sort of artist studying at the university. He’ll be doing a mural in the nursery upstairs—

Jamison glanced at Torp and saw the smirk on his face—the smirk that said Torp had a lot to say about their client’s brother—just before they both gripped the next container and slid it to the door of the van. Shit.

"—while we work downstairs. I don’t want to hear about anyone on my crew giving him trouble, got it? Jamison quickly nodded as he struggled to support the container until Torp could hop down and help him. Once they’d set it safely on the ground, Lincoln focused on Torp. Did you hear me, Torp?"

Aw, boss, why you talkin’ to me? Why would I give him trouble?

Lincoln narrowed his gaze and leaned in close enough to make Torp take an uncertain step backward. Because he’s smarter than you, better-looking than you—Torp snorted at that—"and more talented than you. The same reasons you hassled certain kids in high school. Now get that box inside!"

They had the van unloaded within an hour despite their sluggish, distracted beginnings. Jamison was glad that once Torp had something to focus on, he wasn’t much for talking. Instead, his best friend buckled down and concentrated on his measuring and cutting and placing of the overhead cabinets, then attaching their hardware. It wasn’t something Torp should lose focus on. Mistakes could be expensive, and he knew it.

Not that Jamison didn’t enjoy working with Torp. He did, and he loved his job. He had never made the grades to attend college, which worked out great since he didn’t have the money, but he had been good with his hands, liked to build things. His mother had often joked, My boy is gonna be a carpenter like Jesus himself.

Jamison didn’t know about that, but he did seem to have an aptitude for shop class, much to his teacher, Mr. Dunlop’s, delight. Unfortunately, crafting chairs and desks and tables by hand, and relying on word of mouth, hardly had him rolling in cash at nineteen. So he became an apprentice at Lincoln Frye Home Improvement, and after a few years as a glorified errand-boy and moving man, he’d gradually started picking up the ins and outs of remodeling homes.

Paint a room, secure an armoire, stain stairs, install molding, refinish or tile floors, build showers, install kitchen cabinets—every little project taught him more, helped him grow, earned him valuable skills. Lincoln had instructed him carefully and well, walked him through doing each new job right the first time, efficiently and beautifully.

But…. I’ve never seen a mural painted. Jamison paused in measuring the sink base cabinet, wiped his brow, and looked up at the kitchen ceiling, wondering what the young art student was doing. It’s awful quiet up there. Was he sketching, just thinking, or already painting?

Get that base cabinet in, Jamison, and then you guys can break for lunch, Lincoln said, startling him from his thoughts.

Uh… okay, boss.

Lincoln grinned. You okay, son?

Jamison nodded and went back to his measurements.

A short time later, he was sitting on the worn and frayed backyard deck, finishing off a double cheeseburger and listening to some weird, moany music wafting from the second-floor window above him.

Forget about your house of cards

And I'll do mine

The day had turned out decent, overcast and not too hot, an occasional breeze passing through to dry away any perspiration on his shaved

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