Trent only came out of his room to use the bathroom, then climbed right back into bed. He was tinkering with Trent’s PlayStation to see if he could possibly figure out one of those ridiculous games when he heard a car pulling up in the driveway. He got up and opened the door and was surprised to see Edison walking up the porch with a large dish in his hands and a smile. Wood reached out and relieved him, then moved back so he could let his friend’s partner in from the cold.
“Don’t worry, I’m not staying. I know we canceled for tonight because of Trent’s back.” Edison pointed at the steaming container in Wood’s hands. “But you guys still need to eat, right, so I just came to drop off the enchiladas. And they’re one of Trent’s favorite, so maybe they’ll make him feel better.”
“Wow. Thanks, Edison. That was above and beyond.” Wood nodded, sitting the food on the stove. It smelled amazing, and Wood immediately wanted to grab a plate and spatula. “I’m sure this will make him feel a lot better.”
Edison began to head to the door, and Wood hated to feel like he’d just got the benefits of the comfort food and not the company. “Make sure you text Bishop and let us know when you guys wanna get together, then. And of course, if Trent needs anything, to call me. Maybe I’ll bring him some nachos for his game day tomorrow.”
“Sure thing.” Wood laughed, unable to believe a guy like this existed in the world.
Edison shrugged, and Wood noticed how kind his pretty hazel eyes were when he smiled. “It’s fine. Trent’s family. And I cook a lot on the weekends to decompress. A lot of food would go to waste if I didn’t share too.”
Wood had an idea to ask Edison for some more tips on making food for Trent, but he wasn’t in the mood for that conversation tonight. As he saw Edison to his car, he admired the nice jeans and button-up collar shirt he had on. His shoes were Polo and looked as if they’d never been worn. Bishop had told him that Edison was a slightly overweight man that could dress his ass off, and he’d believed him. But seeing Edison Scala in person… damn. The descriptions in Bishop’s frequent letters to him did the man zero justice. His old cellie was one lucky guy. Edison seemed like the real deal, the complete package. Maybe if Wood waited and was as patient as Bishop, maybe he’d have his own good thing.
Wood made Trent a plate of food around seven thirty and took it into his room. Trent was still asleep, and Wood wondered how strong those pills were he’d taken. “Trent. Trent,” Wood called out, not wanting to sneak up on a man while he was sleeping. A huge, don’t-do. “I got food.”
Trent slowly cracked his eyelids open, and a slow, serene smile spread across his face, and Wood’s lower half responded as the fluttering in his chest amplified. Trent eyed the plate in his hands, then slowly got himself into a seated position. He helped prop a few pillows behind Trent’s back, then sat his plate in his lap.
Trent’s eyes widened. “Edison brought his enchiladas?”
“Yep. About an hour ago. I thought I’d let you sleep a little longer. How’s your back?” Wood asked.
“It’s crap. But it always eases in a couple days,” Trent said, then began to eat his dinner. He glanced up at Wood, and he easily read the gratitude in his eyes.
Wood wondered how long Trent had been on his own and denying his sexuality.
“Did you eat?” Trent asked.
“Not yet.”
“Go get a plate and come in here with me,” Trent instructed.
Wood smiled and got up to do what he was told. He fixed himself a decent portion of the pasta, grabbed two cans of ginger ale from the refrigerator and joined Trent in his room for dinner. It was the first time he’d been invited in, and he had plenty to talk about as he surveyed Trent’s eclectic collection of albums and concert posters.
“You like Jimmy Hendrix?” Wood chuckled, pointing toward the psychedelic, rainbow-colored poster.
“Who doesn’t,” Trent scoffed. He pointed to his stacks of crates climbing one of the walls. “I like a lot of stuff, but mostly R&B. You’ll find everything in there from R&B to rock.”
“How’d you get so into music?” Wood asked.
“This guy my mom was seeing for a long time,” Trent said softly. “He used music to remedy everything.”
“Was he your stepdad?” Wood asked, trying to understand the sudden sadness.
“No… but. But I kinda hoped he wanted the job.” Trent ate some more food before he continued. “He was a musician. Played in a local band here that opened up for big acts when they came for festivals or whatever.”
“Was he good?” Wood tried to lighten the mood.
“The best. At least I thought he was.” Trent shook his head. “Man, my mom dated some fuckin’ assholes. A lot of them. But Miles… well, Miles was Miles. He never got mad about my attitude or when I got in trouble at school. Never hit me or tried to test me like the other ones did.”
“He sounds cool. Where’s he now?”
A hard scowl embedded itself deep in Trent’s brow, and his eyes gleamed with anger before he slammed a defensive shield over his emotions. “I don’t know. I don’t care. I came out of juvie at seventeen and he was gone. So was she. Instead of going into the system, I ran away and stayed with Bishop and Mike until I turned eighteen. When I got locked up for those five years with Bishop, I didn’t even care really. I was barely surviving on the streets anyway.”
Wood didn’t try to get Trent to keep talking the same way he hadn’t pressed Wood earlier about his parents or his record. But he was telling Trent soon before they took things to another level. He needed to be honest. Wood didn’t do misunderstandings—he was too old for that. If Trent didn’t like him for him, the same way he’d be willing to accept Trent’s faults, then he’d move on. The earlier they got this out of the way, the better.
“I’m aching. I’m gonna lie down some more,” Trent said and set his empty plate on his nightstand.
“All right. I’ll turn everything off and lock up,” Wood said and got up. He watched Trent twist and grimace as he tried to get into a comfortable position, and Wood hated that there wasn’t more he could do.
After he cleaned up the dishes and put the few leftovers away, Wood thought of making a hot compress for Trent. That always helped him when his knee was bothering him. Trent’s bedroom lamp was off, but Wood could see well enough with the light filtering in from the hallway. Trent was lying flat on his stomach with both arms at his side. “Trent, you still awake?”
“Sorta,” Trent mumbled with half his face in the pillow.
“I got a hot towel for your back, okay,” Wood said, sitting gingerly on the side of the bed. He pulled the sheet down until it was at the top of Trent’s boxers and ran his hand over the smooth skin. Trent moaned and his legs moved under the thin sheet, making Wood’s mouth water. Instead of being despicable, Wood set his own needs to the side and placed the folded rag in the center of Trent’s lower back.
“Sssss,” Trent hissed at the first contact of heat to his skin.
“Easy,” Wood soothed, gently pressing the cloth against the muscles. “This’ll help.”