Read Online Midwinter Night's Dream by Whitley Gray - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Whitley Gray
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stared at Joe.
“It can’t be you,” Joe whispered.
“It is him.” The second firefighter pulled off his mask, revealing Bryce. “He’s for you, baby. You found him sleeping and awakened him. I’m sleeping ‘with these mortals on the ground.’”
Bryce turned and walked away, disappearing in the smoke and steam.
“No,” Joe cried. “Don’t go.”
Joe shot up in bed. Holy fuck . He could practically smell the ash and burned wood. Bryce… It’d seemed so real.
Just a dream. He shoved his hands through his hair and took a couple of deep breaths. In the near-dark he could barely make out Errol’s features as he slept curled against Joe’s side.
Are you trying to tell me something, Bryce?
If so, Joe wasn’t sure he wanted to listen.
Chapter Eight
Errol awoke on Christmas Eve morning to silence. No wind moaning outside, no ice crystals hissing against the windows, just silence. Watery yellow light leaked in through the panes, more light than he’d seen in two days. The mantel clock reported seven-ten—early. The bedsprings stretched and squeaked as he sat up. Next to him, Joe was all but invisible inside his sleeping bag, not even a lick of curly hair showing.
Surely they would clear the highways today, and he could get out and see about taking care of Bessie.
The urge to empty his bladder hit, and he wriggled out of his sleeping bag and headed for the bathroom. The water coming from the taps was tepid at best. Time to stir up the fire, heat up some water on the stove, and make some coffee. After watching Joe do it, Errol felt confident enough to try it and let Joe sleep.
In stocking feet, Errol moved around the kitchen, stoking the stove with kindling and getting it burning. He filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove to heat while he readied the gravity filter full of ground coffee over the carafe.
Much as he’d like to make breakfast for Joe, Errol didn’t have enough confidence in his cooking skills to attempt making a meal on a wood-burning stove. Boiling water was one thing, but frying eggs was another. Hard to believe people had once relied on this kind of appliance and managed to control the heat for everything from eggs to baked goods. The cast iron radiated a lot of heat.
“Keep your hips back from the stove. Don’t want to burn your bits.”
How long would it be before the plows came down this far? Noon? Later? Not that he had anything to pack. Joe could take him to a phone, and Errol could arrange to get Bessie towed by some place that’d do it for under seventy-five dollars. On the twenty-sixth he could check out a couple of bars, see if they were hiring dancers or servers or busboys, whatever might make ends meet.
The kettle gave a low chirp. He wrapped a hot pad around the handle and pulled it from the heat before it could shriek and wake up Joe. Steadying the carafe with his left hand, he poured the steaming water into the filter, and the elixir of life began a trickle into the pot. The rich scent of French roast filled the air, and he breathed it in. Pure luxury. There was nothing like the smell of fresh-brewed coffee in the morning. He’d adapted to the flat taste of generic instant coffee over the past few months. It was either that or tap water, and the water at his place left something to be desired.
He set the kettle back on the stove. Now for the fire—
“Hey.”
Errol whirled. “Uh, hey. I—I made coffee.”
“I see that.” Joe stood next to the bed, clothes rumpled, eyes at half-mast, and a good case of bedhead. Too attractive for his own good.
“How’d you sleep?” Errol asked.
“Fine. You?”
“Fine.” Errol pulled a couple of mugs from the cupboard.
“I’ll be back in a minute.” Joe headed for the bathroom.
“Sure.” After pouring the coffee, he set the mugs on the table. Now what? The snow bucket needed to be filled for the stove reservoir. He went to the door, stepped into his boots, not bothering to lace them, and
“It can’t be you,” Joe whispered.
“It is him.” The second firefighter pulled off his mask, revealing Bryce. “He’s for you, baby. You found him sleeping and awakened him. I’m sleeping ‘with these mortals on the ground.’”
Bryce turned and walked away, disappearing in the smoke and steam.
“No,” Joe cried. “Don’t go.”
Joe shot up in bed. Holy fuck . He could practically smell the ash and burned wood. Bryce… It’d seemed so real.
Just a dream. He shoved his hands through his hair and took a couple of deep breaths. In the near-dark he could barely make out Errol’s features as he slept curled against Joe’s side.
Are you trying to tell me something, Bryce?
If so, Joe wasn’t sure he wanted to listen.
Chapter Eight
Errol awoke on Christmas Eve morning to silence. No wind moaning outside, no ice crystals hissing against the windows, just silence. Watery yellow light leaked in through the panes, more light than he’d seen in two days. The mantel clock reported seven-ten—early. The bedsprings stretched and squeaked as he sat up. Next to him, Joe was all but invisible inside his sleeping bag, not even a lick of curly hair showing.
Surely they would clear the highways today, and he could get out and see about taking care of Bessie.
The urge to empty his bladder hit, and he wriggled out of his sleeping bag and headed for the bathroom. The water coming from the taps was tepid at best. Time to stir up the fire, heat up some water on the stove, and make some coffee. After watching Joe do it, Errol felt confident enough to try it and let Joe sleep.
In stocking feet, Errol moved around the kitchen, stoking the stove with kindling and getting it burning. He filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove to heat while he readied the gravity filter full of ground coffee over the carafe.
Much as he’d like to make breakfast for Joe, Errol didn’t have enough confidence in his cooking skills to attempt making a meal on a wood-burning stove. Boiling water was one thing, but frying eggs was another. Hard to believe people had once relied on this kind of appliance and managed to control the heat for everything from eggs to baked goods. The cast iron radiated a lot of heat.
“Keep your hips back from the stove. Don’t want to burn your bits.”
How long would it be before the plows came down this far? Noon? Later? Not that he had anything to pack. Joe could take him to a phone, and Errol could arrange to get Bessie towed by some place that’d do it for under seventy-five dollars. On the twenty-sixth he could check out a couple of bars, see if they were hiring dancers or servers or busboys, whatever might make ends meet.
The kettle gave a low chirp. He wrapped a hot pad around the handle and pulled it from the heat before it could shriek and wake up Joe. Steadying the carafe with his left hand, he poured the steaming water into the filter, and the elixir of life began a trickle into the pot. The rich scent of French roast filled the air, and he breathed it in. Pure luxury. There was nothing like the smell of fresh-brewed coffee in the morning. He’d adapted to the flat taste of generic instant coffee over the past few months. It was either that or tap water, and the water at his place left something to be desired.
He set the kettle back on the stove. Now for the fire—
“Hey.”
Errol whirled. “Uh, hey. I—I made coffee.”
“I see that.” Joe stood next to the bed, clothes rumpled, eyes at half-mast, and a good case of bedhead. Too attractive for his own good.
“How’d you sleep?” Errol asked.
“Fine. You?”
“Fine.” Errol pulled a couple of mugs from the cupboard.
“I’ll be back in a minute.” Joe headed for the bathroom.
“Sure.” After pouring the coffee, he set the mugs on the table. Now what? The snow bucket needed to be filled for the stove reservoir. He went to the door, stepped into his boots, not bothering to lace them, and
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