Page 18 of Snowbirds
There were no live bodies and no dead humans. There was no one else in the home, just Ivan, Chris, and a couple hundred creepy preserved creatures. The kitchen was clean, the fridge empty. A stack of flyers and envelopes on a scarred side table told them that someone named Cleevus Buckley had at least had his mail sent there at some point.
“Postmark on this one is mid-January,” Chris said after looking at the envelope on the top of the small pile.
“Maybe he has his mail held until he picks it up. I bet the association here offers that service.”
“Okay, but then why were the bikers here the other day? They knocked as if they expected someone to answer the door for them.”
“That I cannot say.”
Aside from the fucking plaster leg by the door and the creepy animals with their beady plastic eyes, there were odd pieces of terracotta pottery stashed around the home too. Morrison assumed they were supposed to be art, but who really knew?
Suns and moons, candle holders, a chess set. Planters, pots, weird sculptures. He was reminded of the masturbating frog he’d seen. Perhaps this was the artist? The pieces were everywhere, propped up against the walls in the bedroom, in the kitchen, in the closets. There was even a box of them in the bathroom. In addition to the first leg, there were several more appendages—hands, feet, full arms, and even more legs—scattered across the carpeted floor.
“I don’t see how a person could live here. There’s hardly enough room to move around.” Ivan felt like he was about to knock something over and send everything to the floor in domino fashion, adding to what was already there.
“This place is extra creepy, right?” Ivan asked Chris. “It is, isn’t it? It’s not just me? Is Cleevus auditioning for the part of serial killer in the newest Netflix series?”
“There’s nothing here except—well, no dead or injured humans anyway,” Chris agreed. “And since you asked, itisfucking creepy. Whoever this Buckley guy is, he likes to collect extremely bizarre stuff.”
“What if there are real people parts inside those plaster molds? Ugh, I’m ready to get out of here.”
Turning, Chris slow-blinked at him before responding. “Real people parts? Isn’t the taxidermy shit bad enough? Seriously, Ivan.” He took one last look around before pulling the front door shut behind them. “I still think the gunshots came from here though. And I’d like to know why.”
Back behind the steering wheel of Big Blue, Ivan drove through the neighborhood again and then covered a six-block radius outside it, but the hogs were gone and there was no immediate evidence of uproar. Not that they found anyway.
“Fine, let’s get back to Frank’s place,” Chris finally said. “I’m tired and my mom will be knocking on the door before eight a.m. I can’t believe you agreed to breakfast.”
“And the Grand Canyon,” Ivan reminded Chris.
“Maybethe Grand Canyon.”
“Right, first figure out what’s going on with Cleevus, then the Grand Canyon.”
Chris groaned, but Ivan knew he was right.
EIGHT
Chris
Chris’s eyes popped open. Slowly, the speckled popcorn ceiling of Frank-the-Neighbor’s bedroom came into focus, and for a millisecond, he wondered if the night before had been a wild dream. First, the surprise that was Ivan Morrison, and then later, a house of horrors.
No, the contents of the house had not been a dream. He could still smell them. The odd scent lingered uninvited, making him want to take another shower.
And then there was Ivan.
Maybe his mom had slipped some love potion into their drinks. But no, even if Chris believed a potion might work—which he did not—his parents would never do something like that.
Therefore, last night had really happened. He and Ivan Morrison had made out and slept in the same bed. The soft shuffle and shift of the warm body turning over and pressing up next to him in the bed reinforced his conclusion. He and Ivan had “slept together.” Been intimate.
It had been a lack of supplies that slowed them down—which Chris was thankful for this morning. He wasn’t afraid to admit he wanted Ivan in the most carnal of ways, but he wanted to be sober.
Swiping his hand down his face, Chris blinked himself awake. The familiar morning stubble on his cheeks scraped against his palm and helped him to think, to focus.
Ivan Morrison had happened.
He ran through a mental checklist: Panic, no. Regret, no. Slept? Yes.
Maybe it hadn’t been a terrible idea to give in to their mutual attraction, but they were going to have to sort out the boss-employee issue.
