Chapter 6 Charlie #2
“I’m going to go back to work now, Charlie.” He takes a step back, the defiant glint in his eyes replaced by something bordering on confidence. It’s equally sexy but far more intoxicating.
“Wait, let me give you my number.”
Not giving him a chance to argue, Charlie grabs a napkin off his table before hurrying to the register.
He can hear voices conversing in Spanish, but no one comes to check on them, so he reaches over the counter to grab a pen, scribbling his phone number down before hurrying back to his mystery man.
He holds the napkin out, relieved when pale fingers curl around it.
“Keep that. If for any reason you change your mind about coming over tonight, just text me. I might be disappointed, but I won’t ask questions or demand an explanation. Changing your mind is fine, leaving me hanging isn’t.”
His pretty boy clenches his jaw, and for a moment Charlie worries he’s fucked up, but then he shoves the napkin in his pocket and sighs, voice so low Charlie can hardly make out what he says. “M’sorry.”
“What?”
“I’m not going to say it again,” he hisses, louder this time. “Just...shoo. Go away before I try to take you into the bathroom to blow you and get myself fired.”
“Is that a possibility?” Charlie asks.
“I’d rather not test it.”
“Then I’ll see you tonight?” Charlie asks, unable to keep the hope from his voice.
“Yes.” The to-go bag of food is removed from the table and pressed into his arms. “I have to work. Get the fuck out of here, Charlie.”
Hearing his name fall from those pretty, pink lips does it for Charlie.
They’re kind of shiny, almost like there’s some kind of shimmering lip gloss or something.
It would be embarrassing how desperately Charlie wants to see those lips wrapped around his dick—if he was ever embarrassed about sex, which he’s not.
He does really, really want to see that pretty mouth on his dick though.
He hopes this guy doesn’t bail a second time.
“Fine,” Charlie concedes, because he knows Andrew is likely sitting in his car waiting outside for him. “But call me if you change your mind. Or text me. Send me a carrier pigeon even. A skywriter that says ‘fuck off Charlie’ would even suffice.”
“You can fuck off right now,” he snarks, looking like he wants to hit Charlie. That shouldn’t turn him on but it does.
“I will, tonight. With you.”
He groans, shaking his head then gesturing to the door. When he points to the exit, it draws Charlie’s attention to the pale pink nail polish on his hands. His fingers are small, delicate almost, and the chipped, peeling pink polish is as unexpected as everything else about him.
“Out,” he barks. “Now.”
“Fine,” Charlie concedes, partially because he doesn’t want to push too far and ruin his chances this cutie shows up tonight and also because he knows Andrew will be starving.
After sparing one final look at the guy he gets to have in his bed tonight, Charlie turns and marches out of Juanita’s with his to-go order clutched in his hands and a smile on his face.
This smile grows when he finds Andrew parked directly out front, windows down and classical music softly playing through his speakers.
His eyes are downcast, so focused on the phone in his lap that he doesn’t notice Charlie’s approach.
Smirking to himself he gets closer, curious what has Andrew so hyper focused.
Moving quickly, he reaches through the open window and snatches Andrew’s phone.
Andrew curses, startling so much he slams the horn. “Give it back.”
“Why?”
“Just give it back, asshole.”
“Oh, someone is testy,” Charlie laughs, turning the phone over. His eyes widen when he sees what’s on the phone screen, or more appropriately who. A very attractive who. “Andrew King, is this a hockey player?”
“No, he plays golf,” Andrew deadpans.
“His club is big enough for it,” Charlie retorts when he scrolls to the next photo, an unmistakable thirst trap disguised as an endorsement ad. “Damn, he’s hot, Annie.”
“He’s fine looking if you’re into Neanderthals with tattoos,” Andrew grumbles, trying to snatch his phone back.
“Which clearly you are,” Charlie points out, curious how long this has been going on. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Andrew look flustered over looking at a man before. “You should go for it. He’d be lucky to date you.”
“Date me,” Andrew splutters. “I’m not—no. He’s just…aesthetically pleasing, that’s all. Besides he’s rich and famous and a bigger slut than you, so I wouldn’t be his type anyways.”
Though Andrew’s tone is dismissive, Charlie recognizes the self-deprecation there.
“You have a lot to offer beyond sex.”
“I’m not offering anything because I don’t know him. He’s probably a dick anyway.”
“Speaking of dicks,” Charlie whistles, scrolling down to a photo of him in nothing but a pair of tight white briefs. “Do you enjoy his…puck? Because damn, it looks like there’s a lot to enjoy.”
“First, puck is usually a euphemism for fuck, not dick. Second, if you ever utter that sentence again, I will disown you.”
“Liar,” Charlie laughs. “Also, why do you know that and I don’t?”
“Because I work for an NHL team, sort of. Also I read.”
“You’re a financial analyst, not a fucking hockey player, Annie. Just admit you read hockey smut,” Charlie goads, pretty sure he’s seen a cover or two on Andrew’s Kindle that suggest this possibility.
“Fuck you,” Andrew retorts.
“I’ll be getting fucked tonight,” Charlie pipes up, suspecting Andrew is reaching his limit being teased.
“I really don’t want to know,” Andrew sighs, starting his engine and rolling up his windows.
When Charlie slides into the passenger seat, settling the food by his feet, the radio is turned up and the AC is on exactly two.
He turns it up, prepared when Andrew slaps his hand. “Touch my dash again and walk home.”
“But I brought you food.”
“The food can stay, you can walk home.”
“You would never make me walk, Annie.”
Andrew mumbles under his breath, but they both know it’s true. Andrew has always been there for Charlie and he always will be, even when Charlie’s an obnoxious fuck.
“What did you get me?” Andrew asks, eying the bag on the floor.
“Your usual, obviously. With extra tortillas to see if carb loading might help your pissy mood.”
Andrew’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me when you’re overstimulated. I just wish you wouldn’t shut me out.”
“Needing time alone isn’t shutting you out.”
“Yes, it is,” Charlie counters. He and Andrew have never had time apart.
They’ve been attached at the hip since they were born.
They dressed the same until middle school when Andrew discovered polo shirts, they took all the same high school classes, they attended the same college, and they moved back home at the same time.
Hell, Andrew even lived with him after he bought his house for a while.
At least until Charlie’s erratic night owl tendencies and art messes got to be too much, and he got his own apartment.
The only reason Charlie can handle that is because they still live in each other’s pockets.
Jason and Alec said they’re codependent, but maybe if they had someone who shared their face they’d understand.
Charlie loves his other brothers, but there aren’t words to express what Andrew means to him.
Being shut out feels wrong, the same way not being able to paint does.
For reasons unknown to Charlie, the sudden inspiration to paint has returned, and he’s got a hot date tonight.
“Looks like you’re standing me up this time.”
The unfamiliar voice startles Charlie out of his intense focus, a bit too abruptly judging by the bottle of cerulean blue paint he knocks to the ground with his elbow. It clatters to the floor, spilling across the hardwood of his studio and mixing with other various stains.
“You should probably clean that.”
Charlie’s gaze draws upward to the figure basked in the light spilling out of his open studio doors—his pale hair all but glowing in the moonlight while his clothing blends into the otherwise pitch dark yard.
The guy is a vision in black. He’s wearing an oversized band tee like he had on at Juanita’s earlier, but for the first time since Charlie laid eyes on him at the gallery his forearms are bare, revealing an array of colorful tattoos dotted over both his arms almost like stickers.
He’s too far away to make them out in the dark, but Charlie wishes he could.
Each of his wrists are adorned with beaded bracelets that clink together when he lowers his arms to shove his hands into the pockets of the skirt he’s wearing.
It’s simple in cut and style, black like the shirt he’s wearing.
It shows off his trim legs and knobby knees, scuffed up Converse on his feet.
He’s changed his makeup from earlier in the day, and while his eyes are decorated in the same bold liner Charlie’s come to associate with him, it's now accompanied by heavily glittered eyelids and what almost appears to be glittering freckles that definitely weren’t there earlier.
It’s all Charlie can do not to drop to his knees and crawl across the floor to him.
He’d cover himself in paint, and it would be so fucking worth it.
This guy is a fucking thing of beauty, all his delicate and sharp edges colliding, the same way his mix of masculine and feminine clothing does.
He’s a mess of contradictions that make him a fucking work of art.
“Are you going to do anything but stare?” He asks, his earlier confidence flicking like a candle close to burning out. “I knocked a few times and you didn’t answer, but then I heard the music and looked over the fence and saw the light, but I can go.”