Chapter Sam Campbell #13
She huffs a laugh and slowly lets down her leg, causing him to slide out. “Let me give you my number. I’m in town for the race, but I live in Liverpool. Tell me when you’re there.”
“Yeah.” He probably won’t, but he digs out his phone and hands it to her before pulling off the condom, tying it off, and trashing it.
“I gotta get back to my friends, but it was so good to meet you.”
“Yeah.” Sam might’ve lost all of his other words. Maybe they’re in the condom he just threw away. Dang.
She leaves the stall and the door bounces against the stopper as Sam tries to figure out what he does next.
Wash up? Sure, that sounds good. He scrubs his fingers and activates the blow dryer a few times, staring at his hands as the wind pushes against his skin.
He eventually finds his way back to the group and collapses on the couch.
“You ‘ave been gone a long time. Thought you might ‘ave left.”
Sam distantly recognizes the voice—the French accent. “Thomas! Thank God.”
Then Sam falls asleep.
“What do you usually do wizz ‘im?!” someone asks with a harsh tone.
“We just leave him.”
Sam knows the second voice. Or, at least, he knows he doesn’t like the person it belongs to.
“We cannot jus’ leave ‘im ‘ere! Whazzif someone robs ‘im? Or kidnaps ‘im?!”
“They can have him.” The bad voice scoffs and it grates Sam’s teeth. “I’m heading out, you should too.”
“Wait, just—ugh. Samuel, wake up!”
Sam’s violently jostled again, but this time he pushes back against whatever is attacking him. He just needs a little bit longer.
“Samuel, please. They are trying to close, they want to leave you on the street.”
“Leave me alone, Big Toe,” Sam grumbles. Ah, it’s Thomas then.
“I cannot lift you, you large idiot!” Thomas shakes him again, before calling out in quick French.
“That’s so sexy.”
“Shut up.”
Sam is hefted up, into someone’s arms, and carried through space. “What the—?”
Since when has Thomas been so strong? Sam cranks his eyes open, but squints against the bright lights of the club.
“Do not move,” Thomas demands from his side, jolting Sam all the way awake. “Mael is with security. I have a car to the hotel, but you need to get in it yourself.”
“Yeah, okay.” Sam is gently set down on his feet when they reach the pavement. It’s the nicest forced exit he’s ever had from a club.
Thomas shoves a shirt against Sam’s bare chest before he takes his wallet out, pushes bills at the man, and speaks in rapid French.
Sam works on putting his hands through the long sleeves as the Frenchmen keep talking and looking at him. Their conversation seems heated until the security guard digs out his phone and Thomas poses for a selfie with him.
Sam loves a fan. “Want one with me?”
“He does not,” Thomas replies curtly. “You should be grateful, you look terrible.”
“Hey!”
The security guard must’ve turned the phone camera around, because it’s definitely pointing at Sam. The Australian smiles for the picture, happy whenever Thomas is proven wrong.
Thomas watches the phone as well, his lips turned up. “You deserve this, really.”
An SUV arrives and Thomas thanks the security guy before ushering Sam in and slamming the door. He speaks French to the driver as they pull up to a building Sam’s never seen before. Then again, to the doorman.
“I don’t think this is my hotel,” Sam finally says.
Thomas pauses his efforts to usher them through the lobby. “What?”
Sam retrieves his key card and holds it up to the name over the front desk. They’re both in French, but those are definitely different words. “Yeah, not this one.”
Thomas groans. “Like you have not been enough trouble for one day. You can stay with me.” He resumes his dragging, grasping Sam around the forearm. “At least for the next couple of hours.”
When they enter the elevator, Thomas slumps against the wall and closes his eyes.
“When you think about it, it’s pretty impressive we’ve managed to be in the same hotel this whole time,” Sam says, just to make conversation. “I dunno what I’d do if I showed up at some rando’s door.”
“I am sure they would not mind.”
“Still.”
Thomas peeks an eye open. “So are you awake now?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“It did not look like you drank that much.” Thomas’s eyes drift over to the beeping number above the elevator’s doors. “Not enough to pass out.”
“I, uh…” Well, this is awkward. “I didn’t. I fell asleep.”
“But it was so loud.”
“Yeah. Sometimes that doesn’t matter.”
It takes a few moments, but Thomas groans and thunks the back of his head against the wall. “Today might be one of the worst days of my life.”
Sam is immediately on the defensive. “You were the one who cancelled on me.”
“I know,” Thomas says, softly. He continues thumping his head against the wall. “Trust me, I know.”
“And you were the one who told me to race.”
“Yes.”
“So I did nothing wrong, okay?”
Thomas drags his stare over to Sam and his eyes shine with moisture. “I never said you did.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa, this isn’t a crying thing.
“Hey, hey, shh, shh…” Sam’s not sure what to do with his hands, but the doors choose that moment to open with a ping. “Hey, let’s just get to your room and we can talk about it.”
Thomas knocks his head against the wall of the elevator one final time before slumping out. He leads the way to his room, unlocking the door with a beep of his card. Once inside, he kicks off his shoes at the entrance and dumps everything from his pockets onto the counter.
Sam mimics his movements like a shadow, following him through the massive suite. The situation feels delicate, so he carefully tails the smaller man and tries to stay out of his way.
Thomas opens the bedroom door, unbuttons his shirt, and lets it drop on the floor. His trousers are next and Sam gasps when there’s nothing underneath them.
Right. He does that.
The room is messier than Thomas usually keeps it. There are button-up shirts strewn around, a couple pairs of pants, a Ferraro polo. It’s almost domestic.
Thomas changes into a soft shirt and sweatpants—the hotel uniform, apparently—before disappearing behind the door to the en suite.
Sam belatedly sheds his own clothes, stripping down to his boxers and folding his shirt and slacks.
Thomas is brushing his teeth in front of the mirror when Sam catches up. “Extra.” He points to the hotel-provided toiletries on the counter.
Sam takes the proffered toothbrush and gets to work. His mouth still tastes like tequila seasoned with dry mouth from sleeping. Toothpaste is a welcomed replacement.
He watches Thomas’s face for any sign of discomfort, but the other boy stares lifelessly across. Call him crazy, but it almost looks like his zoned-out gaze is fixated on Sam’s bare chest.
Fuck, there’s lipstick all over him.
Thomas finishes and leaves Sam to scrub at whatever smudge-proof lip shit the women at the club marked him up with.
Once his skin is redder but more presentable, Sam finds Thomas on the couch in the living room, watching the black screen of a powered-off television. He doesn’t move as Sam approaches and cautiously sits next to him.
He’s not exactly sure what’s happening, but it doesn’t seem good. Still, he waits for Thomas to say something.
“I am so stupid.”
That wasn’t what Sam expected him to say. “Well, you’re not, so let’s start there.”
“Why did I go tonight?”
“Why did you go tonight?” Sam’s been confused since the moment he saw him on the couch. “Clubs aren’t exactly your thing.”
“Why else? Because Rafael asked me to.”
“Oh.”
It’s not like Sam didn’t see that coming, but it still smarts. A club with Rafael beats a French restaurant with Sam. Got it.
“He specifically said you would not be there.”
Another dagger. “I’ve been turning down club nights since we've been—” Sam still doesn’t know what to call it, so the sentence hangs in the air. “I turned them down early today, but then you said you were busy.”
“Yeah, that sounds right.”
Thomas lays back against the couch, his head resting on the top of the cushion. His Adam’s apple juts out prominently, even from his thick neck. He has a beautiful profile, really. Sam’s never appreciated it before.
“You are off duty tonight, but can I ask a selfish favor?”
Sam snorts. “Is fucking you my job now?”
“Yes.” Thomas’s head rolls along the edge of the couch to face him. He’s so dramatic, it’s almost cute. “You are very good at your job.”
“What do you want?”
“A hug.”
“That’s it?” Sam doesn’t know what he was expecting, but a hug isn’t on the list. “Yeah, sure, come on.”
Sam moves to stand up from the couch, but an arm shoots out, pushing him back down. Thomas scoots over, across the cushion that separates them, and throws a leg over Sam’s lap, pulling himself upright.
“Is this okay?”
“Yeah, of course.” Sam’s hands rest on the crease of Thomas’s hips. From this position, he has to look up to see Thomas’s face. “Like this?”
Thomas shakes his head and falls against Sam who lets out an “oof”. They’re crushed together, chest to chest, their skin separated only by the thin fabric of Thomas’s shirt.
Sam scoots his hips forward so Thomas’s knees have somewhere to go and the smaller man melts into the new position. He weighs about twice as much as he just did, but he seems content, so Sam wraps his arms around him and holds him close.
Thomas nuzzles into the side of Sam’s neck like a cat and sighs.
It’s an awkward position, but it’s nice. Intimate in a way Sam rarely gets to experience anymore. He could stay like this for hours.
If Thomas falls asleep, he just might.
“I thought he had chosen me.”
Sam tenses, but he breathes in and forces himself to relax. “I chose you.”
It’s quieter than a whisper. After it escapes, he wishes he could claw at it, drag it back down his throat. Instead, he just hopes Thomas didn’t hear him.
“I know.” Thomas’s breath is shaky when he exhales. “I am so sorry.”
That’s just going to have to be good enough for Sam.
He holds Thomas as the smaller man nods off, his head jerking back up every time it lolls down Sam’s shoulder.