Chapter 32
Spence knocks on my door, and it is too damned early to be up on a Sunday morning.
While the school may be closed for spring break, we’ve been running our asses off trying to get the house organized, and I was up until almost three this morning unpacking books and putting them on the shelves Paul has been setting up for me.
I know we’re pack, but I need to do something nice for that man, regardless.
He really went above and beyond getting them assembled and bolted to the wall.
He was even considering adding a face frame to make them look more like built-in shelves.
Not that we have the tools to do that. I believe we have one pair of pliers, a couple of screwdrivers, and a hammer.
Things for the most basic of needs. I couldn’t even locate a stud finder when I was hanging a framed poster in my room last week.
Pulling my shopping list off the nightstand, I quickly scribble down “stud finder” on the list of things we need next time we go to Springfield.
Yes, I could order it online and have it delivered, but it seems excessive to bother with shipping if I don’t need it right now.
Spence’s signature knock—shave and a haircut—sounds again at my door.
I swear, the man watched too many Looney Tunes episodes growing up.
Paul’s knock is always two quick and efficient raps, wait for approximately thirty seconds and then two more.
Afterwards he leaves, knowing I’ll find him as soon as I finish up whatever I’m working on.
It’s not like either of them are in my personal space often.
Even when we lived in the apartment, Paul had his room, I had mine, and Spence had the couch.
Though most of his clothes were left in a basket of clean laundry beside the TV stand.
Honestly, not having to risk walking out into the living room in the middle of him changing clothes has been one of the high points of moving for me.
Naked men don’t do anything for me, nor am I really put off by it—but Spence always got surprised when we walked in on him.
Usually his arms would flail, and he managed to put three holes in the ceiling in the first month after I moved in.
He doesn’t even have to stretch to touch the damned thing.
On the plus side, it means we have someone who can clean the ceiling fans easily…
but we lost our deposit when we moved out, because none of us can do repairs for shit.
He knocks again, and his voice comes through the door a moment later.
“Al, you up? I wanted to go to the store today, and I need a ride.” This man needs a car.
Ideally something large, maybe a truck. Something his legs don’t hit the dashboard in.
I have a great affection for Nadine; she’s been reliable and here for me when I needed her.
I don’t know if I’d trust either of my packmates to drive her.
Not because I don’t trust them, but I know all her little quirks and what noises she makes.
Which ones are normal and which ones aren’t.
Add in the VW Bug’s rear engine, and she can be kind of squirrelly to drive.
Running my hands through my hair to smooth it into some semblance of normalcy, I make my way across the room to the door.
I’ll need to remember to add an inexpensive mirror to that list for my room.
While no one considers themselves vain, it would be silly to leave the house looking unprofessional, at least on workdays.
That’s just common sense. Opening the door and seeing my disheveled packmate in nothing but sleep pants covered in various cartoon donuts, I wonder if he has any of that.
“Spencer. Is there a reason you’re attempting to get a ride into town, which is only a couple of miles away, at seven A.M. on a Sunday morning? While still in your pajamas? What could possibly be this dire?” The big man shuffles in place and nervously runs his hands through his rumpled blond hair.
He won’t meet my eyes as he answer, “So, um…I need to go to Springfield. I mean, I don’t need to, need to, but I’d really like to. Nobody’s gonna die, or catch fire or anything if I don’t. I just want to hit the mall and…um…maybe the…” His voice trails off as he continues to fidget.
“I’m sorry, ‘maybe the’ what? I didn’t catch that last bit.
” Though I’m starting to have a sneaking suspicion as to why he won’t finish his sentence properly.
I know it’s probably something to do with the damned nest. He’s obsessed with it.
Spending more time getting it organized than his own room.
Lately, if he’s not at work, he’s in there painting, cleaning, and taking measurements.
It’s a waste of time because we don’t have an omega, and on the completely impossible chance one did happen to stumble into our lives, she would probably want to decorate it herself.
He’s still shifting from foot to foot and staring at the floor like I’ll either forget what he said, or hoping I’ll figure it out without him having to tell me.
It’s too early for this shit. “Are you saying you need a ride to Springfield?” He looks up hopefully, a big grin breaking across his face like I’ve already said yes.
“You want to go to the nesting store, don’t you?
” His face starts to fall at my deadpan tone, and it’s like I kicked a puppy. Fuck me.
“Fine, but I don’t think they even open until noon.
Go check their hours, and get some clothes on…
please. Then let me know. It’ll give me a chance to work on my own list.” A look of delighted surprise pastes itself to his face, and I have to crush it.
“For the hardware store. I’ll take you to Nests-N-Stuff, but I’m not shopping there.
The nest is yours unless we get a mate that wants the space.
” He looks sad for a moment, but then grins, nods repeatedly, and practically skips down the hallway back to his room.
It takes a few minutes for me to get moving, hit the bathroom, and find some clothes.
It feels so good to have space to actually organize my closet.
I don’t own a lot of clothes, and most of them are dressier than I wear on the weekends, for when I’m at work, but a pair of faded jeans with a dark grey T-shirt with an overshirt are an easy go-to.
The weather around here is nuts, so I’m never sure if I’ll need the overshirt, but Nadine’s heater can be iffy sometimes. Especially on longer trips.
By the time I’m putting my socks and sneakers on, Spencer is back at my door with a big grin and a plate full of toaster waffles.
I guess that means he let Paul sleep in.
He’s been doing a big breakfast spread on the weekends since we moved into the new place.
Paul never told me he enjoyed cooking, so I don’t know if it’s because he has room to do it now, or if it’s just a novelty.
Regardless, it’s been an enjoyable change of pace from cold cereal or takeout.
Spencer’s voice is excited as he passes me the plate that I’m just going to have to carry back to the kitchen.
Even if I wanted to eat in here, these are plain, no butter, no syrup waffles.
It would be like chewing on slightly sweet cardboard.
Still, he made the effort, so I can appreciate his attempt.
“The website says they open at eleven, so that should give us plenty of time to get over there and do the hardware store and wherever else you need to go. The mall opens at ten this morning if you need to go there.” He’s practically wiggling as he talks, and I’m once again reminded of an oversized puppy.
He’s not really much younger than me, so how does he have this much energy in the morning?
It’s probably all the time he spends at the gym.
I should try to fit that in my schedule as well.
Not that I’m in bad shape, but physical activity is an important part of staying healthy…
also if Paul keeps cooking, I don’t want to risk pregnant man belly from overeating.
One of my dads has that as he’s gotten older.
All his extra weight went right to his stomach.
He calls it his tool shed, and sadly I was almost seventeen before I understood the meaning and immediately wanted to bleach my brain.
I don’t want to risk those genetics being the deciding factor in any body betrayal I might encounter with age.
“Ok, Big Man, let’s head out to the dining room and make a plan, alright?
I’m gonna need something to go on these”—I wave my plate of plain waffles around—“and I don’t want to sit in the parking lot for over an hour waiting for the place to open.
At least let me have breakfast?” He steps back, allowing me to exit my room and pull my door closed behind me, then follows me to the kitchen so I can locate waffle toppings.
Paul is staring blearily at the coffee maker, as if it holds the secrets of the universe.
Who am I to judge? Maybe it does until he’s had his morning caffeine.
His boxers sit low on his narrow hips as he squints harder at the numbers on the front before pushing one.
There’s a loud beep and the gurgle of water as the machine burbles to life.
He grunts quietly before turning his attention to the cabinet above it and pawing through, looking for his coffee cup.
There is, thankfully, no shortage of mugs; we each have several because they are a go-to gift when you have no idea what sort of birthday present to give your packmates.
Hey, I just met you, and this sounds crazy…
but I don't know what the hell to get you for the holiday, except you drink copious amounts of caffeine, so have a beverage holder.
This is how you end up with a cabinet full of mugs for three people.
Maybe I should take a couple to my room to use as pencil holders or something.
Just clear out some of the excess. Or get three separate mug trees, one for each of us.
It might clutter up the counter, but we have a lot more space now, and it could be a conversation piece.
Not that people come over to have conversations with us.
It is entirely too early for this much thinking.
Paul hands me my usual cup filled with steaming hot coffee and a spoon before grunting at the bottle of my creamer he’s already pulled out. I take a sip to make some room, and manage to give myself a fuzzy tongue in the process.
Yes, clearly, it’s going to be a day.