Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“ O h my God,” Tris said, wafting into the kitchen in a cloud of vodka fumes. “Is that a coffee press?”
“It was on sale,” Jack said, and nodded at the guy trailing behind Tris. He was big and muscular, and looked exactly how Jack imagined a Russian mobster might. He looked nothing like the waiflike little twink Jack remembered from a few nights before, but then Tris didn’t seem to have a type, apart from ‘has a dick and a heartbeat.’ “Hey.”
“G’day,” the guy said, killing all of Jack’s Russian mobster fantasies right then and there.
“In the bad old days,” Tris announced, “there was nothing in our fridge except a bag of lettuce sludge and a box of bicarb that we think was left here by the last tenants. The bicarb, not the lettuce. The lettuce was from one of Ambrose’s get fit kicks.” He grinned. “But now we have Jack, and Jack cooks for us.” His eyes twinkled. “Well, he cooks for Harry, but I benefit as well, and so do you today!”
Jack paused and regarded Tris for a moment. He was smarter than he looked, apparently. “I don’t cook for Harry,” he said, but it was a token protest .
“You do. You have a bromance,” Tristan declared. He looked at non-Russian mobster. “It’s actually really sweet. They’re like two little puppies, with the eyes and the wagging tails.”
Jack shoved a cup of coffee at Tris, mainly to shut him up. Tristan snagged it and took a sip, letting out a moan. “God, that’s good. Better than sex.” He screwed up his nose. “Actually, no. That’s a lie. Sex is amazing. And so were you, Brandon.”
“Brendan,” the guy corrected, but didn’t seem at all put out.
“I always get those names mixed up,” Tris said with a smile.
Jack wondered if any of his one-night stands were ever offended by Tris’ complete inability to remember their names. Probably not. They were probably still dazed and grateful that someone like Tris had picked them up in the first place. With his golden hair and his delicate but masculine features, he looked like an angel. And he fucked like a demon, which was something Jack could have lived happily without knowing, but, well, the neighbours on either side of them could probably say the same thing. He was the sort of guy that Jack would have been too intimidated to approach at a club, in all honesty, and he’d never been particularly shy. He didn’t seem unapproachable at all now that Jack knew him—he was way too warm and friendly for that—but Jack still wasn’t interested. His type was apparently cute boys who did crafts. He smiled as he thought of making paper bag monsters with Harry and burned himself pouring Brendan’s cup of coffee.
“Shit!” He put the cup down and stuck his hand under the cold tap, hissing through his teeth.
Tristan rolled his eyes and finished pouring, then handed the cup to Brendan. “There you go, gorgeous.”
Brendan gave him an adoring look, and for just a split second, Jack wondered what, exactly, Tris did to earn those looks, and if he’d missed out by turning Tris down the night before. Only for a split second though, because then Harry shuffled through the door, and Jack’s gaze was drawn to him like an iron filing to a magnet, or maybe like a dog to the contents of a litter box.
Whatever. The point was, he couldn’t keep his eyes off him.
Harry was rumpled and half asleep still. His hair was messed up, and his glasses were askew. He blinked when he saw that Brendan had claimed his usual spot at the tiny kitchen table and swayed a little bit. Maybe not half asleep at all. Maybe still three-quarters asleep. But, standing there, listing back and forth a little in his Mr Men pyjama pants and a threadbare old T-shirt, he was the most beautiful guy Jack had ever seen. And that was including Tristan.
Jack gave him a smile and poured him a coffee.
Harry took it, but didn’t quite meet his gaze, which was weird. “Breakfast?” Jack asked, pulling out a dozen eggs.
“Yeah, thanks,” Harry said quietly, still avoiding Jack’s gaze. He took his cup and went into the lounge, settling himself on the couch and scrolling through his phone, like he was deliberately avoiding conversation. Definitely weird. Jack glanced at him furtively before going to make breakfast. Maybe he knows you’re into him and he’s not interested. Good job, you made it awkward, a tiny, mocking voice in his head jeered.
Jack ignored it. Harry couldn’t know, could he? Jack hadn’t said or done anything. He beat the eggs vigorously, the steel whisk clattering angrily against the side of the bowl, in an effort to work off some of the sudden tension he felt and get the knot in his stomach to unclench. It worked, at least partially. He distracted himself further by loading the toaster and scrambling the eggs to perfection, then plating them up. He hesitated before he carried Harry’s through to him, bracing himself for—well, he didn’t know what he was bracing for exactly. It wasn’t like he’d done anything. It was just his overdeveloped minister-kid’s guilt complex kicking in again. There was nothing wrong with liking someone who didn’t like him back, not if he didn’t act on it. It was just awkward, that was all, and if he didn’t mention it, Harry never needed to know.
He let out a long, calming breath, then took Harry his eggs—scrambled just the way he liked, no pepper, extra butter.
“Thanks.” Harry stopped whatever game he was playing on his phone and shoved it in the pocket of his pyjama pants. He took the plate. He looked Jack in the eye and gave him a smile, and Jack’s gut unclenched further.
Nothing to see here, except paranoia and wishful thinking .
“These eggs are amazing,” Tristan yelled from the kitchen. “Food of the gods, Jack.”
“They are good,” Harry said. He glanced towards the kitchen. “And this one is?”
“Brendan,” Jack said with a grin. “And given the way Tris is looking at him, I’m guessing there might be a post-breakfast round two.”
Harry wrinkled his nose. “Do you think so?”
“Maybe.” Jack shrugged. “He gets this look in his eye, you know?”
“Um…not really.” Harry dug his fork into his eggs and stirred them around. He didn’t look up at Jack. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“No problem.” When it became apparent that Harry wasn’t going to say anything else, or even make eye contact, Jack headed back to the kitchen and ladled a pile of eggs onto a plate for himself. He was upset that he’d made Harry uncomfortable, and annoyed with himself. He wanted nothing more than to go and sit beside him and apologise, but he knew that would only make things worse. If Harry was uncomfortable with his attention, then forcing more of it on him wasn’t going to help.
He squeezed into a space at the tiny kitchen table between Tris and Brendan and shovelled his eggs into his mouth. He glanced up when Harry came in to leave his plate in the sink and looked away guiltily when Harry caught his gaze.
“Um, Jack?”
He looked up again. Harry was staring at him, pink faced. “Yeah?”
“Can you…?” He made a vague gesture that Jack took to mean to meet him outside.
He stood, ignoring the rest of his breakfast.
“Puppies,” Tris whispered to Brendan. “See?”
Brendan made a sound of agreement.
“Shut up,” Jack muttered, his ears burning, and stepped out into the hallway. Harry followed close on his heels, ducking his head. This is it , Jack thought. This is where he tells me I'm making him uncomfortable and I have to leave.
But Harry just stared at Jack like he was trying to fathom the secrets of the universe, or maybe how Excel spreadsheets were meant to work, then his lips parted, he stepped close, and suddenly his mouth was on Jack’s, hot and wet and messy and terrible. Jack had once been French-kissed—also an ambush that time—by a Labrador with better technique. But it was Harry . Harry was kissing him, and Harry didn’t kiss anybody , yet here they were. The shock of it had Jack freezing in place .
Harry pulled back, eyes wide. “Oh, fuck. Sorry, I didn’t mean?—”
“No! It’s—” But Jack never got to tell Harry it was fine, that he liked it, because Harry backed down the hallway like a spooked horse and bolted out the front door.
“Huh,” said Tris, leaning out into the hallway. “How far do you think he’s going to get before he remembers he’s not wearing any shoes?”
Harry still wasn’t back an hour later, and Jack had walked around the block twice. Tris had even gotten rid of Brendan, citing a flatmate emergency, and walked with Jack. Jack sat on the crumbling front steps of the house and tried Harry’s number again. It rang out again.
“Ambrose’s,” Tristan said from next to him. “That’s where he’ll be. Let me just…” He pulled his phone out and sent a text. They sat in silence for a moment, then his phone buzzed with an answer. “Yup, Ambrose picked him up. He says if we come and get him, it’ll be a finder’s fee of hotcakes from Macca’s. Oh, and a chocolate thickshake.”
Jack was on his feet and fishing in his pocket for the ute keys before Tris had finished speaking.
They hit the road, detouring past the closest McDonald’s.
“Do you remember when breakfast at Macca’s wasn’t an all-day thing?” Tristan mused as they drove, his feet on the ute’s dash. “Dark times. Dark fucking times. If I want a Bacon and Egg McMuffin at four p.m., then who the fuck is Ronald McDonald to tell me I can’t have one?”
“Where are we going again?” Jack asked him.
“Evil fucking clown,” Tris said, stroking his fingers along the top of the takeaway bag. “Just take the M1 into the city. I’ll tell you when to turn off.”
Jack’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Had Harry bolted because he regretted the kiss? Or because he thought Jack regretted it? Why hadn’t he just gone with it and kissed Harry back, only better? Still, Ambrose hadn’t told them to stay away, so Harry probably didn’t hate him.
At least, he hoped not.
Sunday morning traffic on the M1 was pretty light, so it didn’t take long until they were approaching the city.
“Turn here,” Tristan said, and Jack followed his directions until he found himself in front of a stately looking building in Potts Point, a suburb that was so far out of his price range Jack half-expected to be pulled over and asked to leave for lowering the tone of the place by existing.
“You know someone who lives here? ”
Tris shrugged. “Ambrose’s boyfriend’s family owns a winery.” He pulled out his phone and sent a text. “I’ve told him to buzz us up. I don’t like using those speaker things.” He slurped loudly on the thickshake that Jack was pretty sure they’d bought for Ambrose.
Now that they were here, Jack was reluctant to go inside. But after Tristan rattled the door impatiently, it clicked and opened, and he had no choice but to follow Tris inside to a lobby that looked like something out of Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries and smelled of beeswax polish.
The lift had a cage .
Jack’s stomach lurched as they stepped inside, and it wasn’t totally to do with how rickety it seemed.
Tris cut a glance at him, and the corners of his mouth curled into a smile. “It’ll be fine. Harry probably just found out his dick has more than one use and now he’s panicking about it. ”
“That’s…” Jack shook his head. “Please don’t say that in front of him.”
Tris shrugged and sashayed out of the lift towards a door. He knocked on it, then hollered, “Open up, Ambrose, you whore!”
Jack tried to melt into the walls.
The door opened, and a guy stuck his head out. “This is a nice place, Tris!”
“Oh, please,” Tris said, shoving the McDonald’s bag and shake at him. “Like you don’t hear that ten times a night from Liam anyway. How is Liam? Is he here?”
“He’s at work,” Ambrose said. “Why is this shake empty?”
“I’m going to say hello to your cat,” Tris said. He waved a hand in Jack’s direction. “This is Jack, by the way. He’s Harry’s crisis. Jack, this is Ambrose. He’s Harry’s best friend.”
Ambrose—who was seriously hot, Tris had been right about that—looked him up and down. “Are you going to turn him down?” he asked bluntly.
Jack swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. “Um. No?”
“Then you can come in,” Ambrose said, stepping to one side, only to duck without warning and scoop up a giant cat that had been trying to sidle past him. The cat gave Jack a malevolent glare. “Come in then, before Tobermory makes another break for it.”
Jack scuttled inside.
Harry was perched on the edge of an overstuffed couch, elbows resting on his knees, expression miserable. He looked like a little kid sitting there with his bare feet and bedhead, and Jack felt bad that he’d somehow caused this. He approached slowly. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Harry peeked up at him from behind his glasses, shoulders hunched .
Jack plopped on the sofa next to him and bumped their shoulders together, uncomfortably aware of their audience. He turned to Tris and Ambrose in a silent plea, and Ambrose got the hint and tugged on Tristan’s sleeve. “Come on, I’ll show you the view from the roof.”
Tristan rolled his eyes and muttered something like “spoilsport,” but he followed Ambrose out of the door, then they were alone.
“I’m sorry I didn’t—” Jack said, at the same time as Harry said, “I’m sorry for?—”
They stopped and stared at each other, before Harry sighed and said, in a tone that suggested the confession was being dragged from his very soul, “I’m not someone who’s interested in sex. Like, ever.”
Jack nodded, unsure of what to say, unsure if Harry was telling him he wasn’t interested, or something else. But Harry was the one who’d kissed him, so there must be more to it.
“I never got it before, when people talked about needing to get laid, or wanting to jump someone’s bones. So I figured I was ace, you know?” Harry ran a hand over his mouth. “And then you came along, and you made me want things, Jack. Things I’ve never wanted before. It turns out I’m…I don’t know? Jacksexual? Whatever. I’m into you. A lot, it turns out. And I don’t know what to do with that. I mean, I jerked off thinking of you! I’ve never jerked off thinking of anyone before!”
Jack’s entire body flooded with relief at hearing that, but it was tempered by the look of abject misery on Harry's face. Jack wanted to kiss it away, but that hadn’t really worked for them last time, so instead he leaned in close. “Harry,” he said quietly. Harry glanced up. “It’s okay. Some people only feel attracted to someone they share an emotional connection with, that’s all. It’s a thing. And for the record, I like you too, and I liked it when you kissed me.”
Harry’s eyes widened slightly. “You did?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah. You’re sexy as hell, and I’d like to kiss you again.” Jack was struck with a sudden burst of insecurity. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about liking me, and that’s why you bolted?”
“No, I bolted because you froze like a rabbit in a spotlight, and I thought you weren’t interested, and that I’d fucked things up by not even asking first.”
“I was just surprised, but that might have been the ambush factor. It wasn’t because I'm not interested.”
“That’s what Ambrose said. I just—I panicked, I guess.”
“I’d like it if you kissed me again,” Jack said. “I’d like it a lot.”
Harry’s mouth curved up in a hopeful smile. “Yeah?”
Warmth blossomed in Jack’s chest. “Yeah.” He half-turned so he was facing Harry and put one hand on his shoulder. “Can I?”
Harry gave a tiny nod, and Jack drew him closer, eyes closing as he sought out Harry’s lips. He kept it soft, careful, and it was Harry who opened his mouth, Harry who made desperate, breathy sounds when Jack pressed his tongue inside, and Harry who turned their kiss into something deeper, more desperate. Jack went with it, tangling his fingers in Harry’s hair and tugging at it gently to angle his head so that their mouths slotted together like pieces of a puzzle.
Kissing Harry was exactly as awesome as Jack had dreamed it would be, and judging by the surprised gasp Harry made when they finally pulled apart he thought it was pretty good too, but Jack asked, just to be sure. “Was that okay?”
Harry looked like he’d been poleaxed—but in a good way, like someone had just told him he’d won the Lotto. He reached out and grabbed Jack’s hand and pressed it to the front of his jeans, so Jack could feel his erection. “I think,” he said with a gleam in his eye and a smile on his face, “that I’m definitely Jacksexual.”
It wasn’t until they were on their way back to Newtown, Harry’s thigh pressing hard against his from where he was wedged in between Jack and Tris, that Jack thought about the other part of what Harry had said. Not the Jacksexual part—which was amazing—but the part where he’d jerked off thinking about him.
A flush of heat ran through him, and he curled his fingers around the steering wheel so he didn’t do something stupid like drop his hand to Harry’s thigh and grope him. The thought of Harry—his hair mussed, his eyes half closed, biting his bottom lip and writhing on his bed—was hot as fuck, and, oh Jesus, Jack was going to get hard just thinking about it.
He liked Harry a lot, and he wanted to see where this went. Sure, there was that old saying— You don’t shit where you eat —but Jack liked Harry too much to bring himself to follow that advice, and he was choosing to ignore the fact that there were a lot of things that could go wrong when roommates got together. Even so, he was aware that even apart from Harry’s inexperience and newly fuzzy sexuality—grey ace? Demi? Who knew?—shit could easily get complicated.
But when he glanced at Harry, and Harry smiled at him, cheeks flushed, Jack shoved his concerns aside.
Complicated? Maybe. Worth it? Hell yes .