Chapter 3 #2
Three blunt words. Three words he’d wanted to hear for years landed like a hydrogen bomb on top of Iggy’s resistance.
Resistance to physical affection, resistance to acknowledging the past, resistance to hoping for a dynamic future different from his stagnant present.
Iggy wasn’t sure if he reached out first, or if Malcolm saw the change and moved, but the end result was that Iggy was being held.
He wasn’t alone.
He pressed his face into Malcolm’s neck, something he’d done a hundred times before, and breathed in a new scent.
Spicier, more masculine. A grown man versus an awkward teenager.
Stronger arms circled Iggy’s waist and held him tight to a broader, more muscular chest. Everything about this hug was unique and new.
So why was it so familiar?
“I’m sorry about everything, Iggs, so fucking sorry,” Malcolm whispered. Hands stroked Iggy’s hair and neck, familiar pets that made Iggy want to purr as much as hiss. “Sorry about Howie, sorry about us, so fucking sorry.”
“Me too.”
Something in Iggy’s chest broken open on a sob, but instead of tears, it released a roar of desperation he didn’t recognize.
Desperation to feel something. He was sick of being numb, sick of being closed off to affection, exhausted of avoiding human contact.
He pulled back as far as necessary, grabbed Malcolm’s cheeks in both hands, and kissed him.
Kissed him hard, hungry, overjoyed when Malcolm’s lips parted easily. Accepted what he gave. Allowed him in. The beard scruff was new and abraded his cheeks, tickled his fingers, and sparked something deep inside of Iggy. Something that hadn’t burned bright in too damned long.
Desire.
Malcolm growled softly before attacking his mouth with familiar enthusiasm that Iggy returned in kind. This was easy, practiced. Safe. Them, together, alone—never the problem. The outside world judging them was the problem.
They were perfect. Always had been.
Perfection lasted less than a minute before questing hands broke free from their grip on Iggy’s belt, and Malcolm wrestled space between them. Iggy gasped, annoyed at the interruption when all he wanted to do was feel. Not talk, not think, just feel.
“Hold on a second,” Malcolm said.
“Why? Don’t tell me you’ve never imagined what this would be like?”
“Every day for the last seventeen years, and that’s why I wanna slow down a sec.”
“Fine.” When Iggy tried to back up, Malcolm cinched both hands around his hips and held Iggy still. Right inside his perimeter fence, tight and solid, no chance of escape. “When you slow down, you over-think things, Monte.”
“I know, but when I picked you up today, I was hoping for some conversation, not a morning quickie.”
“All I’ve got to offer right now is a quickie.” Iggy clasped the bulge in Malcolm’s jeans, glad his memory hadn’t tricked him. He was exhausted of being numb; he wanted to feel, damn it. “Let’s let our dicks do the talking.”
He squeezed Malcolm’s thickening cock through denim and waited.
Malcolm’s heart ricocheted in his chest; his cock pulsed with want and with the addictive pressure of Iggy’s hand on it.
Not quite on it, because jeans, but close enough, damn it.
God, kissing Iggy had been like driving a nail into a board, practiced and easy and so fucking satisfying.
Everything he remembered and still brand-new in exciting ways.
But Iggy was good at using sex as a distraction, always had been.
Blow jobs over talking, hand jobs over feelings, rubbing off over planning for the future.
Not that Malcolm had resented all the sex they’d had as horny teenagers, but not talking had destroyed the beautiful, fragile thing they’d tried to build without having a foundation first.
Malcolm wouldn’t make that mistake again.
“As much as I’d love to know what your dick’s gotta say right now,” Malcolm teased, trying not to react to the challenge in Iggy’s eyes, “it’s not over-thinking to take a minute before anything happens. We don’t know shit about each other.”
Iggy shook out of his grip and stalked three long strides toward the kitchenette. “You always get to know your hookups before you fuck them, Monte?”
Annoyance flashed hotly through his chest. “First, you are not and never could be a hookup to me, Iggs. And second, there weren’t that many hookups, okay? It’s just…not my thing, to be honest. Casual shit with strangers.”
“Really?” He sounded less like he didn’t believe Malcolm, and more…not surprised. Confused, maybe?
“Yes, really. I might have been hot for you every second we were together, but that’s because it was you.
I haven’t—” No, he was not going to be so pathetic as to admit he’d never met anyone he was as attracted to as he’d been to Iggy.
That anonymous hookups turned him off, and moving too fast left him cold.
That he’d never fallen in a love a second time. “You’re a hard act to follow, you know.”
Iggy’s pink lips twitched into a casual smirk. “I know.”
Malcolm groaned. “And still full of yourself.”
“Hey, I’m just agreeing with your compliment. And now that you have successfully killed the mood, I need a shower and a power nap before going to the hospital. You are not invited for either.”
He pouted and rubbed his crotch, loving the way Iggy’s nostrils flared. He was older and wisdom lines bracketed both eyes now, but Malcolm still saw his vibrant, sassy high-school boyfriend hiding beneath the cool veneer of this mysterious adult. “You’re gonna leave me like this?”
“Stick your head under the garden hose.” Iggy sighed. “I’m sorry. I should not have kissed you like that, and I apologize. I need to focus on my uncle’s recovery.”
Monte shrugged. “Forget it.”
Iggy angled toward the front door, as if he’d heard something. “Has the saloon been open since Uncle Howie got sick?”
“No, but Laurel’s opening tonight, five instead of two. Staff needs to work, and Howie’s gonna need the money for these hospital bills.”
“Right, of course. Think she’ll need help?”
Malcolm blinked hard. “Why? You stuff an extra bartender in your carry-on?”
“No, I am a bartender.”
“Really?” Of all the thousands of careers Iggy could have chosen—and for all the things they’d talked about as teens—that wouldn’t have been at the top of Malcolm’s list. Especially given Iggy’s past and his parents’ problems with addiction.
But very few teens grew up to realize their dream of being in a band with the Jonas Brothers. “A bartender, huh?”
“Mixologist, technically, but I’ve got my bartending license in four states, including Colorado. I just…”
“What?”
Iggy shrugged. “I don’t like sitting around waiting. If I can be helpful at the bar later tonight, instead of sitting in here doom-scrolling, then I’d rather be helpful.”
That had not changed. For all that Malcolm liked to plan and could over-think pretty much anything, Iggy hated to sit still.
It was a trait they’d always shared. Iggy loved being in motion, too, doing something physical, challenging his brain, but sometimes that led Iggy toward impulsivity and recklessness.
Had those traits mellowed any in adult Iggy?
That fierce, sensual kiss from five minutes ago suggested no.
“Do you have Laurel’s number?” Malcolm asked.
“Yeah, I do. I’ll text her later. Thanks.”
“Sure. Are you, um, going to need a ride to the hospital?”
“No, I’ll borrow Uncle Howie’s car. Assuming it runs.”
Oh, duh. “It ran as of last week when it was belching smoke out the tailpipe along Old Main. The catalytic converter’s giving him fits.”
Iggy grimaced. “It’ll do for now.”
“Or at least until the snobs moving in across the creek start making noise complaints about the thing back-firing.”
“The what?”
“C’mere.” Malcolm raised the vinyl shade on the trailer’s southeast side, which had a great view of this leg of Snow Creek.
For years, the backside of the saloon faced a valley of wilderness.
Rocks and trees and sloping grass. Now it was being developed by rich city folks who wanted a pretty McMansion out in the country to impress their friends.
Only a few ostentatious houses had been built so far, and Howie hated how they’d destroyed his morning view.
Iggy peered over his shoulder, so close Malcolm wanted to reach out and snag his belt loop. Anything to maintain contact, even bare minimum, for as long as possible. “I wonder if any of them were warned about the fireworks Uncle Howie likes to set off behind the saloon every July Fourth?”
“Doubt it. I’m sure the sheriff will have his hands full when that happens.”
“No doubt.” Iggy straightened and put more space between them. “Thank you, again, for the ride, Mont—Malcolm.”
The name slip made his heart twist every single time—and not in a painful way. In that oh-so-sweet aching way of a tender muscle you can’t stop flexing while it heals. “You can call me Monte. I don’t mind.”
“Okay.”
“And you’re welcome. I was happy to give you a ride.” He wouldn’t have minded another kind of ride this morning, but that bronco had bucked him right off, and he wasn’t getting back in the chute anytime soon. Before he could second-guess himself, Malcolm blurted, “Can I take you to lunch?”
“I don’t know. Can you?”
They laughed simultaneously at the familiar rebuttal of their eleventh-grade English teacher, who’d been a stickler for proper grammar, even in casual conversation. Iggy’s laughter was deeper now, more mature, but no less intoxicating. “May I take you to lunch?” Malcolm asked.
“It might be the hospital cafeteria.”
“I don’t care where. I would really like us to keep talking.”
Iggy watched him with an indecipherable expression for long enough that Malcolm nearly started to fidget. “Okay. We should talk. I’m going to make a wild guess that not talking all these years hasn’t done either of us any favors?”
“You’re right. I still owe you an apology the size of Pluto, and I want to try and make amends somehow.”
“Amends?” Iggy raised an eyebrow. “Are you in AA or something?”