Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Malcolm was used to rolling over and getting a face full of his unfolded laundry and extra blankets, since he used half of his camper’s bed area for storage.
Wasn’t like he had a partner to store there.
So rolling over and getting a face full of hair and skin that smelled like sweat and shampoo startled him into waking.
He was practically on top of Iggy, who was curled up facing away, and Malcolm used the excuse of stretching to drape his right arm across Iggy’s waist. Iggy sighed, his body tightening then loosening in a kind of full-body stretch without moving too much.
The trailer was still pretty dark, so Malcolm had no idea what time it was.
He’d slept for a few hours, at least, because all the whiskey was out of his system, and he was thirsty.
“This okay?” Malcolm asked.
“Yes.” Iggy scooted backward until he was almost fully beneath Malcolm, his back to Malcolm’s chest. He kept his butt curled forward, though, and Malcolm didn’t press his luck by pulling him closer.
This felt too perfect, simply holding Iggy again.
Holding him like he used to in the back of the wagon, buried under sleeping bags, usually naked after rubbing off or sucking each other off.
Enjoying each other in private, no one judging them for the happiness they found in their relationship. Secret, though it was.
“You hungover at all?” Malcolm asked.
“Nope. Tired but not hungover. You?”
“Nah. Never thought I’d sleep good on a sofa bed. Must be the company.”
Iggy chuckled. One of his hands skimmed down to cover Malcolm’s and pressed it tighter against Iggy’s belly. Anticipation and curiosity swirled in Malcolm’s groin, and he was glad to have some space between himself and Iggy’s ass.
While they’d stolen time to have sex as often as possible as teens, they’d only had anal sex once, two months before everything went to hell.
Iggy had initiated it, and he’d been eager to bottom.
But afterward, they hadn’t done it again, even though Malcolm had volunteered to switch.
He’d been curious what it felt like, but the opportunity never arose.
Malcolm was intensely curious what this older, experienced, more mature Iggy was like in bed—and not just relaxing in bed half-naked like they were now.
They’d been minutes away from having sex on the nearest flat surface yesterday, because being around Iggy made him lose his damned mind, but now that he had Iggy in a bed with him…
Malcolm was in no hurry to move things farther along.
Iggy was too good at distracting him with sex, so they ignored the big things glaring down at them from all angles.
“I’m enjoying the company a great deal,” Iggy said. “Hard to believe I’ve only been in town for forty-eight hours, and I’m already back in bed with you.”
Malcolm laughed out loud, his grip on Iggy tightening and his dick thickening from proximity to both his ex and friction against the mattress.
“But just so we’re clear, in case we get carried away and things happen, because goddamn I love you in my arms, we’re two single guys with healthy libidos, and there’s no one out there who’ll hunt me down if I kiss you again. Right?”
“Absolutely no one out there who’ll care if you kiss me again.
” Iggy twisted around, making the old sofa bed’s frame creak ominously.
Malcolm lost his hold on Iggy’s waist, and his hope for kissing in the very-near future dimmed when Iggy put space between them.
“But I didn’t come back to Chance expecting anything from you, not after how things ended between us. ”
Malcolm flinched and sat up, old hurt scratching at his heart like a feral cat. “I don’t know how to apologize for that anymore.”
“You don’t have to. That’s not what I meant.
” Iggy lurched into a sitting position and gracefully twisted so he was on his knees, hands squeezing Malcolm’s shoulders.
“I just meant that we still need to talk, and I don’t want us getting physical and clouding things up. We need to put the past to bed first.”
“The past is kind of in bed, isn’t it?” Malcolm couldn’t help the lame joke.
Iggy didn’t laugh. “I’m serious, Malcolm.
What happened with Darren really hurt me.
Genuinely, badly hurt me. I promised myself I wouldn’t fall into another relationship that would hurt me like that again, and we’ve already hurt each other once before.
I don’t think I could handle starting anything with you, even years-late break-up sex, without worrying I’d just stuck my heart in a blender with tequila and ice. ”
Malcolm turned that over in his brain a little bit.
Iggy wasn’t turning him down, exactly; he was asking for caution.
To not leap into anything physical between them, because the emotional stuff was still too raw, even after all these years.
And he wasn’t wrong, damn it. Everything between them had been amazing once, almost too good to be true—until everything went to hell in less than twelve hours.
“I hate it when you’re right,” Malcolm groused.
“No, you don’t.” Iggy offered a sideways smile then found his phone on the back of the sofa. “Look, it’s not even six o’clock. How about we just…hold each other a while yet? And then I’ll treat you to pancakes over at the Laughing Fork. We drove past them the other day, right?”
“Yeah, they’re still around. And that sounds good. I promise not to cop any feels.”
“Okay.”
Iggy was perfectly willing to be the little spoon and let Malcolm curl as tightly around him as he could without suffocating them both.
The trailer was cool, a wobbly ceiling fan moving the air and creating a repetitive whir that had lulled Malcolm to sleep last night.
Okay, earlier this morning. It lulled him again, along with the cadence of Iggy’s breathing, until Malcolm woke again to Iggy struggling.
“Hey, you okay?” Malcolm asked.
“Yeah, gotta pee. Let me up before things get really awkward.”
Malcolm released his hold, and Iggy climbed out of the squeaky sofa bed.
He couldn’t help but watch Iggy’s ass as he walked down the short hallway to the bathroom, which was tucked in at the back by Howie’s bedroom.
Even with the bathroom as a kind of sound barrier between Howie’s bedroom and Iggy’s, neither of them had been keen on sexy shenanigans when Malcolm had spent the night indoors.
He’d spent the night more frequently those last few months, when Malcolm’s old man was really on a tear about things.
Howie always said Malcolm was welcome anytime he wanted to come over.
Malcolm had never admitted to any of the physical abuse, but…
well, his dad’s temper was known around town.
It didn’t take a genius to guess why he hated going home.
Play practice was his only real respite from home.
He wasn’t allowed to play sports; hiding his bruises in the locker room during gym class was hard enough.
He wasn’t smart enough for most of the academic clubs.
For a little while, he’d lied and said he was tutoring other students in history, but Malcolm was the one who’d needed tutoring, and Dad was furious when he found out the truth.
Iggy interrupted his painful trip into the past by poking his head out of the bathroom door and shouting, “I’m going to take a quick shower.
Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge, I guess.
There’s not a lot, but nothing should be spoiled.
” He mumbled something about cleaning as he shut the door again.
Malcolm had no desire to investigate the fridge. He grabbed the pillow Iggy had slept on and hugged it tight, inhaling Iggy’s faint scent. His phone chimed with a text, which he checked only because he suspected it was from Melissa.
Yep.
Had fun last night, bro. Hope you did too. See you at Tommy’s game.
Unsure how to explain his night/morning/whatever in a coherent text, he sent back a thumbs-up emoji, then played a game while he waited for Iggy.
Once Iggy was done, Malcolm cleaned up in the bathroom.
His shirt wasn’t too wrinkled, and his daily wardrobe was an unoriginal lineup of simple plaid button-ups in mostly shades of blue and white, with some green mixed in.
He doubted anyone they might see this morning would notice he’d worn the same shirt to the saloon last night.
Iggy was waiting for him by the door, keys in hand.
Riding in the station wagon again sent a blast of nostalgia through Malcolm.
Part of him wanted to check the rear compartment for sleeping bags and flashlights.
The thing was over thirty years old, and while it rumbled and groaned a lot during the brief drive, it still did its job.
Things lasted if you took care of them.
They parked across the street from the Laughing Fork Diner, a red-brick building on the eastern end of Old Main.
Familiar, comforting scents of coffee and fried pork products greeted them when Malcolm pulled open the door.
Longer than it was deep, it had traditional black-and-white checked linoleum flooring, red and chrome stools at a long red counter, and wooden booths along the front windows.
A perky hostess led them to a booth by the window and handed them each menus.
Malcolm immediately turned over his coffee mug, sure he’d probably suck down at least four of those small mugs-worth of coffee before they finished eating.
“So, did you go gluten-free and vegan while living the city mixology life?” Malcolm asked. “The bar chef life?”
Iggy snorted. “Very much no to either. While I have an appreciation for food allergies and sensitivities, and I’ve done a few inflammatory detox diets over the years, you can pry my whole-wheat toast and sunny-side eggs from my bacon-greasy fist.”
“That your order?”
“Probably. Everyone who serves breakfast can do eggs and toast.” He skimmed the menu. “Oh there, see? Even comes with home fries. You?”