Chapter 1 #2
“Thanks.” My stomach grumbles and he grins. I guess I’m hungry for more than one thing.
“Want a beer?”
Do I ever. “I’ll get ’em. Sit down. Cue up the next episode. We can watch it while we wait.” I sound overly polite to my own ears, but coming home after a road trip usually feels a little weird. There’s this brief but awkward re-entry that I hadn’t known to expect.
I have little use for the domestic chatter my married teammates share.
But if I were the sharing kind, it would be tempting to ask—will it always be this way?
Do the guys who’ve been coupled up for ten years feel it, too?
Or is it the newness of our relationship that makes things a little odd for an hour or two whenever I come home?
Wish I knew.
My first stop is our open-plan kitchen for two beers, which I open and then deposit on our coffee table.
We’ve lived here almost six months, and still there isn’t much furniture.
We’ve both been too busy to really furnish the place.
But we have the real necessities: a giant leather sofa, a kickass coffee table, a rug and a big TV.
Oh—and there’s a wobbly armchair that I rescued off the curb and kept over Jamie’s objections. He calls it the death chair. Jamie gives it wide berth, insisting that it has bad karma.
You can take the boy out of California, but you can’t take the California out of the boy.
I need to change, so I take a step toward our bedroom. But then I stop to ask him a question. “Hey, what do think of this shirt? I picked it up today, because I ran out of clean stuff.”
Jamie points the remote at the TV. “It’s very green,” he says without turning to look.
“I like it.”
“Me too, then.” He turns and the beard catches me off-guard again. But his smile sends me jogging toward our bedroom.
The bed is made up perfectly, so I toss my trousers, my very green shirt and my tie on the comforter, in a hurry to get back to Jamie.
I throw on a pair of sweats and make it back to the living room to find Jamie propped into the corner of the couch on his side, his legs stretched out across the cushions.
I don’t bother pretending to play it cool.
I lay down right in front of him, my head against his shoulder, my back to his front.
“Shit,” I complain when I realize my error. “I left the beers out of reach.”
He clamps a hand over my abs. “Go,” he says.
I stretch with both hands for our bottles and he prevents me from falling on the floor. While the table is positioned perfectly for our feet when we’re sitting up, this little maneuver is for beer emergencies while we’re cuddling. They happen sometimes.
I pass his bottle over my head and hear him take a swig. The opening credits for Banshee—our current show—are rolling. “You didn’t cheat on me while I was gone, did you?” I ask.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. The last episode wasn’t a cliffhanger, though. So you could say I haven’t really been tested.”
I snort into my beer and lean back into the solid warmth of his chest. Usually I’m really invested in this show, with its freaky plot and crazy fight scenes.
But tonight it’s just an excuse to be skin to skin on the couch with my man while my dinner reheats.
His beard tickles my ear, and that’s unexpected.
I tilt my head back so his beard brushes my face, too.
I can’t see the TV at all, and I just don’t care.
He dips his chin and rubs the beard against my cheek, then brushes his lips across my neck, leaving shivers in his wake. “What do you think?” he asks quietly.
I turn toward him carefully so as not to spill my beer. “You look fucktastic. Like J-Tim after he left NSYNC and got hot. But I want to feel it on my balls before I weigh in.”
He tips his head back and laughs suddenly, and that’s when the road-trip ice dam breaks. It’s just us again and his easy laugh and the comfort I feel when he’s around.
Yesss... I drop my head and lick his throat right below the border of the beard.
Then I suck on his skin gently. Jamie stops laughing and relaxes his body against mine.
We’re skin to skin from the waist up, and the feel of his heartbeat against mine makes me want to weep with gratitude.
I nuzzle my nose through his fledgling beard, taking a circuitous route toward his mouth. The hair is softer than I expected.
“Fuck. Kiss me already,” he whispers.
So I do. The beard caresses my face as I fit my mouth over his, diving in like I’ve been gone from him eight months, not eight days. He makes a happy sound deep in his chest. I kiss him thoroughly, reacquainting myself with his taste and the warmth of his breath on my face.
He sighs, and I slow things down, brushing my lips over his lazily.
We won’t get crazy right now, but it’s not out of awkwardness. Rather, we’re both holding a beer bottle, my dinner is in the oven and we have all night.
This is my happy thought just as I hear an unfamiliar sound—someone knocking on the door. It’s so unusual that I actually assume it’s part of the TV show in the background at first. But the knock comes again. “Wesley! You crazy bastard. Open up, I have beer!”
Jamie pulls his head back, his eyebrows shooting up. “Who is that?” he mouths.
“Fuck,” I whisper. “Just a sec!” I call. Then I drop my mouth to Jamie’s ear. “My teammate. Blake Riley. He moved in upstairs.”
Jamie gives me a little shove, and I get up. I have to adjust myself in my sweats to make my semi a little less obvious. I approach the front door, opening it a crack. “Hey. You found me.”
Blake gives me a big, stupid grin and pushes past me into the apartment.
“Yeah! I have boxes stacked up all over my new living room. Total disaster. My sisters found the sheets and made the bed for me, but otherwise it’s hell up there.
So I ate a burger and bought a six-pack and thought I’d come see you, eh? ”
For a moment I think of throwing him out.
I really do. But there’s no way to do it that isn’t hella rude.
I mean, I’m standing here in sweats, a beer in my hand and the TV blaring behind me.
I look exactly like a guy who has time to drink a beer with his teammate.
And this is a guy who’s asked me out for beers a handful of times already, and I always beg off unless we’re on the road.
“Come on in,” I say, hating the sound of it. He’s already in, for one thing. That bastard. And sixty seconds ago I had Jamie’s tongue in my mouth.
Fuck me.
Blake doesn’t notice my discomfort. He sets the six-pack on the coffee table and sits right down on the sofa where Jamie was a minute ago. Jamie’s beer is on the bar dividing our kitchen from the rest of the room, but he’s vanished.
“You ready for another one?” Blake asks, grabbing a bottle.
“I’m good,” I say, taking a swig of my own.
Jamie reappears from the hallway, wearing a T-shirt now, ruining the view I had of his muscular, golden chest. “Hey there,” he says. “I’m Jamie.”
“Ah, you’re the roommate!” Blake hops to his feet and leaps over to engulf Jamie’s hand in his big paw. “Nice to meet you. You’re a coach, right? Defense? Teenagers?”
“Uh, yeah.” Jamie’s gaze lifts to mine, a question in them.
I’m just as confused, though. I’ve mentioned my roommate to maybe two people all season, but apparently Blake was one of them. I never talk about Jamie to my teammates, because I don’t want to have to try to figure out when to stop, or how much detail is too much.
And I never want to tell a bold-faced lie about him. That’s just not my style.
Blake is a big guy with a quick smile, and honestly I’d always assumed he was a little slow. That might have been inaccurate. “Want a beer?” he asks now. “Hey! I love Banshee! Which one is this?” He gallops back to the couch and sits.
I don’t know quite what to do, so I sit down on the opposite end from him.
Jamie heads into the kitchen, and I stare at the screen for a minute, trying to figure out what’s happening with this episode. Hood is trying to escape from a building where he’s stolen something. His colorful trans friend is in his earpiece, trying to help him navigate out of there.
I have no idea what’s happening. On the screen or in my living room.
Jamie returns a few minutes later with a plate covered with enchiladas in melted cheese.
He’s using a tray because the plate is hot from the oven, and I’m famous for burning myself in the kitchen.
My mouth waters when I see a generous blob of sour cream and a pile of diced avocados, too.
He’s even thought of a napkin and silverware.
Wow.
To have your boyfriend bring you a homemade dinner is just about the best thing in the whole fucking world, except Jamie’s eyes are asking if he should hand it over, or maybe this looks weird? Too domestic?
I stand up and take it from him, because goddamn it, this is my home and I can do anything I want here. “Thank you. This looks amazing.”
He gives me the world’s quickest wink, and I sit down on the couch to eat the dinner he brought me. It’s not all I want from him, but it will have to do for now.