Chapter 12McCormick
CHAPTER
TWELVE
MCCORMICK
Thick hot steam chokes me as I push my way into the bathroom. I push aside Stiles’s electric razor and toothbrush and hop up on the counter.
He tugs aside the curtain to glare at me. “Do you mind?”
Damn right I don’t. “We need to talk about the other day.”
“It can wait until I’m done,” he snaps, yanking the curtain back in place.
“No, it can’t. This is the perfect time. I have your undivided attention.” I really need to clean this mirror. It’s covered in toothpaste splatter.
“You’ve got more than that. Go on,” he sighs, “get it out.”
“Okay, so the other night. It was… I mean, it felt… We’re just…”
Stiles laughs. “I can see you really thought this through.”
“It didn’t mean anything, right? We’re still just friends.”
“Right,” Stiles agrees. “Just friends.”
“And I mean, it felt alright, didn’t it?”
“Just alright?” He sticks his wet head out of the curtain again. “Come on, I was better than alright.”
Yeah, he was. He was fucking magnificent. “You’re killing me here.” I watch him disappear behind the transparent curtain, checking out his ass when he turns his back to me. “I mean, it felt great. But, we’re just two friends that were horny and needed to get off and what we did, it felt great,” I repeat, babbling now from nerves, “but we’re not gay or anything. And I mean, maybe it’ll happen again, and maybe it won’t. But maybe it will.”
Stiles laughs. “I’m really glad we got that figured out.”
I hop off the counter. “So, we’re good?”
“We’re always good. Grab me some Tylenol, will you? I've got a splitting headache.”
Grabbing the bottle of Tylenol from the medicine cabinet, I hand it to him before leaving. But minutes later, I return. Stiles is wrapped in a towel, trimming his beard over the sink. Damp skin and tattoos are on display, and I eat that shit up with my eyes. He meets my gaze in the mirror.
“I get that you like girls, maybe you still want to date. But I was thinking, if I can get you off, do you really need to?” Swallowing nervously, I add, “What I’m trying to say is, we could just keep doing this, and we wouldn’t have to date, you know? Just keep this going. As friends.”
“Agreed. Sounds good.”
“So like, no girls. Nobody but us. Right?”
“Right,” he agrees. “Are you done?”
“I think so.” I turn to leave but reach back to grab Stiles’s towel. My delighted cackle follows me out of the bathroom, followed by Stiles's cursing.
Layering the ham and cheese on my sandwich is like an art form. You have to fold the slices just right for maximum texture when you bite into them. Not too much mayo, but not too little. And a touch of that brand new wasabi mustard I discovered makes everything that much better.
No more girls. No more dates. No more online apps. No more rejection and feeling awkward when I take my pants off. Just me and my best friend getting each other off and making each other feel good. No, incredible!
He sure did agree real fast. Didn’t put up one protest about not dating anymore. He also agreed that it didn’t mean anything, and we’re just friends, real fast. A little too fast! Is that really all he wants from me? A helping hand to get off? A warm crease to slide his dick between?
I only mentioned it because he’s been so quiet on the matter. I worried maybe he was hesitating because he’s struggling to see me as more than that. Reassuring him that nothing has to change between us, that we’re still just friends, minimizes the risk of damage.
But is it all that I want?
No. Fuck no. If I could have Stiles in all ways, more than just a friend, as the only person in my life? Sign me up in a hot fucking second.
Stiles comes out of the bedroom dressed for work in worn and stained jeans and a T-shirt with the logo of the shop. He grabs his keys.
“Where are you going?”
“To work.”
“You have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon.”
“What? When?”
I peel the sticky note off the fridge. “Dr. Sanders, twelve o’clock. Isn’t that your memory doc?”
Stiles reaches for the note. “Fuck, yeah. It’s like a semi-annual check-up to see if I’m getting worse or better. They’re supposed to discuss new treatments available but there never are any.”
“I’ll drive you,” I offer.
Stiles places the note on the counter with a sigh. “I’ll call James and tell him I’m not coming in.”
I hand him the sandwich I made for him and take a bite of my own, talking around a mouthful. “What would you do without me? Admit it, you’d be lost.”
“Fuck,” he laughs. “I’m with you now, and I’m still fucking lost. What does that say?”
“It says you need to spend more time with me.”
Stiles chokes on his sandwich. “I’m pretty sure that’s not what it says. The universe isn’t that cruel.”
Please, I’m a fucking delight.
His knee is bouncing hard enough to shake my chair. “You good?”
Stiles glances at me with a side eye. “Yeah. Don’t need you to hold my hand.” I place my hand on his thigh, and he realizes what he’s doing and stills. He blows out a big breath. “Sorry. Why am I nervous? I’ve done this a hundred times.”
“Are you afraid they’re gonna say it’s getting worse?”
“No. I don’t know. Do you think it is?”
“Not necessarily. And you’ve been playing those brain games like crazy on your phone. Hopefully they’re helping.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “I hate feeling like my brain is broken. Like I'm at some kind of disadvantage in life and I have to work twice as hard as everyone else just to keep up.”
“That’s why the government pays you the big bucks every month,” I tease, trying to draw a smile out of him.
“What if they say I’m getting worse? What if they say there’s no new treatments?”
The fear in his voice makes me cringe. I just want to make him feel confident again, to see him smile and see that light shine in his eyes. “I don’t know, I guess we’ll deal with it together. Just like we always do. And you’re living with me now, which helps. It’s easier for me to keep all your shit straight.”
“It doesn’t bother you that I haven’t gone back to my apartment?”
“Why would it? I thought you liked staying with me.” Please don’t leave. Please don’t fucking leave.
“I do,” Stiles reassures me. “Just don’t want to impose on you.”
It’s my turn to look at him sideways. “Dude, impose on me? Get the fuck out of here with that bullshit. You’re my best friend. Nothing about you is an imposition.”
Stiles lowers his voice and leans in to whisper, “Would anything else change between us if I’m losing more of my memory?”
Like what? What else would change? Why does anything have to change? And then I realize he’s talking about the sex thing.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Why would that change? You’re hot whether you can remember my name or not. Don’t worry, I’ll keep reminding you what it is. I’ll also remind you that you really want to suck my dick, bad. And the more often you do it, the more likely you are to remember.”
It takes him a moment, but he begins to laugh, and it grows louder by the second. “You’re a hot fucking mess.”
“I choose to focus on the word hot and leave the rest behind.” He’s about to say more when the nurse calls him back. “Want me to go with you?”
“Yeah. I’m always gonna want you right by my side.”
Well, fuck me sideways. If that isn’t the sweetest thing. Damn right, I’m gonna be by his side. Ride or die.
I have to remain in the waiting room while they take a scan of his brain, but after that, Stiles is shown to a room, and the nurse calls me back to sit with him.
“Were you serious about not dating other people?” he asks out of nowhere.
“Did you want me to be serious?”
“Yeah. I do.”
Fuch yeah! “I was dead-as-balls serious.”
Stiles chuckles. “What does that mean, dead-as-balls?”
“It means I’m serious. Real serious. The serious-ist.”
He’s laughing now. Mission accomplished. “You’re a mess.”
“No, you said I’m a hot mess. You think I’m hot.”
That twinkle returns to his eye, the one that was missing earlier in the waiting room, when he was filled with self-doubt. “You are. Dead-as-balls hot.”
Unfortunately, that’s the moment Dr. Sanders chooses to cock block me, putting an end to my flirting.
“Gentlemen, good afternoon.” He tacks Stiles’s X-rays to a light box on the wall and then takes a seat on his rolling stool. “Your scans look good. And by good, I mean, there really isn’t much change since your last visit. The neural pathways are not repairing themselves, but they’re also not deteriorating.”
I can actually feel Stiles’s body deflate, letting go of the tension he was holding onto. It’s better news than he was expecting. If Stiles’s brain was deteriorating further, if he developed early onset Alzheimer's, dementia, or even Parkinson’s, I’m not sure I could deal with the fallout of losing him. Because having him standing in front of me doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be lost, inside his head, inside the past. Maybe someday we’ll cross that bridge, but if I think about it now, I’ll fall apart.
Nothing in this world poses a greater threat to me than losing him. There’s nothing scarier.
I’m so relieved that my hand slips to his leg again, and I grip his thigh, not even thinking about what it might look like to the doc. Stiles must be lost in his head as well because he doesn’t push me away.
Dr. Sanders slips his pen from his coat pocket and scribbles on his prescription pad. “You’ve tried cognitive behavioral therapy and didn’t have successful results. Beyond that, there are herbal supplements you can take to improve memory, but I’m not guaranteeing that it will. There’s a new medication out on the market that may help. I’m writing a prescription for you.”
I know for a fact Stiles has an entire cabinet full of meds back at his apartment that he doesn’t take because the side effects are worse than any benefit they might provide. I hope this isn’t more of the same.
“Thanks, Doc.” Stiles reaches for the script and stuffs it in his pocket. “I’ll check it out.”
He doesn’t say a word as we walk back to the truck, and it’s not until we’re pulling onto the highway that I ask, “You hungry? Want to grab lunch?”
“Just drive through somewhere. I’m in a big hurry to get home.”
“How come?”
“Your dick ain’t gonna suck itself. You told me the more often I do it, the less likely I am to forget how badly I want it.”
Fuck driving through somewhere. I’ve got hotdogs at home. And I’m in a big hurry to get there.
We barely make it home without me passing out from high blood pressure, or an elevated heartbeat, or whatever the fuck is happening in my body right now. Everything is working overtime, including the amount of blood being pumped down south. All I can think about is getting his mouth on me.
His beard is going to tickle and scratch my balls so good. I've never felt that before, but I can imagine it. We rush through the door and I toss my keys on the counter.
Stiles wastes no time getting down to business. “Where are we doing this? On the couch, or in our bedroom?”
Our bedroom. Sounds like we’re a couple. I love it. “In there,” I point, hiking my thumb over my shoulder. “I’ll be right back. Gotta hit the bathroom.”
Yanking my pants down, I let them pool around my ankles and waddle over to the linen closet to grab a washcloth. Running it under the sink, I soap it up the rag with warm water and scrub my parts, just in case they’re sweaty or musky. Better I smell like… What is this shit? I turn the bottle of soap toward me. Vanilla sugar. That’ll do.
Inspiration slaps me upside the head, and I grab a razor, lather my balls, and start to shave all the hair off. His tongue is gonna feel so…
“Hurry up. You done yet?”
“I’m coming!” I shout through the closed door.
“Hopefully not yet,” he chuckles, his voice muffled.
I’m rushing, but trying not to knick my balls. Presenting him with a sac covered in pieces of toilet paper to stop the bleeding is not sexy.
After the last swipe, I rinse the razor clean and pull my pants back up. Or should I leave them off? Yeah, I leave them off. Stiles is laid out on our bed like an offering, dressed in nothing but black briefs. His thick hairy thighs and flat belly are all I can see. I want to run my mouth over his skin, to tickle him with the tip of my nose and breathe in his scent.
As much as I want him, and want his mouth on me, I’m nervous as shit. Is he? Hard to tell from the way he’s laying there, so casually, rubbing himself as he watches me.
“Come here, Mac. Take off your leg and get comfortable.”
If I was nervous before, I’m scared shitless now. Perching on the edge of the mattress, I unhook my prosthetic and prop it against the nightstand, and then begin to roll the sleeve down my thigh. Stiles sits up, and the heat from his body covers my back, his hands gripping my shoulders, and I feel his soft, warm lips touch my neck. A shiver rolls through me, pure pleasure, and some of my nerves dissipate under his skilled mouth.
“You’re so tense,” he observes, digging his fingers deeper into my tight shoulders. “You nervous?” Not trusting my voice, all I can do is nod. “Me too. But also, kind of excited. I really want to do this.”
“Me too.” The words come out, gruff, gravelly, and I clear my throat.
My heart’s hammering away at my chest, and the anxiety in my belly is swirling with adrenaline. I just hope I don’t pass the fuck out when his mouth touches my cock.
Stiles continues to pepper kisses over my shoulders, and I roll my neck to the side to give him more access. This right here, this touching and affection. If this is all he ever has to offer me, it would be enough. More than enough.
More than anything, I want to turn around and return his kisses with the same passion, but that wouldn’t be just friends blowing each other. That would be something more.
That would be love.
Stiles didn’t agree to love.
“I may not know what I’m doing,” he whispers in my ear, “but I’m not a quitter. Not giving up until you fall apart inside my mouth.”
Holy fuck. “You want to swallow me?”
“I’m curious to know what it tastes like.”
“I’ve read that not all cum tastes the—” My words are cut off by a knock at the door. “Who’s that?”
“Ignore it. Maybe they’ll go away.” He skates his hand down my chest, pulling me back against him.
The knock comes louder this time, like they’re trying to bang the door down. Only one kind of person would knock like that. A Bitch.
Stiles lies back with a disappointed sigh. I could cry from the loss of his touch. This time, a boot connects solidly with my front door and the echo reverberates through my tiny apartment. “Holy-mother-of-nuts-on-a-Sundae!”
Stiles chuckles and tosses a pair of boxers at me, the brand new hotdog ones. “Here, put these on.”
I roll my sleeve back up my thigh and reach for my prosthetic, sliding it in place. Then I step into the boxers and pull them up. “I swear to God, there are not enough days left in my life for me to forgive, or forget, how much I hate whoever is on the other side of that door.”
He laughs, getting up to put his pants on. “I’ll probably forget by tomorrow,” he jokes. “But you’re welcome to remind me.”
I jerk the door open hard enough to knock a few sticky notes to the ground. West grins back at me. “Took you long enough.” He saunters in as if I had invited him inside.
“You have the worst timing in the world.”
“Nonsense. Brandt says I always come on time.” The teasing reference to at least one of us being able to finish, not me, obviously, only pisses me off further.
“Nice boxers.” He shoots a smirk at my shorts and then at my face. “They look about as absurd as your haircut. Yo, Stiles! Grab the trimmers from the bathroom and we’ll cut McCormick’s hair.”
Emerging from the bedroom, Stiles laughs, shutting the door behind him. Fucking sellout. I'm beginning to think he absolutely hates my haircut.
I flip the party in the back to emphasize the length. “Please, this Tennessee Waterfall is absolutely gorgeous. Looks good from every angle.”
“Tennessee Waterfall,” West chokes. “More like Achy Breaky Big Mistakey.”
Stiles laughs harder, and I’m positive he hates my hair. Weird, he’s always had such good taste.
“Is there a reason you stopped by, other than to laugh at me?”
West moves to the kitchen and helps himself to a root beer from my fridge. “I tried calling, but no one answered. I was in the neighborhood, so I just stopped. We’re doing karaoke tonight at the Tavern.”
A night out with the guys? No, thanks. I’d rather stay home and get my dick sucked. “We can’t make it.”
“Yeah, cause you’re so busy. You’re going. Both of you,” West insists, popping the top off his can. “I need good entertainment, and nothing beats you two singing.”
“We’re in,” Stiles agrees easily. As if he hadn’t been getting ready to stuff his mouth a minute earlier.
A streak of disappointment knifes through my heart. “I shaved my balls for this?!” What a fucking let down.
West makes a face. “Nobody wants to know what you do with your balls, McCormick.”
“Not according to your shirt,” I accuse. It reads, ‘let’s talk about BALLS’.
“Shit, this?” He looks down at his shirt. “Riggs got me this when I completed the Warrior’s Walk. I love this shirt.”
“Fine. We’ll be there. What time?”
“Seven.”
“Great. Are you sticking around?” Because I’ve got shit to do in the bedroom that doesn’t involve an audience.
“Might as well. Brandt is visiting his mother. He won’t be home for hours.”
“Fuck. Me.”
“Why didn’t you join him,” Stiles asks, taking a seat on the couch beside him.
“I visited last time. Once a year is enough for me.” He shoots me another once-over. “You sure about your hair? We could get it looking right and tight before we go out tonight.”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, go put some pants on. Stiles don’t wanna see your junk and neither do I.”
Stiles very much wants to see my junk! And if you get the fuck out, I can show it to him.