14. CHAPTER 14
Another work week down.
Another week made harder, and brighter, by his presence.
I can’t keep my thoughts in check whenever he’s near me, but the shop's a desolate wasteland when he’s not around.
He’s proven himself right so far, he doesn’t need to be here all five days. But I’m already battling with myself over whether or not I should teach him the payroll programming and our ordering systems just so he has to be here Wednesdays and Fridays as well.
Hell, I’ll even give him the twenty-five dollars an hour he was pushing for. All he has to do is ask. And if he lifts up his shirt again… Shows me that barbell… Asks me if I want to touch it… Fuck, I’d probably agree to any amount.
I couldn’t sleep Thanksgiving night at my parent’s place.
Having him as close and drunk as he was, looking at me with what my intoxicated brain was interpreting as suggestive stares, had my dick hard all night.
And when I dropped him back off at his brother’s place the next afternoon when the blizzard died down, I know he wanted to keep hanging out.
I could see it in his eyes, but sobering up had changed their intention.
The kid is lonely. He’s abandoned. He wants a friend.
But I’m not his brother, and it’s not my responsibility to make sure he’s occupied every waking second. I gave him a job, I appreciate him here, I don’t need to be his friend as well.
I don’t need any more friends, period. Austin and Anaise have been blowing up my phone all week like it’s a planned attack to make sure I’m never alone with my own thoughts for too long for anything to fester. So if I want to spend time with people, I have other options.
My relationship with Carey is professional and transactional.
We share a common enemy. That’s it. I don’t need him coming back six years later because I had a moment of weakness and fucked him after one too many beers at our Christmas party—
I mean—
Not that I’d—
That was Brooklyn. Not Carey. But…
Fuck.
Stop it! I hit the side of my head, unable to get the image of Carey lying beneath me out of my mind.
I try to focus on setting up my station for my final client.
Carey was meant to do it but I didn’t give him the chance.
I sent him over to Watersons’ to buy something we didn’t need just so I didn’t have to be alone with him even though it’s the only thing I want.
But it didn’t take him enough time. He was back in five minutes.
I fumble with the large bottle of black ink and it tumbles to the tiles, the lid breaking off and ink splattering everywhere. The walls, the table, my jeans, my slippers.
I squat down and swipe my hand across the black splatters on the fuzzy gray shoes with the forethought of a toddler. It smears, and I swear out loud.
Carey looks up from the desk and whatever he was doing, only to realize I’m about to fucking lose it.
“You fine?” he asks, standing up, his voice all light and caring.
Of course I’m not fine.
Not even close.
My skin feels too tight and my jaw aches.
The bell on the door rings and I jolt in shock.
“Tek?” Carey says my name, but he’s closer now, and when I look up he’s standing only a few feet away from me with a look of compassion on his face that I don’t deserve.
I don’t trust myself to answer so I quickly stand and make a beeline to the back room, ignoring my next client in the process.
“Just give him a sec. Take a seat, there’s water over there. It’s been a day,” I hear Carey say, his voice getting louder until he’s standing just inside the back room doorway. He holds still for a few seconds, and when I don’t acknowledge him he walks past me to get the mop and bucket.
“It doesn’t look like any of it got on the other station, so I’ll set it up quickly then clean the mess. Your jeans are probably a write-off, though.”
I turn my back to him and grip the sink, my hands shaking so badly I'm struggling to hold onto the metal rim.
“You need to take a break, Tek. You’ve put in seventy hours this week. It’s too much.”
I bite down hard on the tip of my tongue so I don’t snap at him. He knows why I’m working this hard. He knows there are no other options. “I ruined another pair of slippers.”
Carey sidles up to me, and laughs. “They were ten bucks. I’ll buy you a new pair.”
“I don’t know why I can’t keep any clean.”
He wraps his strong arm around my shoulders, tugging me against his side. His head slumps over and he shakes me, just a little. “You’re doing too much.”
“I’m not doing enough.”
“You’re being an idiot.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re being an idiot,” he repeats, firm, but kind. “You’re gonna wear yourself out if you keep going on like this.”
“Then I’ll keep going till I collapse.”
With his other hand he reaches over to poke me in the cheek. “Idiot old man.”
I turn towards him; “I’m not old,” but he’s so close and his smell is so strong that I look the other way.
My fingernails slip against the sink because every single cell in my body is screaming for me to take my own hand and wrap it around his waist, pulling us even closer together than we already are.
It’s like standing at the edge of a ravine and contemplating the jump, not if, but when.
Because his body is so warm, and tight, and the line of his arm draped over my shoulder is so natural it feels like muscle memory to have him holding me like this.
I’m not a weak man. I don’t like people touching me without permission.
But right now, I want nothing more than to say fuck it all and lean into his grip.
To let him take my entire weight, just so I can feel—for thirty goddamn seconds—what it’s like to be taken care of.
I’m so lonely it haunts me.
But so is Carey, yet he’s also compassionate. He doesn’t even try to hide his affections for people, which is what makes this worse. The way he’s pressed against my side, I know it’s out of genuine kindness, but that also means it’s not exclusive.
He’s selfless, and I’m greedy.
I’m the snow that’s been falling all week, and he’s the sunshine trying to break through.
And because of that, I’m unable to deny myself one more quick look.
His head is already turned towards me, and he’s right there.
So close we could kiss.
But I don’t do that, even though that tug has wrapped itself around my neck and is trying to pull me in.
For a second, we’re both waiting for the other to break. I need him to say he wants me, that he thinks about me when he’s alone, that he’s into guys, too. But I know full well that all he wants is for me to admit I’m working too hard.
“You’re a fucking mess, Tek,” he says with a shake of his head, then steps away; his hand falling from my shoulder.
He leaves with the mop and bucket and I hear him making small talk with my client as he shuffles things around, readying himself to clean up my mess.
I feel the aftershock of his touch, the radiation of his warmth still lingering on every patch of me where he made contact.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.
There is no need for me to be alone with Carey, and this is why.
Even though I know I’ll repeat what just happened to myself later when I’m alone, and elaborate on it over and over until the next time he touches me and that becomes my new obsessive thought.
I don’t want this, but also, I want it more than anything.
It’s been so long since I’ve felt the pull of another person. Their weight, their taste; yes, but not this relentless tugging like I’m not sure if I can breathe properly if I don’t know where they are. But I need to keep fighting against it.
After wiping off the excess ink from my jeans and slippers, I return to the shop floor.
Carey has already wiped down the base of my equipment table and moved it to the second station. Now he’s on his hands and knees, cleaning up the majority of the splatters with a paper towel before he mops.
I give my client a nod and move towards Carey, being careful not to step in any of the inky footprints I left when fleeing.
“Thanks for doing this, but it’s already after five.”
“I know, but I don’t mind staying.”
“You’ll leave as soon as you’ve done that, okay?”
He leans back on his haunches and says, “You don’t have to pay me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I will pay you, but there’s no need for you to be here past when you need to be.”
“Maybe I wanna stay.”
My head immediately starts picking apart his words to find the meaning it wants, which means I need him gone.
“Carey,” I sigh.
“Yes, Wootek-ie?”
“You don’t get to call me that.”
“Why not, Oppa?” he replies with a glint in his eye that makes me short circuit. Then I want to tell my client their appointment is canceled so I can drag him back into the break room, because does he have any idea what the fuck he just called me?
“What's wrong? That’s a thing isn’t it? Wootek Oppa?”
I swallow thickly but my tongue still feels dry when I talk. “Y—yeah.”
“Would you prefer old man?”
“No but…” But I want you to keep calling me Oppa until the end of fucking time. “Oppa isn’t the right word.”
Carey stands, looking at me, confused. “Doesn’t it mean older brother?”
“A—a… Amongst other things.”
“What other things?”
Don’t do it, Tek. Don’t tell him. Don’t make it worse. “It doesn’t matter.”
I step back because this conversation needs to end now. But Carey just takes his phone out of his back pocket to find the answer out for himself.
“—It’s the feminine," I blurt out. “I mean, it’s what girls use.”
He smirks. “I should probably look into things a bit harder next time.”
“Yeah, cause, you know? Things have multiple meanings.” Goddamn it, Wootek. Just walk the fuck away.
Carey’s fingers tap against his phone screen and I just stand there watching him.
I know what he’s looking up.
I know I’m digging my own grave.
I know I have a client who is watching this whole thing unravel, but I just can’t deny myself his reaction when he finds out.
“What?” he snorts, his free hand smacking against his stomach.
The stomach I wish was mine; that I could have free access to whenever I want.
“Fuck. I just called you my boyfriend.”
The words hit both of us, and for a microsecond, everything in the shop stands still.
My client—one of Eden’s bookings—coughs in an attempt to suppress a laugh. He catches Carey’s eye, and grins, causing Carey to let out a chuckle of his own, pitched higher than usual, which immediately morphs into a groan.
“God. Holy shit.” He shakes his head and, thank Christ, he is the one to turn away.
Backing up, I take a seat one down from my client and chat with him there for a while because it’s what feels the safest for me right now, even though the temptation is so damn strong to tell him to just fuck off so I can push Carey up against the wall and see how far he’ll let me go in the name of cultural misunderstandings.
But I stay strong.
I have to.
I need to.
Carey Novak does not want to kiss me.
Carey Novak does not want to fuck me.
Carey Novak is the—far too young for me—little brother of my best friend…
I move the session along quickly. It’s the only way to keep the blood in my brain and not in my cock. I have to busy my hands with the safe, familiar tremor of my tattoo gun.
Carey finishes with the mop and emerges from the back room.
“I’m clocking off now,” he says, giving me a salute so half-assed it’s basically a limp wave. He’s already got his jacket and shoes on with his skateboard in hand, and for a second, I get a flash of him standing there naked, all his piercings showing.
“Just get out,” I say with a jerk of my head, and try to make it sound as playful as I can.
“You sure I can’t stick around? I don’t really feel like riding home in this weather. It’s getting too hard.”
“Then walk.”
“Or I might go to the bar on Maple.”
“Okay,” I shrug, and keep my head down.
“That girl, Liv. From a few weeks back. She was telling me about The Black Cat. Apparently they have trivia on Saturday nights, and it’s not the worst.”
“So go then.”
“Will you come after?”
Without changing my posture, I move only my eyes to look at him. “We’ve been through this.”
“Is it impossible for you to be in a bar and not have a drink?”
“We’re gonna be here till at least nine. Not even you’re pathetic enough to hang out on your own in a bar for more than three hours.”
“You’d be surprised,” he mutters.
“Just go, Carey. It’s not gonna happen. I’ll see you on Tuesday.” My tone is final. It sounds harsh, but it needs to. The kid has already broken me and he doesn’t even realize.