Chapter 21
“Why do we always take your car?” Ian asked on the way to Tierney’s parking spot.
He knew asking wasn’t going to change shit, but he thought he would spread some of his annoyance around.
He wasn’t annoyed at taking Tierney’s damn car again so much as annoyed at Tierney, period.
For breathing. For knocking on his damn door when Ian had a warm, naked guy in his bed.
Warm, naked Sam. Ian nearly tripped over his own feet.
Tierney saved him from any potential moments of introspection, thank fuck. “Dude, my car’s hawt,” he answered with a leer for his “baby,” stroking the hood as they reached his stupid car. “Chicks dig it.”
“Oh my God,” Ian groaned, walking around to the passenger side. “You’re just . . . such a fucking stereotype.” It was times like this he remembered why Tierney had insisted—unsuccessfully—on being called “T-bone” in college. He hadn’t been as fond of his other nickname: “T-boner.”
“What?” Tierney stared at him over the roof, brow furrowed. “What crawled up your ass and died this morning?”
That surprised a laugh out of Ian. “Nothing. Open the fucking car and let’s go.”
Tierney hit the unlock button and jerked his door open, looking annoyed and confused. I just need to chill out. It wasn’t Tierney’s fault Ian would rather be crawling up someone else’s ass right now. And it wasn’t like Ian hadn’t always known Tierney was a shallow prick.
After they got in, Ian could see Tierney’s hand trembling as he forced the key into the ignition and started the car. Had he pissed T off that much? He sighed. “Sorry, man. I didn’t sleep much last night.” Completely true, and it had been totally worth it.
“There was a time when you were just as big a horndog as you think I am, asshole.” Tierney slammed the gearshift into reverse. He planted a hand on the back of Ian’s seat, turning to see where he was going, but he stopped to scowl at Ian.
“Yeah, well I thought I had something to prove,” Ian muttered. He was skirting dangerous territory, but that conversation would be unavoidable sooner or later.
For a second he wanted to make Tierney face it head-on, tell him he liked guys and was totally, completely fucking gay, no two ways about it (anymore). But he lost the impulse when Tierney laughed, telling him, “Everyone has something to prove in college.”
“And you didn’t prove it enough?” Ian shot back, and instantly regretted it.
“What the fuck, dude? What is your fucking problem?” Tierney stomped on the gas pedal, squealing backward out of the parking space and jerking to a stop.
“Nothing.”
They were silent for the rest of the way to the park where they played, and Ian spent the ride thinking about his fucking problem.
Nothing went right after that conversation with Tierney. Ian’s team lost the rugby game, and during the ritual after-game beers, all the guys talked about chicks. Ian just didn’t care enough to fake it anymore. Then when he finally got back to his place, Sam was gone.
Which was what he’d wanted, right?
Right.
On Monday morning, he woke up convinced his skin had shrunk. Or maybe his muscles and bones had grown. It just felt off, like things inside had shifted around and he needed some sort of dermal alteration, and possibly a couple of extra ribs.
He probably needed to adjust to these changes before calling Sam.
When Ian got to the office and Andrea asked how his weekend had been, he growled something at her. She lifted her eyebrows and went to make coffee. “You can get your own,” she said as she walked off.
“What the hell kind of assistant are you if you won’t even get me coffee?”
“I’m your assistant director. If you want someone to get you coffee, hire my little brother.”
Ian’s glare bounced right off the back of her head.
They spent the rest of the week interviewing people for the three positions they had to fill, and Ian was forced to be polite.
Weirdly, he was starting to feel more polite.
His skin settled into its new shape, and now he wasn’t calling Sam because he needed to .
. . well, he wasn’t sure what, but something.
On Thursday, Dalton came in for his interview. Andy skipped that one, since she was his sister, so it was just Ian and a cute twink with big eyes and a sweet, elfin face. That’s the kind of guy Sam should be with, not me. Ian wanted to reach across the desk and throttle him.
Not that Sam was with him, of course.
Ian spent a half hour interviewing Dalton, but his mind was on Sam the whole time. It was distracting and maddening and completely fucking unprofessional and probably the worst interview Dalton had ever suffered through. Ian was just lucky he had a list of prepared questions.
After the first ten minutes, he found himself looking at the frown line between Dalton’s brows more than anything else.
Sam had a little line like that sometimes.
Ian devoted a lot of effort to remembering just exactly when that wrinkle appeared on Sam’s forehead—when he was doing something specific, Ian thought.
He didn’t have that furrow all the time.
It wasn’t the same as the wrinkle he had when he came.
“You seem very busy,” Dalton said suddenly, interrupting himself mid-answer to one of Ian’s questions.
Whatever question that might have been. “I know you’re just interviewing me because Andy twisted your arm somehow, so maybe I should go.
” He leaned over to pick up his messenger bag from the chair next to him, his mouth a perfect, upside down “U.”
Ian coughed uncomfortably. “I guess I’m busy . . . but I’m supposed to be busy interviewing people.”
Dalton shrugged. “You’re preoccupied,” he said simply, buckling buckles and zipping zippers. His bag was a nice one, leather and vaguely military-esque. Very fashionable. Ian had a flash image of him walking down the street with it bouncing along on his back.
But that wasn’t quite right, was it? He really looked at Dalton for the first time. He had an edge of experience, a hardness around his eyes.
“How old are you, Dalton?” Had he already asked this?
Dalton’s lips pursed, which probably meant Dalton had already told him. “I’ll be twenty-seven in March,” he said. “I worked full-time while going to school and finally earned my bachelor’s from State University in June.”
“The guy I’m seeing is a grad student there.” Ian nearly slapped his hand over his mouth. The fuck had he said that for? Dalton’s head bobbed up, and he looked as surprised as Ian felt.
“Oh. Um, is that why you’re sort of . . .” Dalton made a circling motion with his index finger near his temple. Ian’s eyes bugged out. Crazy? “Inattentive?” Dalton finished.
“Um . . .”
“Maybe I should get you some coffee?” Dalton offered.
“I guess . . .”
Dalton bounced up out of his seat. “Okay,” he said.
Ian watched him walk out, then looked down at the résumé in front of him. Dalton Lehnart had worked in the Dean of Admission’s office for five of his six college years. He typed seventy words per minute. Was that fast? It seemed fast.
“Here you go,” Dalton sang, traipsing back into the room. He set a mug in front of Ian. The right mug, no less—Ian’s favorite solid red, cylindrical one.
The coffee was the color Ian liked it, too, lightened with just enough milk. “Did you use the two-percent in the fridge?” he asked, wrapping his palm around the cup.
“Yes, I did.”
Ian sipped. It was perfect. He looked up and studied Dalton, still standing beside his desk with his hands clasped. “Did you ask Andy how to make my coffee?”
Dalton looked at him quizzically. “Of course I did. How else would I know how to make it?”
“When can you start?”