I typed back immediately. Not. But don't do anything I wouldn't do, sugar britches. Which sounds like a joke, but the number of times I'd scraped Derrick out of the gutter on a Saturday night was astronomical. I was a slut but not an idiot. Derrick was both, poor lovable bastard. That finished, I set the phone on the bar and said, "Sorry."
"No, go ahead."
"Just trying to shake off this—" It buzzed again. Since he could see "Derrick" as well as I could, plus half of the text, no point in making up some story. "Friends trying to convince me to go down to West Sixth."
"It's still early."
I paused, on the verge of inviting him to go with us now that his self-conscious facade had dropped. But something about his face, a bend to his lips that seemed to signify vague distaste, stopped me. "I'm going to leave a conversation about hot comic book characters to go be the creepy old guy in the club? No, thanks."
He snorted. "Old. Right."
"I'm twenty-eight. And you, wunderkind?"
"Not that young. I mean, old enough to drink."
"Old enough to drink is old enough for anything." Old enough to take you out to my car and show you what a backseat is really for.
Huh. Okay, that was a little more than the usual idle speculation.
"Old enough to be over that bullshit." He took another drink. "I'm twenty-three, and I think it's fucking pathetic."
That probably should've stung, but I'd had enough to drink that the truth sounded good. The phone buzzed again. He laughed.
"Dickhead. Take a hint." I rolled my eyes and turned it off for the first time since I'd bought the damn thing. "So, you don't think Spider-Man's kinda hot? I mean, you've got the whole smart-guy-hiding-behind-glasses thing going, so you have to at least appreciate Pete's mystique."
"Thanks for couching that in pleasant terms. Real nice of you, James." He paused. "Are you a James?"
"Yep. I even answer to it."
"You look like a Jamie, but I like James too. So, okay, James, Pete's awesome, but he's kind of a twat."
"So's Johnny."
"Yeah, but Johnny makes it work. He makes everything work—that's the point. It's fucking infuriating, right?"
And I swear to God, this discussion continued for another round and at least an hour. His swearing got more creative, and we both got more and more pink-faced, and he laughed and flushed at my flirting. There were even a few moments when he seemed to call up enough courage to give me that look again and get my, um, hopes up.
Hell. It was fun.
*~*~*
It was nearly midnight before we stumbled out onto the sidewalk. We'd covered so many topics, but he was almost as good at diverting personal questions as I was, so they'd all ended up rooted in music (we had never heard of each other's bands), books (we both stuck with our parents' affinities for classics), and movies (we shared a love of B-movies and crime drama). Which was fine with me…
Except that now I really liked him.
A sudden thought. "Did you leave your car at the field?"
"No. I live, like, not too far. Easy walk. You?"
"Same."
"Pegged you for a City Center kind of guy."
I chuckled. "Pegged me for a lot of things I'm not, looks like."
He grinned and looked away. I scanned Coventry Road. It was clearing out, being more of an evening spot than late night, but it wasn't totally abandoned. I had a cavalier impulse to offer to walk him home, nevertheless.
Well, that or invite him to my place, which was effectively around the corner.
Inappropriate. You work together. Don't fuck this up.
Some college kids crossed behind him, distracted his attention, and I watched him from the side. Admired his dimple. The curve of his neck. His shoulders under the fitted T-shirt. His eyes, dark under the replaced baseball cap. He said, "Thanks for asking me to come today. Someone less, uh, stubborn would've given up on me. I had a good time."
Not yet, you haven't. If you weren't so goddamn sweet… Isabella was right after all: "sweet" was the very word. There was something about him that begged to be…
Dirtied up.
Oh, Jamie. You are so going to get fired.
I assumed that he, having had more beer than I, wouldn't notice that my voice was a little rough when I said, "Me too. So, you have my number."
"Yeah, definitely," he said. "And…you have mine."
Invite him home. Invite him home; show him what you can do; make him like you, really like you—
Yep. Definitely not the usual harmless ogling anymore. Goddammit.
"Talk to you soon, Jamie." Two steps backward, and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
"Later," I said.
And he turned to walk away. Once he hung a right on Euclid Heights, I made myself turn toward Mayfield and not look back.
*~*~*
There was some text messaging but nothing too obvious. I stopped for coffee on Monday morning and asked him if he wanted one. Tuesday, he brought me some Flogging Molly, in regard to our music conversation, and I brought him some Hot Chip. He occasionally came out with something awkward and horrible during a conversation—in person, not via text, at least—but I'd figured it out enough to laugh it off by then. He'd flush, and I'd get hard and picture crawling under his desk and giving him something to really flush about.
His being a coworker was all that saved me from doing something to ruin it, I'm sure. I still thought I had the right approach, but my libido is blinding enough to blot out even the sharpest instincts in a moment of weakness. I ignored Sarah's questioning looks, and Clark at least had the decency to keep his mouth shut about it. Bell was even mercifully silent, though she did occasionally smirk when I stopped by on my way to his cube.
It was a good distraction, in truth. I'd ducked Mom most of the week, but on Wednesday she called and wanted to know if I'd heard from Mae since she'd given me her new e-mail address. "You haven't e-mailed her already? Oh, Jamie!"
Oh, Jamie.
By Thursday afternoon, I was officially on one of my "I can't play this game anymore" trips. I hadn't seen Mae in probably ten years, right before college. I'd long since given up on women by then, but I'd kept it in the closet for the most part, just to avoid parental complications. I'd meant to tell Mae then, to ask for her help throwing off this archaic bullshit.
We used to be friends when we were little, though things got weird after they told us their absurd hopes and dreams for our future together. But we barely had five minutes alone the last time we met, and Jesus, the poor girl had always stuttered a little when anyone put her under pressure, but she could hardly get out three words together that evening. I always felt bad for her, being so quiet, with the overbearing Cheshire Cat mother. I spent the whole time trying to make her laugh and then couldn't bring myself to tell her that the idea of marrying her terrified me. As in made me feel like I was going to puke in her lap.
Even a gay teenage boy knows goddamn well you can't talk to a girl that way.
But we were older now, and she'd escaped Margaret's clutches, at least temporarily. She probably had a boyfriend—hell, maybe she had a girlfriend. And it wasn't like she'd ever tried to contact me. She'd understand.
Mae,
Hey, long time, huh? Mom just gave me your new e-mail and I thought…
I thought what? I thought you should know that I'm queer as a three-dollar bill, so don't worry about that whole marriage thing?
I'd been way too careful to ruin it all with one stupid e-mail. Yes, I needed to rip off the Band-Aid, sooner rather than later.
But one problem at a time.
Mae,
Been a long time since we saw each other, huh? How's life in southern California? Your mom says you're coming back after the postdoc, but I know how it is—moms can't handle their babies growing up and getting lives of their own.
Yeah, real subtle. Might as well tell her she had girl cooties while I was at it.
Fuck.
I scra
pped the whole thing one more time and ended up with:
Mae,
Hey, Jamie here. Hope California's good to you. Same old up here in the Mistake by the Lake. We should probably talk before our mothers drive us crazy. Give me a call sometime.
Monday
Cell number in the signature.
I hit Send before I could think twice, pushed out from under my desk, and wandered blindly in the direction of the coffee machine. Not the best choice, since I needed a sedative more than a stimulant, but I'd take whatever drugs I could get. It was either that or fry something for the momentary release, and seeing as I'd almost gotten caught last time, I couldn't justify it.
It was beyond stupid. I knew the answer, the one way out of this mess, and I was just dancing around it. It was so, so past time to have The Talk. But I just kept thinking of Mom's little frown when I'd told her I was dropping med school, and my heart—
I rounded the corner near the copier, and my train of thought jumped the tracks. Kellan was on his knees in front of the monstrous machine, pushing tray buttons at random and swearing inventively under his breath. He sat back with his ass on his heels, so it became obvious that his legs were just as tight as I'd previously speculated. That was a pretty hard body he was working there. He looked up at me, sighing, mouth just slightly open.
Hey, while you're down there…
And there it was, the inappropriate workplace boner. I ducked down to eye level and asked, "Problems?" This served to mask my reaction well enough that I could be sure, at least, that he wouldn't slap me with a harassment suit.
He made that face again, the annoyed-kid one. "Paper jam. I can't find the fucking tray. There's A, B, and D."
I reached out and tapped the side of the copier, as it happened to be near me, where he couldn't see it. The tray popped open, and I said, "C."
He scrubbed a hand through his hair, leaving it wrecked, and pushed his glasses up on his nose. "Motherfucker."
I couldn't help it. "You know, Kellan, you got a mouth on you."
He bit his bottom lip as if to keep from smiling. "Sorry."
"Oh, don't apologize. Really."
He grinned outright but looked down.
I rearranged myself as best I could without showing off how impressed I was with his dirty mouth and dug out the paper that was causing him grief. "Poor old thing. He'll work for anyone, but there's just no heart left in him."
"Him, huh?"
"Wrong or right, men are statistically more likely to work for anyone." I fixed him with a significant glance around the copier.
He shifted in a familiar way, sort of folding in on himself, still on his knees. He laughed, and the little dimple appeared in an unnaturally flushed cheek.
Couldn't get a clear view to check the state of his package, but I didn't need to—other than just wanting a good look at it. I told myself to stop there, let it be, but something perverse in me pushed me onward. "We can't help ourselves, I guess."
"No shit." His eyes crinkled at the corners. They were better than good when he was genuinely amused—they were exquisite, even hidden behind glasses.
I wondered what he'd do if I stood, let him see how hard this got me, and then nodded toward the door. Would he follow me to the bathroom? To my car in the garage? Or would he just silently fantasize about yanking down my pants and sucking me off in the middle of the office? Maybe pulling me down on the floor and fucking my brains out right there and then?
The way his flush crept into his ears, I could almost buy that it'd be something like that anyhow. Always the quiet ones, right?
No. This was anything but idle speculation. This, I wanted. Bad.
"This thing giving you trouble again, James?"
The sound of that particular voice snapped me out of my head so fast I almost got whiplash. I looked up at Amy Delmonico: read, my boss. She's drop-dead gorgeous and wears power suits; great sense of humor, but never steps over the line; doesn't drink too much at the Christmas party; at her desk by nine a.m. sharp. She's one scary-perfect executive, I mean to say.
Not someone I wanted to fuck with. But thank God, she was smiling.
So I said, "Yes, ma'am." And then, though I knew I shouldn't, that perverse thing—probably the one in my pants—made me continue with, "Don't worry. I'll give it a good flogging."
She laughed and walked on.
Phew.
Kellan said, now from behind a hand, "Can't help ourselves with that either, huh?"
"Hell no."
He chuckled silently as I finished digging out his paper jam, calming down slightly but not even close to enough to stand.
When I handed over the crumpled remnants of his print job, he said, "My hero."
By that time, my brain was screaming at my dick to stop it, but this was definitely a libido-override situation. I licked my lips, fixed him with another look, and said, "At your service."
No, really. Anything you want. Anytime you want it. At. Your. Service.
His grin was blazing—he wasn't even pretending I hadn't meant what I really meant. He cleared his throat, made a useless effort to school his face, then stood. And though he strategically positioned the worse-for-the-wear papers just in front of his crotch—
Goddamn. He was filling out those pinstripes real nice, up and to the right. Briefs? Guh, the thought of him in a pair of white jockeys… And what the fuck—weren't Irish guys supposed to be tiny?
He spared me one last guilty grin before turning to walk away. Leaving me on my knees, my cock impatient against the inside of my thigh, watching his ass retreat.
I laughed at the completeness of my own stupidity, stuck my hand into my pocket to readjust while I made a big deal of getting up, and swiped at it just in case it was as dire as it felt and about to leave a wet spot on my favorite work pants.
And then I went straight to the men's room—thank God it was empty. I unzipped, got out my dick, and the relief, the thrill I got just wrapping my hand around it almost collapsed my knees. A few good, tight jerks, an outlandish fantasy about Kellan pulling out a mouth-watering hard-on under his desk and going at it at the same time, and my head was done in. I had just enough time to grab a wad of paper to contain it, and I came harder than should've been possible in a workplace bathroom stall; I had to lean against the wall and bite my tongue to keep from moaning.
I was just congratulating myself on one hell of a self-administered orgasm when I realized just how fucking pathetic the situation was. Not to mention creepy and wrong.
But sometimes, you do what you've gotta do to get through the day. And I have to admit, the rest of it went a lot smoother.
*~*~*
I had the nightmare again not long after, so I resolved to forget Mae and my mother and devote the rest of the week to Operation: Ask Kellan Out. When I wasn't acting like a horny teenager, I was aware of the potential problems success might bring. If he'd been awakened, like I said, it would still be complicated. He was somewhat local, and therefore our families would know each other. I'd dated a couple of awakened guys in an almost-serious way but never for more than six months. Partly because I always expect to be judged by them for dropping the ball—even though our weird system of intense expectations and overtly arranging marriages seemed to strike most awakened from outside Cleveland as insane—but mostly because I just never fell for anyone, I guess.
But we're all raised to be very, very careful when it comes to relationships with a sleeper. Mostly, they're outright discouraged. Yes, sometimes it works. There was even a (sort of) generally accepted system of criteria for telling them about your powers in extreme cases. But if you really want the relationship to work, odds are good you never tell them.
How well is that really working, though?
I'd never cared either way, and I didn't really care then. It was putting the carriage before the horse. But it was always there in the back of my mind, which was as it should be. Reminded me why I stuck to fuck 'em and forget 'em most of the time.
&
nbsp; But yeah, not an option here. So Friday morning I brought him the coffee he liked (double cappuccino, plain), and he flushed and stammered and thanked me too much. And I lingered and flirted and eye-fucked him until he got over it and started grinning again, showing me that little dimple.
And the second I got to my desk, I got slammed with last-minute bullshit from the Timely Rentals people in Denver—to whom I was trying to sell a pile of our software and services—and only managed to eat lunch because Clark and Sarah took pity and brought me fast food. It was almost seven by the time I was done, which I guess is only five in Denver. Good for them. Bastards.
I was in a hell of a mood for a Friday night when I finally lumbered toward the exit, but I saw a light in the far corner that lifted my heart. I started past Isabella's abandoned cube, and sure enough, there was Kellan's dark head bent over his desk. The telltale white screen, tiny-ass lines of nonsense, and barely familiar icons told me he was neck deep in SQL hell.
In view of the Copier Incident, I could only suppose that my time had finally come.
He didn't even hear me coming up behind him. I leaned against the partition. "The hell are you still doing here?"
He sat up straight. When he spun his chair around, he had a chewed-up pen cap between his lips. He started to say something, realized it was there, and swiped it up with one hand. "Uh, working. How about you?"
"Some bastards in Denver kept me late." But suddenly, I wasn't so angry at those bastards. "You gotta sleep some time, you know."
"Sleep is for the weak and the dead, James."
"It's Friday night."
He did the lopsided smile. "And I'm not one of the cool kids."
"You seem like a nice guy, in spite of your best efforts, so I'll tell you a secret." I sauntered into his cube and leaned my ass back against his desk so I was looking down at him; he swiveled around to follow. I finished with, "After high school, there are no cool kids."
He leaned back in his chair, smiling and running a hand through his hair. Not self-consciously—in fact, he left it a mess. It wasn't long, just in that in-between haircut stage where it covered the tops of his ears. "Only the cool kids would ever say that."
Nobody's Hero Page 3