Maybe I got that from her.
"It's a young people's game."
But it might give her something to think of outside her little circle of friends, their weird plans and clubs, their unconsciously high-horse efforts to let them sleep at night. Something to do for herself. "You're barely middle-aged. You're beautiful. You're set for life. And you've got all the time in the world to do anything you want. Sounds like a better time to date than when you're…me."
She reached out and took my hand on the table. "Jamie, honey. I'm not like you."
"What's that mean?"
She paused, watching me, and eventually answered my question with another question. Another thing I must've gotten from her. "You don't think I'm unhappy, do you?"
I just looked at her for a long time, at this face that was so familiar I hardly ever saw it anymore. I thought about it. Did I think she was unhappy?
If she was happy, would she be so set on never having a minute to herself? Would she be trying to plan my life in spite of not really having one of her own?
Or was all that really just a function of who she was, who she was raised to be?
Just a function of losing her husband young and realizing how easy it would be to lose her son too not long after?
"I don't know, Mom. Are you happy?"
"Yes. Are you?"
I thought for a while longer. Then I said, "Today, yeah. I'm happy."
She toyed with the Tiffany diamond pendant I'd given her for some ancient Mother's Day—hell, I must've been seventeen, and she still wore it all the time. "You're not always."
"No one is. I'm happier than most people."
She smiled, a small, tight thing, but it reached her eyes. I read genuine regret in it. She said, "You're still mad at me for bringing up med school last weekend."
What do you know? I was. I took my hand back and made for another bite of my sandwich. Denial would only make it worse, and I didn't want to talk about it.
Like she was reading my mind, she said, "It's over and done, Jamie. If you can't laugh about it, or at least talk about it, it's never going to get better."
"I'm fine with it. I'm the one who dropped out."
Her jaw tightened. "Honey, you have to let it go. You had good reason, and no one thinks any less of you if—"
"Mom, please."
She let it drop and eventually turned the conversation back to some inane community-happenings gossip. I let her talk me down until I was comfortable in my skin again.
Chapter Five
I like my job. I probably even love it sometimes. It's hard, makes me think on my feet, surrounds me with people, lets me use the things I'm actually good at. That's all anyone wants from a job. And then they want to go home, put up their feet, make a drink, watch some TV, and forget about it.
But I liked coming in to work even more after that weekend. Work didn't just mean work; it meant Kellan. It meant that my urge to talk to him more than was probably acceptable in a brand-new relationship was easily satisfied without revealing just how much I was obsessing. It meant lunches full of his special kind of weird conversation. It meant an after-work visit to Sarah and Clark's to drop off cool vintage toys (turns out Kellan and I both took proximity to Big Fun into consideration when apartment shopping) expanded to include him. It meant we could casually arrange to meet up for old movies on someone's couch and then make out all night and wake up tired and fall asleep at our desks the next day.
Bell hinted around with questions but nothing detailed—she still thought of Kellan as a "sweet boy," and I wasn't about to contradict it. Sarah was surprisingly quiet about it. It was Clark who finally asked outright a few weeks after it all got started. "So, that Kellan thing's working out for you after all. You fucking him or what?"
"Something like that, yeah. Thanks, by the way."
He had the grace to look embarrassed. "Sarah was wondering if he was your boyfriend. Weren't sure what to tell Charlie. You're Uncle Jamie; he's the Guy Who Brought the Jean Grey Action Figure with Uncle Jamie."
"I'm not seeing anyone else. Don't think he is either." As I said it, I had a revelation. Kellan and I talked a lot—mostly during work hours and dining out, as we had better things to do when we were alone—but we didn't really talk about us after that first time with the God conversation. This seemed to suit us, but now Clark mentioned it…that, the whole together-or-not thing, was something Kellan would care about, wasn't it? Hell, that might've been why he never talked about us. And I still remembered that hesitation in answering my confession question.
Was that why he'd confess about me? That he was sleeping with someone to whom he hadn't made some kind of commitment?
Clark was going on, "You better go talk to HR. You have to sign that—"
"Actually, that's a good point." Now I thought about it, seemed idiotic that I hadn't considered it sooner. And if not totally heartless of me, at least inconsiderate.
"You think? Surprised Delmonico isn't on your ass about it already."
"That too, but I mean the whole—"
A dark head poked around my partition. "Hey."
I smiled, both at Kellan and at the stupid fluttering in my stomach his sudden appearance caused. "Hey."
He stepped inside the cube. "I'm glad you're both here, because I have a question about the Archibald project. Just from a sales point of view."
"We can do that," Clark said.
Kellan cocked his head, shoved his hands into his pockets, and asked with a completely straight face, "Am I Jesus Christ?"
Clark stared.
I laughed. "What?"
"Am I Jesus Christ?" He looked from me to Clark again. "Do you guys think I can walk on water and multiply loaves and fishes on command? Because what you want is a miracle."
I held up my hands, grinning. "Wasn't me. Not my sale."
"That makes my personal life easier but doesn't really lessen the shit-storm I'm about to experience rewriting half my code."
Clark made a face. "What, you wouldn't be pissed if it was Jamie's fault?"
"I'd be even more pissed—that's what I mean about it making my personal life easier. I tweak on him; he doesn't put out; everyone ends up with a cranky code monkey." Still totally straight-faced, he raised his already high eyebrows, stood to his full six feet one, and looked Clark in the eye. "Seriously, Clark, this is bullshit."
"Two flaws in your argument." Clark settled back on my desk as if for a long conversation. "One: I've known Jamie for six years. The man will always put out."
I nodded in agreement.
Kellan rolled his eyes.
Clark continued, "Two: you're always a cranky code monkey."
"So stop doing this to me."
"My job is to sell the product."
"They warned me about you sales fuckers."
Clark punched my shoulder. "You gonna let him talk to us like that?"
I held up my hands again. "No one likes a cranky code monkey, Clark."
"You are one selfish bastard, James. Kellan, I think you might be overreacting."
Now Kellan started to look prickly. His jaw worked hard, and his forearms flexed, hands still stuffed into his pockets. "You try explaining this shit to five Ukrainian programmers and tell me I'm overreacting. These guys are working overtime every night for you bastards, and I'm not going to be responsible when one of them drops dead just so you could up your sales record."
Knowing I was taking my life into my hands, I said, "You're hot when you're bossy."
Clark, with that impeccable timing that made him my only real competition for top sales, pushed himself up off my desk. "I'll leave you two alo—"
Kellan stepped into his way. "You're not getting out of this." His eyes flicked to mine, and one corner of his mouth tried to pull up, just barely. But it was enough. "I'll boss you around later, Jamie." And he beckoned for Clark to follow him out. "Come here. Let me show you the special hell I've just been thrown into thanks to your…"
I silently wished
Kellan good luck because he was going to need it to convince Clark to feel shame.
Then again, Clark didn't have the benefit of sex to get the better of Kellan's infallible logic. So maybe I should've been wishing him good luck, all things considered.
Nah.
*~*~*
I was just starting to forget about the Mae issue, so of course that Friday she finally e-mailed me back. This was all I got:
Hi Jamie,
Hey, yeah, long time. Things are really chaotic for me at the lab right now. Maybe next month sometime. Tell your mom I said hi next time you see her!
Mae
No phone number, no nothing but "Dr. Mae Haywood, Aidan Faulkner Research Fellow in Nanotechnology" in the signature.
Never been so happy for a brush-off in my life. I definitely wasn't going to tell Mom about it, because God knew what she and Margaret would get up to if they realized we were both totally uninterested in their plans. Would've been better if we could work together on thwarting them, but it was enough to know Mae, at least, wasn't going to give me crap.
I had better things on which to spend my precious mental energy. Clearly.
That afternoon, Kellan went about arranging things in his usual way. "So, you got anything going on this weekend, apart from the game?"
This question had many variations, such as "Already have lunch plans?" (which I never did), "Are you hanging out with your mom Saturday?" (which was even less likely), and the most direct of them all, "You have time for a drink tonight? Or…tomorrow?" (which I always did—at least, for him).
At which point I always started making plans for us, and he seemed relieved to go along with them.
That night we fed the cats, then went to my place. While I stood before the DVD shelf trying to decide which of my golden-age vampire collection would be best to lay on him next, Kellan poured drinks at the wet bar in the corner.
He asked, "What are we watching?"
"More Bela? Or some cheesy seventies color vamps? Ineffectual English public schoolboy accents, Peter Cushing, Chris Lee, that kind of thing?"
"Bela." He came bearing whiskey, handed one off, and stood eyeing the Hammer Horror collections with appreciation.
It was time. I plucked out Mark of the Vampire. "Then tonight, you get to see my all-time favorite Lugosi film."
"Whoa." The dimple appeared. "Taking it to the next level."
"Scared?"
"Bring it, Monday." He threw himself at what I already thought of as his spot on the couch. It was one of those L-shaped deals, and he always went straight for the corner.
I set it all up and crawled up after him, rearranging him so I could fit between his legs and lean my back against his chest. I fully intended to broach the boyfriend subject tonight, so he wasn't far off with the "next level" thing, but now the time was here, I wasn't sure how to go about it. It wasn't that I thought he wouldn't want it. It was just that I'd never had to ask anyone before—they always asked me. And Kellan…was Kellan.
Which is to say, physically incapable of asking for anything. Even when he kissed me first, half the time he ended up saying sorry or stammering like he'd done something wrong. Only after I had him warmed up would he start taking over.
And God, it was good when he did.
But in the meantime, it was usually up to me, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't get a kick out of that too. This shouldn't be weird, just more of the same. And the more I thought about it, the more I thought I really should've done it ages ago.
So how the hell do you bring that up, anyhow? And why was it freaking me out?
We watched the first half of the movie like that, his arm thrown over my shoulder, his hand resting against my chest, sweating glasses held against our thighs, sipping and occasionally offering commentary, the thump of his heartbeat audible in my head. It was warm between my legs, down low in my belly, at the base of my spine, a kind of patient arousal common when I had him near but was otherwise engaged. I actually finished my drink before him, I was thinking so hard. When he took his last sip, I sat up, saying, "Want another?"
He handed me his glass but grabbed the waist of my jeans just above my ass crack. "Not yet."
That patient fire flared, sending its heat through my veins. I set our glasses on the table and returned to my former position, but this time up higher so more of my back was tight against his front and my ass fit into the inside of his thighs. He slipped his arms under mine and wrapped me up, one hand sinking into the waist of my jeans.
"Sorry," he said. "I—"
I wriggled, pushing his legs outward in the hope that it'd put his crotch in closer contact with my ass.
He didn't finish the sentence, just kissed my neck, then bit at my ear.
I sighed and leaned back into his arms, pulling my legs up and resting the outsides of my thighs against the inside of his, feeling my way up the soft denim over his long, hard quads. My knees fell farther apart, the shape of my stiffening cock visible just down the right leg of my jeans.
He scooted forward so I could feel his pressed into my back. I shifted against it, and he sighed hot into my ear, biting at it again. One of his hands moved under my shirt, fingers light and electric against my belly. The other drifted south and found my dick. It jumped at the warmth of his hand through the material, and he traced it, teasing. This time when I wriggled, it was involuntary.
I had to have him. I might not have thought of it if Clark hadn't said anything, but now it was driving me up the wall. I finally said, "Can I ask you a serious question?"
I felt his lips against my ear, heard the smile in that sweet voice. "Oh, I like those."
"You seeing anyone else?"
He ran his fingers softly, so softly, through the trail of hair down my lower belly, so my torso broke out in goosebumps. His other hand rubbed at my erection again, this time with a little more pressure. "Thought you said this was serious."
He shifted so my knee hooked over his. The cotton of my boxers bunched up on my cock, the denim flattened it and increased the pressure. Kellan rubbed the length of it again, and I bit back a groan.
Fuck, what were we talking about?
I thought hard, tried to focus. The one time Kellan was able to tell me what he wanted was when we were hot. It was perfect. I should ask now. I found the thread again and said, "I'd be jealous."
He laughed and kissed at me, petted me more.
I arched as he stroked me, harder now, and ran his fingers up under my shirt, tickling and burning. I asked, "Mmm, are you all mine, then?"
"Sure. Yours." That time he didn't laugh. He unzipped my jeans and felt me up from inside them, so I squirmed against him. I reached up to put one arm around his neck, and his other hand found my nipple. He pinched; I arched again. He rubbed my hot cock against the inside of my thigh, and I sighed and closed my eyes.
Now his voice was rough but still like honey in my ear. "Fuck, you feel good."
The wet sensation of his lips, his breath, the sweetness of the words, translated to something equally wet and sweet in my shorts.
That was another thing he was getting good at; he'd figured out that any little compliment could get me off twice as fast and hard.
I toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck, let him pinch me and rub me into a state of desperation for the next few seconds, lost in it.
Then he said, "Pause the movie."
I fumbled for the remote but managed.
He pulled his fingers out of my shorts and applied both hands to my shirt. "Unh, can you…?"
I helped him get it off and leaned forward so he could lose his.
But he caught me by the waist again. "No, all of it."
I looked back over my shoulder, already scooting to the edge of the couch and pulling off my pants. "So fucking bossy."
He swallowed hard, watching for a moment before he realized he was still mostly dressed. While he took care of that little problem, he asked, "You complaining?"
I yanked off my shorts and t
hrew them over the back of the couch. Then I pulled at his long-suffering underpants, mouth watering at the familiar but thrilling shape of his thick erection through them. "Complimenting."
Once our clothes were strewn randomly about the room—which didn't make much of a difference, since I lived in chaos anyhow—I climbed back onto him. I straddled his lap like I had that first night (he liked that—if I got him hot enough, he'd put me there himself) and sat my naked ass down with his heavy, straight cock in the split of it.
He closed his eyes and grabbed for my waist, sighing. "Jesus."
I ran my hands down his chest, to his belly, then leaned forward and pressed my dick into it, leaving a little wet spot against him. His hands lowered to my ass, and he held on as if for his life.
My first instinct was to tell him what I felt, what I wanted. How having him so close set my whole body crackling, how he made me ache and burn. How I wanted to feel him inside me, under my skin, filling me up, and give him everything.
Someday.
I couldn't. Even in that stupid state, I knew it was too much. But it was the truth, the only one I knew right then, and I rolled it around inside me, enjoyed it.
I put my forehead against his, pressed a breathless kiss into his mouth, and said, "I have a brilliant idea, Kellan."
"Yeah." He cleared his throat when it came out like a croak, squeezed my ass again. "You usually do."
"You should be my boyfriend."
He laughed and kissed me harder, his face turned up and his mouth suggesting all kinds of vague, delicious things. "I will be anything you fucking want, James. But especially that."
We made out like that for a while, me shifting regularly to rub us both off. There was something about fake-fucking him, like a demonstrative promise, like driving myself, him, us crazy. Like being a teenager and discovering sex but without the awkwardness, just the first thrill and the sheer fucking pressure-free fun of it. He held my ass and tweaked my nipples and sucked my tongue and licked my neck, occasionally pushing up against me, his cock swelling between my legs.
Then he bit at my neck gently, just as gentle as his fingers on my skin, and muttered, "You're too fucking amazing to be real, Jamie."
Nobody's Hero Page 7