In Safe Arms (My Truth Book 2)

by Ann Grech

  I shook my head and scoffed at the idea, the whole while thinking Gab was right. I wasn’t as straight as I’d assumed, and I couldn’t deny anymore that I liked him.

  I’m screwed.

  6

  Three Months Later

  Angelo

  It’d taken me six months to get enough work booked to be able to afford my own place. Riccardo insisted that I should stay with him, but I’d already sponged off him for too long. The board he would accept wasn’t enough, and I hated feeling like I wasn’t pulling my weight. That, and he’d begun dating a woman who seemed to be his perfect match. They’d started to get serious pretty quickly, and I didn’t want to be in the way when they decided to take it to the next level.

  I’d started to venture out farther and farther into the hills and mountains surrounding Queenstown, trying to get a few more of the unique pieces that always sold well in the gallery, and it was working. They were selling, and I was getting enough commissions coming in to make the move. The only problem was that between clients, editing photos, promo work, and my hikes, it hadn’t left me much time to look for an apartment. But I was on my way out to look at a rental that had just opened up. Competition for affordable housing was fierce, so if it was even remotely livable, I’d sign the lease on the spot.

  I pulled up in the street and smiled. I could see myself living there already. Queenstown in the dying days of spring was just as beautiful as in the winter. I closed my eyes and let the warmth in the breeze ruffle my hair. Opening them, I looked up at the vibrant blue sky. Dappled sunlight filtered through the tall canopy of trees casting shadows that danced on the street. Wide sidewalks encouraged people to get out and about, and there were people everywhere. An elderly man and a younger woman spoke to each other from their driveways, and a couple of young kids walked their dog. The park across from the building was bathed in sunshine. A basketball court and skate bowl there were both full of teenagers, and, on the small patch of grass, a young family played.

  The sharp lines and shadows of the concrete snagged my attention immediately and I itched to get my camera. The lighting was near perfect. I bit back a frustrated groan because I knew I couldn’t be late to the showing. Agents around these parts would happily give the rental to someone else if I wasn’t there on time. I did the responsible thing and jogged across the street, heading up the sidewalk to the complex. The street was a mix of apartments, charming little houses, and a few townhouse-style buildings with two and three homes joined under the one roof. Literally around the corner from Trent’s townhouse and only a two-minute drive from the main street, it was close to everything but quiet too. Christmas was getting closer—only five weeks away—and there were a few houses already decorated, tinsel hanging in many of the windows and lighting displays on more than one of the balconies. It was strange; the warm weather and decorations didn’t go together. I’d only ever experienced a white Christmas; Santa Caterina di Valfurva was always under a few feet of snow when December rolled around, and seeing greenery and people wearing short sleeves and swimming in the lake were strange, to say the least.

  Trent waited for me, and I joined him in front of the circa 1980s squat apricot-colored building. Designed in a U-shape with a courtyard in the middle and the office to one side, the building was ugly. But I’d been assured that the fourth-floor apartment had been renovated. Anything had to be better than the depressing look of the outside of the building.

  Still dressed in his navy blue paramedic uniform, Trent must have come directly from work. His uniform reminded me of the dangers of his job every time I saw him in it. He came across drugged-up and violent patients far too often for my liking, and he was still sporting the black eye he’d received from the partner of a domestic violence victim. “It’s a nice street,” he said by way of greeting. “How are you, bro?” We shook hands and gave each other a one-armed, back-slapping hug before pulling back. I breathed him in and for that moment, held him close. Gone after barely a second, the memory of him in my arms had to sustain me until I could touch him again. I couldn’t help myself; I needed those brief moments more than ever. Being away from my sister, who couldn’t have a conversation without a hug or linked arms, meant that I was starved for affection too. Hugging him hello in that bro-y way was, apart from when I saw my brother, the only touch from another human I ever had. Even though he always pulled away quickly, I knew it was a concession Trent gave only to me. None of his other friends were ever privileged enough to get as close as I did. But I still wanted more. I was lonely. I had it all: my circle of friends was small—really only my brother, Trent, Ford, who I’d gotten to know through both Ricky and Trent, and Brad, the groom from my very first wedding—but it was solid. My career was on the up, and I was finally going to get set up in my own place. I’d tried dating a bit too, but it didn’t go anywhere. I’d managed two dates with a woman before she flat-out asked me why I hadn’t made a move on her. When I tried to explain that I was asexual, she basically shut me down, saying, “Thanks, but no thanks.” It was even worse with the man I’d tried hooking up with only a few nights earlier.

  “You visiting or a local?” the stranger asked me as I sat at a barstool at Truth, the only gay nightclub I’d visited in town. I turned to him and checked him out, sipping my whiskey to delay answering him until I’d gotten a good look.

  “Local, but new,” I replied. He was good-looking. Sandy hair with long bangs that covered his eyes. He flicked his head sideways, and I saw his eyes. They were dark, but I couldn’t make out the color. His lips were on the thin side, but he had a broad, friendly smile that I liked. He was muscular too—thick arms and wide shoulders with a narrow waist highlighted in a light, short-sleeved, button-down shirt. When he licked his lips at my perusal, my face heated. I’d been busted, but I needed to try again. I’d been celibate for years now, with nothing except my hand to make me come. Usually that was fine, but not that night. Not the night when Trent was out on his third date with the same woman. It was the longest he’d dated in a while, and he got that stupid smile whenever she messaged him. He was genuinely interested in her, and there I was, still stuck in the same rut I’d been in since college. “You?”

  “Let’s not talk about me,” he purred before picking up my drink and downing it like a shot. I was pissed, but he’d leaned in, wrapped his hand around the back of my head, and pressed our lips together. “Wanted to know how you’d taste.”

  “You owe me another.”

  “I’ll pay up in an orgasm.” He motioned for me to follow him, and all rational thought fled. It wasn’t desire coursing through me though, but grim determination. I want this, I thought. If I repeated it to myself enough, I might actually believe it. He walked through the club and down a darkened corridor toward the ladies’ bathroom. There weren’t any bachelorette parties on that night, so the ladies’ was almost deserted. I didn’t really care anyway. I wanted this over and done with. I wanted my dick in his mouth and my cum sliding down his throat. But even as I imagined it, I knew it wouldn’t happen. I could barely stand the thought of having another person’s hands on me instead of the man’s I truly wanted.

  He pushed me against the wall and captured my mouth with his. Sliding his tongue into my mouth, he rocked his erection against my leg, and I forced myself to move. I slid my hands along his back, and his muscles rippled under the thin cotton of his shirt. I kissed him back, but there was nothing there, not even the slightest of sparks. I was embarrassingly flaccid and grateful that his hands, which were like octopus tentacles, hadn’t found the front of my dress pants yet.

  I breathed him in, practically begging my body to get stimulated in some way. But he smelled all wrong and I was already out of time. He brought his hand around to cup my groin and pulled back the instant he felt that I was soft. “Bro, nothing?”

  “I’m sorry,” I started, but he held his hand up.

  “Look, you want this or not? I want your cum but I’m not sucking a soft cock. You either want me or y
ou don’t.”

  I sighed and scrubbed my hands over my face. “I’m asexual and I’m totally hung up on someone else. I don’t… I don’t know if I can even get hard like this.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me and huffed out a laugh. “Fuck me,” he muttered under his breath and shook his head. I couldn’t hear him, but the movement of his lips was clear. “Yeah, I think I’m good. I’ll see you round.” He took two steps away but paused. “Look, sorry if I sound like a prick, but I’m only recently single—”

  “No need to explain,” I assured him. “It’s a lot even without the whole ‘other person’ thing.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “Good luck.” With that, he turned away and I was left standing there wondering if I would ever be anything but lonely.

  Or stupidly mooning over a man I could never have.

  I snapped back to the present when Trent waved his hand in front of my face, laughing at me. “Bro, you totally spaced out on me. You okay?”

  I forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m good. You?” I asked, then cleared my throat when my voice sounded far too high-pitched. It was as if I was screaming out “I’m lying!”

  He nodded and grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief while I mentally cringed. I knew what would come out of his mouth next. “Pretty fucking fantastic—”

  I cut him off, holding my hand up. I couldn’t listen to him give me the rundown on how his date with Margarida went. Ever since that night months ago—the one where he said I wasn’t a homo, right when I was realizing I was falling for him—I’d tried desperately not to hang off him. I didn’t want to be one of those pathetic losers who were all heart-eyed and gazey, but I couldn’t get him out of my head. Hearing about his sexcapades, especially after my own clusterfuck of an attempt, was more than I could manage at that point. He’d rarely asked me about whether I dated or hooked up, and I honestly wished it was something we just didn’t speak about at all, but Trent enjoyed sex and wasn’t afraid to admit it.

  “Tell me later. We’re gonna be late. Better head in. Don’t want to keep them waiting.” I pulled open the door before he could protest and held it for him as he walked inside.

  After introductions, the agent took us up to see the apartment. Everything was brand-new and sparkling clean. It was also the pokiest little place I’d ever seen. While the combination of white- and dark-colored tiles in the bathroom and the almost black kitchen cupboards was striking and exactly my style, it made the place look even smaller. I’d be lucky to get a tiny two-seat sofa in the living room, and if I pushed it right up against the wall, maybe a double bed and a nightstand in the bedroom. Dammit. I’d been looking for weeks and there was so little available that wasn’t holiday accommodation. Most people wouldn’t even sign six-month leases so they could short-term let during the winter season and make some extra cash. Finding a place where I could sign a long lease was hard. But this? I honestly didn’t know whether I could live there and not be tripping over my own feet all the time. I had no idea where I’d store my camera equipment and do my editing either. Maybe if I repurposed part of the kitchen—instead of a table in there, could I have a desk? Or maybe elevate the bed? I walked back into the bedroom and tried to picture the space. Leaning against the doorway, I closed my eyes and sighed.

  “You’re not seriously thinking of it are you?” Trent asked from behind me.

  “It’s clean, brand-new, and within my price range.”

  “True. But it’s tiny.” He paused and suggested, “Move in near me.” When I whirled around to face him, my brows drawn together in confusion, he added, “There’s a three-bedroom townhouse opening up in a couple of weeks in my complex. Ataahua, the lady I check up on, is moving out. She needs to go into a care facility. The landlord told me they’re changing the flooring, then it’ll be good to go.”

  I perked up at that. Trent’s place was affordable. Maybe a three-bedroom townhouse in the complex would be too. I’d also be walking distance from him. That alone made it worth it, even if I was pushing the budget. “Yeah? That could work.”

  “And if it’s too expensive, we could share it. Unless you think that’s too gay.” I blinked, trying to take in the words that had just flown out of his mouth with only the barest of pauses between them. Then what he said sank in. We could live together, unless it would be too gay. Like gay was the antithesis of what he’d like to be. He had no idea what he did to me, but every time he said things like that, it was as if he cut my heart out with a rusty knife then stomped all over it. I gritted my teeth and hardened what was left of my shredded heart and my tattered dignity. Why did he do that? Why did he use gay as an insult? Why did he keep hurting me like that? And why did I keep coming back for more? “No,” I spat back, my tone sounding defensive even to my own ears. “It’s not gay.”

  “Good,” he replied happily, seemingly blissfully unaware of my wound. “We could use the spare room as your studio or office. You’d have plenty of space.”

  “Why would you move? You’re comfortable where you are.”

  “Figured we’ve known each other for a while, and my lease expires soon. If I was gonna live with a mate….” He shrugged and looked away, stuffing his hands in his pockets and seemingly turning in on himself. He only ever did that when he was afraid to admit something. When he tried to protect himself against being disappointed, as if he was planning an escape in case I shot him down. He’d never admit it openly, but I knew him well enough to know that he wanted this. His comments were giving me whiplash. One minute he was questioning whether being roommates was gay, and the next he was asking to share—oh. Oh. He wanted a roommate but didn’t want to ask for one in case people took it the wrong way. No one would blink an eyelid if we moved in together. He was the jock and I was the weird single friend who wore bow ties with suspenders or vests and carried around an old-school looking SLR. “Never mi—”

  “No,” I blurted out, this time sounding panicked. “No, not never mind.” I stepped closer to him and crossed my arms to stop from reaching out for him. Was it the right thing to do? There wasn’t really a question about it; I couldn’t ever fathom saying no to Trent. I was a masochist; I had to be. I hated hearing about his sessions with women, and I was contemplating moving in with him? Not only would I hear about them, I’d probably hear them. “You don’t think you’ll get sick of me banging around in the kitchen?”

  “I’ll always eat whatever you’re cooking.” He smiled and my world lit up. Warmth curled through me, and I rocked on the balls of my feet, pulling myself back from taking him into my arms.

  “Will whatshername or many other girls be spending the night much? Do I need to soundproof my room?” I blushed. God, I was such a prude. Just thinking about sex made my insides squirm around. But this time, it wasn’t in a bad way. My heart thudded in my chest at the realization, and I sucked in a breath when my cock thickened. I wanted to hold him and show him just how good I could make him feel. I would explore every inch of him. I’d make love to him. For the first time in my life, my body demanded that I satisfy its cravings. The flood of heat through me was overwhelming. I was hungry for him. Starving. Warning bells, like the cacophony of chimes from the steeple in the church in Santa Caterina di Valfurva, sounded in my mind. Maybe it was my heart instead, scared of getting stomped on and being left broken and bleeding. But I paid no heed to the warning. I couldn’t. Whatever it was flowing through me demanded I get as close to him as possible. I’d never have the relationship I craved with him, but getting to wake up and have Trent be the first person I saw? Or do everyday domestic things like spend quiet nights at home? Even if those twilight hours weren’t filled with lovemaking, how could I say no?

  Trent watched me as I struggled. I could feel myself swaying toward him, and I straightened, trying to shake myself out of my stupor. I wet my bottom lip and swallowed hard when Trent replied, “Taking a break from dating for a while. Me and Margarida decided not to keep seeing each other, but it’s okay. At the moment, I’m happier being single.�
��

  I was a shitty friend, a shitty person for wanting something when he might have been hurting. This time I didn’t hesitate, reaching out and half hugging him, I laid my palm on his lower back and guided Trent out the door. The manager was waiting outside for us and locked up as we exited.

  “Thanks for showing me. As nicely as it was finished, it’s not the apartment for me,” I explained before shuffling Trent to the old elevator. “You got anywhere to be now?” I asked him as the doors closed.

  “Nope, I’m free for twelve hours until my next shift starts.”

  “Good, let’s go to yours, get a lease signed up, and then we can go fishing. If we catch anything, I’ll make you my mamma’s baked fish.”

  Trent laughed, and when I questioned him, he replied, “I’m okay, but I appreciate you trying to cheer me up with food. Like I said, I’ll always eat.” I rolled my eyes and bit back a smirk. So I was predictable. Sue me.

  A few hours later I sat on the end of the rickety pier with Trent, our bare feet dangling over the edge and a cooler between us. Tranquil waters lapped at the pylons. The shadows began lengthening in the afternoon light, and the golden glow cast over the water was magical. Insects buzzed around the surface. A fish broke it looking for a meal, the water rippling outward in ever-growing concentric circles. I breathed in deep and enjoyed the peacefulness between us. These moments where it was just us were perfection.

  Trent cast his rod and waited for the slack in the line to be taken by our dinner. I’d had no luck, only catching a few trout that were far too small to keep. I wound my line in and laid my rod down, picking up my camera instead. I took photos, capturing the scenery around me, a leaf floating on the water, a shaft of sunlight through the trees onto the lake, and Trent. He stoically ignored me, intently focusing on the fishing rod. I grinned and snapped more shots, some close-ups of him and some of the line bobbing in the water. The aged timber on the pier against the glass-like clarity of the water was a beautiful contrast in the failing light too, so I moved around, getting the best composition in my viewfinder.