Push & Pull (The Midwest Series Book 2)

by Brigham Vaughn

  He looked amazing.

  Of course it had only taken Brent twenty minutes to get ready. All he’d done was hop in the shower, put a little product in his hair, and change into a pair of snug black jeans and a form-fitting black T-shirt. It clung to his body in a way that made Lowell’s palms itch with the urge to peel it slowly off him and kiss every inch of his smooth, hard torso.

  Lowell sighed.

  Given that he and Brent were barely starting to be on civil terms and they still had a couple months ahead of them, Lowell figured he’d better be on his best behavior and keep his hands to himself. It was a damn shame though.

  Lowell glanced around the room filled with hot gay men and decided he had plenty of other ways to blow off steam. They’d gone to a fairly low-key place, but it had a small dance floor and plenty of guys were taking advantage of it. Brent seemed content to hang out on a bar stool all night, but Lowell wasn’t about to do the same.

  “I’m going to go dance,” he said.

  Brent nodded. “Okay. I’m going to finish my drink first.”

  “You have my number in your phone, right?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “If you decide to leave with a guy, just text me and let me know. Otherwise, I’ll see you back at the hotel later. You know how to get back, and you have your key card, right?”

  “Yep.”

  Lowell set his nearly empty glass on the napkin in front of him. He stood up to leave but paused when he wondered if Brent had considered protection. In many ways, Brent was still a baby gay. “Do you need a condom?”

  “What?” Brent gaped at him.

  “A condom. A piece of latex you use to protect your dick from getting something you’ll regret,” Lowell explained patiently, reaching into his pocket to pull one out, along with a packet of lube.

  “You came prepared?” Brent sounded flabbergasted, but his hand closed around Lowell’s, and he took the condom and lube. He stared down at them for a minute before he shook his head and stuffed them in his pocket.

  “Of course. Always do.” Lowell smiled brightly. “Cruising 101.”

  “Do you do this a lot?”

  Lowell shrugged. “Pick up a guy at a bar? Not lately. I never had any trouble finding guys on campus, but I have done it plenty of times in the past, yeah.”

  “I just ...” Brent gulped the rest of his beer, then stifled a belch. Lowell tried not to roll his eyes. Jesus, was he trying to re-affirm his masculinity or what? “I’ve never done this.”

  “Gone to a bar or club or picked up a random guy?” Lowell was starting to think maybe he’d overestimated Brent’s experience.

  “Um, obviously, I’ve gone to straight bars and clubs, but I’ve never been to a gay bar. Except, like, the sports bar we went to last night.” Brent wiped his palms on his jeans. “And I’ve never picked up someone. Never had a one-night stand or anything either.”

  Lowell blinked at him. “Wait, really? Never? Not even with women? I know I saw you with a few girls on campus.”

  “I slept with a few women, but they were all friends first. And I, uh, planned ahead for when we were going to have sex. And with guys ... well, I was in the closet. I didn’t exactly have a lot of opportunity. There was a guy I screwed around with at hockey camp when I was in high school. Then Nathan. And, uh, a baseball player at Western. That’s it.” He cleared his throat.

  “Yeah. You hooked up with Micah Warner. I know.”

  Brent glanced up from the napkin he was fiddling with. “Wait, what now?”

  “I know you and Micah hooked up,” Lowell said slowly, in case Brent needed the extra emphasis. He didn’t seem to be following the conversation very well.

  “Holy fuck. How do you know that?”

  “It came up in conversation with Caleb.” Lowell waved off the inevitable question of how Caleb had known. “Don’t ask how. All that really matters is that I do know about it.”

  A furrow appeared between Brent’s brows. “Micah’s pretty fucking closeted. Like, way more than I was. He’d be beyond pissed if he knew anyone was talking about it or had a clue he was gay. He flipped out on me when Nathan found out,” Brent said.

  “It wasn’t exactly a secret to me,” Lowell admitted, taking a seat on the barstool again. Damn it. He really didn’t want to get into it, but the cat was out of the bag already, and he had a feeling Brent was going to ask a lot of questions. “Micah and I hooked up our sophomore year.”

  “Seriously?”

  Lowell leaned in. “You know those macho jocks who begged me to top them?”

  The expression on Brent’s face was comically shocked. “No! No way. That’s ...”

  “It’s true.” Lowell straightened and drained the remainder of his third drink, feeling enormously self-satisfied by Brent’s reaction.

  “What an asshole. He swore he never bottomed, so I always did.” Brent gave him a vague, annoyed frown.

  Lowell shrugged. “Well, when we hooked up, he was a very satisfied bottom. He wanted us to make it a regular ‘friends with benefits’ thing’.” He used finger quotes because the whole situation had been ridiculous.

  “Sure, that’s what I had with him. He was annoyingly paranoid about being outed, but that tongue ...” Brent’s gaze went unfocused as if remembering something particularly good.

  Lowell snickered and shook his head. Sure, Micah was good in bed, but he wasn’t all that. Lowell would bet he could make Brent completely forget about Micah’s tongue, talented as it was.

  “Well, that tongue was part of what convinced me to hook up with him more than once, but the whole thing backfired spectacularly,” Lowell added with a sigh.

  “How come?”

  Lowell hesitated. God, he really didn’t want to get into this, but fuck, he’d already told Brent most of it, and it was kind of rude to stop mid-story. “Well, Micah developed feelings,” Lowell admitted. “At one point, he begged me for a relationship.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit. Apparently, my tongue is pretty convincing too.” Lowell winked, then grew serious. Because, honestly, there had been nothing funny about the situation at all. “We did the friends with benefits things for a while, and one night when we were lying in bed after fucking, he laid out this whole plan for how it would work. He’d keep publicly dating Chelsea—the sorority chick he was seeing—and I’d be his boy on the side. Of course, I wasn’t allowed to screw anyone else in the meantime. I had to be at his beck and call for sex and cuddling in secret. Plus, I had to pretend not to know him in public, and—I quote—‘turn down the gay’.”

  Brent snorted. “Yeah, I can see that happening.”

  “Right?” Lowell gave him a brittle smile, remembering. Except, it had happened for a few months. He’d really liked Micah at first. Enough to let Micah convince him to have a secret relationship. It hadn’t taken long for the appeal to wear thin, however. Lowell had gritted his teeth and put up with it in silence for a while, but eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore. One night when he finally pushed Micah to come out and admit they were in a relationship, it had blown up in his face. Micah had called him every nasty name he could think of, gotten dressed, and stormed out. The only time they saw each other after that was when they accidentally ran into each other on campus. When that happened, Micah had either ignored him, or hurled insults at him while Lowell battled the urge to blab Micah’s secret to the entire campus as payback. He’d never done it, but it had been tempting as hell.

  The entire experience had left a sour taste in Lowell’s mouth, and it was the last time he’d considered something even resembling a relationship. The memory was enough to make him feel vaguely queasy, and he quickly changed the subject.

  “Anyway, that’s ancient history.” Lowell waved it off like it meant nothing. “Time to have fun. I can wait for you to finish your drink if you want to come dance.”

  Brent looked vaguely confused by the abrupt change in topic. He hesitated, then shook his head. “No, I’m not that great
a dancer. I’ll just hang out here.”

  “Whatever, sweets. Your loss.”

  Lowell could feel Brent’s eyes on him as he strode toward the dance floor. Hoping a little teasing would help entice Brent to join him on the dance floor, Lowell stuck to the perimeter where he knew he’d still be in sight. He put on a show, swaying his hips and giving Brent a great view of his ass.

  Lowell had no shortage of attention, but none of the guys who approached him interested him much, so he fended them off and danced alone. He occasionally snuck a peek at Brent. He looked a little uncomfortable and awkward as he perched on the bar stool and nursed his beer. Lowell wasn’t sure if it was because he was having a terrible time or because he was uncomfortable being in a gay bar.

  A handful of songs later, Lowell took pity on him and left the dance floor. He dropped onto the stool beside Brent and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He needed a break to rehydrate anyway. “Water, please,” he called to the bartender.

  “You looked like you were having fun,” Brent said.

  Lowell flashed him a half-smile. “Oh, I was. I love to dance.”

  “It shows.”

  They were both silent. The bartender slid the water to Lowell, and he drank it in a few gulps. When he was done, he turned to Brent.

  “Do you know how to play pool?”

  “Of course,” Brent scoffed. “I’m fucking good at it too.”

  “Well, okay then, Mr. Confident. There are pool tables in the other room. How about you teach me how to play?”

  “Really? You don’t know how?”

  Lowell shrugged. “I know the rules, but I’m terrible at it. Maybe you can show me a few tricks.”

  May 27, 2013 – Chicago, Illinois

  Brent

  Holy fuck. Micah and Lowell were in a secret relationship? Brent couldn’t stop thinking about the bombshell Lowell had dropped on him. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around the idea. Sure, they were both hot, but it was the most bizarre pairing Brent could imagine. And Lowell topped? No fucking way!

  Brent really couldn’t picture that. Well, he could picture it—was actually picturing it now, and holy fuck was it hot—but it still blew his mind.

  “Brent?”

  “Huh?”

  Lowell glanced back at him with a quizzical smile. Brent had Lowell trapped against the pool table. Brent was supposed to be teaching him pool, but he was having difficulty focusing because he couldn’t stop thinking about Lowell and Micah together.

  “What do I do now?” Lowell prompted.

  Oops. Brent cleared his throat. “Feet shoulder width apart. Step forward with your left foot”—Brent nudged Lowell’s leg forward with his knee—“chest parallel to the floor.” He gently pushed Lowell’s shoulders forward, so he leaned over the pool table. All of a sudden, Lowell’s ass was pressed flush against his crotch, and he tried not to shudder. Oh, fuck. Bad idea. Very bad idea.

  “Yeah, got it,” Lowell said.

  “Rest the cue on your leaning hand and keep the back end at waist level.” Brent pushed the end of the stick down. “Aim the cue ball—the white one there—at the 1-ball. Remember your body needs to stay still. Your right hand should be the only thing moving.”

  Oh, God, why did everything that was coming out of his mouth sound like dirty talk? Brent blinked, trying to focus with the feel of Lowell’s round, tight ass snugged tight against him. Brent had seen this done a thousand times in movies with the lead guy showing the pretty girl how to play. Of course, that scene usually led to another scene where the main characters tore each other’s clothes off and fucked, but Brent was pretty sure that wasn’t going to happen with Lowell tonight. And that was a good thing. Right?

  Maybe.

  Ugh, focus, he reminded himself.

  Brent covered Lowell’s hand with his own, controlling the shot as he pulled back and swung the stick at the cue ball. The crack was satisfying, but none of the balls landed in the pocket.

  “Damn it,” he muttered.

  Brent shifted to a new spot, pulling Lowell with him and lining up the shot again. He tried to block out the feel of Lowell’s body against his and the scent of his cologne—something light and clean. Expensive smelling. But Brent’s focus was off, and the ball went wild, glancing off the corner of the pocket.

  “What the fuck?” he muttered under his breath.

  “All talk and no follow through, huh? I thought you were supposed to be amazing at this,” Lowell teased. “I can’t believe a hockey player could be this bad at pool,” Lowell said. His breath was warm on Brent’s cheek, sending a shudder down his spine.

  Me either, Brent thought. He’d always been amazing at pool so he was pretty sure it was Lowell’s fault that he was so jittery and unfocused right now.

  “Stop distracting me,” he growled.

  “Me? What did I do?” Lowell shifted a little, subtly pushing his ass against Brent’s half-hard cock. The movement sent a jolt of arousal through Brent.

  He gripped Lowell’s hip with his hand and held it still. Lowell needed to dial it down or things would get really awkward. “That, you little flirt. Stop it.”

  Lowell’s laugh was low and teasing, and it didn’t help the situation at all. “Now who’s being bossy?” he murmured. But he did finally let up on the teasing, and the next shot Brent attempted sank the nine ball into the pocket.

  “Yes, finally!” Brent crowed. “Now line up your next shot, and try it on your own.”

  Brent handed the cue to Lowell. He stepped back, grateful for the distance. He’d enjoyed the closeness a little too much. Flirty Lowell was definitely a handful. He watched Lowell carefully line up the shot, appreciating that he took his time and seemed to be carefully considering things. Unfortunately, the ball skipped across the table rather than smoothly gliding.

  Brent stepped forward again, drawing his hand down Lowell’s forearm to his hand, gently pushing on his cocked wrist. “Like this. Straight arm.”

  “There’s nothing straight about me, honey,” Lowell threw over his shoulder. He delivered the line in a deadpan tone, but his eyes were full of laughter. Several people around them snickered.

  “Stop it, you little shit. Do you want to learn to play pool or not?” Brent said, laughing. He totally should have seen that coming. And maybe he was enjoying this flirting. Even though there was no way it would end well.

  “Fine, fine.” Lowell rolled his eyes but he got serious then, listening intently as Brent offered him a few suggestions. His next shot was better, and so was the one after that.

  “Want to play an actual game?” Brent asked when he was confident Lowell had a grasp of things.

  “Yes.” Lowell’s eyes lit up. “Ooh, can we make a wager? I love betting.”

  Brent leaned a hip against the pool table as he chalked his cue. “I don’t know. What do you have in mind?”

  Money seemed like a dumb idea. Any amount Lowell offered would be way out of Brent’s budget, and any amount he suggested would seem paltry to Lowell.

  “Hmm.” Lowell looked thoughtful. “What about a backrub? Loser gives one to the winner.”

  A thrill ran through him at the idea. Maybe this night was going to get more interesting. “Any excuse to get your hands on me, huh, Prescott?”

  “A boy’s gotta do what a boy’s gotta do.” Lowell’s tone was breezy. A guy standing a few steps away snorted and gave them a sidelong glance.

  Brent ignored him and narrowed his eyes at Lowell. This was going to be fun. “Fine; you’re on.”

  Chapter Eight

  May 27, 2013 – Chicago, Illinois

  Lowell

  “Ha! I won,” Brent crowed twenty minutes later as the 9-ball landed in the pocket with a satisfying clatter.

  “Pffftt. That was way closer than it should have been, Mr. Hot Shot Hockey Player,” Lowell teased, poking Brent in the chest with his finger. “I’m amaaaaazing at hockey and pool, you said. Yeah? Well, I almost beat you, and it was my first time playing an actual game.
Next time, you might not be so lucky.”

  “You might be right,” Brent said grudgingly. He took the cue from Lowell like he didn’t quite trust him with it. “You have a good eye for strategy now that you have the basics under your belt.”

  Lowell drained the remainder of his drink. “Well, at least, he admits it. Want a rematch?”

  “Hell, no. I’m going to enjoy my massage while I have the chance,” Brent said.

  One of the guys, who had been hanging around watching them play, stepped forward. “Dude, you two should just go screw. Leave the pool table for those of us who have been waiting to play. The sexual tension was hot and all, but this is getting ridiculous.”

  Brent’s jaw dropped. “It’s not ... we’re not ...” he sputtered.

  Lowell patted the guy’s massive chest. “Love the way you think, but even I’m not that drunk.”

  “Hey, wait a minute!” Brent protested as he hung up his pool cue. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Lowell did the same with his cue and smiled at the man who’d made the comment. “Pool table’s all yours, big guy.”

  Lowell made a beeline for the bar, Brent trailing in his wake, still sputtering. “Dude, what the hell was that for?” he asked.

  Lowell turned to him with wide eyes. “What? I was just teasing.”

  “You didn’t have to say it like I was the worst guy you could imagine fucking.” Brent leaned on the bar, and Lowell wondered just how drunk he was. They’d both had plenty of drinks tonight, but Lowell had lost track of exactly how many.

  Speaking of drinking ... there’s at least one more drink we need to have. “Oooh! I almost forgot about the very important Chicago tradition we still need to do!” Lowell said. He was also grateful for a reason to change the subject. He didn’t really want to answer Brent’s question. At the moment, he couldn’t think of anyone he wanted to fuck more than Brent. But he wasn’t about to say that aloud to the guy in question.

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “Shots of Malört.”

  “What the fuck is Malört?”

  “The most disgusting drink you will ever taste,” Lowell said cheerfully. “But it’s a time-honored Chicago tradition.”