Push & Pull (The Midwest Series Book 2)

by Brigham Vaughn

  “Way to make it sound appealing.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t make the rules.” Lowell shrugged.

  “Hey there. What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

  “Two Chicago Handshakes,” Lowell said with a wink as he tilted his head to look at the very tall, very good-looking man behind the bar. Hello there. “Gotta break in the out-of-towner.”

  The bartender just shook his head. “Your funeral, man.” He turned away to get the drinks for them, and Lowell glanced over at Brent.

  “You guys are just playing this up to fuck with me, right?” he asked. “I mean, this Malört stuff can’t actually be that bad, right?

  Lowell cackled. “You tell me after you taste it.”

  “If it’s so bad, why the hell do people drink it?”

  “It’s a dare, basically. I don’t know. I do know there was a Swedish immigrant named Carl Jeppson who made and sold it in the 1930s. Rumor has it that because he was such a heavy smoker, it was the only thing he could taste. And he made it popular enough in bars around Chicago that people dare visitors to drink it.” Lowell made a face. “Of course, that really backfires for us Chicago natives because then we have to drink it every time we’re at a bar with friends from out of town.”

  Brent laughed.

  “Your Chicago Handshakes.” The hot bartender slid two shot glasses filled with a clear yellow-brown liquor, followed by two cans of beer.

  Brent raised an eyebrow at him. “You drink Budweiser?”

  Lowell laughed. “Only on special occasions like this. It’s to chase the Malört. I don’t know if it makes it taste any better, but it is a Chicago tradition. And even I don’t mess with that.”

  “So what do I have to do?” Brent looked a little unnerved.

  “Take the shot, then chase it with the beer. Nothing fancy.”

  Brent stared at the shot glass and can with an apprehensive expression. “Are you going to do it at the same time as me?”

  “No. I have to take a picture when you do the shot and capture your Malört face.”

  “My what face? What the fuck?”

  “It’s the face you make after the taste hits you.” Lowell giggled. “Trust me on this. That’s the best part. You’ll get a hilarious picture to post on social media.”

  Brent narrowed his eyes at Lowell. “You better not be tricking me by not drinking your shot.”

  “I’m not; I’m not. I swear.” Lowell could hardly contain his laughter. “Trust me. I’ll drink it after, and you can get all the pictures you want.”

  Brent wrinkled his nose but he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and downed the shot of Malört like a champ. His face twisted into an expression that looked like he was simultaneously trying not to cry and throw up. Lowell cracked up. It was every bit as priceless as he had hoped for. Eyes streaming with laughter, Lowell took as many pictures as his phone could manage in a short span of time.

  “Ugh! Oh, God.” Brent stuck out his tongue and shook his head. Lowell managed to get another perfect picture. He really should have recorded this all on video. “Why would you do that to me? That’s awful.”

  “Your face!” Lowell howled, wiping at his eyes. “Oh, that might be the best Malört face I’ve ever seen.”

  “What the fuck is in that stuff?” Brent made a retching noise and reached for his beer. “It tastes like gasoline. And ear wax. Blech.”

  “It’s basically just wormwood, a super bitter herb known for killing stomach worms and other parasites. It was marketed as a medicinal remedy to get around Prohibition.”

  Brent shuddered, then guzzled the rest of the beer. He set the empty can on the counter and made another disgusted face. “Ugh, I swear the beer made it worse.” He wiped his forearm across his mouth. “You’re a horrible human being, you know that?”

  “I do what I can,” Lowell said cheerfully.

  “Well, you’re not getting out of this one,” Brent said. “You’re drinking your shot; even if I have to hold you down to make sure you do it.”

  “I’ll do it. I’ll do it,” Lowell said. “Get your phone out. You’re definitely going to want to record this.”

  “Damn right, I am.”

  When Brent was ready, Lowell took a deep, steadying breath and downed the shot. No matter how much he tried to keep a straight face, he couldn’t. He felt like his mouth was turning inside out. “Bleech.”

  Brent was right; the beer didn’t help, or maybe it was just the lingering taste of the Malört combined with the shitty beer that made it taste even worse.

  “You had a point.” Brent said. His tone was a little grudging, but he had a big grin on his face. “The whole thing was awful, but it was hilarious, and the pictures make it totally worth it.”

  “We both posting them on social media?” Lowell asked.

  “Oh hell, yes.” Brent nudged Lowell’s arm. “But pictures or no pictures, that is the worst Chicago tradition ever. You better make up for it by getting me some deep dish pizza or something.”

  Lowell rolled his eyes. “Ugh, I know tourists are all about that, and Lou Malnati’s is pretty decent, but I think it’s all about the thin crust pizza.”

  “Thin crust? Really?” Brent looked surprised.

  “Oh, totally. They’re all crispy on the edges and soft and chewy in the center. Mmm.” Lowell’s mouth watered at the thought, and he playfully pushed at Brent’s shoulder. “Damn it. I’m craving pizza. Now who’s a bad influence?”

  “I am totally up for grabbing some on the way back to the hotel.”

  “Hmm.” Lowell considered the idea. “I could go for that. Let me pay our tab, and I’ll think about where we should stop on the way back.”

  “Awesome.”

  Lowell flagged down the bartender and paid the bill. When he was done, he turned to find Brent on his phone. “Did you get the pictures posted?”

  Brent turned his phone toward Lowell so he could see the screen. Lowell Prescott made me try Malört, but at least, I got him back, he read.

  Lowell chuckled as he swiped through the pictures. “Ugh, not the most flattering pictures of me that have ever been taken.”

  “Let me see the ones you got of me.”

  They stood shoulder-to-shoulder as Lowell posted the pictures of Brent to Instagram with the caption, Took Brent Cameron’s Malört virginity. He added a bunch of hashtags and hit post.

  Brent elbowed him. “You didn’t have to word it that way, you know!”

  “Of course, I did.” Lowell smiled at him. “It’s all part of the tradition.”

  Brent narrowed his eyes, but he was smiling too. “Are you going to say that for every single thing we do in Chicago?”

  “Probably.” Lowell pushed off the bar and walked toward the exit. As he weaved through the crowd, he realized his head was swimming a little.

  “That means I can use that line on you for everything we do when we’re camping and in Michigan, right?” Brent said, catching up to him.

  “Yeah, that seems fair,” Lowell admitted.

  Brent held open the door for him. “So, thanks for the drinks, by the way. And for everything tonight. That was really fun.”

  “Thanks for actually teaching me how to play pool.” Lowell bumped shoulders with him. “You’re a really good teacher.”

  “Why do you sound so surprised?”

  “Uh, well my dad tried to teach me for years, but it never worked. I could never seem to get the hang of it.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s a little different when it’s your parents. It’s obviously way better with someone who can use a hands-on approach.”

  Lowell grinned. “Don’t forget things are about to get a lot more hands on when we get back to the hotel.”

  May 27, 2013 – Chicago, Illinois

  Brent

  “Oh, my God, that feels amazing.” Brent groaned into the pillow. Whatever Lowell was doing, it felt so, so good. Way better than he’d expected. His head was still swimmy from drinking, but the walk and piz
za had sobered him up some. And this was a little bit of heaven. “Please don’t stop.”

  His words were muffled, but he was too lazy to lift his head. Seriously, what was Lowell doing as he kneaded Brent’s shoulders. How could a massage feel this good? He’d had plenty of massages when he played hockey. But a therapeutic massage from a balding fifty-year-old trainer for the team was a far cry from being straddled by a hot, half-naked guy who seemed to have magic hands. Cold hands, but still magical. They were slippery from the lotion he’d grabbed, and they kneaded Brent’s muscles with a slow thoroughness that made Brent want to beg him never to stop. Actually, he’d already done that, but he was past having any shame.

  He wasn’t even sore. Hell, he hadn’t worked out since they started the trip. He was going to have to do something about that if he didn’t want to turn into the stereotypical flabby post-college athlete—especially if he kept eating pizza and drinking like he had tonight—but it still felt so fucking good to have someone massaging his muscles.

  He groaned again when Lowell scooted back and began working on his hamstrings. He’d squinted at Lowell when he’d told Brent to strip down to his boxers, but now, he was glad he’d listened. “How are you so good at this?” he moaned.

  Lowell chuckled. “I took a class.”

  “Fuck. No wonder all the jocks liked you so much.”

  A sharp, stinging slap on his ass made him jerk in surprise.

  “What the hell was that for?” Brent grumbled. He shifted up onto his elbows to peer over his shoulder at Lowell.

  “Half of those rumors were made up by Micah, you know,” Lowell retorted. “I mean, yes, I am a big flirt. I’m definitely not going to apologize for liking sex. And I have a preference for athletes. But rumors of my whorishness are grossly exaggerated.” He was silent a moment, but he resumed massaging. “And, honestly, sometimes I played it up. Let people think what they wanted to think. Better to own it, right?”

  “Oh.” Brent settled back onto his stomach. “I’m sorry.”

  “What are you sorry for? You’re not Micah.”

  “I guess I assumed he knew what he was talking about. And I never took the time to ask if it was all true.”

  Lowell let out a heavy, gusting sigh. “Yeah, well, that’s true for a lot of us, right? We see what’s on the surface, but we don’t look any further unless we need to.”

  “True.” Brent had taken advantage of that plenty of times. If he went out with a few girls, acted macho enough, no one questioned what his sexuality was. It made it easier to hide who he really was. Hell, most of his dumb-jock persona was made up to deflect what other people thought of him.

  Weird to be on the other side of that now.

  Except, he’d been doing it for so long it had become second nature. A good portion of his boorish, asshole behavior toward Lowell was because it was an automatic response. It was going to be a hard habit to break.

  When Lowell dug the heel of his hand into Brent’s calf muscles, it put all thoughts of everything else out of his mind. He had walked a lot today, and the muscles there was tighter than he realized. “Fuck, that’s good.”

  “Yeah?” Lowell sounded like he was smiling. “Glad to hear it.”

  Brent fell into a sort of trance as Lowell continued to work him over. He floated for a while, reacting to the alcohol and the touch.

  He was half-dosing when Lowell said, “Turn over.”

  Brent flipped onto his back, staring up at Lowell as he settled over Brent’s thighs. His head spun at the sudden movement, and he wondered exactly how drunk he was. Lowell slipped his hands under Brent’s neck and gently rubbed at the base of his skull.

  Brent’s eyeballs rolled back in his head. He couldn’t believe how much tension he had there. Brent squinted up at him through bleary eyes. “You can pretty much never stop that too.”

  Lowell chuckled softly.

  When the muscles loosened, Lowell moved down, working his neck and the top of his shoulder before making his way to Brent’s pecs, using the heel of his hand to dig in.

  “Uhhhh,” was all Brent could manage. He rested his hands on Lowell’s thighs and squeezed gently, looking up at him. Lowell froze and their gazes met. His eyes looked huge and dark in the light from the lamp between the beds. His hair was disheveled, and it stuck out on the sides. Although his whole body was long and lean, the muscles in his chest and shoulders were defined, and his arms were sinewy. He was pale all over, without any tan lines, and, at the moment, his cheeks were flushed pink.

  Jesus, he’s pretty.

  Lowell gradually slowed the movement of his hands to a stop, his palms resting on Brent’s chest.

  “You want me to return the favor?” Brent’s voice sounded a little hoarser than usual.

  Lowell shook his head. “You won, fair and square,” Lowell whispered.

  Right, the bet over the pool game. That was why they were both half-naked and Lowell was straddling him. But it didn’t feel very much like that at the moment. It felt like something else. Brent felt his breathing grow shallow as they stared at each other. The need to touch Lowell was like an itch under his skin, and he had a desperate urge to reach out and pull Lowell in for a kiss.

  A little furrow appeared between Lowell’s brows like he knew what Brent was thinking. He shook his head slightly and gracefully levered himself off Brent and the bed. He disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. The water in the shower turned on a minute later, and Brent lay there staring at the ceiling.

  He was probably way too drunk to understand any of this, but man, things with Lowell had been good today. Like, really good. Maybe it was smart that Lowell had left before Brent did something dumb. It had been a long, fun day, and it was so nice that they were actually getting along now. Brent didn’t want to do anything to ruin that.

  Hopefully, Lowell wouldn’t be mad in the morning.

  When he awoke in the middle of the night, a sliver of light spilled through the curtains they’d forgotten to close. Brent could see Lowell buried under the covers on the other bed, sleeping soundly. And Brent’s clothes were neatly folded on the nightstand between them. Along with a glass of water. He smiled at the sight, even though his mouth felt fuzzy and his head was aching. Gratefully, he reached for the water and chugged it.

  Relieved that Lowell wasn’t mad at him, he flipped onto his other side and closed his eyes, sinking quickly back into sleep.

  Chapter Nine

  May 28, 2013 – Chicago, Illinois

  Lowell

  Spending the day at the Museum of Science and Industry revealed a whole new side of Brent Cameron. He wandered the place with an expression of childlike glee.

  As they passed by the exhibit for the Fairy Castle—an elaborate dollhouse built by silent film star Colleen Moore—Brent gave it a wistful glance. “My sisters would love that. I should bring them here sometime.”

  “How many sisters do you have?” Lowell asked.

  “Three. I have a sister and a brother in high school and twin sisters who are still in middle school. Abbie and Lizzie will be turning eleven this year.”

  “Wow,” Lowell said.

  He tried to picture what that was like. It seemed like it must be loud and chaotic, unlike the quiet, orderly three-person Prescott household. As a kid, Lowell had wanted siblings, specifically a brother or two, but now he wasn’t so sure. Sharing space with Caleb had been the most difficult part of going to college. University housing had done a great job pairing them up—they’d very quickly become friends—but they were both only children and needed plenty of silence and time alone. Lowell had often fled to the study lounge on the first floor of their dorm or the library. Caleb had gone to the auditorium. Lowell supposed Caleb was the closest thing he had to a brother. Maybe it didn’t matter that they weren’t related by blood.

  Brent’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “The twins are involved in everything: hockey, gymnastics, Girl Scouts. My mom was always running one or the other of t
hem somewhere. My other brother and sister are crazy busy too.”

  “So you’re the oldest?”

  “Yeah. Which meant I was in charge of making sure homework got done. And I can’t count the number of times I had to braid my sisters’ hair before a gymnastics meet.” Brent flushed and gave him a sidelong glance. “I, uh, don’t admit that to most people. I know it’s not so weird for a guy to take care of his sisters, but I’ve gotten crap about it before.”

  Lowell smiled. “I think it’s sweet, to be honest. I’m sure you mom appreciated the help, and it gave you a chance to spend some time with your sisters.”

  “Nick—my brother—gave me so much shit when I came out. He made some crack about the fact that everyone should have known I was gay since I was the go-to guy for braids. My parents would have killed him if they knew he was saying stuff like that, but he was smart enough not to do it in front of them.”

  Lowell rolled his eyes. “You said he was in high school? That’s not surprising.”

  “He was in middle school when I came out to my family.”

  “Even worse.” Lowell had gone to a prep school, but he’d bet it hadn’t been any better than the public school Brent had gone to. “The only people more judgmental about gender roles than teenage boys are elderly Republicans.”

  Laughing, Brent pushed open the door to the parking garage and held it for Lowell. “No kidding. Middle school is pretty awful all around.”

  “So, I’m trying to figure out the timeline,” Lowell said. “You came out to your family a while ago then? Before you came out to the public?”

  “Yeah. Five or six years ago. Junior year of high school, anyway. They were great. They did their best to understand why I didn’t want to risk my hockey career. Although, my mom was happy when I finally came out to everyone. She wants me to find a nice boy to settle down with and have a family.” His tone was joking, but there was affection underlying it. Brent tossed the keys to Lowell when they reached the car. “What about you?”

  “Oh, I was in elementary school when I realized I was gay,” Lowell said, opening the driver’s side door. “But my parents said they knew it way earlier than that.”