“So what is it exactly that you’re printing?” Marianne asked.
“Everything,” Tim said.
Marianne walked up to one of the piles and took the sheet off the top. “Okay. This is the break room policy for Canaan’s Nashville office.”
Tim looked chagrined.
“I’m not saying we shouldn’t eventually go through it all,” she went on, “but what if you stopped this printing job, drilled down your results to certain keywords, and started there.” She warmed to her own idea, circling the stacks of paper as she spoke. “There was a bunch of colored stock in the other office. You could print out different searches on different colored paper. Manhattan on one, trucking schedules on another. That way you wouldn’t be stuck with…well…” she gestured at a particularly forbidding pile of white paper. “With this.”
Randy had left the room before she’d even finished explaining her idea. He came back with four reams each of green and yellow paper while Tim worked through the most efficient way to perform a search through the various types of documents and data, targeting Manhattan, and shipping, and Manna-Lean, and Phase 1.
Nelson took the Nashville break room policy from Marianne, because his mind was already circling the formula again, and he wanted to draw it out for himself so he could feel it, touch it. The back of that printout was as good a place as any to get started. He followed up with a quick kiss on her cheek, and whispered, “I totally knew you’d rock.”
Chapter 24
Once Tim had tweaked the operating system’s search function to hit certain strings of characters and wildcards and then add its findings to the print queue, he dawdled at the computer longer than he really needed to, since it could very well continue sorting and sifting without him sitting there. All of it? What had he been thinking? Maybe he’d been so distracted by the memories of the night before that he hadn’t been thinking anything at all.
Randy had pages of spreadsheets arrayed across the conference room table, rows and columns of numbers and calculations so meaningless they made Tim’s head spin. But, like Nelson and his formulas, Randy seemed to think he could extract some kind of meaning if he looked at Canaan Products’ budget hard enough.
Javier and Marianne sat in the far corner of the big office, on a facing set of chairs that looked like they’d been placed there merely for show, chairs that had been sat in maybe a dozen times before, or less. Documents were spread in a semicircle around them, and they spoke in low tones, analyzing, scrutinizing, strategizing.
And Nelson. He’d found a bunch of castoff documents—lunch menus, packaging patents, requisitions for office supplies—and he’d scrawled on the backs of them with a pencil, and a black pen, and a blue pen, and a red dry-erase marker where he circled squiggles and symbols that must have been important.
There was probably something equally important Tim could be doing, even while the computer sorted, but he felt so tapped out that he didn’t have the strength to do anything more than check his email.
A dozen custom scripts sorted and color-coded Tim’s inbox before he even saw it. His mother, three words only, Are you okay? Tim shot a quick reply, Fine. Busy. Talk more later. They probably wouldn’t, but it seemed like the polite thing to say. Some online acquaintances from chat who only knew him as “VoR.” They could wait. They should have taken his site update as evidence that he was fine. An overdue notice from the library.
An email from his ex.
Tim wouldn’t have noticed it if he’d shuffled the folder to the bottom of the column like he’d been meaning to, but there it was, right on top, with a bold numeral 1 beside the folder labeled “Phil.” His heart started pounding as if Phil had just caught him rolling around naked with Javier and Nelson. But so what? So what if he had? Phil had left him ages ago, nearly three weeks now, and the only time he’d emailed before was to ask Tim what laundry detergent he used, because the new one Phil bought gave him a rash.
He paused with his finger over the delete key. Swallowed. And then decided it would nag at him if he didn’t at least look at what Phil wrote. After all, Phil might be in trouble. Might need him.
Tim opened the message.
What’s with that picture on your site? What are you trying to prove?
That was all. No hello, how are you, are you hiding in a trailer because the cops outside are bashing in heads first, asking questions later? In a dozen words, Phil had managed to bring every last defeated emotion Tim had felt in the past month surging back to the forefront.
Tim nearly deleted the email, but then he considered it one more time, changed his mind, and replied, I’m fine, thanks for asking. He hit send. Then he stared at his inbox for a moment, hardly seeing it, and closed the program. He felt sick. Exhausted. Completely and utterly drained.
All around him, the people he’d just met went on with their tasks as if nothing had changed. Tim stood. They didn’t notice. “I’m just gonna go, uh….”
Everyone else was so engrossed in what they were doing, not one of them bothered to even look up. Tim staggered out of the office, sprawled on one of the conference room couches, and fell into a fast and shallow slumber.
It seemed shallow, anyway, in that he was vaguely aware of the gentle hum of the printer, the shuffle of papers, and the sound of the trailer pinging as the temperature dropped outside and the vinyl siding flexed. But maybe he’d been more deeply asleep than he realized, since the next thing he knew, he felt the unmistakable weight of someone straddling his hips.
He opened his eyes to darkness, but the tiny red light on a nearby surge protector illuminated pale, sun-bleached tips of longish hair. Nelson.
It was really difficult to give a damn what Phil did or didn’t write to him with Nelson Oliver perched on top of him.
“Shh.” Nelson placed a fingertip on Tim’s lips. Tim felt a shock of sensation that began at the point where Nelson’s finger touched his mouth, then crept down his spine and coalesced deep in his nuts. They shifted, and his dick felt heavy. Just from that touch. And probably the fact that someone as hot as Nelson was straddling him.
Nelson leaned in, put his mouth to Tim’s ear, and said, “Just listen.”
Tim nodded. What would he say? Please, don’t stop? Or even worse, what he’d almost said to Javier earlier…that incriminating phrase was straining to bust out, too.
“Tim…you’re a great guy.”
Oh.
Uh oh.
“I like you,” Nelson said. He pushed himself up and touched Tim’s forehead in the dark, and traced the shape of his brow. “I do.”
This isn’t going to be pretty.
Tim held his breath…because breathing might result in begging Nelson not to say whatever he was building up to, and making an even bigger fool of himself. Maybe he projected that need desperately enough that Nelson somehow felt it, because instead of going on, of adding the ubiquitous “let’s just be friends” line—which Phil hadn’t even bothered to give lip service to—Nelson leaned in again, closed the narrow gap between them, and covered Tim’s mouth with his.
Nelson’s lips pried Tim’s open effortlessly, and his tongue slid in, sure as always. It roved along the edges of his teeth now, snuck in for a taste of his tongue, exploring with a gentle touch. Tim felt his breath catch and willed it to just be normal and not give him away. Because nothing was more pathetic than going all sappy over a “thanks, but no thanks” type of goodbye kiss.
Nelson cupped Tim’s jaw as he drew away from the languid kiss, and sighed to himself. Tim steeled himself for the words, hoping they’d be as gentle as the kiss had been, but knowing that no matter how carefully Nelson chose them, they’d still sting in the fresh wound that Phil’s email had left behind. And Nelson said, “I’m not a total dick, you know. You and me, this is….” He paused, searched for a way to put it, then went on. “I was thinking you’d call me later, we could hang out and stuff. After whatever’s going on out there…whatever this cluster-fuck outside is…sorts itself out. I mean, if
you even want to. No pressure.”
Tim replayed the words in his mind to make sure he’d heard what he thought he heard (the Nelson Oliver asking him out?) and he said, “Yeah.” He even sounded normal. Probably.
“Okay.” Nelson ran his fingers over the curve of Tim’s shoulder, down the front of his shirt. Grazed his nipple—again, as if by accident. As if Nelson had sex-seeking magnets in his fingertips. Tim started getting hard—and Nelson obviously felt it. He smiled to himself and shifted his hips to settle himself more firmly on the bulge. “I have a rubber on me, y’know.”
Tim’s breath caught. “I don’t think, without lube….”
“Which is where your first aid kit comes in. Antibacterial salve? That’s a no-no, breaks down latex. Antibacterial cream, though…that’ll work.”
Nelson dug in the pocket of his flannel shirt and held up a small tube. Too dark to read it, but Tim was sure he knew what he was talking about. And also, Tim realized….
He’d been planning this.
Why? Beyond the fact that Nelson didn’t know the meaning of the word inhibited. Not that Tim would ask. It would sound like he was fishing for a compliment. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder.
Nelson tipped forward and pressed his whole body to Tim’s, chest to chest, and said in his ear, “You dig it, right? Getting fucked? ’Cos I have it on good authority that the Voice of Reason is a wicked-nasty bottom boy.”
Tim stiffened—his whole body, not just his dick. Which seemed immune to how mortified he felt.
“Don’t worry, Javier didn’t tell me. You couldn’t waterboard a secret out of that guy. I saw one of your dirty chats—so hot.” He caught Tim’s earlobe between his teeth, raked it with delicious pressure, and then slipped his tongue inside, thrusting, wet…a promise of what he wanted to do with the antibacterial cream. Tim felt a damp spot form beside the fly of his jeans. When Nelson was done fucking Tim’s ear with his tongue, his words were a cool tickle against the wetness he’d left behind. “And I felt your ass clenching around my finger when you shot down my throat.”
Tim was careful not to whimper.
Nelson dismounted and offered Tim a hand up. Tim took it, too overtired and dazed to question it. As Nelson led him to the bathroom, he saw Randy asleep on the other couch. What if it had been Javier in the room with them? And anyway, what about Javier?
Would sleeping with Nelson, and only Nelson, amount to cheating on Javier?
Tim’s head spun as Nelson pulled him into the bathroom, closed the door quietly, and locked it behind them. Nelson turned on the light. Now, bathed in the fluorescent brightness, he looked as worn out as Tim felt. Still sexy, though—it would take a lot more than hollow circles under the eyes and a few days of reddish-gold stubble to detract from his appeal. If anything, Nelson wore his wear-and-tear proudly, like a guitar player rolling off the bus after the last leg of a year-long tour.
He peeled off his shirts. The bruise he’d picked up across his collarbone at the riot was going green, and his tattoos were stark beneath the harsh bathroom light. “That whole master-slave thing never really floated my boat,” he said. “It always seemed like a put-on to me…but watching you, watching him, I get it now. It’s hotter than I thought it would be, probably ’cos you’re both so real about it.” He unbuttoned his fly and pushed down his jeans. “Even though that’s your top kink, I won’t be the one to order you around. It’s not my thing.”
No? Funny, how Nelson didn’t realize that waking Tim up in the middle of the night, dragging him into the bathroom and waiting for him to suck his dick was the very same thing, just without words.
Tim sank to his knees, grasped Nelson’s cock by the root, and took it into his mouth. The tang of long days without the comfort of a shower or a change of clothes spread over his tongue—and he liked it. A wicked-nasty bottom boy? He liked being called that, too.
Phil would never have invited Tim to suck him off without a scrupulous shower first. And he would never, ever have called him something so provocatively raunchy.
Fuck Phil.
Nelson settled his hands on Tim’s head and stroked his hair while Tim jacked him off and sucked him, hand and mouth working while he listened for the change in Nelson’s breathing, felt for the shift in his stance, the tension in his thighs, that told Tim what he liked. Nelson muttered encouragement under his breath while Tim worked his cock, a steady stream of “mm”s and “yeah”s. When Nelson grabbed Tim’s hair, Tim almost worried he’d finish Nelson off sooner than either of them wanted it to happen, but instead Nelson told him, “I think I’d better sit down.”
Tim flipped down the toilet seat and Nelson sat, knees splayed wide, and encouraged him to pick up exactly where he’d left off. The stiffness had flagged a bit while they repositioned, but that was nothing unusual. Hopefully. Because Nelson really was into this, wasn’t he? He sounded like he was. “Your mouth is awesome. Yeah. Suck it just like that….”
Tim went deeper, adjusted the angle of his strokes, and began petting Nelson’s balls with his other hand. There. Everything was fine. Nelson was probably just tired. Everyone was tired. Tim’s performance had absolutely no bearing on….
“Hey, can you hit the light?”
Tim pulled off and considered slinking back into the other room.
“What’s with the long face?” Nelson gave a small laugh. “Oh, I get it, you think I want it dark in here so I can pretend you’re the straight guy with the cute ass who works over at the newsstand. Nothing like that, Mr. Reason, you’re plenty hot…it’s just the fluorescent light. The glare is killing me.”
It was a bright light, as bathroom lights tended to be. Bright enough to shave by, to pick splinters out of fingers…or to notice that Nelson really didn’t look so good. “Another migraine?”
“Wha—no, it can’t be. Not this soon after my last pill. I’m still flush with happy-juice.”
Tim looked hard at Nelson. It wasn’t just unflattering lighting or the strain of a long day. He was definitely pale. “Maybe you should take another pill, just to be sure.”
“Timmy-boy, do you know how much they cost? No, of course you don’t. Why would you? Peritriptan is a premium medication. There are a couple of other types of migraine drugs on the market, and for most of the cases, they work. Not for me. But for enough of ’em that the creeps who make the rules can call the only meds that do me any good a patented designer drug that’s considered to be in the same category as a tummy tuck or a coke habit. Medically unnecessary, not covered by any stripe of insurance, and each and every pill sets me back a cool two grand.”
“Oh.” That didn’t seem right. How could insurance deny coverage on a medication if it was the only thing that gave him some relief? Tim was about to say as much, but then he noticed a pale blue blood vessel pulsing on Nelson’s temple. “You’ve got a, um…” he gestured toward his own temple. “Thing.”
“Fuck.” Nelson stood, jeans around his ankles, and stumbled to the sink to look in the mirror. “It’s too soon. I just took the last dose the day before yesterday.”
“Is it dangerous to take more?”
“No, it’s not dangerous, it’s just…it doesn’t make sense.” Nelson clipped off the last word quickly and squeezed his eyes shut tight, cringing. “Unless I was exposed to some new kind of trigger. Who knows…I probably shouldn’t have tried that cigar. Or the bourbon.”
Tim pulled up Nelson’s underwear and jeans—couldn’t quite manage to button them, but it seemed more dignified than leaving them for him to trip on—and held him by the hips to steady him. “Maybe stress has something to do with it. But whatever caused it, I think you should take one.”
“It’s my last pill.”
“So? It won’t do you any good to save it. You need it now. We’ll figure out a way to get another one later. A grant, or a loan, or something.” Right, phones were down, riot squads were roaming the street, and Tim thought he could just track down a medical grant for a designer drug. Brilliant.
“Pocket.”
Tim slipped his hand into Nelson’s jeans. The inside of the pocket was hot, and his thigh felt hard on the other side of the thin pocket fabric. His fingers closed on a couple of plasticky packets. A condom—the condom, which would have been plunging in and out of his ass if things had gone to plan—and a pill packaged in a single, massively-expensive dose. Nelson turned himself around to face Tim, and said, “Don’t drop it.”
“I won’t.” Tim’s hands were steady. He tore open the packet and tipped the single pill into his palm. It was a small, white oblong. Two thousand dollars. You could get a really good server for two thousand dollars. Heck, his truck had only cost six. The price of three pills. No wonder Nelson’s apartment was so crowded.
Nelson took the pill from Tim’s hand and swallowed it. Tim pulled a paper cup from a dispenser on the wall and filled it with a few swallows of tap water. Nelson took it and drank. And then he sagged, pressing his face into Tim’s shoulder.
Exactly like Javier had, earlier that day.
“When will it put you to sleep?”
“Soon enough. Especially since I’m hardly over the last high.” Nelson turned his head and let his lips play over Tim’s throat. Exactly like Javier had. “I’m sorry. I really did wanna rock your world.”
Wanted to?
He was.
Chapter 25
Some people don’t recall their dreams. Nelson usually remembered. He dreamt about food more often than most people did, since he’d tasted so many things that the general population didn’t know existed as anything other than chemical compounds and flavorings. He dreamt about drinking and smoking, and getting laid. He dreamt he could fly.
He’d heard many people’s dreams involved being back in school again, facing a pop quiz that would comprise their entire grade—and they didn’t know the answer to a single question.
The Starving Years Page 21