Romancing Austin

by Riley Bancroft, Evelyn Berry, Cara Carnes, Jax Garren, Irene Preston, Rebecca Royce, Chandra Ryan

  “Well, I don’t want those things, Dylan. Yes, we had a huge house, but it was empty. Mom was gone and Dad worked all the time. The kids at school only wanted to talk about football and who got the best car for their birthday and who could score booze for the next party. I hated it out there. All I wanted the whole time I lived there was to move back to Austin. I like where I live now. I didn’t want you to buy me things. I just wanted you to believe in me.”

  “I did believe in you, baby, why do you think I didn’t want you working at the restaurant?”

  “Don’t lie, Dylan, and don’t change the subject. Did any of my pieces sell while we were together? Or did you buy them all?”

  “No, no. Win, you’ve got to believe me, only a few.”

  “Why?” He knew Dylan could hear the hurt in his voice, but he had to know. “Didn’t you think they were any good at all?”

  “Winbaby, don’t. Don’t ever think that. I love the things you make. But sometimes you would get so down, you poured so much work into them, and then they didn’t sell right away. When one did, you would light up. I wanted to see you light up, baby.”

  “So, you paid people to buy them. They didn’t even want them. They probably threw them away the minute they got home.”

  “Win, honey, how did you even find out about this? I was careful. Even Annie didn’t know.”

  “The clockwork rabbit, the one you paid some girl to take. She gave it to her boyfriend, and he wanted to know if I had more, so she looked me up.

  “Win.”

  Aston didn’t answer. Dylan had been gone by then, and it had shattered one more memory of their time together. Dylan, who had always been his biggest supporter, didn’t even like Aston’s art.

  “Win,” Dylan said, insistently. “Whatever you’re thinking, it isn’t true. I didn’t just pick people off the street. I found people who were looking but maybe didn’t have the money to splurge. Your rabbit didn’t go in the trash. They liked it so much they came looking for you. They loved it, Win.”

  “You lied to me, Dylan. When I found out, I almost stopped working at all. I thought about just going back to Ophelia’s.” He had wanted to stop, to give up. Everything he touched had carried the reminder of Dylan’s betrayal. Only he hadn’t had the luxury. Dylan had left all the bills paid up when he left, but the next month’s expenses loomed right around the corner. Aston supposed he should thank Dylan. Faced with going back to waiting tables or losing his house, he had gotten serious about finding a way to make money from his work.

  They were back in the house before Dylan said anything else. He was standing in the living room, back to Aston, staring at some of the art Aston had hung a few months ago. Funny how empty the walls had seemed after Dylan left. How empty everything had seemed.

  “Jim won’t care if you let me sleep over again?”

  “No.”

  “That’s fucked up, Win.”

  “You’re sleeping in the guest room. The Pope wouldn’t care.”

  “When you were my boyfriend, I would have cared if you had your ex sleeping in your spare room.”

  “You wouldn’t trust me?”

  “Maybe, but I damn sure wouldn’t trust him.”

  Aston chewed on the words for a minute, trying to figure out what was going on in Dylan’s head. Was Dylan saying he wanted to sleep somewhere besides the guest room? If so, why the hell hadn’t he stayed in touch? Why hadn’t he called when he got back in town?

  “Jim’s not my boyfriend.” He said the words before he could think about them, feeling like he had just pulled the pin on a grenade.

  How the hell did Dylan tie him up in knots like this? Jim wasn’t his boyfriend, so what was the big deal about saying so? Except it had been a little nice to let Dylan believe someone else had wanted the man he had left behind. Even having Dylan think he had some sugar daddy just to pay the bills was less embarrassing than the truth. He didn’t spend his nights with some hot new man; he spent them stalking Dylan on the internet and wishing he would come back home.

  Dylan jerked around so fast it felt like he turned inside out. “The fuck? If you’re not sleeping with him, why’s he paying your bills?”

  “Did it ever occur to you I might pay my own bills?”

  Win had gone white and trembling again, a look that made Dylan want to pound whoever had caused it. Only he would need to beat himself up. Multiple times. The bus people had it all wrong. They should have been protecting Win from Dylan, not the other way around.

  “Why was Jim at the party with you last night and here this morning if he’s not your boyfriend? Why did he bring you a credit card to use if he’s not your boyfriend? How the hell is he like me if he’s not your boyfriend, Win?”

  “Oh.” Win blinked at him. “That’s why you thought…? He’s my agent, Dylan. If you ever bothered to look me up at all you would know.”

  “Your agent?”

  “Agent, business manager, whatever.” Win looked down at his feet. “You were right. I’m not great at the business stuff. Jim takes care those things, like you used to do, so I can do my work.”

  “You got an agent?” Dylan grinned, relief and happiness flooding through him. “Your art’s selling? Baby, why the hell didn’t you say so? You were tearing me up in the car with all your talk of quitting.”

  Win’s art was selling. God, Dylan was so proud of him. All those hours out in his little shed in the back. It had killed Dylan that he couldn’t wave a magic wand and create an instant market for the crazy doodads Win created.

  But they were an odd market, whimsical little creatures of wire and twisted metal, clockwork figures, a few pieces of jewelry, toys and gee-gaws. They were too custom for novelty shops but not your standard art gallery fare, either. The best he had been able to do was Annie’s vintage shop on SoCo and a single gallery over in Clarksville.

  He was about to ask for more details when he remembered the other part of what Win had said. Jim’s not my boyfriend. He tried to tell himself the information didn’t change anything. Win might have someone else. Win was hurt and angry and might not want his ex back. Dylan was a major fuck-up who in no way deserved Win. He should take things slow and try and woo Win back when he had more to offer.

  All those thoughts went through his head. None of them stopped him.

  Win made a little ommph sound when Dylan hit. Dylan pushed Win back up against the wall, practically climbing him, trying to get to his mouth. Win tensed, and Dylan clung to him, afraid to be pushed away.

  “Don’t. Don’t. Win, please.” He couldn’t think, couldn’t make words form. He wrapped his arms around Win and buried face in Win’s neck. Together all last night then all during the morning, and they hadn’t touched once—hadn’t laid as much as a finger on each other. Dylan was starving for a touch, starving for Win.

  Eleven months, two weeks, and four days in the desert of no Win had left him withered, dead. Everywhere their skin touched he came back to life.

  He pushed his hands under Win’s shirt, ignoring the way Win’s hands still rested against his shoulders ready to push them apart. The hard ridge pressing against Dylan’s stomach told another story.

  “What do you want, baby?” He pleaded. Don’t push me away.

  Win made a sound like a sob, and then his arms came around Dylan and he bent down so their lips could finally meet. Dylan thrust his tongue into Win’s mouth, helplessly greedy. Slow down. But he couldn’t. If he slowed down he would die.

  Win’s hands were on his skin, pushing his shirt up just as greedily. Or maybe he only imagined the greed.

  More. He wanted more skin, needed it like rain in the desert. He couldn’t let go enough to get their clothes out of the way, terrified if he allowed an inch of space between them the other man would change his mind.

  Finally Win took charge, forcing Dylan’s shirt up, over his head and reversing their positions almost angrily. Not so angry he didn’t wrap his arms behind Dylan’s back before it hit the wall, cushioning him. Then
Win’s hands were under his ass lifting him higher and closer. Dylan wrapped his legs around Win’s waist, arms around his neck, wrapped his soul around Win and hung on. Never let go. Never leave. Never let go.

  Win shifted so Dylan’s back was braced against the wall and moved his hands to Dylan’s zipper.

  And God, Dylan wanted his touch so much. He almost exploded when warm knuckles grazed him through the fabric. His hips jerked, and he panicked, not wanting things to end like this. He squirmed, dropped his legs and slid down between the wall and the man.

  Win made a sound of protest, but Dylan fastened his mouth on one nipple, turning the moan into one of need before he worked lower.

  “What do you want, baby? Tell me what you want.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. His hands were in Win’s jeans, pushing them down, then he was on his knees, Win’s hands in his hair, Win’s beautiful long cock down his throat and he was home, where he wanted to be.

  And God, he never wanted this to end. How could he have left this? How could he have forgotten? The taste and smell of Win, the way Win’s hands fisted in his hair, frantic and careful at the same time, always so careful not to ask too much, never taking as much as Dylan wanted to give. He wanted to give Win everything. He wanted all of Win in return.

  He relaxed his jaw, opened his throat wider.

  “Don’t Dylan, don’t…I’m going to… I want—“

  Win tried to pull away, but Dylan wrapped an arm around those leans hips, pulling them closer instead, until Win stopped talking and let the thrusts of his body replace words.

  Not until Dylan felt Win, already long and hard, swell an impossible extra bit did he reach down and grab his own aching erection. A few hard strokes, Win’s hands tight in his hair, Win’s hot cum in his throat, and then his own flowing like lava over his hand.

  Win caught him, somehow sliding down and around to pull Dylan’s boneless body into his arms as he sat on the floor with his back against the wall.

  Dylan let himself float, trying not to breathe, think or come back to life. He pretended going to New York was a bad dream. He let his head rest against Win’s chest and pretended they could stay there forever.

  “I don’t have a boyfriend to mind you staying here.” Win’s voice floated into the pretend world, barely making a ripple. His hand slid up and down Dylan’s back in soothing circles. “I have plenty of money. I don’t need you to pay my bills. So, is there some other reason why you can’t crash here until you get back on your feet? I’d like to think we’re still good enough friends you would let me help you.

  Friends. The word sliced through the delicate cloth of make-believe, exposing naked reality.

  Dylan sat up, rolled off Win’s lap, and started the awkward process of getting dressed after explosive sex with a friend.

  Dylan wanted to say no. No, friendship wouldn’t work for him at all. He didn’t want charity from a friend. He wanted to move back in with his boyfriend. But he wasn’t in a place to make any demands. Obviously, he didn’t look much like boyfriend material anymore, but he could work on changing his status later.

  He should still say no. He knew he shouldn’t take advantage of Win this way. He had planned on getting back on his feet first. But he had also planned on Win still needing his support. Maybe he just needed to come up with some new plans.

  “Okay,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ve still got the job at the diner, and I should be able to find something better soon. For now I can kick in for groceries and I’ll cook. It’ll be just like old times.”

  4

  What do you want, baby?

  How many times had Dylan said those words to him? Hours later, Aston lay in bed, every fiber of his being aware of Dylan down the hall in the guest room. He wished he were brave enough to walk down the hall and tell Dylan exactly what he wanted. You, Dylan. I want you. I never stopped wanting you.

  Wanted him, yes. Almost from the first minute he had laid eyes on him. And been terrified of him because it seemed like the cocky chef might actually return the want. Dylan had casually invited Aston to join the crew across the street for after-shift drinks every night, sat beside him, bought him drinks, flirted. The next week he had asked him out to Zilker for disc golf. Just hanging out. Then out to dinner and a movie. No pressure.

  Aston had panicked anyway because it was obvious Dylan was interested in more than someone to share a meal and follow him around the park. But except for some light petting at the door when he brought Aston home at night, he hadn’t indicated exactly what his interest entailed.

  In Aston’s experience, men who wanted him came in two varieties. They either wanted to prove something by dominating the 6’7” giant, or they wanted Aston to do the dominating. Neither option appealed to him. Option two wasn’t so bad, except for the awkwardness of brushing them off. Option one had gotten nasty a couple of times.

  He knew he couldn’t keep putting a guy like Dylan off forever or someone else would be going to the park and getting dinner. He really liked Dylan. He liked him enough to hope Dylan was interested in more than indulging a kink. Liked him enough, finally, to find out. Whichever it was, Aston had started thinking Dylan might be worth it.

  The next time they went out, Aston had asked his date in at the end of the night. They were barely through the door before they had their hands all over each other. Aston wasn’t quite sure how they made it to the couch, but he came out of the haze to find their clothes half off. He shook his head, trying to think why it wasn’t like any of the other times until it hit him. No option one. No option two. Dylan was in the process of getting Aston’s jeans off while keeping his tongue buried down Aston’s throat. Then the jeans were gone, and Aston went rigid...waiting.

  “What’s the matter, baby? You need to slow down?”

  Did he? He didn’t know. He shook his head. He didn’t want to stop.

  But Dylan seemed to know, anyway. He kissed Aston again, slow and gentle and stroked his hands down his body. “What do you want, baby? You like to be on top or bottom? We can do whatever you want.”

  Then. Right then was the exact moment when Aston knew Dylan was The One.

  Of course, the realization terrified him. He was going to mess the moment up and lose Dylan forever.

  Fortunately, Dylan seemed oblivious.He wasn’t fixated on one of two options, either, as he slid his hand down between their bodies.

  Afterward, when he was completely boneless in Dylan’s arms, the insecurities had seeped back in. “You don’t mind?” Top or bottom, Dylan had asked. Not, Do you want to frot like a couple of teenagers.

  “Hell, no.” Dylan had trailed a finger lazily through the spunk cooling on Aston’s stomach, then groaned and stuck his finger in his mouth to lick it off. “You’re hot as hell, Winbaby. Whatever makes you come is going to get me off every time.”

  —

  The next day, there was coffee when Aston woke up. He could smell it all the way back in the bedroom. Real coffee, not the instant he made when he was home alone. Not the god-awful stuff the coffeemaker spit out whenever he attempted to use it.

  The aroma snuck into his brain, evoking scent-memories he wasn’t awake enough to fend off. The smell of home in the morning—Dylan in the kitchen.

  He looked at his watch. He supposed they weren’t morning people. Aston had been back out “networking” last night, or rather letting people gawk at him while Jim did his thing and got Aston commissions. He had done another round of live music, but not so late as the night before. He missed Dylan, who had insisted on going to work and who still hadn’t been home at 4:00 a.m. when Aston got back. Aston had lain awake in bed, not able to sleep until he heard Dylan come in an hour later.

  It was after noon now, late even for him. He got out of bed and made his way into the kitchen, still feeling slow and sluggish from sleep but zingy and excited at the same time because Dylan was here. Dylan, of course, was showered, shaved, and dressed. He looked crisp and fresh, despite having slept less than
Aston. Always the over-achiever, his Dylan.

  Aston poured a cup of coffee, which—yes—was as good as he remembered it, and reached into the cupboard for breakfast. His searching hand met empty air.

  “Don’t bother. You don’t need to eat processed crap while I’m here.”

  “You threw out my toaster pastries? Why? I’m hungry.”

  Then he noticed the pile of chopped onions and potatoes on the counter. Dylan was pulling eggs out of the fridge. Where had he gotten eggs?

  “You went to the store?” How little sleep had Dylan gotten? The significance of the eggs and onions hit him.

  “Tacos?” he asked hopefully.

  “Drink your coffee and give me five minutes, baby. I won’t let you starve.”

  Dylan was already heating oil in a big skillet on the stove. Aston nursed his coffee and watched him happily. Possibly he had missed the breakfast tacos and coffee as much as he had missed Dylan. Three generations of Trevino’s in Texas, and Dylan couldn’t speak a word of Spanish. Food traditions were apparently harder to eradicate than a rolled r.

  Tortillas, eggs, onions, chilies, potatoes, chorizo. The ingredients varied, but they weren’t exotic. Cook the ingredients, wrap them in the tortilla, and add a little sauce. Dylan had left the kitchen fully stocked last year. Aston had tried making them himself. The results were worse than the coffee.

  No worries if he couldn’t cook. Austin had a taco stand on every corner. Bon Appétit had done a whole list of where to get what. Half the best places were within walking distance.

  Aston bought toaster pastries.

  For his breakfast, Dylan had included mango salsa on the side. Apparently the fruit crack yesterday had been serious. Aston shoved it to the side of his plate and concentrated on the good stuff.

  After his third taco, he slowed down enough to talk.

  “How did you get home?”

  “Hopped an airport shuttle to the Omni downtown.”

  Okay. “So how’d you get home?”