by Willa Okati
“Rory.” Harper made a clumsy, uncoordinated grab for the phone.
Rory pushed his hand away without effort. “Ouch, buddy. Language. Do you kiss your momma with that mouth?”
“Rory, I’ll skin you alive. Hang up or give me the phone.”
“Shh.” Rory dropped his leg over Harper’s back, pinning him. He tucked one arm behind his head and glittered with mischief as he settled in. “So, what’s up with the witching hour contact, Patrick? Drunk dialing or are you lonesome tonight?”
Harper buried his face in the pillow and groaned.
“What am I doing here?” Rory tweaked Harper’s hair. “I told you. I’m the guy who got plowed like the back forty miles of a country road last night. You were an idiot to let this guy go. Hung like a horse and rides smooth for hours, let me tell you.”
Harper cracked one eye open and peered blearily at Rory. “Huh? I haven’t fucked you yet. Or you, me.”
Rory covered the mouthpiece with his palm and leered at him with great good cheer. “Don’t worry. You will. As soon as possible. And often.”
“I didn’t know muses could lie.”
“What do you think storytelling is?”
Harper twitched.
Rory didn’t notice, or was too busy planning his next line of attack. “Go back to sleep and let me do my thing.” He tucked hair behind Harper’s ear. “Just don’t suffocate. That’d be a turn-off.” His palm came off the phone. “Wow. You have one hell of colorful vocabulary there, Patrick. I’m almost impressed. ‘Course, I’m fresh from hearing the stuff Harper comes up with when he’s balls-deep in my ass, so you’re gonna have to kick it up a notch to ‑‑ oh, now that’s not nice at all.”
This could not end well.
Rory whistled. “Okay, that’s better. Anatomically impossible even for a contortionist, but I’ve seen you. Ten more years and you’ll have a paunch that keeps you from tying your own shoes. Hello?” He shook the phone. “Roger, echo, niner, niner. Huh.” A beep sounded. “Lookit that. He hung up. I am the man.”
“You are the moron.”
“Nice way to talk to someone who just saved you the hassle of a drunk-dialing ex with menace on his mind.” Rory sounded offended. “The dick actually asked ‘What are you wearing?’ instead of saying ‘Hello.’ Such a putz. He didn’t actually think he had a prayer, did he?”
When Harper didn’t answer, too busy groping at mental damage control, Rory slithered down beside him and pried open one eyelid. “Harper. Did he?”
“For the love of ‑‑ no. I’m not in the market for VD of the soul, thanks.” Harper wrestled away from Rory.
“Then why are you pissed?” Rory curled closer to Harper, trying to drape an arm over Harper’s side.
Irritable, itchy beneath his skin with the same off-kilter tilt to his senses that had annoyed Harper for hours, he shrugged Rory off.
“Hey,” Rory protested. “Enough with the ‘tude. What’d I do wrong?”
Was that an honest question? Harper couldn’t tell for sure, but he thought it might have been.
Harper propped his cheek on his hand and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “No matter how close we are to sealing the deal with Rialto we’re not there yet, and pissing Patrick off is still a bad, bad idea, Rory. Why do you think I haven’t put out a contract on his balls yet? He takes ‘no’ as a challenge, not an answer. Insults like those? Drunk or not, he’ll remember every word in the morning, and he’ll think of something big for payback. Maybe figure out some gigantic monkey wrench to throw in the Rialto cogs. He does that, we’re screwed.”
“Huh.” Rory gnawed at his thumbnail. “That sucks. I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not. A jackass like Patrick? He needs a few slaps. He’ll only keep gnawing your ankles until you put him on a leash. Ooh. Y’know, I wonder if ‑‑”
Harper pointed in Rory’s general direction. “Do not finish that sentence. For the love of God and for the sake of my sanity, if you inspire me with thoughts of Patrick in leather ‑‑”
“Strapped to a set of spreader bars, hands cuffed behind his back, a big ol’ ball gag stuffed in his mouth ‑‑”
Harper spasmed and pressed both sides of the pillow to his ears. “I hate you.”
“You love me and you know it.” Rory ruffled Harper’s hair. Ruffled might not be the right word for something a squeak shy of a scalp burn. “Go back to sleep. Betcha twenty you’ll look back on this in the morning and laugh.”
“Or not.”
“Grouch.” Rory nudged Harper with his toes. “Sleep.”
* * * * *
A strange tickling sensation coaxed Harper out of the beginning of a dream. He didn’t so much mind escaping the sentient red pen preparing to chase him through the Bronx.
He frowned, eyes still closed. The soft tickling trailed down his side, over the sensitive ribs and across his hip. Wetness brushed the beginning of a defined oblique he was darn proud of if he did say so himself.
Tickling. Hair? Wetness. Tongue?
“Shhh.” Rory’s hand, fingers splayed wide, came to rest over his abdomen. “You’re still asleep. Enjoy the good dream.”
“Rory, wha’…?”
“Told you, you’re asleep. Rock-a-bye writer.”
Harper gagged.
“Too saccharine? Okay, fine.” The sharp edges of Rory’s teeth grazed his hipbone. “You’re too awake to let this go, aren’t you?” He chuckled darkly and quested lower, brushing the tentatively hopeful rise of Harper’s cock. “Jeez, the stamina on you. I’d have thought we’d worn it out by now.”
“Hey,” Harper protested.
“Yeah, yeah. You’re in your prime, Captain Atlas. You’re not gonna catch me complaining.”
The tickle of Rory’s hair, the tips trailing over Harper’s bare skin, brushed up over his nipple. He hissed.
“You like, huh?” Rory caught the tantalized nub between his lips and sucked, then used his teeth to tug. “Love me a good hot spot. Bet you could come just from this. Wanna find out?”
“Wanna know what you’re trying to accomplish.” Harper pushed at Rory, laughing. “What’s with all the kisses?”
Even though you won’t tell me what’s wrong even when I asked you nicely, I’m kissing it better. Don’t laugh. At least I’m not taste-testing you looking for the tenderest, juiciest pieces.” Rory smacked his lips. “Although that can be plenty fun, too.”
Harper rolled to his back. He squinted up at the fuzzy silver-and-pink blur that was Rory’s face, hair falling over his eyes, and on an impulse reached up to brush the strands away. Luck smiled upon him and he didn’t misjudge his depth perception to poke anything vital. In fact, the taut line of Rory’s face softened. That taken together with a white gleam told Harper that Rory was grinning at him. Harper stroked what he hoped was Rory’s cheekbone and studied him.
“Harper?” Rory propped his weight on one arm. “Are you ‑‑”
“Would you shut up and get back to kissing me?” Harper asked. “With toast, even, if you want. Anything’s okay if you’re interested. Just don’t get jam on my sheets.”
“Been worse things than jam on these sheets recently, let me tell you that, and if you can’t remember I’m doing something completely wrong. And who needs toast at a time like this?” Regardless of bitching, the sparkle reentered Rory’s voice. He flopped over Harper’s chest, angling close for a real kiss. His tongue slid past Harper’s lips, stroking across the flat and tickling up over his hard palate.
Viva la endorphins. Harper decided he was fine and dandy with a dose of distraction. He fell into the groove, shifting position beneath Rory to allow his muse better access, tipping his head back and moaning contentedly at the rasp of stubble along his jaw. Rory nosed over Harper’s throat, dotting him with marks that Harper couldn’t be bothered to protest. He lapped at a particularly sensitive spot and hummed from the chest, stilling.
“What?” Harper asked, immediately suspicious.
“I had a story idea. Hey, hey, hey,
don’t be like that!” Rory caught Harper’s wrists as Harper would have growled and rolled away in a fit of pique. “I know I was the one who said we were done, but inspiration waits for no alarm clocks, right?” He flopped on his side, either ignorant of or temporarily ignoring the slide of his insistent hard-on up the length of Harper’s hip.
Harper bit his fist.
Rory took that as permission. “What if Outré isn’t on this planet?”
“What?”
“Give it a chance!” Rory gestured enthusiastically as he spoke. “That’d explain a lot about the culture and the family histories, right? Say they’re third or fourth generation off earth. Lots of knowledge got left behind. Maybe a cataclysm or something, and they all escaped the ugly rumors about them. Hoped they’d managed to leave the curses behind, too ‑‑”
“What curses?”
“Didn’t you read the fifth script? Jesus, Harper. We decided there’s a dark and ancient smackdown haunting Fenyx!”
Harper struggled to recall. “I thought it was persistent bad luck.”
“Okay, it is. But it could be a curse, and ‑‑”
“And no way in hell, Rory.” Harper dragged his hand through his hair. “Where are my glasses? Get off of me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I like my dick attached to my body.”
“Heh.” Rory let go of Harper and sprawled loosely, ogling him. “Gotta say I’m a fan, myself.”
“And if we go to Janie with script changes that huge, she will not only castrate me, but she’ll toss your huevos on the fire too.” Harper grabbed Rory’s nuts and squeezed ‑‑ lightly ‑‑ for emphasis.
“Fuck. Fine.” Rory rolled his eyes. “What’s life without a little risk?”
“That kind of risk, I don’t want to go within spitting distance of.”
“She wouldn’t really, you know. Might yell at you loud enough to pop an eardrum, but I can’t see her with a pair of hedge clippers.” Rory mimicked a chopping movement.
Harper, all too able to visualize Janie wielding the snips with a maniacal grin and a pen tucked behind her ear, cupped a protective hand over his groin. “The answer is no, nada, nuh-uh, not in a million years. Drop it.”
“Spoilsport. C’mere.”
“Rory, I’ve kind of lost the mood ‑‑”
“I said c’mere,” Rory insisted, yanking Harper back into bed. He manhandled, or would that be muse-handled, them about until he had Harper positioned, under protest, as the little spoon. “There. Sorry. Can I get back to the kissing now?”
Harper nudged his elbow back but swallowed his vocal protest.
Rory sighed, a surprisingly soft exhalation. “Harper, I’m working my ass off tryin’ to cheer you up, here.” He licked a delicate trail over the shell of Harper’s ear. “You’re worrying me. Haven’t seen you with your chin off your chest since the pizza guy stopped by.”
Harper flinched.
“And what’s up with the nerves?” Rory demanded crankily. “Tell me what’s gone cuckoo in your Cocoa Puffs tonight before I worry myself sick, would you? Maybe it’s something I can help you with.”
“I don’t think you can.” Harper rubbed his eyes. “You should be used to these situations. You’ve worked with writers before.”
“Yeah, and you’re all nuts.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Nuts or not, I’m still invested.” Rory rolled his shoulders in a sort of supine shrug and insistently wormed his arm over Harper’s chest. They fit together as if they’d lain this way for years, forming a comfortable habit of long acquaintance. As if Rory belonged with him. “How about I give you something better to think about?” Rory mouthed the corner of Harper’s lips and sent his hand on walkabout.
Harper jerked, trying to shake Rory off before ‑‑
Too late. Rory’s questing fingers found his lack of ability to get excited about this with so much else worrying him. “Oh.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Relax, I know it’s not on purpose.” Rory thumped his head to Harper’s shoulder. “But this is in no way normal for the Harper I know and, um.” He cleared his throat. “You won’t clue me in, and yes, now I am curious enough to take a peek in there. It’s all this big gray blur that worries the hell out of me, thanks a bunch.” He exhaled noisily, the warm gust of air curling over Harper’s neck.
Harper couldn’t take it anymore. He pressed his fingers to Rory’s temple placed his lips at the corner of his muse’s busy mouth. “Sleep,” he coaxed, sharing Rory’s air, the spiciness sharper than usual. “Forget tonight ever happened.”
Rory eyed him warily but nodded and pillowed his cheek on his hand. For once in his life, he kept quiet.
Harper fell asleep to the soothing rhythm of figure eights traced on his chest from breastbone to navel, over and over again…
* * * * *
Harper’s consciousness seemed to skip a beat. He squinted at the bright blaze of sunlight across his face, wondering who’d turned the dial on the sun past eleven.
“Up and at ‘em, hot potato!” Rory slapped his ass. “How’d you rest?”
Yawning, Harper stretched his arms over his head and sat. He scratched his head, then pushed Rory lazily away, changed his mind, and tugged him back, tumbling his muse over his lap. There. Better. “Great, I think.”
“No weird dreams?”
“No. As far as I remember, I didn’t dream at all.” Sleep, the all-purpose do-over. If he didn’t let himself think about the Clerk, his upset faded to a vague disquiet, easily buried. Surely, they’d have time to figure something out. If Rory had taught him anything, it was that rules were made to be broken.
“You in a better mood?”
“Getting there fast.” Harper stroked the sinewy muscle in Rory’s thigh and rolled his hips, cresting his cock along the crux of Rory’s legs.
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.” Rory beamed up at him, reaching to tickle Harper’s lips. He curled their tongues together and goosed Harper’s ass. “Mmm. Better than angsting all over the place, huh?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Get back down here.”
For his part, Harper preferred Rory’s crow of delight when his balls were fondled to any amount of watchful waiting. Keeping him happy sounded like a plan.
Chapter Ten
“See? What’d I tell you?” Rory flicked a puff of flour at Harper. “Work is great, and work is good. Healthy body, healthy mind. They don’t compare to chocolate, and some days you’ve just gotta say ‘screw you, world, I’m staying home.’“
Harper rested his glasses, fogged with flour, atop his head, partly to avoid white powder caking in his eyelashes, and partly to enjoy Rory’s involuntary reaction to a particular, unexpected hot button. Authority figures pushed his muse’s buttons, which was a whole world Harper didn’t plan on delving into unless his hand was forced. He put the hinky issues aside for the fun of planning a night in with Rory involving a ruler, a desk, and a plaid uniform.
Somehow, he didn’t think Rory would have too much of a problem assuming the position.
“I dared you to bake something edible, if you were going to survive on sweets. Not to buy out a store’s worth of sugar and flour and challenge Betty Crocker for the world title.”
“Blah, blah, blah.” Rory attacked a bowl of mixed brown sugar and melted butter and stirred vigorously, syrupy spooge-like batter splattering his forehead.
Harper tried not to snicker. And failed.
“We’ll see who’s laughing later, pal, when I’m finishing off my third helping of warm peach cobbler with homemade ice cream and you aren’t allowed to have any.”
Hmm. Maybe it’d end up being Harper bent over a desk, asking for a spanking with the rule. He thought he’d be remarkably okay with the turning of the tables.
“I won’t even let you lick my fingers.”
Harper wiped the smile off his face, passing his palm from nose to chin. “I’l
l be good.”
“Aww. I like you better when you’re bad.”
“Good nets me peach cobbler.”
“Bad nets you booty.”
“I can’t lose for winning, then.”
“Sucks to be you, doesn’t it?”
Harper watched his muse moving about the kitchen, lingering over the slim strength of his fingers as he measured, tasted, and worked his undeniable magic. His teeth would explode from the sugar and he would in all likelihood spend the night holding Rory’s hair back while he revisited too much candy. Seemed like a decent trade-off if it meant he could spend these lazy morning hours doing nothing more than sipping bold, rich coffee decadent with cream, as sweet as sin and dark as death, and watch Rory at work.
“I think I like being me today.”
Rory replied with a knowing look, its sharp edges softened by mutual understanding. He hummed under his breath and splashed vanilla extract into his bowl, licked the spoon, and drummed out the bridge of “Freebird” on the counter.
Harper shook his head and addressed himself to his fresh cup of coffee. If Rory didn’t have the muse gig, he’d make one hell of a barista. Never burned, never sour, never weak.
If he stayed, then maybe…
“If doesn’t equal is,” Harper murmured into his cup. “Neither does it equal ‘must be.’“
“Say what, now?” Rory tossed three eggs up, juggled each one, and cracked them on their way down, one-two-three, yolk and white coming in for a perfect landing without a fragment of shell gone awry.
“Nothing.”
“Bzzt. You’re a rotten liar, Harper. Your nose twitches.”
Harper touched the tip of his nose. “Seriously?”
“You don’t trust me now?” Rory poked the batter warily. “Doesn’t look like the recipe page,” he muttered. “Try again. What’re you babbling about over there?”
“I’m babbling? That’s rich. I had a dream that’s bugging me. Nothing to worry about.”
“What’d you dream about?”
“Can’t remember,” Harper lied, hiding his nose behind his mug in a long swig of coffee in case Rory hadn’t been pulling his leg.