by Amy Lane
Carter smiled faintly, figuring he should try for some partial disclosure here. “It’s sort of part of being a lawyer,” he said, hoping that didn’t sound like an excuse. “We’re used to looking at the tiniest details, the smallest things, to help win a case or block a plaintiff—because that’s how our legal system works, right? But we never look at the landscape, right?”
Sandy frowned. “So, like, if you’re looking at an impressionist painting . . .?”
“We see the blobs and the layers and the brushstrokes but not . . .” Carter flailed, trying to think of an impressionist painting that he could use as an example but coming up blank.
“A nice family in the park wearing Edwardian clothes?” Sandy supplied, and Carter nodded, grateful.
“Yes, exactly. And on the one hand, it’s good, because we can tell you why or why not that dot right there works exactly as it should, or exactly as it shouldn’t, but on the other hand . . .” He bit his lip.
“No pretty painting with emotional catharsis. No Sunday in the Park with George or Starry Night.” Sandy sounded sad, and Carter couldn’t look at him, because, yes, that was it, that was exactly what it was like sometimes.
“And see, that would be okay if you could at least be part of something great,” Carter continued, as though driven by a silent jet pack into danger. “But I’m not. My stupid boss asks, ‘Hey, is this legal if we do this?’ and I look at the question. Is this legal? And I’m like, ‘Yes, it’s legal.’ And he’s like, ‘Great, let’s take on this scumbag client who should at least have the moral integrity to own up to being a stupid, incompetent fucker but won’t because we’ll save his sorry ass!’ and then I have to look up all of that asshole’s horrible, heartless, gutless deeds for the last five years.”
“Wow.” Sandy’s eyes were sort of glazed, and he was backing away from Carter like he’d suddenly sprung another head.
Carter took a deep breath and tried to put some more concrete and amalgam in that well of bitterness he’d just unplugged. “I’m sorry,” he said, tamping down mentally on all things work-related. “I won’t talk about work anymore, or my boss, or having to do morally reprehensible things in the name of the law.” He covered his face with his hands. “So, Sandy,” he said, his voice muffled. “Tell me what it’s like trying to go back to school when you’re over thirty, and what sort of horrible person would break up with you for wanting a better life?” He pulled his hands away from his face and plastered on a hopeful smile, willing this nice man who liked animals to overlook his rambling into the brackish lands of bitterness he seemed to be inhabiting these days.
Sandy’s laughter reassured him. “Rick wasn’t bad,” he said quietly. “But . . . but once we broke up, I looked at who we had been, and . . . we just weren’t meant to grow, you know?”
Carter swallowed a little more embarrassment. “No—I mean, I think I do, but explain it to me.”
So Sandy did, telling him about a relationship that sounded a little like Carter and Greg’s, except Sandy had better taste and his ex seemed to have had more emotional depth.
“It’s just,” Sandy said with a final pull of his chocolate, “I looked at him and thought, ‘If he can’t follow me through school, what happens if I want to move somewhere for my career? Or my family? Or even to have a family?’ And I asked him, because you don’t just leave something like that to guesswork, not when you’re talking a three-year relationship, right?”
“What did he say?” Carter asked, thinking that he was more engrossed in Sandy’s voice echoing in the cold dark than he had been in the movie.
“He said—” Sandy took a deep breath like this still hurt “—he said, ‘But it’s just you and me, right? Why would you want a bigger family than us?’ And it wasn’t until he said it that . . .” Sandy looked away, and Carter felt a fragile happiness blossom in his chest.
“You want a family,” he said in wonder. “Someday. After vet school and craziness.”
Sandy shrugged. “It’s just that, you know—my mom was mostly a single mom, doing it alone, and my sister was too. And they were great, and I love Alexis, but I keep thinking, ‘Hey, what would it be like to have a baby on purpose and maybe make a home for it?’ I think that would be really—”
“Warm,” Carter said, even though the cold was seeping through the car and into his bones. “To have the means and the emotional stability and a good home and—” he swallowed, thinking about Freckles, who was like a part of childhood and adulthood and peoplehood he had never even considered before “—dogs. To make a good place for someone, and make them feel wanted.”
Yes, he saw it—he saw what Brenda saw in her life. He’d spent the morning helping Alexis out with her business, and he could only imagine the kind of pride Sandy must have had in helping that remarkable young woman grow into the confident person she was.
“Yeah.” The timbre of Sandy’s voice called Carter from his own revelation, and he realized that Sandy had moved closer, his green eyes gleaming colorlessly in the dark.
“Yeah?” he asked, but not about family or exes or work or any of the things they’d been talking about.
“Yeah,” Sandy murmured, coming so close Carter had to close his eyes, in case this wasn’t what he thought it was going to be and he was just setting himself up for disappointment.
Sandy’s lips on Carter’s were not disappointing. They were cold on the surface, because it was cold in the car now, but the electricity in his touch sparked hot underneath the whole of Carter’s skin. He gasped, and Sandy’s tongue swept in. Carter clung to him, one hand at his shoulder, one hand creeping around his waist, until Sandy moaned and pushed him back against his seat. The unclasping of their seat belts barely pinged on his consciousness, and all he knew was that Sandy’s hand, cold and unapologetic, had snuck under Carter’s sweater, and playful, chilly fingers were tantalizing his stomach.
He yelped, and Sandy pressed the kiss deeper, until Carter was chasing it and Sandy was panting, giving Carter just enough to make him hungrier.
“You’re teasing,” Carter breathed, his voice smoking between them.
“I’m freezin’,” Sandy answered back, burrowing into Carter’s warmth. “Next time we do this, I want a warm place and some privacy.”
Carter leaned back and laughed, holding Sandy’s head against his chest for just a moment, savoring the warmth and the intimacy of their bodies that close together without the heat of passion sealing them.
“There will be a next time, right?” Carter asked, not caring if he sounded needy. God, a simple date—two. Two simple dates. And the first one was wonderful and this one was better. It was like old-fashioned courting, but without the awkwardness.
“Yeah,” Sandy promised. And then he let out a sigh. “But not tomorrow. I’ve got to study—man, I’ve missed some labs to pick up shifts for Cedar, and my professors are letting me do make-up labs next week—”
“Before Thanksgiving?” Carter was appalled. The best thing about his profession was that holidays were sort of sacred.
“Yes, Carter, before Thanksgiving,” Sandy laughed, and before Carter could take offense, Sandy was pressing another kiss, and even if he had any objections left, they were gone with the insistent pressure and the sweep of the tongue. Sandy pulled back with apparent reluctance. “I’ll text you if anything changes, okay? I, uh—” He looked away, and if Carter didn’t know better, he’d say Sandy was blushing. “I really want to see you again, okay?”
Carter bit his lip—like a teenager—and smiled. “Yeah.”
Sandy pecked him chastely on the cheek then, and slid out of the car. Carter turned on the ignition so Sandy would have lights as he ran to his older Nissan, but he waited until Sandy had started his car and fastened his seat belt and pulled out of the parking space before he drove away.
Carter got home, cleaned up Freckles’s “You can’t go out tonight!” protest poop, and then cuddled with his dog in bed (that wasn’t creepy), and thought about the conversation.
Every time he’d waxed vitriolic about Jacobsen, Sandy had winced.
And then he’d seen himself from the outside—a pathetic little man who professed to hold a job in which someone wiped their feet on him two or three times a day, and who had let his last relationship die because he’d allowed the job to suck up the good parts of his soul.
He’d have left himself too.
He’d blown the moments—that distaste in Sandy’s expression—up so much in his head that by Sunday morning he was stunned to get the text: Roommates are driving me batshit. Can I come over and study?
And he fell over himself typing, Of course!
Sandy arrived with a backpack full of books, and he greeted Carter with a hold on his biceps and a quick kiss on the cheek—a sort of casual intimacy that Carter didn’t know if he’d ever had.
“So,” Carter said, unsettled. He’d been ready to hunker down to his own workload just when he’d gotten the text. He’d do anything—turn on the stereo, dance in drag, go buy aromatherapy—just to give Sandy what he needed to study.
“So don’t mind me,” Sandy said firmly. “I swear, Carter—if you’ve got work, go ahead. All I ask is permission to get some water when I need it and use the bathroom when that comes up.”
Carter smiled. “Water, ice, juice, iced tea, and coffee—all at your disposal. Use as you see fit. Bathroom is down the hall. Be careful. I’ve taken Freckles out for one walk, but she tends to leave landmines on the pee pads.”
Sandy closed his eyes in pretend bliss. “You’re awesome. Can I take the couch?”
Carter’s stuff was set up on the ottoman in front of the chair. “Sincerely, be my guest.”
And then Sandy relaxed, legs sprawled on the couch, and did exactly what he said he’d do.
He studied.
They sat in the room, the late-November sunshine slicing through the sliding glass door, and spoke quietly every now and then. Carter worked on his caseload, Sandy read and took notes, the scratching of his pen on notepaper counterpoint to Carter’s.
Yeah, computers were great, but as long as there were giant tomes full of the knowledge of the ages, there would be Post-it Notes and notebooks and ballpoint pens.
When Sandy stood and stretched, Carter followed suit, yawning in sympathy.
“Oh my God!” Sandy crowed. “How long have we been working?”
Carter looked at the clock and groaned. “It’s definitely after lunch. Hungry?”
Sandy cleaned up his work while Carter made them sandwiches, and they sat down to eat, talking about things that sailed right over Carter’s head.
“I’m sorry,” he said apologetically. “I can follow you through anatomy, but you start talking electrochemistry and I’m just . . . just lost. I don’t mean to stare at you with my mouth open.”
Sandy laughed. “You’re being a good sport, actually. Most people get a little glassy-eyed at this point. In fact, you’ve been such a good sport that I feel like I owe you. How about we take Freckles for a walk so no more butt-cookies—” he glared at Freckles who did not look abashed in the slightest from her spot on the tile between their feet “—and then you pick the movie.”
Carter felt a pleased blush creep up his cheeks. “I get to pick the movie?”
“Yeah,” Sandy said, his hand warm over Carter’s as they sat. “You were the good sport who let me come over to study and made lunch. It’s the least I can do.”
Carter concentrated on his empty sandwich plate, unaccountably shy. “I liked your company. I, uh, wouldn’t mind if you came over every weekend to study.”
“Neither would I.”
Carter looked up from the sandwich plate, and even knowing that Sandy had moved didn’t make him any less breathless for the brief, sweet kiss.
Which left Carter wanting more.
Sandy had already stood up though, and they followed through with their plan, walking the dog and laughing as they tried not to get tangled in her leash. It was hard—she still didn’t walk in a straight line, but Sandy didn’t make any comments on Carter’s lack of leash training, and they spent a little more time than average unraveling their ankles from the nylon lead.
Of course, when Freckles went flop-bottom on them, refusing to walk after a mile and a half, she was rewarded with affectionate laughter and a walk back tucked firmly in the crook of Carter’s elbow.
But that need for more hadn’t diminished any at all. In fact, it continued to grow—through a movie, through a walk, through dinner, through TV . . .
Right up into two adult men with their hands down each other’s pants gasping for breath and whimpering on the couch.
Finally Sandy stroked Carter one last time, his hand hard and skin soft against the sensitivity of Carter’s cock, and whispered in his ear, “We are not ready for me to stay the night.”
Carter was. Carter was so ready. He opened his mouth to say he was ready, but Sandy kissed him chastely instead.
“Not yet. I have to be up at 6 a.m. for school, Carter. Not tonight.”
Carter squinted at him, adjusting himself in his pants and wondering where his glasses had gone. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I . . . I mean, it hasn’t been long, and my last relationship was based on one night, so I should know better but . . .” He leaned back and tried once more to fit into his briefs. “Wow. I don’t remember being this horny in college, do you?”
Sandy grimaced. “I’m still in college, remember.”
Carter squeezed his eyes shut, feeling stupid. “Is college the thing? I could go become an engineer or something, you think?”
Sandy laughed and, as if from a magic pocket, produced Carter’s glasses and slid them on. He very gently made sure the earpieces were in place before rubbing his thumbs down Carter’s jaw. “I’m about two years away from my complete degree,” he said, looking sober. “I might not even get a job afterward, but I’ll be a fully accredited veterinarian, and the first person in my family to go past trade school.”
He had some justifiable pride going there, and Carter noticed he had no self-deprecation about doing it when he was in his thirties instead of his twenties.
“You’re really incredible,” Carter told him, missing Sandy’s hands on his skin already. “I . . .” What are you going to do, Carter? Beg? Here was a guy offering to take it slow, and Carter was going to scream like a baby that he wanted sex and he wanted it now? “I need you to text me when you get home,” he said, letting some of the sexual tension thrum out of his body so he’d be able to stand and walk Sandy out the door.
Sandy brushed his fingers through Carter’s hair, face disturbingly near. “You’re going up to your mom’s on Thanksgiving?”
Carter nodded.
“What about Friday?”
“I usually put up Christmas lights,” he said happily, and Sandy’s surprised grin from this close made his heart gear up for more kissing, more touching, and more maybe-almost-sex.
“I’ll come help you.” Another kiss, a chaste one, and then Sandy was standing up, sliding on his loafers, buttoning the fly of his jeans, and running out the door into the freezing night while still putting his jacket on.
Freckles looked up from her perch on the couch (Carter had folded up an old towel for her and put her toys on it, so they could leave her bed in his room) and gnawed on her rawhide.
“Don’t look at me!” Carter had protested. “I didn’t tell him to go. But he’s right—it is fast. Last weekend, I was . . .” He thought about it. He’d been in bed, asleep at this time last Sunday night, because Greg had gone out after work with friends—something he’d done a lot.
“Okay, I thought I was in a relationship with Greg,” he conceded, and Freckles gnawed contemplatively. “I mean, we never saw each other. I went out one night to go drinking with friends from school, and came home with Greg.” Yes, a one-night stand who had never gone home—until he just went. “He worked weekends and got mad because I wasn’t available and . . .”
Carter flopped down on t
he couch and pulled his knees up to his chest—he could do that now that his erection had gone down. “Oh, Freckles—can you believe I cried over that guy? How lonely do I have to be to cry over a guy I hardly knew?”
Except he’d felt like he’d known Greg, hadn’t he? Carefree Greg, a laugh a minute, no lulls in the conversation?
He had lulls in the conversations with Sandy—but they never seemed awkward.
“We’re getting to know each other, aren’t we?” He wanted to make sure. Freckles licked her paw and went back to her chewing. “I mean, that’s a good thing. I’m not great at getting to know people.”
His voice sank disconsolately then, and Freckles trotted across the couch and into his arms. Yeah, going to bed with the dog wasn’t as much fun as hot and sweaty sex—because with Sandy, there would be some sweat and some hot because . . . Gods, he had really wide, bony hands, and the long line from his knee to his ass was just . . . heavenly. Carter could look at the different ways his rangy limbs fit together all day, and probably touch him for years.
And that didn’t even count his green eyes, which Carter was falling a little more in love with every day.
But he didn’t confess the whole falling-in-love to Freckles. She was pretty happy to sleep in her little cushion under his hand anyway. Well, she’d put in her two cents as a therapist, it was her due.
Jacobsen tore down the Thanksgiving decorations, which was no less than what Carter had expected, but the fact that he ripped them into confetti and stomped on them in the trash was sort of a surprise.
“You have something against Thanksgiving?” Carter asked, feeling brave.
“It’s bullshit,” Jacobsen snarled. “Pure bullshit. I’m spending Thanksgiving in Vegas, playing cards and getting laid. The frickin’ turkey is sentimentalist crap, and I don’t pay you people to look at the walls.”
He stalked off to his own office, and Carter exchanged grim looks with his paralegal.
“What happened to . . .?” he asked, since Brenda usually had the gossip.
“Tracy? She didn’t go. She stayed home and surprised Kaplan with dinner and a date instead. Do you think maybe . . .?”