by Anne Tenino
“Unless you’re too busy with your research, of course,” Sebastian continued when Toby didn’t answer.
Toby’s fingers tightened on his cell until it creaked in protest. “Oh, I’ve made quite a bit of progress, I could probably take a night off.” From fretting about how much he hadn’t done. Two thousand words was nothing, but it was all he’d managed so far, no matter how many hours he spent trying to motivate himself. Maybe he should use fewer alcoholic incentives.
Sebastian sighed into his ear in that annoying, knowing way he had, but he pretended to believe Toby. “Would you like me to take a look at it?”
“Um, maybe when it’s more polished,” Toby prevaricated. Sebastian’s silence expressed all the skepticism Toby’d been hoping he wouldn’t. “So, a drink tomorrow night? Any particular reason?”
Everything changed in Sebastian’s tone. “I’ve been busy lately. I want to reconnect with my friends.”
“Oh, of course,” Toby nodded at the phone, underscoring how much he thought Sebastian was lying. “What time should I be at the Slaughterhouse?”
“About eight,” Sebastian said, then Brad’s voice in the background filtered through the line. When Sebastian started speaking again, his tone had changed right back to his typically irreverent one. “Brad’s asked me to inform you that Jock will be there.”
“Will he now?” Toby smiled. He would have agreed to meet his friends anyway, just to figure out what was up with Sebastian’s uncharacteristic behavior (and, yes, avoid his thesis), but add in Jock and he was so there. He’d been waiting for this opportunity. After finding out the sordid details of Jock’s outing, Toby had decided he should back off. The guy needed time. He just had to trust an opportunity would arise.
And looky here! An opportunity. One might even call it an invitation.
So, yeah. He’d be there with bells on his nipples and condoms in his pocket.
But before then, there was the small matter of emailing his advisor, Louise, and letting her know that due to difficulties with his research . . . or maybe a dead laptop? But she’d just suggest he should go to a campus computer lab. No, definitely blame difficulties with his primary source research for the missing partial rough draft of his thesis. She’d cut him some slack, and really, she might appreciate not having one more thing to look at during midterm week.
Suuuure she will.
Maybe after some quality time with Jock, he’d actually get inspired to write up a killer draft.
Toby wasn’t surprised when he arrived at the Slaughterhouse Sunday night, took one look at Brad, and immediately saw evidence of a significant relationship event occurring between him and Sebastian. A chain encircled his neck, a small lock holding it together at the base of his throat. Sebastian was wearing a similar chain, although longer and mostly hidden under his shirt.
Well now, wasn’t that interesting? It would be gauche—and less fun—to ask outright. Toby’d have to approach this in a more roundabout way.
For the time being, he greeted Collin—who was boyfriend-free; it turned out Eric had to work tonight—Paul and Trevor, and finally Brad.
“Where’s your friend?” he asked Brad. No point in pretending he wasn’t there to see Jock.
Brad pursed his lips like he was trying not to smile. “He’ll show up later.”
Toby nodded and went to get himself a beer. Since the first order of business was on hold, he’d spend some time investigating developments. He began by standing next to Sebastian and eyeing the dude’s necklace, not hiding his scrutiny from his friend. Sebastian smirked in that special way he had, one brow arched, as if daring Toby to try to make him give up his secrets.
After many seconds of silence and drink-sipping, Toby lobbed the first volley. “I see you and Brad have both taken a sudden liking to jewelry.” It was a minor feint, sort of like the USS Enterprise sending a probe into a gas giant.
Sebastian tipped his chin once in acknowledgment.
Definitely worth more scientific inquiry. “It’s strange, but other than the fact that Brad’s necklace has much larger links, yours looks almost like the one he’s wearing.”
Sebastian took a leisurely sip of his drink, then set it on the bar. “I gave Brad that chain.”
“Oh. And he gave you a matching one I suppose?”
“Why yes, he did.” Sebastian smirked more broadly, idly scanning the bar—a certain sign of obfuscation.
Toby tilted his head to one side—the equivalent of touching épées and shouting “touché” between them. “Brad’s is much shorter than yours, it seems. Almost like a choker . . . or perhaps a collar.”
Sebastian stuffed his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels, eyebrows flying high.
Mm-hmm. “The lock that holds his closed reinforces a certain impression one might get from a chain like that.”
“Oh? And what impression would that be?”
Gotcha. “The impression that he’s your boy.”
Sebastian sidestepped closer to Brad, resting a palm on his boyfriend’s back downright possessively. When Brad turned, Sebastian smiled at him in what had to be the sappiest manner Toby had ever seen on the dude’s face. Which wasn’t very sappy, since it was Sebastian, but by the same token—it was Sebastian. “Well, he is my frat boy after all.”
“Yep, I am,” Brad agreed, then they stood there a few seconds, looking at each other in that way that Toby found both fascinating and a little repulsive. He just didn’t get it. Or rather, he’d never had it with anyone. Which suddenly seemed like a gaping loss in his stomach, but how could he miss something he’d never had?
Because they have it.
Finally, their special moment ended, and Sebastian returned some of his attention to Toby.
“I take it this means you’re in it for the long haul,” Toby said. He was happy for them, really. So happy his diaphragm felt weak and overworked.
Sebastian smiled just as smugly as he had been all evening, as if he alone knew the secrets to both eternal life and the preferred lube of the Sacred Band of Thebes. “My relationship with Brad? That’s exactly what it means. We’re permanent.”
And then—God help him—Toby realized he’d been wrong about the special moment being over when Brad nuzzled against the side of Sebastian’s head, saying something in his ear that made Sebastian’s eyes sharpen or brighten or possibly crystallize. They changed somehow, in some way that men who weren’t in love couldn’t find adequate words for. But Toby didn’t have more than a couple of seconds to even try, because Sebastian dragged his boyfriend closer, so that all Toby could see of them was Brad’s back and Sebastian’s fist in his hair.
Why the hell did Sebastian invite us here for a drink if he’s just going to mack on his boyfriend all night?
Duh. To show off their matching neckwear.
Yep, he was happy for them. Sure, he’d own to feeling a tiny bit excluded, but that’s what happened with people. They began to pair off. Toby’s sense of not quite measuring up was natural, and nothing a few minutes of talking to Paul— Scratch that, Paul and Trevor were walking across the bar, making their way to the door, Trevor’s hand half on Paul’s back and half on his ass, while he looked down into Paul’s face and beamed at whatever he was saying.
At least Collin had come without his man tonight. Toby turned toward the barstool Collin had been sitting on to find him still there, texting into his phone, smiling softly. Toby recognized the expression, because it was exactly the same one Toby had just seen on all his other—coupled-up—friends’ faces. The glow that wasn’t all light reflecting off Collin’s screen.
He needed another drink. Or to leave.
“’Scuse me,” someone said, bumping into him from behind. Toby didn’t have to turn to see who it was, because some sort of heated electrical message leapt from that body to his when they touched, even through clothing. Jock. They still had that crazy lust connection, even weeks later. It buzzed along between them like high-tension power lines. He nearly gave into
his urge to lean back into the hard body behind his.
He turned around before giving in to the temptation. “Hey there,” he said through his most charming smile, the one with that special glint in his eye and just enough tooth to be welcoming but not predatory.
But when he really focused on Jock, the image he’d been trying not to conjure up, oh, all the time flashed across his mind: the one of Jock on his knees, sucking off some other guy, staring up into the camera. Even while it stirred some interest in Toby’s loinal region, it made him queasy. That image was so wrong, on so many levels. And he’d cut off his right arm to be the one to have taken it, which was like a whole heaping pile of smelly, steaming wrongsauce on top of utter rottenness.
He needed to rethink taking Jock home with him. Whether Jock thought so or not, he was vulnerable. Plus Toby wanted to take his time with Jock. Get to know him better. An urge he’d only fully recognized now that he’d seen the guy again.
“Dance with me,” Jock said, eyes faltering and almost dropping Toby’s gaze. At the last second he found some courage and continued to look down at him.
Toby stalled. He couldn’t just flat out turn Jock down, but by getting to know him better, Toby’d been thinking on a personal level, not a physical one. Dancing—especially gay club dancing—was entirely about the physical. “You dance? You don’t seem the type.”
Jock smiled, dimples poking his cheeks. “I can only do it when I’m drinking.”
“I see.” Toby nodded and leaned closer, until he could smell the alcohol on Jock’s breath, blended with one of those cleanish, bracing scents laced with a subtle thread of sex that the athletic boys always seemed to like. Shampoo or body wash? Mmm, body wash. He’d love to help Jock apply that. Someday in the future. “And how did you get served here?”
“Fake ID,” Jock said shortly, shrugging one shoulder, cheeks darkening.
“You’re one of those polite, well-mannered boys, aren’t you?” Toby could feel his grin growing. He shouldn’t tease like this, but it was too tempting to fluster Jock further, see if he could make more color bloom on his skin.
“What d’ya mean?” Jock scowled at him. Angry confusion, brows lowered.
“You’re the kind of guy who feels guilty for having a fake ID, aren’t you? Let me guess—because your daddy taught you not to lie?”
Jock’s scowl drifted away, replaced by a pouty lower lip. “My mom. She taught me table manners too,” he confessed. “I always know which fork to use.”
“My mom too,” Toby said. It was a simple thing, but it led to a moment. Not a Brad-and-Sebastian-in-love kind of moment, but a few seconds of staring into each other’s eyes, caught up in recognizing they had some kind of serious link between them. Not just the connection of two guys who happened to like their mothers, but lust and extreme interest and something else he couldn’t put his finger on. So intense. He cleared his throat. “I’m not sure it took, though.” Total lie—he could balance peas on the tines of his fork with the most haughty European. He glanced away a second and tried to take the conversation back to flirty banter. Or something. “This place is kinda lively tonight.”
“Well, yeah.” Jock shrugged one shoulder. “End of the term’s coming up.”
“Are you ready for finals, then?”
“Pretty much.” He nodded. “How about you? Is it worse as a grad student?”
“I’m not taking any classes right now, just working on my thesis.” Or not.
“You don’t have to teach classes?”
Toby gestured with his pint glass, preparing to explain. “Different schools have different programs. Calapooya doesn’t let you teach any undergrad sections unless you’re in your final year of your master’s, but I taught more than my load the first two terms, so I don’t have to teach any this term. Some schools expect you to teach the minute you start, and a few don’t let you teach any, you just get to be an aide or whatever. That’s what Sebastian was doing for Brad’s ancient history series.”
He’d thought he was giving Jock a small tidbit of information, but it turned out the guy didn’t know as much as Toby’d assumed. “That’s how they met?” Jock asked. “Huh. Hot for teacher?” He smirked.
“Something like that.” Toby smiled, wondering how incendiary it would have been if he’d met Jock that way.
“So . . .” Jock cleared his throat, then said something that Toby didn’t catch over the sudden blast of music. It must be nine—that’s when the Slaughterhouse cranked up the techno. One thing about living in a smallish town, the local gay bars had to cater to multiple groups.
Toby leaned forward, back into Jock’s personal space. “What did you say?”
“Do you normally wear glasses?” Jock said in his ear, breath brushing Toby’s neck. Shiver.
Then the question registered. Great, the thick frames made him look dorky, didn’t they? Damn his weakness for fashion. “I just started again. I’ve always had bad vision, but my eyes haven’t been tolerating the contact lenses lately, so . . .” He shrugged, but it had to have been obvious he’d forced it.
“I like them.” Jock smiled down at him, ducking his chin after a second. “You make a really hot hipster.”
Toby came uncomfortably close to fanning himself. “Thanks.” God, couldn’t he do better than that? “If I don’t dance with you, what will you do?”
Yeah. Flirty banter fail.
Jock jerked back, deflating the cozy bubble they’d created. “If you don’t want to dance with me, just say no,” he said quickly, then his Adam’s apple bobbed. “So you heard about it, huh? The picture.”
Saw it. “Yeah.” Toby’s brain scrambled, trying to regain its footing and fix what his nerves—nerves? Seriously?—had ruined.
Jock nodded, breathing deeply through flaring nostrils—it was audible over the music. “I get it,” he said, starting to turn away.
Which was when Toby got it. “No.” He grabbed Jock’s forearm, squeezing into the hardness of his muscle. “I want to dance with you.” Really want to. They could talk more later, right? Spend some time seeing if there was more between them than lust. Which there was, he believed, because they’d had that moment.
Jock didn’t respond, just stood frozen, jaw set. Toby slid his fingers down the inside of Jock’s arm, imagining they were tracing faint blue veins, until he reached Jock’s hand, then gripped it. Tugging him toward the dance floor. Not pulling, because Toby’d fucked that up and Jock still needed to be able to refuse, regardless of who asked whom to dance. But after one nudge from Toby, Jock clasped their palms together and took the lead, dragging him along.
He didn’t hesitate when they hit the linoleum tile that served as a dance floor, spinning Toby around and pressing against him, back to front. Toby started moving automatically, falling into the gravitational pull of Jock’s body without thinking, while Jock matched his rhythm to Toby’s, any hesitation or uncertainty Toby’d sensed before melting into the thump of the beat. He’d expected Jock to be more circumspect—the way the guy had jerked back from him at Sebastian’s party, he’d gotten the impression that Jock wasn’t used to any sort of public displays.
But it was crowded, and the Slaughterhouse played techno dance stuff nonstop during “club” hours, assuming their college student clientele didn’t want anything else. They had to be this close together, or the other gyrating bodies would pull them apart.
The feel of Jock’s groin in his back distracted him. Jock was hesitant, Toby could tune into that now. Not quite grinding them together, closer to intermittent rubbing. Ships kissing icebergs in the night. Toby raised his arms and slipped them around Jock’s neck. If he didn’t let his fingers run through Jock’s hair, he’d be using them to grip Jock’s hips and yank him flush against his ass, because, fuck, he could feel the guy getting hard, even with this unsustained contact.
He didn’t know how long they danced. One song bled into another and he got lost in the movements and the slide of his clothes against Jock’s, with the tant
alizing hints of what was underneath. At least three songs played before he admitted to himself they were definitely hooking up. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t have more later. Why not start tonight with a bang? Heh.
So he gave in and let the night progress.
By the time Jock took his hand again and pulled him off the floor, he was soaking in sweat. The thought that a lot of what drenched him probably came from Jock himself gave Toby more than the usual thrill, leaving him grinning like an idiot, nearly laughing, and following thoughtlessly. He didn’t come to his senses again until Jock halted suddenly in a pool of shadows a few feet from the exit.
Toby watched as Jock’s back heaved with his breaths, trying to figure out what was going on. There was a breeze near the door, drifting into Toby’s lungs and clearing out some of the fog that the thumping beat and the heat and scent of Jock had created in his senses. Toby stepped closer to Jock, running his other palm down his ribs. “Are we leaving?”
Jock turned to look at Toby questioningly, mouth moving like he wanted to answer but couldn’t quite form words. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and his grip on Toby’s hand started to loosen. Toby didn’t think, he reached up and cupped the back of Jock’s neck, pulling himself up to take Jock’s lips between his own and trace along them with the tip of his tongue. He found that little dip in the very center by feel, that pendulous part of Jock’s upper lip that he’d been unconsciously certain would taste like candy. Gumdrops or jelly beans.
It tasted like sex. A little salty, just on that edge of gamey—the taste that one could never quite claim to like, but couldn’t stop wanting. A little too close to the primitive for the modern man’s comfort, but something he craved nonetheless. And Jock’s tongue sliding along his felt like sex. Slick and muscular. Sweaty, musky sex with a porn-worthy soundtrack. Oh fuck yeah.
“Yeah,” Jock agreed with the voice in Toby’s head, even though Toby wasn’t quite done kissing him. “We’re leaving. It’s gotta be your place, though, ’cause I can’t take you back to the dorm with me.”