by Neve Wilder
His thighs braced mine and I tugged the top of his pajama pants until he sprang free. He fisted his cock and groaned.
“Let me,” I begged, bracing myself on my elbows. I wanted him, I didn’t care where; my entire body was fair game. He brushed his palm over the layer of cooling sweat on my forehead, sank his fingers deep in my hair, and shook his head. He jerked himself off rough and relentless, gasping shallowly for air until he spattered his load across my chest with a stifled moan.
Curling over me, he let his forehead rest against my shoulder, his ragged exhales mingling with mine. For a second, I thought he was going to collapse on top of me. I would have welcomed feeling his weight. Then his fingers loosened in my hair, released, and he rolled off to the side, smearing his hand through the jizz on my chest. I caught that slick hand in my own, sucking his fingers into my mouth one by one and licking them clean until he groaned and cut his eyes away from mine.
“Fuck.” He sighed, shifting onto his back.
“Next time.”
He aimed a thin smile at the ceiling.
“Stay.” My voice was quiet and my eyelids were already drooping. And then there was only darkness, the ceiling fan above gently stirring humid air, sweat drying on my body and the panting warmth of Rob beside me. I kept thinking, why had it been so fucking difficult to get to this point?
11
Rob
I shouldn’t have been lying in the bed with Alex, watching him sleep. I had planned to go back to my Savannah apartment at the end of the workday, spend the night, and return to Nook Island the following morning. But as soon as I’d walked through the door of my apartment that afternoon and smelled the stale air that I’d been expecting, I’d known I wouldn’t stay. Everything was tidy, there were no dishes in the sink, nothing out of place. But it was as if I’d walked into a void, and the corresponding emptiness inside me made me hesitate as I closed the door.
I’d stood at the foot of my bed, scanning the pictures on the nightstand, trying to reposition myself in my own life and struggling. My knee had brushed against the bedspread and I’d examined the pale stripes, wondering when I’d picked it out, or if I’d picked it out at all. Had someone else done it for me? An old boyfriend before Sean? Maybe even my mom?
I’d roamed the small living area like an archaeologist, scouting tables and walls for artifacts of myself left behind. Scented candles, the remote control on the coffee table, a couple of navy throw pillows. The couch was a light tan that would have horrified Alex, and I guess I’d picked up a few things from him because I’d noticed the golden beige of the walls was all wrong for the furniture. Everything was wrong. I’d sniffed at the candle and cringed at the cloying artificial sweetness of cinnamon spice. Was I living in the wrong life and for how long? Had I slipped into it over the course of weeks? Months? Or was it years?
Breathing hard, I’d started to get that clenched feeling in my chest, as if I couldn’t inhale enough air, and tried to calm myself. It wasn’t years. I was still myself, albeit a bit tender in parts, and I’d reminded myself I was still going through the grieving process, that I couldn’t expect to just snap out of it and be fine after everything that had happened over the past year. But the tight fist in my chest had remained, spreading chilly fingers around my throat.
I’d had my first panic attack at sixteen when I’d gotten caught with my pants around my ankles and my classmate, Gene Destrado, jerking me off in the garage. My mom had put her hand to her chest first and then it had started flapping around as she’d covered her eyes like the sight of us was a bad smell she could fan away.
I’d buttoned up fast, kicked Gene out, and had found her crying in the kitchen. I wasn’t sure whether or not I was supposed to apologize, so I did. She’d kept saying, over and over, “It’s not that, Rob. Oh God.” Until I’d decided it was best to leave her alone. I’d been ashamed and felt helpless and wrong for being caught, for who I was, like I’d been issued the wrong parts or the wrong skin or the wrong brain. We weren’t a religious family, but Ellen Degeneres hadn’t come out yet and there was still this vague but damning societal undercurrent that liking the same sex was wrong with a capital W.
Later, my mom had come into my bedroom where I’d sat on the edge of the bed gulping air that raced away faster than I could catch it. She’d had trouble meeting my eyes, but her hand had been steady on my knee as she’d squeezed. “Deep breaths, baby, deep breaths,” she’d said. We must have sat there like that for a half hour before my chest expanded and remembered how to function. Then she’d told me, “It’s not wrong Rob, and don’t let anyone tell you it is. But it’s a hard lifestyle, honey.” It was love and sorrow in one confusing little package, and I was a lot more careful after that until I’d hit college and no one cared as much.
I’d dropped onto the couch in my apartment and taken deep breaths until I steadied, looking at the walls, at the few pieces of art hanging there that I’d picked out haphazardly or had taken from my parents’ house. At that moment, everything I owned had seemed like nothing more than a byproduct of trying to move up the corporate ladder, or things to check off—apartment, wardrobe, furniture, 401K—on a list of successes with the ultimate goal being partnership. I had no clue what was supposed to come after the partnership. Would I then decide it was okay to live, okay to put more time into something like considering a piece of art or buying a chair because I actually liked it? I’d thought I was blowing things out of proportion a little, too. I didn’t mind my furniture all that much and it was okay to not be that invested in the aesthetics if it wasn’t important to me. And I did have a bit of a social life and hobbies, I was just in some state of…imbalance. I didn’t think I was going to get my thoughts sorted by staying in the apartment. So I’d picked up my bag and returned to Nook Island, knowing damn well I was just applying a bandage to a larger problem. But at least I’d be able to breathe.
So I’d had no fucking business opening the door to Alex that night. No fucking business standing in front of him in the kitchen thinking about the way his mouth would feel on mine while he vibrated with life and summer night heat.
I’d been so hard my fists had clenched when he got close and I’d jumped when he touched me. Go away, was all I could think, before I do something else I’ll regret. And when he’d left, I’d regretted that, too.
Stormed by a feeling of helplessness and indecision on both sides, I’d taken another swallow of scotch and gone to my room. And when I’d gotten up to go into his, I’d convinced myself it was for one simple thing, to tell him happy birthday. But my body had known all along it was for another.
Alex lay curled on his side, his exhales coming out in quiet puffs. I couldn’t sleep next to him and part of the reason was because I wanted so badly to sleep next to him. It was a fucked-up version of insomnia where, instead of being aware of the passage of time, I was aware of the rise and fall of his chest, the way his legs moved against mine, and those occasional little sleep twitches everyone had.
After an hour, when I knew I wouldn’t disturb him by getting up, I slipped from the bed and returned to my own room to shower and shave, then went down to the kitchen to make coffee, set up my computer, and begin working. The vestiges of that insomnia lingered and my thoughts strayed; I was acutely aware of him upstairs.
When confronted with a column of numbers, profit margins, and expenses, remembering the soft heat of Alex’s straining muscles distracted me. I could’ve sat there all morning with my pen jammed behind my ear replaying the harsh gasp Alex let out when he came. And yet the brighter the morning became, the more the haze of lust burned away and I was left wondering if I’d painted myself into a corner.
A relationship with anyone was the last thing that I needed. I was a knot of issues that should have been worked out long ago and no one deserved to be put through that process with me, especially Alex. Our trajectories in life were too different. Alex and I simply didn’t add up for more than a night of fun. Now, with our mutual curiosities sat
isfied, we could move on. I didn’t think Alex would have any trouble. So why was I?
Alex meandered in at a quarter to eight, raking a hand through sleep-wild hair. He was as devastating in the morning as I’d imagined he’d be: all bronze and sinew, bare chest, long legs with the punch of toned calves and sleekly-muscled thighs. I turned my attention back to the bleak column of numbers on my screen.
“Morning.” His voice was groggy with sleep, and adorable.
I jutted my chin toward the coffee maker. “It’s still hot.”
Alex eyed me, his mouth twisting up in a pensive bunch, then nodded, heading for the coffee pot. I suspected we were entering that doldrum territory of morning afters. A stray breeze would blow us either into the land of ignorance or conversation. I hoped for the former.
“Left hand cabinet,” I said when I heard him rummaging around for a mug.
Once he poured his coffee, I felt him come up behind my chair. He dropped a light touch on my shoulder, and though I didn’t flinch, I stiffened.
“What are you working on?”
His hand fell away and I relaxed as he sat in the chair next to mine, hissing as he took a sip from his mug. That sound. God, it took me right back to last night and made my cock twitch.
I needed to get him out of the house. “A few weeks of backlogged accounts someone else fucked up.” I even sounded grumpy to myself. I didn’t mean to; defensiveness and anxiety coated my words in an impenetrable carbon fiber shell.
Alex hummed, apparently unruffled, or trying to be, and stretched out his legs.
“There’s some aspirin in the cabinet.” I flicked a glance to him. Yep, still gorgeous. And also studying me again.
“I told you I wasn’t that drunk.”
In a way, it was kind of too bad. It would have been something to blame. Of course I still had no excuse. Alex’s thumb circled the rim of the coffee mug and then traced the handle.
“So we’re going with option b: ignoring last night? Or maybe option c: being totally awkward about it? I dunno, could be d: all of the above.” He perked a tiny smile, still watching me.
I cracked my knuckles and laced my fingers behind my head in a stretch, going for casual. “How about option e: we just move forward and leave last night alone and call us even now?”
“There’s never an option e.”
I sighed.
“Listen,” I said, exiting my spreadsheet and closing the top of the computer. “I shouldn’t have done that last night. I should have been in better control of my—myself.” I gestured around the kitchen. “I’m trying to simplify.”
“Ohhh, you’ve chosen option a: acknowledgment and self-blame. It is a popular option. One I’ve chosen plenty of times.” He still wore that same little smile, but it took on an edge of sarcasm. “It’s also a cop-out. Sex doesn’t have to be complicated, you know.”
“But it almost always is. Especially with any kind of frequency.” Which was how I had ended up with Sean. One drunken free-for-all became a lunch time hand job on the sly, became a dinner and sex spree, became every Friday night at my apartment under the guise of hanging out and watching movies. See sex spree, again. In no time, we’d morphed from sex-hungry sybarites into semi-domesticated animals pawing at each other before finally transitioning to this-is-someone-I’d-like-to-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with. At least on my end.
I couldn’t do that with Alex, couldn’t even leave myself open to the possibility. He still had too much to do: career failures and successes, heartbreaks and one-night stands. Thinking about it terrified me at the same time it made me feel pretentious for all of the assumptions I was making. But the fact remained that our paths were too divergent.
Alex continued to look at me, a rather unconvinced expression on his face and maybe a little amusement.
“Look, Alex, we scratched the itch.”
“We scratched the surface, if you ask me.” He drained the rest of his coffee and rose to set the mug in the sink. “But I’m not going to plead my case or anything. I mean, I do have some pride. You’ve struck me down twice before, and though I’m not sure what last night was—other than really fucking good for me—I do have some pride. And I kind of hope you enjoyed it too, but if you didn’t, I can’t do anything about it. Either way, it’s not a big deal, so there’s no need for you to make a crime scene out of it.”
He rinsed his mug while I just sat there, my mouth twisting around all sorts of words, none of which formed with any coherence until, “I enjoyed it.” Lame. So lame. Cringeworthy lame.
“Great. All parties are satisfied.”
I glanced at him to see if he was being sarcastic, but it didn’t appear so.
“I’m going to grab my clothes and go. I can bring Winslow by later, and I’m still good for work if you want me tomorrow.”
If you want me. I did. Right then, in fact. But that was beside the point. Scratching at the stubble on my jaw, I nodded. “I do if it’s not going to cause any trouble.” I didn’t want to scour around for another helping hand and didn’t want to get put off for days or weeks by a professional crew. And we were so close to finishing anyway.
“Like I said, it’s fine,” he said it with an airy smile. “Thanks for the hospitality.”
I admired his ability to flip the switch back into neutral as much as it formed a pit in my stomach. Plenty of other fish in the sea or whatnot, so why shouldn’t it be easy for him to let me cast myself back out still hooked on the bait?
“Any time—” I started, then corrected myself, “You’re welcome.”
He grinned, flashing me a wink that bottomed out that pit in my stomach.
Alex went upstairs and when he returned, I was waiting in the foyer with an envelope I pushed into his hand.
“What’s this?”
“Your pay. I meant to give it to you the other day.”
Alex took the envelope, slitting the top, and thumbing through the bills. ”It’s too much.”
“I added a bonus.” I’d padded the original sum by a couple hundred bucks, but I figured he could use it.
Alex gave me a hard stare, the striking gold flecks in his eyes eroding into dullness. Then he flicked through the bills again and removed the extra portion, holding it back out to me. “I’m not charity and I’m not a rent boy,” he said stonily.
I held up my hand to protest. “It wasn’t meant that way.”
“Yeah? Well then your timing is a little shitty. This is what I mean about you being hard to read.” He gave me a tight smile as I folded the extra bills back into my palm and then he walked out the door.
12
Alex
I didn’t really think Rob was trying to buy me off or treat me like a rent boy. But on top of his clumsy woe-is-me apology, it got under my skin.
I rolled back the reel in my head, and even hours later still got tingly when I remembered his hands on me and the kind of half-desperate way he’d said my name. But there were also these little gaps and inconsistencies that bothered me. Like the fact that we hadn’t kissed, and that he wouldn’t let me get him off or even participate. His insistence on control. So the dismissal in the kitchen wasn’t unexpected, but it still hurt a little bit. I did like him, maybe more than I’d been willing to admit.
Determined not to mope around bemoaning Rob’s semi-kind-of-rejection, I threw it in the whatever pile, chalked the night up to another random hookup, and nipped any surge of heat that came from replaying the imagery in the bud, distracting myself elsewhere. He’d be gone soon enough, anyway.
Tom and I picked up a junk load at noon, followed by a donation drop from some mega-rich guy in the city who made the time pass just by being pretty to look at.
The last part of the afternoon was spent moving a couple of girls from their apartment to a sorority house. I had no idea why they’d put half their shit in a storage unit just to go back to sharing a 13x13 room. But then, I never did get Greek life. I just enjoyed poaching from their male population on occasion. Speaking of poach
ing, I expected Tom to be trotting out his usual dog and pony show of backwater charm for the girls, but he was uncharacteristically reserved as we worked.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as we boxed the contents of a dresser. There was a thong in every shade of the rainbow, and I expected some crass commentary from Tom at any moment.
“No one needs this much fucking underwear,” he grumbled, his mouth compressed and surly when he glanced up at me.
“No. I mean with you. You’re all…quiet.”
Tom shrugged and shoved another pile of Victoria’s Secret into a box. I reached in after him and reorganized the underwear in a more professional manner. “Usually you’d be halfway to sniffing these now like a perv, saying taste the rainbow or something. Bad rest of the night?”
Tom looked up sharply and grinned, but it seemed as if it required effort.
“Nah.” He shook his head. “I got laid on your birthday. Happy birthday to me.”
“I figured as much when I couldn’t find you to, you know, take me back to your apartment where I was supposed to sleep.”
“Shit! I’m sorry, I totally blanked. Did you cab it back home?”
“Noooo…” I considered whether or not to tell him about Rob. It was brimming inside me. Work and family took up most of my time, so I texted back and forth with a few friends, but my gossip circle was limited these days and Tom was about the best I could do even if he wasn’t into the same team.
“Sad dude?” His eyes widened. “No you didn’t.”
Oh, fuck it. I cracked a grin. “Don’t call him sad dude. It’s not like he’s Eeyore. His dad died. Practically right after his mom.”
“You keep reminding me. I stand by my statement.” Tom narrowed his eyes at me. “You let him stick it to you.”
“No!” I flicked him off. I would have, though. I definitely would have let Rob stick me anywhere he wanted that night.