Thus, I was already out of sorts when Sawyer came loping in at around one. Unlike mine, their store had regular employees, and his schedule was more flexible. My post-lunch traffic was light—okay, nonexistent—and I’d been busy arranging the next year’s planner display. I’d selected a beautiful one to carry: vellum overlays and library-quality binding. Being surrounded by lovely things like these had always soothed me, ever since I was gifted my first journal and fountain pen by a British uncle I’d never met. My hand absently stroked one of the planner covers as Sawyer approached.
“We’re going out tonight,” Sawyer announced with no preamble.
“We are not. I have plans. And if Char sent you—”
“She didn’t. But I know what today is, and I’m not letting you be alone tonight.”
“You do?” Sawyer didn’t seem to keep close track of much. I wouldn’t have thought he’d remember the exact date of my parents’ deaths.
“Of course.” Sawyer shook his head, as if he was disappointed in me. A strange feeling bloomed in my gut. “Hollis, I know it’s nothing compared to what you’re going through, but I miss them, too. They were great people to me. And you shouldn’t have to grieve alone. Not tonight.”
“So you’re taking me drinking or some such?” Drowning my sorrows with Sawyer wasn’t without its appeal, but Char’s wedding had taught me well the hazards of being even slightly drunk around the man.
“No, although we can drink after if you really want. I have two tickets to the Gay Men’s Chorus’s Seasonal Show tonight, and you have a much greater appreciation of the arts than me. I need you to come.”
“You do not.” Any other night the invitation to the show would have been much more tempting than a pub crawl or something more typically Sawyer.
“Come on. I might applaud in the wrong place or something.” Sawyer gave me his most beseeching smile, one that almost worked. “Ernesto Garcia is with the choir now and he gave me the tickets. We should really support him.”
“Ernesto gave them to you?” He was an old friend from high school; more Char and Sawyer’s than mine, of course, but he was an exceedingly nice man who’d had a very rough road of it.
“Said he didn’t have anyone else to give his comp tickets to. Guess his family situation is still awful. I really feel obligated to use both tickets and he really perked up when I said I might bring you.”
“You could have asked me first,” I groused, but we both knew he’d won the war at that point. Maybe I didn’t really want to be alone. Maybe I felt guilty for not keeping up more with Ernesto. Maybe it was the sheer power of Sawyer’s smile. Regardless, I nodded and said, “Would closing at my usual time give us enough time to get over to the theater?”
“It’s at the Newmark this year, and yes, I can meet you at your place about seven fifteen or so if you want to spruce up a bit.”
“Spruce up?” I looked at his Portland Timbers sweatshirt and faded jeans and several days’ worth of beard. In contrast, I was in gray wool pants and a heather dress shirt. I might add a tie for this event.
“Hey, I’m dressing up, too.” He winked at me. “Got something new.”
Well, now I pretty much had to go, didn’t I? Curiosity along with knowing just how well Sawyer could clean up edged past my black mood, made me say, “I’ll see you, then.”
“Excellent. Gotta win my bet, you know.”
Oh heck. I’d almost forgotten about his plan to make me show up for Christmas dinner. Something told me I’d have to work extra-hard that evening not to succumb to the season’s charms—or Sawyer’s.
Chapter 5
Sawyer, as it turned out, did clean up nicely. As usual, his jacket was much too thin for December, but he had changed into dress pants, a gray vest, and a red, black, and gray bow tie.
“I didn’t know you wore bow ties,” I said as I locked my front door, really meaning I didn’t know I had a fetish for bow ties. I joined him on the steps of my condo, busying myself with keys and coat to cover how devastating the combo was on him—hot, intellectual, sweet, and charming. In a word: Sawyer.
“I’m trying a new look. Going to be thirty next year. I figure this and a walking stick would fit my advanced age.”
“Oh hush. I’ll reach thirty in March. I’m sure I can reassure you that you don’t join AARP or start needing bran.”
A wide grin split Sawyer’s freshly shaved face. “Why, Hollis, was that a…joke? I’d almost lost hope of you remembering what one is.”
“I have a fine sense of humor.” Had I really lost so much the last few years? I’d always been quiet, but I used to make Sawyer, Tucker, and Char laugh on occasion, something that always filled me with quiet pride when they got one of my sarcastic barbs. And maybe I was more reserved, but I always used to laugh at Sawyer’s more obvious clowning. God, I missed laughing.
“That you do.” He grabbed my arm. “Car’s this way.”
“Car? We’re not taking transit in?”
“Nah. I felt like driving, and I wasn’t sure the buses would get us there in time. There’s parking nearby.”
“I’ll pay for the parking,” I said.
“I’ll pay for your drink afterward.” He winked at me, and I had to work triple hard to remember that this wasn’t a date. It wasn’t. I didn’t date.
I wasn’t a virgin, despite what I had a feeling Sawyer and Char assumed. I was just…discreet in my liaisons. Back in college I’d had a long-running affair with an older man that had ended badly enough to have me swearing off long-term entanglements. But there had been a few encounters since him. Not many and not recently, but I wasn’t celibate—I just didn’t date, especially not the last few years. I knew it was irrational of me, but it felt disloyal somehow, seeking out pleasure when the emptiness inside me was an ever-present reminder of what I’d lost.
Sawyer, however, did date. Openly. Publicly. With much affection. Friends with benefits. Benefits with friends. Boyfriend auditions. Whatever you wanted to call it, he always seemed to have someone around. Which, come to think of it, made his more recent lack of attachment noteworthy.
“Are you seeing someone these days?” I asked after we parked and were walking to the theater.
There was an edge to Sawyer’s laugh that I hadn’t heard before. “No, not at the moment. Why? You volunteering?”
I made an inelegant snort. As if he wanted more than to bang me to say he had. Sex was Sawyer’s handshake—he’d made it clear on Sunday that he wanted more kissing, but this was Sawyer. He loved a challenge, but date me? No.
“Hardly. I was just having trouble remembering the last time I saw you with someone, and you’re usually so…”
“Slutty? Such a manwhore?”
“That was not what I was going to say. Friendly. You’re always so…friendly with your circle.”
Sawyer laughed at that. “That’s one way to put it. But maybe I’m turning over a new leaf. Less sleeping around.”
I didn’t really believe he was capable of that, but I didn’t want to argue. The night was cool and crisp but not rainy, and the theatergoers around us as we got close to the Newmark provided a sort of anticipation to my steps. Despite myself, I really was looking forward to what was in store. I’d been to other productions at the Newmark and it was truly a special place; the main floor plus two balconies were angled so that one felt very close to the stage, despite the theater’s capacity. It was all warm woods and cushy seats.
We had decent seats on the main floor—a bit crowded with people on either side of us, but I could cope. And the show was all I’d hoped—large ensemble numbers mixed with smaller group pieces and a few solos. The chorus was outfitted in snazzy black and red tuxedos. The orchestra was superb, the harmonies complex and pleasing. I even laughed at some of the region-specific spoofs like “A Gluten-free Holiday.” Somewhere midway through, Sawyer stretched and his arm came arou
nd me.
“Sorry. Seats are cramped,” he said in a low voice between numbers.
That excuse might have floated in high school, but I didn’t buy it now. I let it slide anyway, because his getting cuddly wasn’t entirely out of character. He was the most touchy-feely guy I knew, and given our company, I couldn’t really tell him it wasn’t the place. All around us couples of all sorts of gender combinations were holding hands and snuggling up.
The entire ensemble—easily a hundred singers—gathered for “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” My spine went as stiff as my new LAMY studio pen. My hand unconsciously tightened on my thigh, digging into the flesh, until Sawyer grabbed it.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “Look. Others are crying.” Indeed, in the audience many were tearing up, but I didn’t realize I was one of them until moisture hit my lip, salty and bitter.
“It was her favorite,” I said quietly. Mom had always missed London more than Dad, and never more than at the holidays.
“I know.”
He held my hand the whole song, a tight, firm grip that helped me rein in my emotions. There were other numbers after that one, but the chorus of “I’ll be Home for Christmas” lingered in my ears.
“I’m sorry,” Sawyer said on the way out of the theater after the program ended. “I didn’t know they’d do that song.”
“Not your fault,” I said crisply. “I enjoyed the lighter numbers immensely. We need to get Char to watch a clip of the gluten-free holiday number.”
We’d parked in a smaller, underground garage a few blocks from the theater and the dim lights flickered as we made our way to Sawyer’s Charger at the back corner of the garage.
“Hols.” Sawyer turned to me as we got into the car. “You do know it’s not your fault, too, right? I mean, you don’t talk about what happened—”
“For good reason.” The thick feeling was back in my throat.
“But you have to know it’s not your fault.”
“I know,” I said, because that was the answer he and Tucker and even Char demanded. But the truth was I’d blame myself until my dying day. It was a skiing accident—we’d been on a ski weekend, the three of us, a chance to see the new powder. I’d gotten too cold, as I always did, and headed back to the lodge for a cup of tea. They’d gotten trapped by a freak avalanche. Rescuers had been too late.
Sawyer apparently didn’t believe me, putting both hands on my face and making me look at him. His hands were bare, but I shuddered from emotion, not cold. “Not. Your. Fault.”
“I should have made them come with me to the lodge. Or stayed out with them,” I whispered. I rarely said even that much.
“Then what? The three of you gone?”
I was quiet because that was something I thought about more than I should have.
“Hols. No.” There was so much anguish in his voice that I couldn’t help myself. I leaned into his hands and did the least sensible thing I could—I kissed him, pouring all my mixed-up grief into the most mixed-up action I could think of.
It was raw, not sweet like at the zoo or controlled like in the kitchen. This was the sort of messy passion I always shied away from.
“Oh fuck yes,” Sawyer groaned, coming half across the gearshift, pressing me back against the passenger door, tongue thrusting in my mouth in an unmistakable rhythm.
His hands pushed my coat open, pulling my shirt free of my pants at the same time. His questing hand against my bare stomach made me hiss. His touch was warm now, and our breath had fogged up the windows.
“God, you make me crazy.” Sawyer’s mouth found my neck, a spot most lovers were content to ignore but Sawyer exploited to its fullest.
I moaned and gasped, little needy sounds I couldn’t seem to hold back. His hand was rubbing me through my pants now. I had never, not once, climaxed in my pants, but Sawyer presented the very real possibility of that happening.
“Not yet. Not. Yet.” I started to pant, my body tensing. Just saying the words ratcheted my pleasure higher. “Can’t.”
“So responsive.” Sawyer licked where my neck and shoulder joined. “Like this, do you?”
“Don’t stop.” I’d never felt like this before, slightly drunk on desire. His mouth on my neck was like touching jumper cables that went straight to my groin. I sometimes touched my neck when pleasuring myself, but it was nothing like this.
In the back of my head I was aware that Sawyer was probably leaving a mark, but at that moment I would have begged him for a neon sign as long as it kept his mouth right there.
Sawyer grappled for my zipper, and suddenly it wasn’t enough to have his hands on me. I wanted—needed—to touch, too. I worked my hands between us, losing my gloves in the process. It was tight and awkward and the struggle simply made the victory of finding his fly that much sweeter.
“Yeah. Keep making those sounds,” Sawyer growled. “Fuck, you are so sexy when you let go. Gonna come for me?”
“Unnh,” I moaned as he found my cock and pulled it out. “You. First.”
I got his fly open finally and grasped his cock, giving it a firm stroke for emphasis. Good lord, the man was big all over. I was no size princess for sure, but even I had to admit Sawyer was impressive.
“Oh no, no.” He lightly bit that live-wire spot on my neck. “We’re not playing that game right now. Sometime—soon—I’ll make you wait, but right now, Hols, I want to see you fly.”
I wasn’t used to so much…talk with sexual encounters, and Sawyer’s words did indeed launch me into orbit as his mouth attacked my neck again.
“Not yet, not yet, need to…oh God,” I babbled as the pressure built.
“That’s right. Work for it. Come on.” He found a spot below my ear that made me cry out.
“Please, Sawyer, please. Oh. Oh.”
“I got you. Come now.” His teeth met my flesh and there was no doubt about a mark now. He was claiming me, and part of me thrilled to it, relished the slight edge of discomfort until it was all too much and I was falling, thrown over the cliff with reckless abandon, straight into an intense orgasm that left my whole body shaking.
My fist had reflexively tightened on Sawyer’s cock and he made a desperate noise, hips snapping up to meet my hand. I stroked more deliberately as I came down from the high.
“Yes. God, Hols. Needed this so long. Hols.” Sawyer chanted my name as he lost control, spurting all over my fist, catching my coat and chest in the process, too.
He collapsed back into his own seat. “That was—”
“Messy.” I swabbed at the mess with the lone napkin in Sawyer’s glove box.
“I was going for incredible.” Sawyer sighed. “But, yes, messy. I love mess.” He licked a finger, probably just to see if I’d cringe, which I didn’t. I also didn’t let on that it made my pulse leap a bit, the hint of that pink tongue laving at his finger like that. I also had absolutely no clue what we should talk about, so I busied myself fussing over my clothes until he’d started the car.
He didn’t seem to have any more idea than I did about what to talk about so it was a blessed relief when he flipped on the stereo. I even forgave him the One Republic. What the heck had I been thinking? A public parking garage? Sloppy hand jobs? Absolutely no restraint whatsoever?
“Your place?” he asked as we headed back to the northeast part of town. “Or…mine?”
“Mine, thank you.” Then, prim as a Wild West schoolmarm, I added, “No need to see me up.”
“Hollis—”
“I need to think, Sawyer, and thoughts are in short supply when you’re around.”
“Fine.” He sounded so resigned, and why that made me sad I really couldn’t say. The words to counter him, to tell him to come up rose in my throat and died on my tongue.
“See you Sunday, I guess.” His voice was still so strangely flat. I wanted the usual Sawyer back.
“Wait. What’s Sunday?”
“We really do need to get you a Google calendar with reminders on your phone.” He laughed, some of his usual humor coming back. “Sunday evening is the annual business association holiday party. It’s at People’s Cup after we all close up for the evening. Potluck.”
“I skipped it last year—”
“All the more reason to come this year.”
“I hate potluck.”
“Bring something you want to eat yourself. That’s what I’m doing.” He grinned as he pulled up on my street. I lived just around the corner from my shop in a newer condo development.
“You cook?” I couldn’t keep the skepticism out of my voice.
“I bake.” His smug grin made him look like the kid I once knew, way back when everything was silly bets and bad pop music. “You’ll have to come to find out what. Or to witness my downfall.”
That last bit was surely tempting, but it was the vulnerability in his eyes that had me saying, “I’ll see.”
Chapter 6
I worked Saturday and Sunday with steady business, the kind my bottom line liked to see. Thanks to the money from my parents, I wasn’t solely dependent on the business, but I did need to turn a profit. I knew Char—and Sawyer, for that matter—thought the solution was to carry more stock, but that wasn’t the vision I had for the store. A well-curated boutique is better than an emporium of odds and ends. I actually did a fair amount of online business—people who shared my obsession for pens mainly, and those who trusted me to put together the right sort of gift for a graduation or corporate milestone.
Milestones deserved recognition—and not the loud, cheering kind. I felt something tangible was increasingly important to help make sense of the chaos of hundreds of social media likes and no real sense of accomplishment on a visceral level. I was working on one such gift Sunday afternoon, packaging a Leuchtturm 1917 notebook with an Edison Beamount, one of my personal favorite pens for its understated beauty. I used a handmade paper presentation box and had put everything just so when my phone buzzed.
Gathered Up Page 17