Owen had been so damn rational the night before, laying out a case for them having something of a...what? Fling? Hookup arrangement? Friends with benefits? Quill wasn’t sure exactly what to call it other than not happening. He didn’t want to be a convenient fuck for Owen, and that even more than ethics had kept him rooted to his sleeping mat. Owen might be able to flit from lover to lover, celebrating the benefits of regular sex, but that wasn’t how Quill was wired. The last thing he wanted was to get attached to Owen, come to depend on him, when all he could ever be was temporary. Missing something was worse than never having it at all—Quill knew that better than most.
And weirdly, he hadn’t wanted to talk about JP in years, about what he missed, what he’d had, but something about Owen had made it hard not to open up, had had his lips clenching around unspoken words that wanted to spring forth. It was bad enough that his body wanted to yield to Owen’s suggestions. He wasn’t going to make the mistake of bringing his mind along for the ride as well. He’d woken up in the middle of the night, chilled despite the warmth of the stove, and he’d been unable to help glancing back at the couch. If Owen had asked to huddle for warmth again, he’d been sleepy enough and stupid enough to say yes. But Owen had slumbered on, oblivious to Quill’s continued mental gymnastics.
The flip-flopping had continued all morning, and the wait for Ron to make his pronouncement didn’t help matters any.
“It’ll take me an hour or so to take apart this wiring harness, get it back together.” Straightening at last, Ron punctuated his words with a clicking sound.
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Nah. But Hattie always kept the coffee on. Your new boy do the same? I wouldn’t turn down a cup to warm up after.”
Quill’s neck muscles coiled, tension radiating down his spine. Hattie would have been quick with a remark to put Ron back on his heels, and indeed, Owen himself probably would have had the right cutting defense. But part of Quill was thrust back in time, on the school bus, older boys hurling insults, him unable to think of a single comeback, and he had to struggle not to stammer.
“Owen’s our new winter volunteer, yet he’s not a kid—older than most of the recent grads who take these slots. Great guy.” His words kept on tumbling out as he tried and failed to cover his discomfort. Even now, he hated conflict, hated how it made his gut churn and muscles tense as his words turned into soggy cereal, not good for much. “The coffeepot’s electric, so no go until you get things running. But Hattie left her French press behind. I’ll rustle you up a cup myself.”
“Appreciate it. And I’ll bet you twenty he doesn’t last until Christmas. He’s got Left Coast written all over him.” Ron shook his head. He’d met Owen when he’d arrived, as Quill and Owen had brought Ron and his equipment in on the snowmachine from the main road. Owen had headed back out to check the state of latrines and trash barrels. That and perhaps he’d sensed that the three of them in the generator room would be a tight fit in more than one sense.
“He’ll last.” Quill wasn’t sure why he was defending Owen so firmly. He’d had plenty of similar doubts himself about Owen’s suitability, but something about Ron’s tone had him bristling. Maybe standing up for himself was still a sore spot, but he wasn’t going to let Ron insult Owen—he’d brave all the discomfort of conflict to keep someone from bullying him.
Unfortunately, Ron didn’t seem content to leave it, clucking again. “Gotta get you a wife, Ranger. Girlfriend back in Wasilla. Something. Don’t want people thinking—”
Quill let out a warning growl at that. “They won’t.”
And this was exactly why he kept his personal life private. Homophobic idiots resided all over the country, and he simply wasn’t cut out to be a flag bearer. He wasn’t going to let Ron get away with any cracks at Owen, but somewhere deep inside Quill was that skinny, shy eleven-year-old who’d borne the brunt of teasing from the older boys and the pointed digs at home when he’d complained. Even his beloved grandfather had told him to man up. He’d come a long way from those years, but he’d never learned to like being the center of attention or gossip. Speculation like Ron’s always felt like burrs worming their way under whatever armor he’d built up, heartbeats away from those insults and slurs that had made his younger years such misery.
“Maybe.” Ron shrugged. “Just saying. You’ve gotta be missing Hattie. Damn shame they gave you some...city slicker.” Ron’s pause said he’d considered several less charitable labels. And it said something else that apparently he’d never picked up on Hattie being a lesbian in years of contact but had clued in to Owen’s orientation in fifteen minutes of interaction.
“We’ll manage just fine. I’m gonna go check on some things, let you work. I’ll check back in a while.” He had to get out of the small space before the walls closed in on him and he said something he’d regret later. There weren’t a ton of generator repair specialists as experienced as Ron, but hell if Quill wouldn’t be happy to see the last of him.
Up in the quarters, he made a quick round of coffee in the French press, putting Ron’s cup in an old travel mug he didn’t care about getting back. He also took a moment to check his phone messages including two from Hattie, neither of which seemed that urgent, but he didn’t want to make her wait. He wanted to be a good friend, but his insides still wobbled with worry that she’d be able to guess what had happened between him and Owen the night before. Seeing as how her gaydar was far better than Ron’s, she too had to have figured out about Owen’s orientation. And all morning, he’d felt like he must have a neon sign following him, announcing their make-out session. Which was ridiculous, but there he was, still fretting.
Hattie answered her work line with a cheery greeting followed by “I hear you spent a cold night yesterday. The repair guy make it up after the plows?”
“It wasn’t too bad,” Quill lied, not wanting to open himself up to further questioning. “We managed.”
“Good. Owen’s working out, then? Keeping up with the workload?”
“He’s doing fine.” Like with Ron, he found himself vaguely protective of Owen, not wanting to share any of his own doubts. “He did a great job with an injured hiker a few days back. Handled it like a seasoned pro, even.”
“That’s great news,” Hattie enthused. “Speaking of seasoned pro, that’s why I was trying to reach you. There’s a rumor going around that the Ranger in Charge at Mat-Su is retiring. Everyone I talk to thinks you should apply.”
“Me? No way.”
“Quill. You’ve spent twenty years in the same pay grade. No one is more qualified than you to move into management.”
“Management means people. I don’t do people,” he reminded her. “Hiring, firing...that’s not me. And you know that. Fieldwork is where I’m at.”
“Yeah, but are you happy? Is this really what you want for the rest of your working life?”
Quill stopped for a second, the memory of Owen’s face full of wonder out on the ridge yesterday burning bright in his brain. “Yeah. I think I am happy.”
He left the second question untouched. What he wanted was consistency and stability. Any other stray wants didn’t matter.
“I worry about you without me there. I bet you go days without talking much to Owen even.”
She wasn’t wrong, so Quill simply sighed. “Not everyone needs conversation.”
“Yes, but everyone needs friends. And even if you don’t want to think about the RIC position, maybe it’s time you thought about living off-site. No more sharing space with volunteers. You could get to town more often, maybe have—”
“I’ve got what I need. No need to move.” Even if moving off-site would mean no more temptation from Owen, he wasn’t even going to consider it. Remembering Ron’s warning about a long cold winter, he knew he was being stubborn and setting himself up for succumbing to Owen’s charms. Again. But talking about moving seemed a lot like ad
mitting defeat. He wanted to believe he had more self-control than that.
Liar. You just want more time with Owen. The other part of his brain, the baser part that had taken over last night, taunted him. This had nothing to do with the logic of not moving or proving himself or anything else rational. He simply didn’t want to give up the frequent contact with Owen.
Not that he was going to explain that to Hattie. Better that she know him as a loner, a guy who needed no one, and not as the guy who looked forward to Owen’s easy smiles and little jokes. As his friend, he doubted she’d care much about the possible ethics implications of him getting involved with Owen, and indeed would probably cheer him on. But he didn’t want that. Matchmaking was as bad as censure as far as he was concerned. And Hattie was hardly the only one in the department. Others might take a different view, one more like Ron’s narrow-minded way of seeing the world.
It might not cost him his job, but coming out publicly would change the way people saw him, interacted with him, and he was loath to go there. Pointed whispers would follow him the rest of his career. He’d seen it with Hattie. People certainly respected her, but she was also “that lesbian ranger,” the one asked to do every diversity presentation and panel. In many ways, she was defined more by her orientation than by her years of service. Quill wasn’t ever going to be ready to have all eyes on him like that. And maybe that meant that he still hadn’t distanced himself enough from that inner wounded kid, but at this point it was what it was.
And if that knowledge made him sigh a little deeper, made his hands feel heavier after making Hattie tell him about the baby nursery plans, that was simply the price he paid for this life. Which he hadn’t been lying about. He did love his job, didn’t want to leave it. It was everything he’d needed for years now. Nothing, not even the appearance of one irresistible optimist, was going to change who he was, what he needed, and who he’d always be. There was no sense in getting wistful over a life that simply wasn’t meant for him.
Chapter Thirteen
Restless energy was the worst. And restlessness combined with lack of human interaction had Owen’s pulse speeding up as the sound of the door registered over his music, even though he knew chances were slim for anything other than a few moments of distraction.
“Bored?” Instead of heading straight to his quarters, Quill paused to stare at Owen the way he might if Owen had taken to juggling the canned goods. Which, come to think of it, wasn’t a half-bad idea. Might be a fun skill to learn.
“Yeah.” Pulling off his headphones and straightening from the half-crouch he’d been in, Owen didn’t bother denying it. Quill had been in his downstairs office the past few hours, and like Owen, he was bundled in several layers, thermal shirt peeking out near the collar of his uniform shirt, and a jacket over those. Owen had a similar three-shirt layer thing happening and had added fingerless gloves. “And cold. Exercise keeps me warmer.”
Nasty winds whipped at the building, another storm rolling in, the unusually snowy November keeping both of them indoors for much of what Quill described as the lull between first snow and Thanksgiving weekend, when everyone would come out to play. They’d flock to the trails Owen was painstakingly helping groom, and the increased tourist traffic would undoubtedly keep both him and Quill hopping. He honestly couldn’t wait for the influx. But until then he had hours to fill. At least the generator was functional now, but the building was still cold with electricity at a premium. They had to carefully monitor the load, not use as many space heaters and other power hogs.
Owen’s room was particularly chilly, hence why he was out in the common room doing his body weight HIIT routine, using the short bursts of exercise followed by active rest to keep him warm and in the shape he needed to be in to handle all the grueling work with the snow. The dig out tomorrow from this latest round wouldn’t be fun.
“Don’t you exercise?” he asked Quill, who seemed to have one of those infuriating muscular builds that ran on coffee and double-decker sandwiches and lots of hard outdoor work with no need for formal workouts.
“Some.” Quill shrugged. “Pushups and sit-ups when I think of it, but nothing complicated like what you were doing. Looked like you were stalking small game under brush.”
A rare smile tugged at Quill’s mouth, which made Owen grin back. Man, he wished he knew what to do to get that smile more often. Maybe he should do crocodile lunges more often if that was what it took. Quill seemed determined to keep up the avoidance routine. Oh, he was cordial enough, and his note each morning was unfailingly pleasant, but they weren’t exactly friends, not the way Owen wanted. Yet. Owen still hadn’t given up trying for friendship. And while his hope of a repeat of making out had dimmed somewhat, he wasn’t about to toss in the towel there either.
“We should work out together,” Owen suggested, already knowing what Quill’s answer was likely to be.
“Nah. I’ll leave you to it.” Quill rubbed his chin. While usually clean-shaven, he had a little bit of scruff going that only made him that much sexier. “We’ve got to get you a hobby though. You’re gonna wear out the floorboards by January if you’ve already got cabin fever now.”
Owen liked the sound of that we far more than he should. “Since when do you care if I make it to January?”
“I care.” A faint flush stained Quill’s cheeks. “I mean, it’s a lot of work around here, and you’ve been a big help. Not sure Hattie could find a replacement on short notice. That’s all.”
“You like me around. Admit it.” Owen kept his voice teasing, but it really would be nice to be wanted for more than simply his muscles and work ethic.
“You’re not bad. Good roommate. Could be a lot worse, that’s for sure.”
“High praise.” Owen rolled his eyes at Quill’s guarded compliments.
“Sorry.” Quill looked down. “You’re a good person. Not your fault that things are...complicated.”
“Hella awkward you mean?” Owen went ahead and charged after the big moose in the room. “And me getting a hobby is going to fix that?”
“Dunno.” Rubbing the base of his neck, Quill kept his gaze averted. “Maybe.”
“Well, I don’t exactly have one. Even the last six months or so while doing the bucket-list thing, I’ve kept too busy for hobbies other than the odd game here or there. And before cancer, it was work, work, work, and socializing with not much time for anything else. Unless we’re going to count sex or jerking off in creative ways as a hobby...” He threw that out there simply to watch Quill blush further.
And Quill’s long, slow blink was more than gratifying. “Uh...no. Not counting... What the heck is creative... Oh, never mind.”
“You want examples?” Baiting Quill was an even better distraction than exercise had been.
“As far as I know, there’s only so many ways...” Quill shook his head, but his voice had turned huskier than usual.
“Man, how did you reach forty with such a narrow worldview?”
“I’m not narrow-minded.” Bristling, Quill’s eyes flashed with more ire than Owen would have suspected.
“Didn’t say you were. Just meant that you’re limited. Sexually. Missing out.”
“Just because I don’t go all fancy getting off or make it a production doesn’t mean I’m a prude or something.” Quill’s defensiveness had Owen laughing, because seriously the guy was just too cute when he got all flustered.
And flustered and sparring with him was far preferable to being alone in here. “No, but it does mean you could be having more fun than you are. I mean, why else would nature give us such a fun toy? Figuring out different ways to get off is like a rite of passage or something. And when one is between partners, investigating is better than the boredom of right hand, thirty-five well-placed strokes, and some tissues. You can’t expect me to believe that in all your winters alone here that you’ve never experimented. I already figured out that
streaming porn is a no-go here. So you’ve got to do something. No toy chest?”
“We should not be discussing this.” Quill’s voice was more rough than firm, which Owen took as a positive sign. “But not all men are ruled by their cocks. Or feel the need to celebrate something biological.”
“Now that’s just sad. Sex is a need. Unless you’re ace, in which case I’m being a dick and I apologize, but assuming you’ve got a sex drive, it should be celebrated. Trust me. I went through some miserable weeks post-surgery and while in chemo, and I damn sure make a point of enjoying myself now.”
“I’m not asexual.” Quill huffed out a breath. “Although it might be easier in some ways if I was. But like J—a friend always said, it’s on men to be more than their baser needs. Just because your body likes something doesn’t mean that’s reason to do it.”
“Sure it is.” Owen leaned against the back of the couch, studying Quill carefully. The guy simply was too tightly wound, and Owen had a feeling that this friend had more than a little to do with it. “If it’s not hurting anyone, not illegal, and involves consenting adults, why not roll with it? Savor the fact that you’re alive and that you get to feel so damn good, either alone or with someone else. Unless...does it not feel good? Like are you too up in your head about it to have a good time?”
Quill’s blush spread to the tops of his ears. “It can feel good. I’m not... That is, I don’t have hang-ups.”
“It’s okay if you do.” Owen gentled his tone because he had a feeling Quill was lying, at least a little.
“Are you sure it’s your sister who’s the therapist?” Quill’s eyes flitted between Owen and the door to his room, as if he were torn between escaping and continuing to argue his case.
Arctic Heat (Frozen Hearts) Page 12