by Wendy Qualls
“Want to put this all aside until tomorrow?”
“Yeah, okay.” Paul took a deep breath and let it out slowly, letting the moment drain away. “Let’s just—let’s just eat. And ignore it for a while.”
* * * *
They finished their Thai while chatting about nothing in particular—memories of freshman year, the St. Ben’s basketball team’s abysmal season, the latest embarrassing news from the Georgia state legislature. Paul told Brandon a bit about what it was like to grow up with a twin sister who was always too observant by half, and Brandon reciprocated with horror stories about what it was like to have three older brothers. They avoided saying anything more even vaguely dealing with computers, or the e-mail, or the utterly fabulous blowjob from the night before. Eventually they had worked their way through about two-thirds of the Thai, and Brandon let his anecdote about a family car trip wind down into a vague joke about Atlanta drivers.
“So what do you want to do now?” he asked after a few seconds of awkward silence.
Paul wished he had an easy answer, but there wasn’t one. “Um.”
Brandon studied him for a long moment, then nodded and stood. “Right. I’m going to start by ferrying the leftovers to the trash bin at the end of the hallway so they don’t stink up the room overnight. And that will give you a few minutes to decide whether you want to go home now, or stay and hang out with me for a bit and then go home, or stay the night. Not pushing you,” he clarified. “If you want to crash here with me, I’m not going to take it as some big declaration or anything. We can make this just casual or just friends or neither and whatever you choose is fine by me.”
Paul nodded automatically, his brain trying to sort everything out without being shouted down by input from his cock. Brandon didn’t seem to expect an immediate answer, though, so Paul sat on the bed and tried to ignore Brandon bustling around collecting Styrofoam containers.
Did he want to stBut should he stay? That was trickier. If he stayed, was that implying he wanted actual sex? That seemed to be the expected outcome of spending the night at a guy’s place, based on everything he’d heard. And Brandon had been kind enough to go slow with him the first time, but the idea of having anything up his rear end (or sticking anything in someone else’s rear end) was…all right, not quite as awful with Brandon as it would have been with anyone else, but it still didn’t sound fun. Did that amount to “some big declaration?” Because if so, Paul was pretty sure he’d rather go home early and deal with the jumpiness of being at his apartment alone than have to explain that he was a kinda-sorta-gay man with a pathological aversion to anal intercourse.
“Thoughts?” Brandon lowered himself onto the bed beside him, reclining onto the pillows and looking absolutely gorgeous with the hem of his T-shirt riding up and showing an inch-wide stripe of pale skin.
Paul tore his eyes away and shrugged.
“In that case, I’m going to see what sorts of movies we can get on this thing.” Brandon grabbed the remote, the muscles in his shoulders bunching pleasantly, shirt riding up a bit more as he stretched up over his head to reach the nightstand. Stop it, stop it, not thinking about that. Brandon waded through the menus on the TV. He kept his eyes on the screen, but Paul could feel the weight of his attention like a physical touch.
Hell, I want to stay so I’m going to. Why not. “I’m not much for horror movies,” Paul admitted, “but anything else is good.”
“Careful, or I’ll make you watch some terrible children’s movie. In Claymation.” Brandon settled on a recent superhero-type action movie. “Seen this one already?”
Paul shook his head no. “Meant to, though.”
“Me too. Let’s give it a shot.”
* * * *
It was pretty good, if totally implausible. Brandon rolled his eyes at how easily the hero hacked into the secret government database, and Paul scoffed at the cheesy mind-control pseudo-science explanations, but overall it was perfect for two totally normal guys to watch while happening to share a mattress and hiding from a stalker in a hotel room. Nothing wrong with that. Brandon stayed on his side of the bed, fingers laced behind his head as he leaned against the headboard with his legs stretched out in front of him, and Paul sat cross-legged on the other side with a good foot of space between his knee and Brandon’s thigh. Two friends watching a movie—
“You ever dream of doing something like that someday?”
“Hmmm?” Paul tore his gaze away from the credits rolling on the screen.
“That.” Brandon waved in the direction of the TV. “The superhero stuff. Ever feel the need to go start some fights and prove you’re a badass just because you can? I mean, he could have gotten into the compound with his magical hacking skills; he didn’t really need to knock out every bad guy personally. When I was a kid I spent half my free time chasing imaginary villains and showing them who’s boss. I’m curious about your take.”
Paul frowned down at his own not-terribly-athletic physique. “I’m more like Captain America before the super-soldier juice. Or Spider-Man before the radioactive spider bite. Not really built for brawling.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Brandon rolled to his side, ignoring the movie in favor of giving Paul a hot once-over. “I bet you’re stronger than you look. And you’d out-think the enemy—I knew you were brilliant even when we first met. Thought your braininess was sexy even back then.”
There it was again—the casually smoldering look, Brandon undressing him entirely with his eyes. Paul swallowed hard and abandoned all pretense of following the plot of the movie. “Brandon, I…”
“Not gonna pressure you,” Brandon murmured. “But I’m going to appreciate the view here.” He smirked. “And in case you’re wondering, my answer is yes, I’d love a repeat of last night. No big coming out needed, just some safely-on-the-down-low mind-blowing sex between friends. If you’re interested.”
“I don’t know.”
Brandon pushed himself to a sitting position and turned so they were facing each other. “That’s honest, at least. Did I do something to turn you off, or it is just the whole gay thing? You wanted one last time to see how it was and you’re done with being gay now?”
“It’s not you,” Paul replied immediately. “I don’t mean for it to sound like that. I know I’m not very good at this. At”—not going to say sex—“at the physical stuff. And for all that we’re technically in bed together at the moment—”
“More on bed,” Brandon interjected.
“Fine, on bed together. But it still boils down to the fact that I’m in the closet. I like my closet. It’s cozy and familiar here. And coming out is scary.” Paul dropped his gaze down to where his hands were clasped tightly in his lap. “I know that makes me sound like a whiny kid, but it’s true.”
“No, I get it,” Brandon said, a surprising lack of judgment in his voice. “I had a wonderfully supportive family and I was still scared shitless when I had to come out to them. You’ve got a lot more riding on you keeping your sexuality a secret, and I can completely understand why you’re still hiding.” He grabbed the remote and muted the TV without looking at the screen. It was starting on some show Paul had never heard of anyway. “Want to talk about it?”
Hell no. “Um, not really?”
“Okay, up to you—let me know if you change your mind.” Brandon tossed the remote into Paul’s lap and stood with a yawn. “I’ve got Thai breath, so I’m going to go brush my teeth and change for bed. Like I said, you’re more than welcome to stay here tonight if you want. I don’t usually snore.”
Paul couldn’t hide the surprise he knew was written all over his face. “You’re still offering, even if I don’t want to get off with you right now?”
“Doesn’t change the fact that having someone spying on you is creepy as hell. I wouldn’t want to sleep at your place tonight if I were you, either.” One corner of his mouth twi
tched upward. “I think we’ll both prefer you here,” he added. “Indulge me.”
“Oh.” They didn’t know for sure that it was a stalker, or what the e-mail was even supposed to mean, but Brandon was right: if Paul went home right now to his unguarded little ground-floor apartment, he wouldn’t be doing much sleeping. “I didn’t bring anything for staying over.”
“Hotels are good for that kind of stuff.” Brandon nodded toward the room phone. “Tell them you’re me and you forgot your travel kit—housekeeping will send one up. And you can always sleep in your boxers, or you can borrow a T-shirt if you want. I brought plenty. I can never stand wearing my fancy ‘impress-the-bigwigs’ work clothes one minute longer than necessary, so I came prepared.”
“Thanks.” The thought of sleeping in Brandon’s T-shirt was strangely comforting. Not going to examine that too closely, Paul thought with a mental grimace.
“No problem.” Brandon dug out a shirt from his suitcase and tossed it onto the bed. “You’ll want to go home in the morning to freshen up and change before work, I’m sure, but I wasn’t lying before—if you weren’t here, I’d be sitting by myself watching crappy TV and browsing the Internet. It’s nice to not be going to bed alone.” He grimaced. “Ah, not that I’m planning to molest you overnight, just saying—”
“It’s fine.” Paul forced a tight smile. “And thanks. I really do appreciate this.”
Chapter 7
Paul woke up at dawn with someone else’s palm loosely splayed over his chest. It took a minute to remember what the heck was going on. Brandon shifted on the mattress next to him, snuffling softly into his pillow, then tightened his arm momentarily before going limp again. Paul lay on his back and stared at the diffuse light of sunrise peeking around the edges of the curtains and had a small freak-out.
I’m in bed with Brandon Mercer. Somehow the situation felt so much more intimate than the blowjob from before, even though they both spent the night in T-shirts and boxers and hadn’t touched at all before falling asleep. It brought back memories of collapsing into bed with Christopher, sometimes spooning up together and letting Christopher’s longer limbs envelop his own and other times just lying next to him and listening to him breathe. Paul winced and shook his head, shoving those memories aside. They were too tightly linked with everything else—Christopher being a controlling dick, the constant feeling of inadequacy in bed, the fights and the sulking and the passive-aggressive reprisals whenever Paul didn’t do exactly what Christopher wanted him to. I don’t miss him at all, Paul realized, but I do miss this.
Beside him, Brandon murmured something and rolled to his stomach. The motion shifted his arm off Paul’s chest and onto the mattress between them. It was Paul’s chance to get up without waking him, so he slid carefully out of bed without disturbing the covers more than absolutely necessary and tiptoed into the bathroom so he could close the door and safely turn on the light.
He looked like total crap, especially for someone who had enjoyed a good night’s sleep. His hair was sticking up in weird tufts, his forehead had a red mark from where he had been lying on his own hand for a while, and his overnight stubble practically made him look homeless. Plus it itched. Absolutely nothing about the reflection in the mirror said “sexy” or “desirable” or “the kind of man Brandon Mercer would give two fucks about.”
And there I go—I know I’m wallowing when I start swearing in my head. Paul groaned aloud. Shit.
A glance at his watch showed the time to be a quarter past six. Late enough to get up—especially since they had both fallen asleep surprisingly early—but early enough to give him plenty of time at the apartment to shower and change (and think) before he had to get to campus. Would it be polite to wake Brandon before he left? Or was it better to sneak out and let him sleep?
The question turned out to be moot because Brandon was sitting up when Paul got done in the bathroom. He flashed Paul a drowsy smile and stretched his arms out to the sides with an audible pop.
“G’morning,” he said, his voice still scratchy with sleep. “Have a good night?”
Paul nodded and tried not to think about how deliciously rumpled Brandon looked in the mornings. Rumpled and warm and touchable and kissable and all those other things he couldn’t afford to let himself get used to. “Thanks again for letting me stay.”
“No problem.” Brandon rolled his shoulders and tilted his head from side to side a few times before finally standing up. “We can do it again tonight, if you’re up for it—bring your laptop or PlayStation or something and we can shoot bad guys for a while. It’s good stress relief.”
And a good excuse to spend more time together. All of Paul’s excellent reasons for why he had to avoid Brandon and stay in the closet wavered at the thought of having someone to relax with. To eat and chat and game with and to maybe possibly work back up to the possibility of more sexual encounters in the future.
Damn it.
Brandon just stood there and watched what had to be an illuminating parade of emotions over Paul’s face. He waited for several seconds, long enough for Paul to give the flippant, casual answer the conversation required, but Paul still couldn’t get past the fact that—when faced with the possibility of having an actual real-live friend there to hang out with—he didn’t know what on earth to do. That, more than anything, drove home how utterly depressing his had been. Christopher had been his life, his only social contact with the world outside the psychology department, and once that was gone he’d pretty much gone into seclusion.
The silence stretched, long past the point when Paul should have replied.
“Hey,” Brandon said in a low voice. “It’s just an offer, okay? Not a command appearance. I’ll keep trying to track down the source of that e-mail whether or not you want to come over. And whether or not you decide you want anything more than simply hanging out. Solving this is part of my job, and I promise you I’m really damn good at it. Anything else you want to do is a bonus.” He blatantly dragged his gaze up and down Paul’s body and one corner of his lips twitched upward. “A very nice bonus, I’ll grant you, but an optional one.” His confident smirk was interrupted by a yawn. “God, sorry. I can’t do sexy banter before I’ve had my morning coffee. I’m going to hop in the shower—feel free to stay as long as you want, but I should probably get moving.” He went to brush past Paul, then paused and pressed a firm but close-mouthed kiss to Paul’s lips. “For what it’s worth,” he murmured, “you inspire some very nice dreams.”
And he winked before shutting the bathroom door behind him.
* * * *
Paul closed all the blinds and curtains and double-checked his locks before undressing to get in his own shower. It was a stupid, paranoid thing to do—it’s not like one anonymous e-mail suddenly meant there was a peeping tom at his windows 24/7—but the idea of getting naked with a creepy stalker watching was just too much. He took the world’s fastest shower, shaved, changed into clean clothes in record time, then took nearly ten minutes trying to talk himself into being able to walk into his living room without feeling like he had to hide his face.
It’s fine. Nothing’s been moved, nobody’s been here, nobody’s watching. And yet. Paul growled aloud and slammed the box of cereal onto the kitchen table. I hate this—hate it, hate it, hate it.
Where had the picture been taken from? Outside, but where? Probably somewhere along the walking path around the mud pit masquerading as a pond—nobody walked there this time of year, not with the marshy smell of pond scum in the air. That meant someone could lurk about in the dark and watch his living room window without anyone noticing. What were the chances one of his neighbors would happen to be looking outside at exactly the right time?
Paul took a deep breath and pulled aside his living room curtains. The sun was still low enough in the sky to leave everything casting long morning shadows, but it was daylight. And there was no one there. Paul sat at the wi
ndow for several minutes, alert to any sign of movement. A couple of birds fluttered around the trees along the trail, but that was it.
What did you expect? Paul let the curtains fall closed again and finished getting himself ready to go. As an afterthought, he threw a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and his deodorant in the spare compartment of his laptop bag. Not that he was planning to spend the night with Brandon again, but it felt good to be prepared. Just in case.
Still twenty minutes before he absolutely needed to leave. Paul got as far as throwing his laptop bag in his car, then looked over at his living room window again. Not the right angle from the parking lot, but if he could match it…
There really wasn’t any point in wandering over to the pond. It’s not like seeing the exact spot the stalker stood would really shed light on who the culprit was or what their motivations were, but Paul couldn’t resist the chance to look. The details of the photograph was practically burned into his brain: a little farther along, nearly head-on looking into the window, maybe a bit higher up—
Paul stumbled and nearly brained himself on the nearest tree limb. Higher. If the angle didn’t match someone standing on the path, it had to correspond to someone sitting in one of the trees. They were some sort of ornamental species, looked like apple trees minus the apples—not easy to climb up to the lowest branches, but not impossible unless you were unusually short. And once there, you could probably clamber around the rest of the tree fairly easily. It was still early enough in the spring that the buds were just starting to turn into leaves. They wouldn’t provide a lot of cover if you wanted to hide yourself, but they wouldn’t get in the way of a photograph either. If you assumed the vertical angle came from about halfway up the tree, the horizontal angle corresponded with…gotcha. Paul walked up to the next tree in the line and studied it. The lowest limbs were barely within reach—with a bit of a jump and a lot of agility, he could probably haul himself up. He checked his watch again. It really was time to get going, but now that he was here it would be a shame not to try.