Things that Go Bump in the Night

by BA Tortuga

  “Clay?”

  It was Clay. His Clay, even if every single fucking thing was wrong, from the color of his eyes to the color of his hair, to the fact that he had to have lost forty pounds in the last fifteen years when every other male on earth had grown into their bodies. It was Clay.

  “Jackie? Club soda, please. Mr. Daniels has had an accident.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Clay, what happened to you?”

  “Come back to my consultation area, please. Jackie will deal with the stain.”

  He followed Clay-who-was-not-Jean-Claude back to the room with a conference table, another couch, and a bunch of sample books.

  “Have a seat.” Clay moved to the far side of the room.

  Brock watched him, the movement of the too-skinny body unmistakable, the scent of Clay familiar, if masked with cologne. “Are you going to pretend you don’t know me?”

  They’d known each other really well. Biblically.

  “I was going to try.”

  “Well, that’s bullshit.” He pulled a chair around and sat backward on it.

  “Why are you here, Brock? You wanted a china pattern?” Clay’s heavy mane of hair was gone, except for the bleached white curls, and those eyes…. How come Clay’s eyes were dark? The most beautiful thing about Clay had always been his eyes, which were bright green with gold undertones, the slitted irises unmistakable. So perfectly catlike.

  “I did. Do. You look wrong.”

  “Wrong? Nonsense. I look perfectly normal.”

  “You look like a Q-tip.” Brock bit back a growl. “Your eyes. What did you do to your eyes?”

  “That doesn’t matter anymore.” Clay’s eyes closed for a second, then opened slowly. “You grew up.”

  “Well, yeah.” He crossed his arms over the back of the chair. “Did you hope I was dead?”

  “What? Why would I do that? I’m not an asshole.”

  “Well, you never were, but how do I know? You didn’t leave town under the best circumstances.” He wouldn’t blame Clay a bit for hating him.

  “No. No, being told you had five hours to pack and get out before they set your house on fire isn’t on my top ten of fun evenings.”

  “Oh, assholes. I knew it. Somehow I fucking knew it.” Brock sighed, rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I left a week after you did, so I never heard what happened.”

  “Past history. Would you like a bottle of water?”

  Clay was there, but he wasn’t, somehow. It was like talking to a mannequin.

  “I would. Did you know your PA is making soy lattes?” They were cats, for fuck’s sake. Milk was a good thing.

  “Yes. This is a vegan studio. No animal products.” Clay opened a tiny, classy fridge and pulled out a fancy-assed bottle of eight-dollar water.

  Wait.

  Wait, what? Vegan? Okay, did someone else own it? No way would his bacon-loving Clay go vegan.

  The water was placed in front of him, and Clay perched on the other side of the table. “So, dishes?”

  “I need to get as close to this as I can.” The picture was grainy, but the drawing wasn’t bad.

  “Your mom’s dishes.” Clay nodded and stood, headed to a panel that opened up for a bunch of not-classy, well-worn paper books, where he started hunting.

  “I didn’t think you’d remember.”

  “I do. I have the pattern somewhere. I can’t replicate it exactly, you understand, but I can modernize it.”

  “Sure. I figured it might be illegal to remake it exactly.”

  “If not illegal, the ethics are iffy. What do you like about it?” Clay pulled out a book, brought it over, and there was his pattern.

  “Well, I don’t.” He chuckled. “I hate it, in fact.”

  “Oh. You aren’t commissioning it for your restaurant, then. Your… wife?”

  That was carefully asked. Brock tilted his head. “No. Not married. Mom lost hers in the tornado a few years back. I’m doing their big anniversary party. I think Mom asked just so I would come back.”

  “Oh. Trent and Abigail must have been disappointed. They expected you to pump out enough genetically perfect litters to populate the Southwest.”

  “Thanks.” His mouth twisted at the thought. “You know better. I had no intention of being a good pride breeder.”

  “No. I….” Clay stopped, breathed. “So how many pieces do you want?”

  “I need a set of eight. Dinner plates, dessert plates, cups, and saucers. Oh, and three serving bowls.”

  “Right.” Clay made some notes. “Porcelain?”

  “Yeah. This was bone china, I guess.” He watched Clay’s studiously bent head, wanting to rip it bald, maybe. This indifference made Brock crazy. God, he’d missed that lean body, too lean now, and the way Clay would smile and touch Brock’s hip or belly in passing. The way Clay would wrestle him over the last bite of bacon or suck him off in the bed of his truck.

  “Do you want hand-painted? That is considerably more expensive, both in time and in cost.”

  “I don’t think so. I mean, she’ll just be tickled that I did something.”

  “Okay, I think this is doable. You’ll put down a deposit; then I’ll send you a proof to approve.”

  “Sure.” He reached across the table and caught Clay’s wrist. “Why won’t you look at me?”

  “Don’t touch me.” Clay pulled away, pale cheeks suddenly pink. “I don’t allow people to touch me.”

  “Why not?” His Clay had always been tactile, sensual.

  “You know full well why. I saw your website. Bacon and butter. The American Heart Association must not endorse you.”

  “Nope.” He didn’t post pictures of himself on his site, preferring not to be an easy target for the pride. “They don’t. I’m sure not vegan.”

  “No.” Oh, was that a smile? “No, you’re not.”

  “You never used to be.” He burned to know what had happened to Clay.

  “Everyone changes, Brock.” Clay still wouldn’t look at him.

  “Stop it. Just stop it. I’m sorry, Clay. I’m so sorry about everything.” He grabbed that too-thin wrist again. “Look at me.”

  Those so-fucking-wrong eyes went wide, and Clay arched, the scent of pure male hunger flooding the air. God. Clay was like a firecracker, ready to go off with the tiniest bit of flame. Brock groaned, nostrils flaring, scenting, looking for something familiar.

  “No. Brock. Please. You know I’ll shift. I can’t do that anymore.” Clay tried to tug free, but Brock stood, pulling Clay toward him. Something was wrong. Off.

  When was the last time Clay shifted? This was not his mate, not right. He eased Clay over the table, that stiff body sliding right into his lap.

  “Brock….” Clay’s low, happy cry made him want to bite.

  Instead, he kissed Clay’s mouth, and something right finally snapped into place. If he’d been standing, his knees would’ve buckled out of sheer relief. Instead, he wrapped his arms around his Clay and held on tight, his cock rising so fast it left him dizzy. Clay moaned, biting at his bottom lip, hands tangling in his hair. Brock growled and started rocking, driving them together, rubbing them through their clothes. Brock wanted to rip those clothes off and discover Clay’s body, but some small shred of sanity kept him from stripping Clay naked. Instead, he burrowed into Clay’s pants, hand searching.

  “This is impossible….” Clay dove back into the kiss, hands framing his face, Clay’s hunger as easy to read as his own.

  Not impossible. They so could do this. He got Clay’s cock out, started stroking, smelling musk and male and Clay. Finally.

  He wanted to hear Clay’s pleasure, wanted to feel it on his hand. He stroked, putting all the years of missing Clay into his kisses. Was he aware that this was totally inappropriate for a man? Of course. But they weren’t men. They were far more primal than that, and he needed Clay to remember that, to strip away all the sophisticated trappings here and get down to what mattered.

  T
hem. This. Now.

  Clay’s eyes went wide, the contacts wrong, aggravating, weird. Brock wanted them out, but he wanted Clay to come more, so he kept his hand where it was.

  “Brock, you have to stop or I won’t be able to control it. Have to…. I want you… so fucking bad.” Clay’s head was thrown back, throat working convulsively.

  “You have me.” He bit at that pale, silky skin, knowing he would leave a mark. “If the cat comes, I have you.”

  Clay yowled, hand slapping over his lips as come shot over Brock’s fist.

  “Yes.” He growled so hard, his body leaping, his heart pounding. He’d almost come in his pants, hanging on by a bare thread. He wanted to strip Clay down, explore. Touch. Bite. God, he wanted all the things he’d missed out on all these fucking years. He brought his fingers to his lips, the flavor there pure Clay. Fuck. He was gonna lose it.

  Clay stared at him, chest working like a bellows. “We just did that.”

  “You did.” He was still rarin’ to go. “Need you, Clay. Touch me.”

  “Once. Once and you have to be good.” It took about a second to get Brock’s fly open, and then Clay’s fingers dug into his jeans and wrapped around his prick, moving fast and hard, dragging on his skin. They were rougher than he’d thought they would be, Clay greedy for him. Brock panted, his hips rising and falling at every stroke.

  Clay watched every second—Brock could feel Clay’s gaze, even through the contacts.

  When Clay’s thumb hit the spot just under the head of his cock, Brock grunted and shot, his balls pulling up, his ass clenching hard. His spunk sprayed Clay’s wrist, his arm.

  He saw Clay’s nostrils flare, the skinny body shuddering almost violently, and Brock took one more kiss, his instincts telling him he was about to be sent packing.

  “Brock. You have to go. I can’t… I can’t hold it together.”

  “Shh.” Brock stroked Clay’s belly, soothing. “I’ll go, but only if you promise to meet me for dinner tomorrow. I’ll make vegan.”

  “Where?” Clay keened like he was in pain.

  He licked at Clay’s lower lip. Someone had been too long without a touch, an orgasm. “My place. I’ll leave you my address. Promise me you’ll come.”

  “I’ll come. I will. Go.”

  He dropped one more kiss on Clay’s mouth before putting Clay up on the table and rising. He tucked himself away. “Seven.”

  “I’ll come.”

  He nodded, knowing he had to go before he bent Clay over the table and fucked him like a maniac. “Let me know how much deposit I owe you.”

  “I’ll bring a contract tomorrow. I can’t think.”

  “Okay. See you then.” He headed out, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.

  He stopped with the Jackie woman, left his card for Clay, address on the back, his phone number. She stared at him, eyebrows almost rising to her hairline, but she didn’t say a word, which was good. He could rip her apart.

  Something was wrong with his Clay and, goddamn it, as soon as he had the man in his house, he was going to figure it out.

  CLAY TWISTED on his sheets, sweating, near delirious. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t.

  This was going to make him insane.

  Brock was going to make him insane.

  He’d left the studio immediately after Brock had gone, spent hours in an icy cold tub, and then crawled into bed. He’d called in and cancelled the day’s appointments, and now he was supposed to go see Brock.

  At Brock’s house.

  For supper.

  Skin too tight, he shook, clawing at his own arms. It hurt, deep in the pit of his belly, at the base of his spine. His cat had been buried for years. Years. Instincts he couldn’t face tried to drag his cat to the surface. He was defective—too feline for human company, too weird, too him.

  His entire family had lost their home, their pride, because of him.

  “No. No. No.” He panted, pawing his phone. He would call Brock. Say no.

  He couldn’t bring himself to do it, though. Why couldn’t he do it? What the fuck was wrong with him?

  He screamed, yowling with it, the sound releasing some of his pain. Better. Not good, but better. His hands shook, his body bowing. Clay clawed his way to the shower, turned the cold water on, letting it bite down on his aching body. The shock of it sent him into a fit of shivering. How could his well-ordered life shatter so easily? What were the fucking chances of him ending up in the same fucking city as Brock? That Brock would ever come to his design studio? His sister Cassandra would say it was fate or karma or something.

  Cassandra was a little bit of a psycho, really. He adored her.

  Maybe he should go to New Orleans, see her, have hummus at that little restaurant on Decatur Street. She would have time to sit with him and eat her garlic flatbread pizza. Cass always had the right combination of silly words and gentle teasing to set his world right again.

  Anything but dealing with Brock and his clever hands and heavy cock.

  Anything.

  He’d promised. Clay groaned. He’d never made Brock a promise he hadn’t kept. Not once. He was a freak, a genetic disaster. An abomination, a useless fuck, and an embarrassment, but he wasn’t a liar.

  Come on.

  Come on. Up. Put on your armor.

  He walked to the bathroom, then washed up, cleaning his face and brushing his teeth. Clay put his contacts in, still feeling so strange in his eyes. Brock had to hate them. Still, they hid his defects. They worked.

  He put on a pair of skinny jeans, a button-up with a sports coat. He needed something that offered him distance. Something to keep Brock’s touch off his skin. Dark brown boots, engineer style, vegan leather, completed the look.

  Okay. Okay. Car. GPS. Go. Go, go, go.

  Oh God. He might throw up. He left his loft, the parking garage attendant waving at him.

  He headed to the toll road, rolling his eyes at the address. Oh, Janmar. Figured. Seven hundred and fifty thousand. Midcenturies with charm and Beaver Cleaver looks. That part of town suited. Brock was such a traditionalist. He’d read all about Brock’s restaurant, not skimming like he had before their meeting, but finding every review, every mention. Meatloaf specials. Chicken-fried steak. Elevated comfort food.

  Meat and butter.

  Bacon.

  Jackass.

  Clay couldn’t indulge, not if he intended to blend in the human world. He had to stay away from the things that made his whiskers twitch, his tail lash. No sex. No meat. No cream. No scary movies or fast driving or excitement. Nice and easy, that was the secret. If he looked in the mirror and saw a weird-looking human and not him, it helped too.

  Brock looked the same, except…. More. Grown-up. Wide shoulders, dark brown hair too long over his brow, eyes like Russian amber. Clay could lick the beautiful son of a bitch all over.

  No.

  No licking thoughts.

  Dinner. A polite refusal of more sex. Get the deposit and leave. Two hours, tops.

  He pulled into Brock’s drive, a big, shiny red pickup by the garage.

  A pickup. Of course. Brock probably had giant rough-hewn leather everything. A meat freezer. Hot and cold running cream in the taps.

  The idea made him smile, and he rolled his shoulders up and back, relaxing them. Business. This was an old friend with whom he now did business. Nothing more.

  Liar.

  Shut up.

  He rang the bell.

  Brock answered, barefoot and wearing just ancient jeans and a soft, thin T-shirt. “Hey. Come on in.”

  “Hey. I brought all the paperwork and some samples.” Work. Work, work, work.

  “Good deal. I’m making spinach and mushroom enchiladas. Vegan cheese.” Brock didn’t try to touch, for which Clay was incredibly grateful.

  “Sounds delicious.” He loved Mexican food.

  “I thought you’d like it.” Brock took him through the house to the kitchen in the back. The house held an endearing mix of
Danish modern and kooky, but he expected the kitchen to be all granite and stainless. He was wrong. A bright yellow stove from the early 1900s took pride of place. Red barnwood cabinets and crazy fifties Formica mixed with jadeite dishes and Sputnik light fixtures. It was like the Jetsons and the Beverly Hillbillies had a baby.

  All he could do was laugh, tickled down to his bones.

  “You like it?” Brock grinned, pushing him a plate of homemade tortilla chips and salsa.

  “I love it.” He could afford to be honest about that. “It’s totally you.”

  “Thanks.” Brock looked utterly at home there, and the backyard Clay saw through the windows had everything a kitty could want. Hammock. Trees. A deck to sun on.

  Eight-foot privacy fences.

  He took a chip, broke it in half, and then in half again.

  Brock raised a brow. “You do still eat, right?”

  “I do. Yeah. Of course.”

  “You’re so skinny.” Now Brock did touch, a light stroke of fingers on his nape when Brock passed behind him.

  “No touching.” He shuddered.

  “Why not? What’s wrong with touching?” Brock came around on the other side of the bar, pulled out a knife and board, and chopped mushrooms.

  “It’s not you; it’s me.” He couldn’t cope.

  “What is?” Those hands moved so fast, the knife thunking with an amazing rhythm.

  “The touching thing.” That was fascinating, watching the light reflecting on the knife blade.

  “No, I mean why is it you? What’s wrong with it, the touching thing, I mean?”

  “I can’t deal with it and stay human.” Because he was a freak.

  Brock didn’t say anything for long moments, the knife going through onions and spinach, as well as cashews. “You’re too human now.”

  He shrugged, but the words stung. He wasn’t ever right. Ever.

  “Are you mad at me for saying it, baby? I always thought you were perfect. Amazing. You know that.” Brock mixed the veg together and salted it.

  “And you know that I’m a genetic anomaly.”

  “I do.” The knife stilled so Brock could stare into his eyes. “I never cared about that, Clay. You know that.”