by BA Tortuga
The manager at the Waffle House said he could maybe wash dishes a few days next week for a discount and a little under the counter money.
HE PARKED at the far end of the drive and killed the lights. He wasn’t stalking or anything. Shane just…. He was kind of lonely, more than anything. Maybe a little scared on account of everybody heard he got into a fight at the bar and nobody wanted trouble and the tourists were all going somewhere more Christmassy so there wasn’t work anyway, and he had to spend his whole last check on some T-shirts and a razor and soap and gas for the Jeep, and….
Well, he’d never really lived in a car before. There was stuff about it you didn’t think about when you didn’t have to think about it.
Galen was walking around the front room, pacing, moving, sort of wandering like he did when there wasn’t anything good on the TV and he was waiting for…. ’Cept Galen wasn’t waiting. So the game must be sucking rocks.
He’d thought the house would look different—dingy or something maybe, but it didn’t. It just looked like home.
Shane watched until Galen finally turned everything off and went to bed, opening the bedroom window to let the air in.
It made him smile, thinking of Galen all stretched out, long and dark and fine on the sheets. He was a night owl—he’d watched Len sleep a lot, knew how it looked, knew the sounds of it. Knew the way Galen woke a little sometimes and reached to make sure he was still in the bed. Maybe there was a pillow there now. Or maybe Galen slept deeper alone and didn’t reach.
He watched until the sky started lightening on up. Then he rubbed his eyes and started the engine, heading out. He wasn’t stalking; he just….
He just wanted to see.
HE PACKED up his shit the day before Thanksgiving and headed up to Shreveport, planning on spending the day with his momma. She was expecting him and Shane, and when he showed up by himself, she gave him a look, but she didn’t say anything, just hugged his neck. When he unpacked his suitcase that night, he found somehow one of Shane’s good shirts was in there.
Damn his stubborn pride anyway.
Dinner was good the next day, even if there was enough food for a hundred people and not just the two of them.
“If I’d have known, honey, we would have just gone to Aunt Ida’s.”
Galen knew he should feel guilty for making her cook up a mess of food only for him, should have called her, told her. But he couldn’t face Aunt Ida and the kids and the hordes of curious relatives who had heard they weren’t seeing Galen because he’d got himself a man.
“Sorry, Momma.” What else could he say?
“Is this a fight you can make up?”
Her dark eyes were serious as a heart attack, and Galen shrugged. “I don’t know, Momma. I said some hateful things.”
“Then you go and apologize, Galen Frost. Any fool can see that boy loves you.”
He winced, shoulders hunching up. She sighed, patting his shoulder as she got up to get the pie. “You want pecan or pumpkin?”
“Pecan, please, ma’am.”
She left him alone in the dining room, and Galen rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. If any fool could tell, why couldn’t he? Because he sure fit that description.
A piece of pecan pie on a pretty plate thumped down in front of him, making him jump. “So are you gonna find him when you go home and ask him back?”
Nodding slowly, Galen met her eyes, letting her see his resolve. “Yes, Momma. I think I am.”
“Good. Now eat your pie.”
Galen ate, humming at the taste. Maybe he’d have Momma make him another pie to take home with him for when he looked Shane up. Just in case his apology wasn’t sweet enough.
SHANE DROVE out to the shore and parked. There was a big storm brewing over the ocean, winds and lights in the sky, the clouds swirling and black as midnight under a skillet. There wasn’t anybody out tonight—not with the storm and the holiday and shit. It was just him and the storm and the water.
The hood of the Jeep was warm under his butt, the six-pack of beer still pretty cold, even though the ice in the cooler had melted. He took off his shoes, his shirt, threw them inside so they’d stay dry. He popped the first beer and started trying to catch a buzz.
It was funny—he didn’t miss Galen every single second, didn’t sit and cry or nothing. He’d caught the odd party here and there, a couple bucks every so often. Enough to keep him in gas and beer and the periodic peanut butter sandwich. He figured if he could hold out ’til March, somebody’d hire him to tend bar, even if it was only part-time. If that didn’t work….
Well, he guessed there was always Tennessee.
A clap of thunder shook the Jeep, drew goose bumps up all over him. Wow.
He was missing his little apartment, his job. It wasn’t the most terrible thing ever—it wasn’t cold, and the cops knew he was having a tough go of it and let him sleep out of the way and stuff, but he got tired of cold showers and shaving in the bathroom of McDonald’s and not having coffee and….
Well, the touching had been good, hadn’t it? The lazing around and the laughing. Fishing and running around and….
Shane guessed he could go to the house and knock and ask Galen for his clothes and his granddaddy’s watch and the little tin can of tips. He knew Galen didn’t need them. Just… well, he’d sorta gotten used to the thought of being something he wasn’t, of being the middle of something. Being an us, he guessed. Part of a thing. And going to Galen’s house and knocking like a stranger?
Having Galen look at him like he was… well, sort of like the loser he was, he guessed. Galen could keep the shirts. Hell, he probably owed Galen way more than the three hundred dollars in the tin anyway, and he didn’t need the watch.
The songs on the radio made it sound like breaking up changed you forever, sort of, and he wasn’t.
He was still a slacker, still footloose and fancy-free. Still riding the edge of going under with a twenty in his pocket. Still sitting and watching the storm roll in, waiting for the rain to hit.
Still a fool.
Shane popped another beer and another as the downpour came, drinking until it didn’t matter that it wasn’t breaking up that had changed him—it had been the falling in love part.
Chapter Thirteen
“HEARD HE got fired. He’s sleeping in his Jeep.”
Galen was lost in his whiskey, the shocking strength of the taste drowning out the tacky techno music on the sound system, but that little snippet of conversation caught him. He looked up and saw three college-age kids in baseball caps and T-shirts, sharing a pitcher and talking.
“Yeah. Lost his apartment and everything.”
“That was some fight.”
“Were you there that night?”
“Yeah.”
God. Galen almost got up and left, especially when he realized they were talking about him and Shane, especially when they all started staring at him out of the corners of their eyes and he knew why they were talking about him and Shane.
He’d been back to the club, soon as he’d gotten home from Momma’s, only to have Miss Lynn tear into him, let him know she’d lost her best bartender ’cause of him, but she couldn’t let a man stay on if his thing of the week was going to tear up the bar every Saturday night, could she?
Getting Shane fired made him feel more like a heel than anything else had. Sure, he’d said some nasty things, but Shane hadn’t exactly been calm and collected either, had he? This, though, this let him know while he’d thought Shane would be fine without him, he was wrong.
He’d gone to all of the clubs around, looking to see if maybe Shane had found work somewhere else, and found the same thing at each one of them. Things were slow, always were come the late fall and winter; nobody needed a new bartender.
Jesus. So he’d ended up in the last place Shane would probably work, or even party, and there were these boys who knew.
Shane was fucking haunting him.
Galen tossed back the whisk
ey and stood, towering over the boys’ table, hands planted right next to their pitcher.
“Where?”
“What? Dude, what are you doing?”
“Where is he parking his Jeep?”
“Uh.” One by one they looked at each other, and he reached for the biggest one’s shirt. The guy held up his hands. “No! Man, I’ve seen you lay the smackdown, okay? That little strip of beach out off the Harrison’s swamp.”
That little strip of beach where he and Shane had gone parking. Yeah. Damn, Galen didn’t know whether to howl or hoot. His face must’ve been a study, because the kid in front of him cringed.
“That’s all I know, dude.”
Galen backed off. “Thanks.”
He turned right on his heel and left. He knew now. And damned if it wasn’t time to go get Shane and bring him home.
IT WAS probably two in the morning before Galen managed to find that stupid strip of beach again. Just went to show how much attention he’d paid to the drive the last time he was out there. That drive had passed in a hurry.
This one? Seemed endless.
But it was infinitely worth it when Galen saw Shane’s Jeep parked out on the sand. Thank God. His stomach was in fucking knots, but it was so, so much better than the sinking in his gut would have been if the Jeep hadn’t been there. Determined, Galen parked the truck a ways away and headed over, not wanting to give Shane a heads-up in case he decided to make a run for it. Because Galen certainly wouldn’t blame him if he did.
He walked up to the passenger-side door, peering inside gingerly.
The Jeep was a wreck—clothes and shit in plastic bags, aluminum beer cans bagged up in the seat. Shane was sleeping, curled up tight in the back, wearing the jeans he’d been wearing that night, a towel under his cheek.
Oh fuck. Man, he was already feeling guilty enough, having gotten Shane fired, being too fucking stubborn to look for him before now. But… damn.
Galen sighed. No dwelling. He’d just get defensive and stupid if he did. He took a deep breath and knocked on the window.
“I got permission to park here.” Shane jerked upright, eyes wide and searching, going still when they saw him. “Len?”
“Yeah.” Okay, now he was there and Shane was looking at him? He was at a loss for words. Galen cleared his throat. “Uh. Hey. I….”
“Hey.” Shane fumbled around, tugged on a T-shirt, and slipped out the driver’s side. “You okay?”
He almost said yes, wanting to reassure. But he wasn’t. Not really. He wanted to touch, so bad. “No? I—Jesus, Shane. I’m sorry.”
“You… you want a beer? I got two left.” Shane rubbed the back of his neck.
“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be good.” That was a start anyway. God, Shane looked tired.
Shane nodded, pulled two cans out of the old Styrofoam cooler, and handed one over. “I’d invite you in, but there’s this weird smell.”
He got a half grin that disappeared behind the can, Shane drinking deep.
“Yeah? Did you look in the glove compartment?” He tried for a grin of his own, feeling lighter in his belly. Better. He popped the beer and took a drink.
Shane chuckled. “Yeah. Popped the hood too. No lizards. None at all.”
Galen nodded. “Yeah, but did you look for fish?” He took another pull off the beer, lining up his next words, fucking up the whole careful plan when he blurted, “I want you to come home, Shane.”
“Why?” There was a load of shit in that one word—pride and fear and hurt and love and exhaustion and need.
“Because I fucked up and I miss you.” This was one thing he could throw his pride to the winds for. One thing that was worth it. “Because loving you matters more than my stupid, stubborn pride.”
“I didn’t fuck around on you. I didn’t ever even think about it. I just wanted you.” Shane sighed, leaned against the Jeep, eyes closing.
“I know that, darlin’. I was so wound up I was saying shit I didn’t even hear until later. I know better.” He did. Hell, he never thought Shane cheated on him. He trusted Shane. If anything it was himself he didn’t trust, his own fucking reputation he wondered if he’d ever live down. What did they call that? Projection?
Shane made a soft sound. “I been missing that.”
“What?” He wasn’t sure what Shane meant, but it had to be a good sign. Galen touched Shane’s cheek, feeling rough stubble. “I’ve missed you.”
“Hearing you call me darlin’.” Shane leaned toward him. “Oh. Len. I—”
That was all the offer he needed, and more than he could take. Galen slid an arm around Shane’s waist and pulled him close, reveling in the weight of Shane’s body against him. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”
“Promise?” Shane opened those eyes, bloodshot and tired, but so fucking blue. “You do and you’ll have to take me home.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it.” He so was. Galen bent, lips sliding over Shane’s, and it was what he needed, what he’d been missing. Shane’s hand slid up, curling around his nape, cuddling right into him as the kiss went deep. Oh, fuck yes. Beer and sea salt and Shane. Galen pressed Shane back against the Jeep, wanting more of that touch, of that sweet as fuck body. Even if it was skinnier than it had been. Shane moaned for him, the sound like a fucking balm, starting to heal shit that he was afraid wouldn’t ease.
Galen leaned, hands sliding up and down Shane’s sides, counting ribs. Counting breaths. “Come home.”
Shane nodded, cheek rough against his. “I’m tired, Len. Been wanting things right again.”
“Me too.” He knew they had some talking to do, but it wasn’t his strong suit, and they did that better late at night, wrapped together in bed. If they could get that far, the rest would work out. “You want to follow me, or you want to come back for the Jeep tomorrow?”
“I’ll follow you. Once I lay my burden down, I’m gonna rest awhile.”
“Okay.” He didn’t want to let Shane go, but he had to trust. Had to believe Shane would follow him. He pressed a kiss to Shane’s mouth, tongue pushing in. “See you there, then. In a few.”
“I’m right behind you.” Shane squeezed his fingers, then stepped back and hopped in the Jeep. “Love you, Galen Frost.”
God, yeah. “Love you, darlin’. I’ll see you at home.”
He headed back for the truck, legs eating up the distance. He wanted. Bad. And thank the good Lord, he was gonna have. As soon as they got Shane back where he belonged.
IT WAS way too much like a dream. The fog was rolling in, the air cool and heavy, the buzz he’d worked up at nine damn near gone. Shane was driving and blinking and following Galen home.
Shit.
By the time they pulled into the drive, he’d convinced himself he was passed out, fucked-up, dead. He parked and sat, sort of looking at his hands on the steering wheel, looking at the little cut on his knuckle, the scar on one wrist from catching it on barbed wire when he was twelve.
He heard Galen’s truck door open and shut, took a deep breath, told himself to move, to stand up, something.
This? Was a shit time to wig the fuck out.
It was a few minutes maybe before Galen was standing next to his door, opening it, hand warm on his arm. “You coming, darlin’?”
Shane looked over and up, taking a deep breath. Okay. Okay, not a dream. Real. He could do real. “Yeah. I… I’m a little cattywampus.”
“Yeah?” Galen petted his arm, fingers moving slow and easy. “I don’t blame you, lover. Come on in and have a beer or some sweet tea or something?”
“Yeah.” He slipped out of the Jeep and right against Galen’s heat. Oh. Oh, sweet fuck.
“God. You feel good.” Galen kissed him, lips warm and dry and soft against him, beard scratching his chin. Then Galen took his hand and tugged, pulling him right up the back steps and into the kitchen. It felt good, the red and chrome familiar and home, damn it. He reached out, couldn’t stop touching, stop sliding his hands on Len.
“Mmmm.�
�� Oh. Oh, that purrgrowlhum. He’d dreamed that but had never gotten it quite right. Definitely real. Galen turned, sat in one of the kitchen chairs, and pulled him close, arms around his waist, head on his chest.
“Oh.” He took Galen’s cap off and started petting, humming, fingers relearning the curve of Len’s ear, the softness of the dark hair. Galen was touching him the same way, hands sliding up and down his back, feeling along his spine. That mouth traveled along his belly, up his chest, warm and damp even through his shirt.
“Love.” God, he’d missed this, needed it so bad.
“Yeah. Right here. Oh, damn, Shane. I missed you.” Galen said it right out loud, that voice raw.
“Yeah.” He leaned, curling over Len, holding on. “It’s good to be home.”
Galen nodded, cheek rubbing his chest, and sat there for a bit, clutching him tight. Then Galen shifted, moved, looked up at him. “You hungry? Or you want to just take a shower and go to bed?”
Oh, God. A hot shower. “I want to get clean and wet and naked. With you.”
“Oh, good.” That smile? Was blinding. Just fucking amazing. Galen stood, kissing his mouth before tugging him like he had outside, pulling him to that big bathroom.
He started laughing, couldn’t help it, relief and happiness filling him.
“Yeah.” Galen laughed with him, fingers working his buttons and zipper and T-shirt, getting his clothes right off. And bending to bite his neck, right at the base of his throat.
“Oh.” He arched, going up on his toes, aching. “More.”
“Mm-hmmm.” Galen pressed hard, biting, licking, and Shane could feel the bruises rising. Marking him.
“Oh. Oh, sweet fuck. Love. Please.” He jerked, pushed hard, rubbing into Galen.
The rough denim of Galen’s jeans scraped at him, and Galen’s hand circled his cock, pulling and pressing, those lips moving on his collarbone.
“Oh….” He reached down, grabbed Len’s hand. “I want to get clean. I need to touch you.”