by Alexa Snow
Carter urged him wordlessly to lift his hips so Carter could slide their pants down, then Carter climbed into Nate's lap. He was straddling Nate, and Nate reached to grab onto him and ended up with a double handful of naked Carter ass, which to Nate's way of thinking was a mighty fine thing. He had a split second to wonder how Carter had gotten his shoes off so fast, and then Carter's prick bumped against his own and rubbed, and he didn't have any energy to wonder anymore.
"Christ," he growled, as Carter's balls rubbed against the head of his own cock and there was more of the sliding. "Christ, I'm not gonna last long with you doing that."
Carter pulled his face up to kiss him, tongue hot and hungry in his mouth. "Good," Carter said. "It's not a contest. It's about what feels good. Does this feel good, Nate?" There was a seductive edge to Carter's voice that made it hard for Nate to breathe.
"Yeah," he said. "Feels good. Feels fucking amazing."
Nate shifted his weight a little, or tried to, since Carter was weighing him down, and his cock pressed harder against Carter's. He felt the urge of impending orgasm swelling in him; it was bigger than he was. He inhaled sharply and then pressed his face into Carter's chest and bit down, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to give himself something else to concentrate on for a few seconds.
Then he felt Carter's slightly cool fingers wrap around him, holding both of their cocks together at the same time, and it was too fucking much. He moaned softly and tried to thrust, but Carter's weight was still bearing him down and he could hardly move. "Fuck," he choked out. "Gotta..."
And Carter's hand moved and slid and squeezed and Nate could feel it down into his toes, even in legs that were getting the circulation cut off because of his lapful of Carter.
"Does it feel good, Nate?" Carter repeated, in that same tone of voice that had taken Nate's breath away before.
"More," Nate begged, and he didn't beg, but fuck if he could bring himself to care. He tried to move, to twist, to get some kind of relief, but Carter tightened up the muscles in his thighs and he couldn't. "Please," and it was only whispered.
Carter heard him, and again that hand moved and slid and squeezed, but this time Carter didn't stop and Nate came so hard that the edges of his vision blurred and he could feel his cock throbbing in Carter's grip. He could feel his own spunk making everything all slippery and the sensation was just mind-blowing, and then Carter made a pained sound in the back of his throat and Nate's hand joined his. Carter rocked into him, urgently, and God, everything was so fucking slick, and Nate could feel Carter's prick throb against his own as Carter came, too, groaning Nate's name.
Their mouths were back together and it was less like sex now, and more like comfort or maybe even affection. Nate didn't want to think about it. He couldn't not think about it. Damn it all. He was feeling something for Carter, something good that wasn't hatred or disgust or whatever else he usually felt for his fellow human beings. Something like... like, maybe. No, definitely like. Maybe more.
Carter's tongue was gentle, less insistent, stroking his. Carter tasted... soothing. Maybe. Nate wasn't sure soothing was something you could taste, and if it was, he couldn't imagine he'd be the kind of person who could recognize it. Too freakin' poetic. He was either insane, or well on the way there.
Pulling back with what seemed like reluctance, Carter finally shifted his weight and moved to one side, freeing Nate to do... something. He had no idea what it was he wanted to do, though.
Carter gave him a look and started pulling his clothes back on. "Are you planning on sitting there all night?" Carter asked. "Because if you are, you're going to have to let me drive."
Nate shook himself mentally -- scruff of the neck -- and lifted his hips, yanking his pants back up. "No," he answered gruffly, even though his actions had already spoken for him. "I'll drive."
They'd been driving for five minutes, in silence except for the radio (which miraculously Carter was leaving alone) before Carter said anything.
"Are you okay?"
"What?" Nate's attention snapped back to the present. "Yeah. Yeah, of course I am." He stared out at the road for a few more seconds. "You?"
"Yeah, but I'm not the one acting like my brain took off for another planet," Carter said. "What are you thinking?"
"Honestly? No idea."
"You don't know what you're thinking?" Carter sounded doubtful.
"Yeah, I think it's... I dunno, my brain's working on a different level or something. Or, like you said -- different planet."
"But you're okay?"
"Yeah. I'm... I'm good." Nate heard himself say the words with a sense of wonder. He looked over at Carter and something in his heart snapped into place. "I'm good."
14.
Nate cleared his throat and shifted a little bit. "How 'bout you? You okay?"
"What?" Carter wondered if they were stuck in some kind of temporal shift like on Star Trek, but one where they were switching roles. "Are you -- I mean, yeah. I'm fine."
"Good."
Carter's mind was spinning. Maybe this wasn't a temporal shift thing -- instead, it was the one where the Evil Kirk and the Good Kirk switched universes, and somehow Good Nate had ended up here. "What are you -- why are you being all -- ?"
Nate looked over at him, and Carter could have sworn that the expression on his face was an affectionate one. "What are you talking about? Are you sure you're okay?"
"No," Carter said. "Who the hell are you, and what have you done with Nate?"
Casually, with one hand, Nate reached out and thwacked him on the side of the head. It hurt. "You're an idiot," Nate said.
Okay, maybe it was still him.
"You're being nice," Carter blurted out accusingly.
"Didn't I just hit you?" Nate sounded confused.
"Well, yeah, but... before that. You were being all concerned and asking me how I was."
Nate reached out and shoved Carter's arm this time, but it was almost playful. "What, something written down somewhere says I have to be a hard-ass all the time?"
Carter shook his head and shoved back, not too hard because Nate was trying to drive. "No, I thought it just came naturally." He realized that everything about this felt natural, and, for a second, thought that maybe natural as a state of being was highly overrated.
Then it passed, and he realized something much, much more important. Two things, actually. One: that he was in love with Nate. And two: that he had to call Edward right away, if not sooner, to tell him that he couldn't write the book.
He'd have to give back the advance, probably, which was going to be a problem since he'd spent most of it already. He could get a loan from his folks, if he had to, although that would definitely be a last resort. He'd talk to Shannon. She might have something helpful to suggest, and in the meantime he could write some more articles or something. 'About what?' would not be an inappropriate question, considering that the book he'd now decided he couldn't write was just a longer form of the same kinds of articles he'd been writing for years, but he'd try not to worry about it for now.
When they arrived back at the bunkhouse, Nate paused just inside the door. "Want to get a beer?"
"Sure. Actually, what I'd really like to do is use your phone? I can charge it to my calling card. I just... realized that there was something else I need to tell my editor, and..."
"Yeah, go ahead. You know where it is. Come on down to the big room when you're done."
"Okay." At the end of the hallway Carter went one way and Nate went the other.
Carter walked down to Nate's office, debated whether or not he should close the door, and compromised by nudging it sort of closed with the toe of his sneaker. He perched himself on the edge of the desk, dialed the variety of numbers that were required for Edward's office and his own calling card, and waited as the phone at the other end of the line rang.
He was just about ready to give up when he heard the click of the other phone being picked up. "Yeah," Edward growled.
&n
bsp; "Edward, it's Carter."
There was a pause. "Didn't I just talk to you?"
"Um, yeah. You said you wanted me to call again soon," Carter joked weakly.
"Carter. I should have been out of the office an hour ago. My wife is waiting for me at home, and she's already not going to be happy to see me because I'm so late. I'll blame you for the whole thing if I have to."
"That's fine." Since Carter had never even met Edward's wife (although he had heard Edward talk about her a lot,) worrying about her blaming him for Edward's lateness wasn't really very high on his list of concerns. Especially considering what he had to say next.
He took a deep breath and just blurted it out. "Edward, I can't write this book."
"What? Sure you can. You've only been there what, a week? There's plenty of time. It's just nerves."
"No, I can't. It doesn't matter how long I've been here -- I could be here another year and I'd still be saying the same thing." Only, possibly, with more vehemence. "It's not nerves, Edward. I'm... I'm just out. I'm done."
"Carter," Edward said, his voice patient. "All first-time authors get freaked out at about this point, and they usually go on to finish their books. It's normal. It'll pass."
"It won't pass, Edward. You're not listening to me. This isn't about writer's block or thinking that I don't know what I'm doing. It's more than that -- it's an ethical crisis."
"You aren't comfortable staying there? Okay, I can understand that. Why don't you try to finish up your research in the next couple of days -- do as much as you can in a short period of time -- and then get out of there and do your writing somewhere else? I know you thought it made more sense to be there for longer, but if it's going to make the difference for you, I say go with it."
Carter sighed and pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. "It's not that. It's -- jeez, Edward, if anything I've already been here too long. I'm seeing a perspective that I hadn't realized I would. It's got me all tied up in knots. I can't do it."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about being able to see where they're coming from, here. They're not all out to destroy the planet, Edward -- they're just doing a job, making money to support their families. I'm not saying I agree with it, just that... I hadn't appreciated, before, what it was like to be on this side of the fence."
"That's because you're being paid to stay on the other side of the fence," Edward pointed out.
"No, I'm not," Carter said. "Because, like I said, I'm done."
"You can't be done. First of all, you were paid an advance. Secondly, you owe me this, Carter. I pulled a lot of strings to get you this deal." Edward sighed heavily. "Listen. I want you to explain to me, in very, very simple terms, why you can't write this book. Don't give me any of this 'changed my perspective' crap."
"Simple terms? Okay. One -- I don't agree that loggers are the spawn of Satan or whatever the heck line of shit I'm supposed to be spewing in this damned book. Two -- I don't care if I signed on to paint them as red as the devil with their own words, I'm not going to do it. And three?"
"Three?" Edward prompted him. Carter could imagine Edward rolling his eyes.
"Three... I think I'm in love with this guy."
Before Edward could respond, there was a noise, and Carter looked up to see Nate standing in the doorway, silhouetted in the light on the hall ceiling above him. He was holding a beer bottle in each hand and when he took a step back, Carter could see the expression on his face. It was hard to tell if it was anger or fear.
* * * * *
Nate paused in the doorway listening to Carter's conversation, so stunned by what he was hearing that he couldn't move. Carter didn't see him right away -- just kept talking, arguing, really, with his editor -- so Nate just kept standing there.
He couldn't fucking believe his ears. Carter was there to dig up dirt on them? Pretending to be sympathetic, getting them to talk to him and taking all those notes, and in the end planning on using the information against them?
It wasn't that Nate had thought Carter was totally on the side of the crew -- it'd been obvious from the beginning that he was more interested in supporting the whole environmentalist thing. They'd all known that. But, Christ, Nate had just started to trust Carter, and he'd thought that Carter liked him, and Carter was going to betray all that for some fucking book? Nate had let him live there, let him stay even though Nate hadn't really wanted to, even though doing so had gone against his better judgment in so many ways that he couldn't even have counted them.
Well, he guess he'd learned his lesson, hadn't he. Guess he'd learned his lesson about trusting people.
And then Carter said, "Three... I think I'm in love with this guy," and Nate made a startled, choked sound. Carter looked up and saw him standing there, Carter's face already so familiar that Nate's chest hurt.
He took a step backward, hands clenching around the necks of the beer bottles he'd forgotten he was holding until he could just about feel the glass creak. He refused to let that last statement settle, refused to acknowledge it. Couldn't. It wasn't possible for Carter to... to have those feelings for him, not and do what he'd been doing behind Nate's back.
* * * * *
Carter thought that the expression on Nate's face might break his heart.
"Edward? I'm going to have to call you back." Carter replaced the phone on its base very gently, without losing eye contact with Nate.
"Get out," Nate said, and Carter stood up.
"You said I could use the phone," he said, going for a reasoning tone of voice.
"I don't mean get out of the office," Nate answered, dead calm but with eyes that burned darkly. "I mean get out of here. Out of my bunkhouse. Out of my life."
Carter crossed his arms. "It's not that simple." He was hoping for some kind of debate, a chance to explain, an opportunity to convince Nate. He wanted Nate to understand.
"It is for me. Damn simple. You. Out." Nate came through the doorway into the office, moved around Carter, and sat down at the desk. "Out," he said again after a few seconds, focusing his attention on the pile of paperwork in front of him, not looking up at Carter.
Carter didn't move. "You have to let me explain."
"I don't have to let you do anything. Get out," Nate repeated. "You've got half an hour to get your stuff together and get out of here. I'm not saying it again. If you're not done in time, I'll throw your stuff out the window for you."
Carter had no idea -- not the tiniest clue -- what to say. So he didn't say anything.
With a feeling of profound numbness and the nagging thought that he should be doing something else, he jammed his clothes back into his bags mindlessly, not paying attention to where the dirty and clean ones went. He shoved papers into folders, but did pack the laptop carefully so that nothing would happen to it. In the back of his mind was the thought that if he managed not to break the thing, he might be able to sell it for some cash if he got desperate enough.
If Jeff had been there, Carter would have had someone to say goodbye to. As it was, he really didn't, and trying to explain the whole leaving thing would have been extremely difficult -- if not totally impossible -- so he didn't even try. He carried his stuff out to the car in three trips and then got behind the wheel, so conflicted that he wasn't sure he hoped the car would start or not. It did, though. He backed up, and his thoughts were a jumble of
how did this happen how did we get from a place of laughing in the car and now I'm leaving and I'm never going to see him again and he thought Weird Al was funny and what the heck am I going to do for money now that I'm not going to write this book and I didn't want to didn't mean to but damn it all I love him...
Carter looked up as he put the car into drive and Nate was standing on the porch watching him with absolutely no expression on his face.
Carter wanted to die.
Instead, he drove.
15.
Carter couldn't believe it was nearly six weeks later.
H
e'd just about finished boxing everything up. It hadn't taken as long as he'd thought -- he hadn't been there long enough to accumulate all of the extra crap that came with years of living in the same place. Oh, there were still books and CDs and clothes, but far fewer knickknacks and towels. All in all, there wasn't a hell of a lot.
He'd kept the apartment for about a month, but it was clear that with no income he'd have to make some changes. Eventually, he'd decided to put his things in storage -- most of them -- and move in with Alex, who'd been his best friend since college. (Other than Shannon. He always had to add that, because she'd been his real best friend.) Alex had a fold-out couch and had been surprisingly mellow about agreeing to let him stay -- even more mellow than he'd been about Carter's big revelation that he was gay. Alex had, of course, suspected it for years, but had never said anything. Just what Carter had wanted to hear.