Pinned Beneath You (Gay Erotica)

by Tommy Twist

  But as much as she wants something—anything—to distract her from her thoughts and worries, nothing does. Brad doesn't suddenly walk through the door to fill her with righteous anger, and she can't bring herself to start making calls to figure out what the fuck is going on with him.

  Phil doesn't call. He doesn't come inside. She'll see him tomorrow. They've already got dinner plans. There's no reason for him to call.

  And in her office, the lights humming at just the right pitch to set her nerves on edge, her worries and her fears climbed down her throat until she didn't know which way was up and which way was down, until she looked down at the clock on her computer screen and realized that everyone must have left twenty minutes ago.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Moving forward with a sale is something that Philip Callahan knows well. It may have been a long time since he's done it, but to an extent, it's a lot like riding a bike. The basic rules don't change much or often.

  Why the hell would they?

  But there's something else to consider, in this case, and that is that when the check starts to clear, it will mean things that he's not ready to deal with right now.

  Once the ink dries on that contract, he's got to start seriously thinking about moving out of the ranch. He's got to start learning a new route home from town. He's got to start getting used to a whole new set of problems that need to be fixed around the ranch.

  He's got to get used to a whole lot of things being different. Sara's not going to be right there any more. She'll be somewhere else. Somewhere respectful, no doubt.

  With a hundred and fifty thousand, even after making sure that Randy's got no trouble, it won't be a special struggle to see that she's got a respectful and comfortable place to lay her down.

  But some part of him isn't ready. Some part that knows that he can afford to put it off as long as he needs to. After all, the check will still be there tomorrow. The deal will still be there. And with plans already made to see her…

  Even then, time passes. It passes slow when you want it to go slow, but when you want to savor every last drop of time before you have to leave the place you've been living since you got your own place, near twenty years, the sand can't stay in the hourglass fast enough.

  She looks good this evening. Morgan's always looked good, every time he's seen her. She wakes up looking good. His throat feels tight, looking at her.

  "Evening."

  She smiles up at him, leaning over her desk. It's strange to see her in those clothes, ready to go out for the night, leaning over the desk in her office. She must have changed in the office, but even still…

  "Hey, you." Her voice sounds nice, too. But still, no mention of the deal. Maybe that's what he wants. Maybe it's what she wants. Neither one of them seems to have much intention of getting to the point, right or wrong.

  "How was work?"

  "Slow. You wouldn't think that I would have something to complain about when nothing's happening. And yet…"

  "Sorry to hear that."

  "Don't be."

  She tucks a set of keys into her purse and crosses the room, her arm in his. "Where are you taking me, Mr. Callahan?"

  "I'm taking you? Oh, I get it—you've got my land, now the wining and dining is over, is it?"

  She looks at him, clearly unsure, and he keeps a straight face for an instant. Then, as subtle as a train whistle, he winks and smiles, and then goes back to the straight face.

  "You're awful."

  "I think I told you that before. When we first met."

  "Oh no, you're not getting out of this that easily."

  "Alright, fine. You're right. I'm sorry. Shouldn't have teased you. How can I make it up to you?"

  "I don't know. It's probably impossible." She's fully in the role now, even as they walk together, arms intertwined.

  "Anything. I'll do anything. How's dinner sound?"

  "Dinner? Oh, you'll have to do more than just that."

  "In too deep for dinner, huh? Dessert, then, too."

  "You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Callahan."

  "I know, but that's part of what makes me so charming, you see."

  "You're right about that."

  He slips into the truck, and to his surprise she slides into the passenger seat. It's so strangely unlike her—she's always been in that red speed machine of hers, always been driving herself.

  He doesn't ask her about it. If she's decided to ride with him, that's her prerogative. He drives her out. There's no reason to mention that of course he already had a reservation. You hardly need them out here, even if you go into the city.

  Of course, if they're celebrating—whatever they're celebrating—then you can't stay just in town, but Wyoming isn't exactly the bustling social scene of a place like New York or Vegas. Does she expect that sort of thing? He doesn't know. But there's no use in getting nervous about it now.

  Morgan takes his arm again automatically when they climb down from the truck. It must have been strange, sitting so high up after having her butt only a few inches off the ground every day.

  "Sir?"

  "I called ahead? Phil Callahan, table for two."

  The girl at the front is small, barely five feet tall and she looks like she could still be in high school. Maybe just outside of it. She looks down the list studiously and taps next to where his name shows up on the list, near the top of the page. Maybe he'd called a little early.

  "Got you right here, sir." She picks up a couple menus and tucks them under her arm. "Right this way, sir."

  He follows her, Morgan only a step behind, to a quiet little section of the restaurant. The place isn't dimly lit—not the romantic lighting that the last one had.

  But you can get one hell of a burrito here, and to his very great surprise, their steaks aren't half bad either. Maybe if he'd gotten into raising cattle, rather than raising horses, he'd have a stronger opinion on the matter.

  Then again, Wyoming territory, they probably have access to the best steaks in the country, and local to boot. So who the hell knows, any more.

  Morgan picks up a menu, and he does the same. He doesn't particularly need to look it over. He's been here plenty of times.

  But his eyes drop to the pages, for a minute or two. Running over everything to see what he can see, and that's probably why he doesn't notice when a man walks up until he speaks.

  "Hey, Callahan. Small world. Who's your friend here?"

  Phil looks up, a little tired and not in the mood to talk to Glen Brand tonight.

  "Glen, this is Morgan Lowe. She owns those, ah, factories going up? I'm sure you heard about 'em."

  "Sure. You two close?"

  Philip looks to her for guidance. Close? Sure. Close according to who? And who would they be close for? He might as well let her decide.

  "We've been getting to know each other over business dinners. And you are?"

  Chapter Forty

  Morgan Lowe doesn't know a whole lot about cattle ranching, and she knows less about racing them. She's not an old hand in running a company—she's only been doing it a year now in any capacity at all, and only six months or so from top to bottom.

  But men? She's got a lot of experience meeting men, and a lot of experience learning which ones she wasn't interested in dealing with any more.

  When the guy introduces himself, and she takes his hand lightly, it doesn't take long to know that she's found another one that she's not particularly interested in meeting again.

  The newcomer leans in close and says something to Callahan that she can't hear. How they're related, she's not sure. But that they know each other, that much isn't a question. She knows they do. They must.

  Business partners, very possibly. But friends? It's hard to say. And the difference is an important one. She tries to get a sense for the relationship, but it's untenable at best. They've got something going on, that much is clear.

  What it is, what it has to do with her—if anything—is less clear. Morgan closes her eyes
a minute. She shouldn't be concerned. She shouldn't let herself be concerned. If she's got anything to be worried about, she can respond to it when it happens.

  When you start preparing, when you start hedging bets, that's when you start to run into problems. That's when you start to have serious issues. She's got no interest in giving herself fits, and she's not going to, not if she has any choice in the matter.

  Whatever it was that Glen said to Callahan, he closes his eyes a minute and tries to straighten his face. It's not a reaction that Morgan likes. It speaks to a discomfort on Philip's part, and if it's going to make him uncomfortable then it's almost certainly going to do the same for her.

  "Would you like to have a seat?"

  Callahan moves over a little, and the other man slides in next to him.

  "Miss Lowe, how's business? I've heard that you're really knocking out the construction on your new plants."

  "My boys are doing good work," she responds. What's this guy's play, anyway?

  "Good to hear it. So how are you liking Wyoming?"

  Philip's silence isn't comforting, either. He's looking at Glen, and he's not smiling. The way his elbows sit on the table, he looks like he's trying to cover himself. Or perhaps restrain himself. Everything about his posture is wrong.

  "It's fine," she says. She tries to send her best 'buzz off' signals, but if he sees them he seems to think he can get around them through force of will.

  "I run a few race horses, around the state. Been having some good successes around.

  "Good for you." She doesn't want to turn this into an ugly situation. Not on her life. But the novelty of the situation is beginning to wear thin, and he continues not to get the message.

  "You don't mind my joining the two of you, do you?" He says it as if he's just noticed that she doesn't like him being there. If he didn't notice, then he needs to have his head examined.

  "Actually—"

  "It's fine," Callahan says. His jaw's set in a way that immediately sends a signal to Morgan—not that she can tell exactly what it is.

  He's not pleased, but he's not saying no either. In spite of the fact that he seems to want to. Whatever the younger man has on him, it must be something he doesn't want to lose.

  She doesn't particularly have any interest in playing along. If he's got some creep over his head, then he should just tell him to buzz off. If he won't, then that's not her problem. Or it shouldn't be.

  But 'shouldn't be' is nowhere near the same thing as 'isn't' in the real world. Not in business, and not in her personal life. So in spite of herself, she settles back.

  "No problem at all."

  If he's got something on Philip, then the question isn't what she wants or doesn't want. It's what she is willing to put up with for him. And in spite of the fact that he's just about a converted deal, and she could walk away as soon as the papers are signed, she doesn't want to walk away.

  Which means that she's got to put up with whatever he's got on Philip, too. Deep breath. Nothing to worry about. She's going to worry either way, because if she doesn't, then she can get run over.

  That's how it is for a woman in business, and like all women in business—like Andrea Neill, who called her just to make sure that she hadn't forgotten the lesson—she was going to have to be proactive.

  Proactive enough to react to problems before they can even become problems, and at the same time, keep it in her pocket as long as she can.

  Not prepared enough and you're weak and waifish. Too prepared, and you're a cast-iron bitch.

  Which is she going to be? She doesn't know. All she knows is, she wants what she wants, and she doesn't want to get herself—or Philip—hurt if she can avoid it.

  Everything else is secondary.

  Chapter Forty-One

  If he wants to sit and talk, if he wants to spend some time chatting with them, then Phil Callahan isn't going to argue. It's worth twenty grand. It's worth five. It's even worth it, he thinks in spite of himself, if he's going to get boxed out of the conversation a little.

  After all, some people are more talkative than he is. He's never been much of a talker. He's always been the sort of guy who is either doing something or waiting to do something. Not the type to do a whole hell of a lot of talking about it.

  But if he's going to sit here and watch Glen damn Brand flirt with Morgan Lowe—a frog catches in his throat, a feeling he doesn't want to begin to unpack. All he knows for sure is, he's not interested in seeing it continue.

  Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, it's easy to feel as if Glen is a big guy. He is. His shoulders are as broad as a barn, even as his hips are fairly narrow and tight. He looks like the kind of guy who pulls up his shirt sometimes when he's working out just so you catch an accidental peek at his abs.

  There's the difference between the two of them, though, too. Glen looks like he's got a body that he put together in the gym. Philip's got a body that grew out of the work he did. It takes a real force of will to recall that he's not a small man himself.

  "What you doin' here, anyways, Glen?"

  "I was just on my way to sittin' down, and I saw my good friend Mr. Callahan."

  "Good friend?" his molars push against each other. "You're my good friend, now?"

  "Well, sure."

  "Then go on, get out of here. I'm here with the lady."

  He hadn't really expected to feel quite this jealous, when Glen walked up. He hadn't known how the conversation would go, for one thing. But for another, there was certainly something more to it than that. A feeling like he was more possessive towards Morgan than he'd realized.

  What had this thing between them become, in the time since he'd last seriously considered it?

  Lovers? Sure. But the way that the radio makes it sound, the way the news on the internet talks about it, that's how kids are these days. Twenty-year-olds who think that a hug and a kiss is more intimate than slipping it to a girl.

  Maybe these days lovers didn't mean a thing to other people. Maybe he should see it that way, too. Maybe it was just something they did because it was fun and because they could. Because nobody was going to stop them.

  But that wasn't how he felt. That wasn't how he thought about it, regardless of what he should be thinking and should be feeling.

  They were lovers, sure. But did that mean that he was in love with her? And if he was…

  "Get on out of here." Callahan's voice sounds dangerous and carries an edge, even to his own ears.

  "I'm not going to do that," Glen says.

  "I don't want to take this outside," Philip says. He doesn't add that he will if he has to.

  "Then don't."

  Philip steals a glance over at Morgan. What does she think of all this? Is she going to be furious with him for pushing this?

  "You ought to go, Mr. Brand." Her voice should be the one driving reason. The one that makes everything sound copacetic. Instead, she sounds firm. Which, as it happens, he realizes is so very much like her.

  She's never been the voice of reason. She's always been right there, fighting, too.

  "You owe me, Callahan. Don't you play this shit—"

  "Then the deal's off, you pompous ass. Now get on outta here."

  He sputters a minute and stands up. He doesn't walk away, though, which is the real mistake. He should have walked away. Then it would have been a nice, comfortable evening.

  They'd have both worked the frustration off somehow. It wasn't as if an attractive guy like Glen was lacking for female attention.

  "You son of a bitch, you don't—"

  "Shut up." Glen fumes a second, and in that second Philip drops the napkin off his lap and draws up to his feet. An inch or two shorter, Philip might have seemed a little less intimidating if he didn't have twenty solid pounds of muscle on the man in front of him. "I'd like you to leave."

  "Philip, don't." It's almost a surprise. She seems like the kind who likes a good fight. Feisty as all hell, and with a little wicked streak running through her. Fight
might be just what she wants.

  For a minute he debates backing down. And then, without a word, Callahan slips back into the booth. It's not going to be a fight on his account.

  He sees the blow coming by an instant, but it's still a surprise when the hit comes and lands right on his chin. Glen's hit throws Callahan back a little. He catches himself, sprawled over in the booth, with his elbow before he lifts himself back up straight.

  His jaw hurts a little where the punch caught him, left of his chin.

  "You finished?"

  Glen's fuming above him. The man doesn't like being shown up like that, and he sure as hell didn't like getting the no-sell treatment. But Callahan wasn't going to play around. He'd been told to back off, and until he got different instructions, he'd back off.

  Glen turns and stalks off. Callahan's jaw hurts, but in the end, he won the fight.

  "Y'alright?"

  "I'm fine," she says. "Are you alright?"

  The thought in his head isn't about his jaw hurting. It'll ache a little, for a time. It's not even really about how much better he'll feel when he gets his 'reward' later, the one that women tend to pay out to guys they like who get hit for 'em.

  It's the realization that Callahan doesn't mind the idea of her and him being an item one bit.

  A year ago, if he'd told himself it would happen—hell, six months ago, he'd have thought he was crazy. He'd had his chance once.

  That was over now. You don't get to go around the wheel twice.

  But even still, here he was. And now that he had realized it, now that he'd tasted that freedom, he wasn't going to let himself fuck it up now.

  He smiles at her. "You're pretty when you're flustered, you know that?"

  She about punches him right there, to even out his jaw. Which might have been a good idea, in the long run.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Whatever is going on, Morgan only knows that she isn't a fan. That, and that whatever was happening seems to have terminated in Philip getting his eggs scrambled.