Small Wonders

by Courtney Lux

  “Probably a couple I haven’t done cover to cover.” Nate seems to give up on pondering the ethical repercussions of giving a minor a drink because he pours a few fingers of Scotch over ice into each glass and adds a twist of lemon peel. “Most of them, though, I think.”

  “That’s a lot of reading.” Trip pushes the book back into place and pulls another. He thumbs through a few pages before closing it and turning it over to look at the cover. “Ethics of the Millennial Businessman? You make it all the way through that one?”

  “Yeah, I did.” Nate offers one of the glasses once Trip has replaced the book on the shelf. “Guess I just can’t stand to leave something unfinished.”

  “Me? I don’t think I’ve ever made it all the way through a book. Started plenty of them, but—” Trip makes a vague motion with his glass toward the ceiling. “S’pose I’m no good at finishing anything at all—except drinks. Which, by the way, I’m gonna do real fast. Give me that glass.”

  Nate looks disgruntled, but he offers his glass anyway. “That’s just how you’re supposed to pour Scotch.”

  “You and ‘supposed to,’ Nathaniel.” Trip shakes his head and moves back to the breakfast bar. He sloshes another few fingers of Scotch into both of their glasses. “You need me to remind you that you got dumped and fired in the same month in the middle of a couple of good for nothin’ Tuesday afternoons?”

  “Thank you, Trip.” Nate looks at him. “Really. That’s great. I needed that pick-me-up. So glad you’re here.”

  “You will be. Don’t worry.” Trip shoves the tumbler into Nate’s hand. “Next order of business: Is there furniture on that balcony?”

  Nate lifts his tumbler to eye level, clearly displeased with how full it is. “A couple chairs.”

  “Perfect.” Trip goes to the sliding door. The lock is flipped closed and there’s a wooden dowel between the door and the wall. “You really that worried about someone scaling the building all the way up here and breaking into your place?”

  “Better safe than sorry,” Nate states simply.

  Trip bites his tongue to keep himself from pointing out Nate has willingly let someone he knows to be a thief into his apart­ment. He stoops to pull the bar out and flips the lock.

  The balcony is small and does not hold much. There are two wooden chairs with earth-toned cushions on them, a small table between them, and a potted plant taking up a large amount of the right corner. Trip chooses the seat closest to the plant and sits crisscross on the cushions while he sips his drink. The smoky burn of it in his throat reminds him of bonfires and winter months. He prefers the sweet heat of honey whiskey, but this is better than vodka and he isn’t here to complain about a free drink, no matter what it is. He pulls a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lights one. “Is this your favorite thing to drink?”

  “Um…” Nate clears his throat. He looks pale, shaken. He clears his throat a second time. “Yeah, I guess.” He scratches at his throat hard enough to leave a spot of pink on the skin above his collar and Trip notes the soft glisten of sweat on his neck.

  Trip rests his glass on the small table between their chairs and moves to stand in front of Nate’s chair. He pulls the glass from his hand, settles it beside his own and shifts his cigarette farther back between his fingers before reaching for Nate’s tie.

  Nate startles at the contact; his eyes jerk from his knees to Trip’s hands as they pull his tie loose and then reach for the cuffs of his sleeves. He doesn’t object when Trip rolls one cuff up to his elbow and then the other. He watches in silence; his gaze eventually moves up to Trip’s face.

  Trip sits back down and waves his cigarette at Nate’s looser clothing. “That any better?”

  “Thanks,” Nate mumbles. He reaches for the top couple buttons of his shirt and undoes those, too. “Sorry, I was—”

  “Getting fifteen shades of panicked over being freshly dumped and fired?” Trip takes a drag on his cigarette and blows the smoke out toward the street. “I noticed.”

  “I can start talking to people tomorrow. Maybe call some old professors to see what they know, maybe get something temporary at least while I keep looking for something bigger. Could probably try for an associate spot since I have the analyst experience.” Nate talks to the melting ice in his cup.

  “You gonna have to move outta this place if you don’t get a new job?” Trip blows smoke into the top of his glass, watches it swirl above the ice before dissipating.

  “No. I mean if I never got one, then I guess I would have to.” Nate takes another drink, then touches the side of his glass to his cheek before lowering it back to his lap. “I got a good severance package and I have money saved up.”

  “So what’s the rush?” Trip flicks the side of his cigarette and sends ash flying. He takes a last drag before throwing it over the railing.

  Nate watches it sail through the air in a high arc, but he loses interest before it hits the street below. “Want to hit the ground running or whatever. Make a plan so I can get going again.”

  “You put any thought into the fact that you keep get­ting dumped on account of you’re kind of a miserable drone, Nathan­iel?” Trip twists to face Nate. He pulls an ice cube from his glass and pops it into his mouth. “You know what I think?”

  “I don’t think you’re exactly withholding with any of your thoughts.”

  Trip chews his ice cube despite the reproachful look it earns him. “I think it wouldn’t kill you to stop planning and just live for a couple minutes.”

  “Wow, Trip, thanks for the fortune-cookie tidbit of wisdom.” Nate glowers at him. “That sounds fantastic. So I should just spend a few months binging on Netflix and booze and maybe that’ll get me my life back.”

  “You really want all that back?” Trip pulls another ice cube from his glass. “I know I met you raw off a breakup, but I don’t think I’m wrong in guessing you weren’t all that fuckin’ happy before the breakup happened.”

  “What, you reading my mind again?” Nate takes a larger gulp of his drink.

  “Maybe.” Trip drops the ice cube back into his cup. He’s wor­ried Nate might get too angry and kick him out altogether, so he switches tactics. “Listen, I know stubborn and maybe I can’t get you to admit that you’ve been a miserable bastard for a good long while, but I can offer you a deal.”

  Nate appears to deflate; his shoulders droop and his expres­sion turns weary. He turns his gaze to the buildings on the oppo­site side of the street. “What kind of deal?”

  “You let the whole plan thing go for…” Trip says, screwing up his face while he thinks. “Two months—no, three, three is good—and just live for a bit, and I’ll keep you entertained.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a deal.”

  “I beg to differ. You can supply the food and the booze.” Trip polishes off his drink before pulling Nate’s glass from his hand. He settles both on the table. “And I promise I’ll be plenty good to you.”

  Nate startles when Trip moves out of his chair and kicks a leg over Nate’s knees so he’s straddling his lap. Nate braces a hand on his waist as if wary of the open space behind them. “You some sort of prostitute now?”

  “Just a good friend.” Trip reaches for Nate’s hand still rest­ing on the arm of his chair, moves it back to settle on his waist with the other.

  Nate’s hands stay where they are. His gaze shifts from Trip’s left eye to his right. “We’re not friends.”

  “No, I guess we’re not.” Trip’s hands shift to Nate’s chest. His heart’s hammering under Trip’s palm through the fabric of his shirt. He pulls one of Scarlett’s favorite lines. “Everyone could always use another friend in this city, though, right?”

  When Trip kisses him, Nate sighs into it as if it’s a relief; his left hand shifts up to Trip’s neck to hold him in place. It’s oddly intimate, but Trip doesn’t mind. Nate’s not a
bad kisser. His hands are warm and his tongue tastes like Scotch and smoke; it makes Trip slightly dizzy. That might be hunger talking, too.

  He shifts his hips so he can get a hand on Nate’s belt and undoes it with quick fingers before working his hand down Nate’s boxers. He’s bigger than Trip expected, but that’s not a surprise he minds.

  Nate groans when Trip’s mouth shifts to his neck; he presses his hips higher into Trip’s hand. Trip works him slow, sinks his teeth into the shell of his ear in the place he knows will raise goose bumps on Nate’s skin. All men are the same in this sense. Trip knows how to make them comfortable, knows how to make them feel good. Nate is probably not as violent as some, though only time will tell. He’s definitely more polite than most, but that does not make Trip any less wary of him. Trip is tough and knows how to fight, but he is small and that has worked against him even with some of the most docile-looking men. Nate could hurt him if he wanted to. It’s a risk Trip has always been willing to take, but it is also one he is constantly mindful of. Nate is not an exception.

  He slips off of Nate’s lap. The pavement is cold on his knees and bare feet and he has a fleeting wish he hadn’t thrown away those socks with the hole in the toe. He shakes the thought and reaches for Nate’s pants, intent on pulling them down farther to make his work easier.

  Trip has his hands halfway up Nate’s thighs when Nate catches both of his wrists. “Wait.”

  Trip tenses, but he looks up at him with a smirk. He works his fingers against the tight muscles of Nate’s thighs. “Hmmm?”

  Nate looks toward the street, then down at Trip. “It’s still light out. People—”

  “Might see?” Trip creeps his fingers up a few more inches before Nate can stop him. “Half of the fun, sugar.”

  Nate’s shirt is wrinkled, his hair is mussed and his cheeks are flushed. It’s the most unkempt Trip’s ever seen him and he has an intense desire to see him entirely undone.

  “You’re, like, nineteen.”

  “And you’re like twenty-six.” Trip settles his weight back onto his heels. He’s been with men twice Nate’s age when he was much younger; this age difference is not one he’s worried about.

  Nate releases Trip’s wrists. He scrubs at the back of his neck. “We hardly know each other.”

  Trip stands with a hand on each armrest of Nate’s chair and leans close. “We’re getting to know each other right now.”

  Nate opens his mouth, but Trip silences him with another kiss. He waits for Nate to relax before getting a hand on his undone belt. He hauls him to his feet, tugs him toward the door.

  “I don’t know if—” Nate’s looking around his apartment as if he’s not quite sure where he is.

  “Shhh.” Trip quiets him with another kiss. Most men don’t require quite so much assurance, but Trip is charmed by Nate’s nervous hands and mouth. He keeps pulling him along, and Nate keeps following. He gets him up against the edge of the staircase and kisses him until they’re both breathless.

  When Trip pulls away again, he stays close enough to taste smoke on Nate’s breath, and he wonders if it’s from the Scotch or his own mouth. “What do you say you show me that bedroom, Nathaniel?”

  Nate is apparently not capable of finding his voice, so he simply nods in response. They trip over one another trying to move up the narrow stairs, but neither cares. When they reach the top of the staircase, Trip doesn’t waste time looking over the bedroom. He’s aware that it’s small, with the bed taking up most of the room. That bed is all he needs to know about in this space. He pushes Nate down onto it with a hand on his chest and settles himself on top of him, one hand already working its way back down Nate’s underwear.

  Nate makes no protests this time when Trip strips off his pants. He pulls Trip’s T-shirt over his head, touches the exposed skin and Trip’s hair and wherever else he can reach. He’s soft with his hands; he likes pulling Trip close so he can kiss him. This foreplay is strange in its softness, but Trip is not altogether uncomfortable with it.

  He’s not sure what happens after this: if he will be kicked out while they’re still sweating and panting, if he’ll be allowed to spend the night, if he’ll be asked back. Normally he does not care. He does not have the time to worry about later when he has now to deal with, and right now seems like a pretty damn good thing.

  six.

  Trip has perfected the art of sneaking out after a one-night stand. He usually stays most of the night for the sake of a few hours of sleep in a semi-comfortable bed, but come four or five a.m., his clothes are on, his bag is packed and he is gone. He wonders if some of his more intoxicated con­quests think they simply imagined him and chalk up the lightness in their wallets as too much cash spent at the bar.

  He wakes, confused, to find himself alone in bed. He reaches for the space Nate had occupied. The sheets are cold and he can hear the muted sound of water running somewhere in the apartment. If he leaves before Nate’s out of the shower, he can disappear just as easily as if he’d woken first. He stays where he is, a hand still on the empty pillow beside him.

  He’s not sure how to handle Nate. He’d made the deal with him yesterday without thinking. It had been like kissing Nate the first time: He hadn’t planned on it, but he’d had to do something. Anything.

  He pushes himself out of the bed, then moves past his aban­doned clothes and down the stairs to the bathroom. He hums “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Stones and makes no effort at keeping quiet when he dances around the running shoes and shorts folded on the floor and slips in past the shower curtain, but Nate startles anyway.

  Trip taps his naked wrist. “You know what time it is?”

  “Um… five something?” Nate scrubs the water from his eyes, blinks at Trip wildly as though he can’t quite figure out what he’s doing here.

  “Like five something.” Trip tilts his head. “You one of them early-bird-gets-the-worm types? I should have known.”

  “I was going to run, but I changed my mind.” Nate looks Trip over and then glances at his own naked body as if them being naked together is something awkward. “I decided to just shower. Sorry if I woke you up.”

  Trip shakes his head. He hadn’t seen much of Nate’s body in the dark of the bedroom, but he appraises him slowly now, not at all embarrassed to be caught staring. He has freckles on his shoulders and a scar on the right side of his abdomen, and the whole of him is built solid and strong. Trip meets Nate’s eyes again and whistles.

  Nate laughs, then scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “If you want the shower, I can go.”

  “You were here first.” Trip shivers. “Just share some of the hot water and we’ll be square.”

  Nate steps to his left and plasters himself to the wall, but they still end up pressed together while they negotiate the space under the water.

  “For such a nice apartment, this shower sure is little.” Trip tips his face up to the showerhead. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  “Trade-off for every place, I guess,” Nate mumbles, distracted.

  Trip feels the familiar pinprick of eyes on him. He knows this feeling—knows that people are as taken aback by the threading of scars across his back as they are by his eyes. He looks over his shoulder at Nate. “Ugly things, aren’t they?”

  Nate’s gaze jerks up from the exposed skin of Trip’s back to his eyes. He raises his hands in innocence. “I, no, they’re just, they’re—”

  Trip considers letting Nate babble on, but instead he reaches around him for a bottle of shampoo. “You don’t actually have to answer that.”

  Nate closes his mouth; his eyes still dart between Trip’s face and back.

  Trip turns his back to Nate again, scrubs shampoo into his hair and keeps humming to fill the sudden quiet. He’s rinsed the suds from his hair and started a new song when soft fingertips touch a scar low on his hip. Nate’s voice accompanies the tou
ch, just as soft. “I’m sorry.”

  Trip shakes off his surprise before looking back over his shoul­der at Nate. “For what? Staring? Everyone does. Doesn’t bother me no more, promise.”

  “No, for…” Nate’s hand is still on his hip, warm and solid. “For whatever happened. I’m sorry.”

  Trip licks his lips, not sure what to say to such soft words. He lifts a hand, drops it back to his side. He twists to face Nate more fully. Nate’s frowning at him with enough pity to make Trip forget whatever it was he’d wanted to do with his hands. “Bear fight. They’re nasty things, them grizzlies.”

  “Didn’t know there were grizzlies down south.” Nate’s eyes skim Trip’s chest before moving back up to his face.

  “Never said it happened in the south.” Trip’s lightheaded, surrounded by so much heat. He prods Nate in the chest with a finger. “For all you know, I could be a worldly guy.”

  “Hmmm.” Nate pushes Trip’s hair off of his forehead. “You want some breakfast?”

  Trip’s stomach growls a loud note before he can respond, and it occurs to him that he’s not sure when he last ate. “My stomach says sure.”

  “Great.” Nate’s gaze flits between Trip’s eyes and his mouth.

  Trip gives Nate a quick nip on the shoulder. He twists around fast enough to crank the shower handle all the way to cold before hopping out into the cold air of the bathroom.

  To Trip’s delight, Nate lets out a startled gasp before stumbling out after him. Nate throws him a towel from the shelf at his side. “Asshole.”

  Trip catches the towel, snaps it at Nate before wrapping it around his waist.

  Nate turns off the water and pulls out a second towel for himself. Outside of the small, shared space of the shower, Nate is awkward and stiff. He steps out of Trip’s way whenever he comes too close and dresses in the bathroom despite Trip’s teasing.