Bad Judgment

by Sidney Bell

  Brogan dropped his head, nibbling along Embry’s jaw and throat, finding the sensitive spot beneath his ear, and Embry’s whole body lit up. He jerked and sucked in a breath.

  “Right there, huh?” Brogan asked, his voice low and rough. He did it again, adding a gentle bite, and Embry moaned helplessly, arching in Brogan’s arms.

  Then Brogan pushed him away. Embry stood there, shaken, and couldn’t find any words.

  “Fuck,” Brogan whispered. He cleared his throat, then said, “I’ll be back. Stay here.”

  And he left.

  Long after the front door closed behind Brogan and he’d heard the truck drive away, Embry remained in the kitchen, staring at the wall, cock hard. His breathing began to regulate, and that was when his nose twitched.

  He sneezed.

  He glared at Gizmo, who was half-asleep and drooling on the floor next to the couch, no doubt shedding even as Embry watched. Which gave him an idea.

  It didn’t take him long to find Brogan’s vacuum. It was in the closet buried under rain gear, a massive first-aid kit and a rucksack filled with emergency survival equipment, including tarps and twine and the like.

  “Army guy,” Embry muttered.

  By the time Brogan got home, two plastic bags of groceries draped over one wrist, and a box in the other, Embry was almost done with the couch.

  “It’s nice of you to help out,” Brogan said, watching him with a small smile playing on his lips, “but as long as Gizmo’s living here, it’s Sisyphus and the rock, if you get my meaning.”

  Embry studied the dog. Then he found the vacuum’s brush attachment and said, “Come, Gizmo.”

  Brogan shifted as the dog obeyed. “That won’t hurt him, will it?”

  Embry rolled his eyes. “He’s short-haired, dummy. It’ll just pick up the loose hairs.”

  Gizmo was leery of the brush at first, but soon he was wagging his tail so forcefully that his whole hind end jiggled.

  “You’re taking care of my dog,” Brogan said. He had a weird look on his face.

  “So?”

  Brogan muttered, “Nothing. Uh, breakfast,” and vanished into the kitchen.

  Embry put the vacuum away while Brogan unpacked groceries.

  “Is the dog hair bothering your asthma?” Brogan asked, eyeing Embry with concern.

  “No. I started getting allergy shots in my early teens, and pets don’t bother me much since then. Cigarette smoke’s another story.” Embry nodded toward the box. “What is this?”

  “Plastic,” Brogan said, opening it with a flourish. “More specifically, it’s donuts.”

  “These are so bad for you.”

  “Shh,” Brogan hissed, slapping the lid shut as if to protect the donuts’ innocence. “They’ll hear you.”

  Which was how Embry found himself eating two cake donuts with sprinkles, but only after he got Brogan to swear that he could make lunch.

  “I got health food at the store,” Brogan said, sounding resigned. “I had a feeling.”

  After they ate, Brogan washed the dishes while Embry wiped down the table.

  “Now what?” Embry asked.

  “Sparring.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  So far Brogan hadn’t mentioned anything connected to their conversation the day before, which defeated the whole purpose of him being here. Confused, Embry said, “Brogan...”

  “Go with it,” Brogan ordered. “I’m the boss of you for the day. Come on.”

  “I don’t know what you want,” he said, not moving.

  Brogan smiled that familiar crooked smile, and some of Embry’s nervousness faded against his will. “Since you’re a really smart guy, I’m thinking that’s a defense mechanism of some kind. Now get off your lazy ass and come with me.”

  Embry gave him the dirtiest look in his repertoire, but obeyed. He didn’t have anything appropriate to wear, so he ended up in a pair of Brogan’s shorts, which were far too big and held up by the drawstring, and a T-shirt that fit like a trash bag. He felt ridiculous, and judging from the amused, fond little looks Brogan kept sending his way, he suspected that Brogan was thinking the word cute.

  “You’re a horrible person,” he informed Brogan, who tried to look innocent and instead looked gleeful.

  Brogan, on the other hand, looked good. He wore a tight, sleeveless T-shirt and black sweats, moving gracefully as he led them downstairs, where his basement had been converted to a home gym. They took up positions across each other, barefoot on blue exercise mats. Brogan looked rough and capable with his big hands curled into loose fists and his eyes tracking Embry.

  For a minute they felt each other out, testing boundaries and reflexes. Then Brogan jabbed, pulling the punch so completely that Embry mentally rolled his eyes even as he grabbed Brogan’s wrist, pivoted and tossed Brogan over his shoulder.

  “Jesus,” Brogan gasped from flat on his back. “That was hot. Like, really hot. Definitely the hottest time I’ve ever landed on my ass.”

  “Are you done coddling me?”

  “Absolutely,” Brogan said, and got back to his feet.

  And Brogan wasn’t joking. The next time he swung at Embry, it would’ve earned him a black eye if he hadn’t dodged, and then they were lost in a struggle for dominance. Embry was faster and far more limber, but Brogan was strong as fuck, and Embry was winning—small blows landed here and there, dirty and effective—only until Brogan managed to get a firm grip on him, and then Embry found himself pressed into the mat, Brogan’s sweaty shoulders shoving him prone, his heavy thighs straddling his hips.

  “Hottest time you’ve landed on your ass?” Brogan asked, an intent, smug look on his face as he rose and offered Embry a hand up.

  “Are we gonna talk or fight?” Embry asked, and swatted the hand away to get up on his own, making Brogan smirk.

  Embry’s form was a little rusty, but he’d spent so much time in the dojo that it came back to him fast, a lucky thing. Brogan was more than competent, his technique army-instilled and solid, and Embry’s muscles sang as he pushed himself, his smile turning bloodthirsty. He’d stayed in shape using the gym in his apartment complex, but it wasn’t the same as sparring, and it especially wasn’t the same as sparring with Brogan. He didn’t have to hide anything from Brogan, didn’t have to pretend to be an ineffectual office drone. He wasn’t worried that Brogan would turn from him because Brogan watched him like he was something erotic and precious at once, like Embry was the only thing in the world.

  To his shock and gratitude, Embry realized he could be himself with Brogan and still be safe.

  Every time one of them got the other down, they were a little slower to pull away. Embry was trying to resist, but he could barely remember why he should. Brogan’s skin was warm and sweaty, his shoulders carved and hard, his arms thick with muscle. He touched Embry like he had every right to, like Embry’s body belonged to him, like Embry belonged to him.

  His fingers coasted up and under the bottom hem of Embry’s T-shirt for a brief touch. His breath washed over the undefended nape of Embry’s neck so that he was tempted to close his eyes and drop his head forward. Every single time he got Embry flat on his back, Brogan pushed one of his strong thighs between Embry’s, nudging their hips together so that it was all Embry could do not to rock up into the pressure.

  He was driving Embry fucking insane.

  Finally, Brogan gave up all pretense. He wrapped his arms around Embry’s waist and took him down in a hold that had nothing to do with grappling. He slid into the cradle of Embry’s pelvis, and their cocks—both hard—aligned with terrifyingly good contact. Their chests brushed, and it... Jesus, it was... Embry was choking on the heat. His hips tipped upward without his permission, and Brogan let out a low growl that sank deep into his belly...and Embry
—panicked.

  Brogan must’ve been shocked by his sudden struggles, but he held on, capturing Embry’s wrists and using brute strength to press his arms flat to the mat.

  “Yield,” Brogan ordered, the demand in his voice striking a chord deep inside Embry, and his thighs spread wider of their own volition even as he thrashed. There was no moving Brogan unless he wanted to be moved, and Embry wasn’t even sure why he was still fighting, why he couldn’t let himself admit that Brogan won a long time ago.

  Brogan gritted his teeth and bore down, letting Embry rock and twist against him until they were both panting and aching, until they were both shaking, until it was clear that what was once a battle had become something else entirely.

  Embry’s movements altered in tone against his will, and now, instead of trying to buck Brogan off, he was sliding his knees up to clutch Brogan’s hips, arching his back, and Brogan put his head down, sweaty face pressed into the curve of Embry’s neck, and groaned.

  “Fucking yield,” he ordered, and the muffled words stole down Embry’s spine to make him tremble.

  “I don’t know how,” Embry said without thinking. He couldn’t quite make sense of what he meant by it, even as Brogan shuddered.

  “Please yield,” he said—begged, really. His breath puffed against the sensitive skin of Embry’s neck, making him shiver. Or maybe it was the entreaty underlying Brogan’s tone. As if he’d been pushed as far as a man could be pushed without breaking. “Please, Embry. I can’t...”

  The desperation accomplished what the demand had not, and Embry went limp.

  A minute passed. He could feel Brogan’s heart pounding where their chests touched, and he ached to move, to rock, to rub his cock against Brogan’s, to finish that wild climb to orgasm, and right when he couldn’t hold out any longer, Brogan heaved a resigned breath and pulled back. “Good match.”

  “Wait, what?” Embry asked.

  “Enough sparring, I think,” Brogan said, his voice hoarse as he stood and strode back up the stairs, calling back over his shoulder, “I’m going to take a shower.”

  He left Embry on the mat, sweaty and coiled tight, painfully hard, confused as hell. He stared up at the ceiling for several long seconds, half tempted to follow so he could punch Brogan in the mouth.

  “What the fuck!” he shouted. If Brogan heard him, he didn’t reply.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Embry didn’t say a word to Brogan when they crossed each other in the hall so he could take his turn showering. He was tempted to jerk off, but Brogan had taken so long that half of Embry’s need had become resentment, and he’d rather suffer than face how much he wanted the other man.

  It was all Brogan’s fault that he felt like this, anyway, and somehow, in the world of irrational anger, it made perfect sense that Embry refused to take care of his hard-on to punish the asshole. If that made him spiteful and immature, well, that was on Brogan’s shoulders, too. By the time he climbed out, dried off, and dressed, he was halfway convinced that the Crusades and overpriced gasoline were also Brogan’s fault, and between sexual frustration and a whole lot of bafflement, he was spoiling for a fight.

  Brogan had asked for honesty. He was going to fucking get it.

  And if it felt good to know that he could be honest with Brogan, that was a problem for later.

  Embry marched into the dining room, where Brogan sat at the table, his expression strained.

  “I’m sorry,” he said before Embry could get a word out. “I overestimated my self-control. I wasn’t trying to tease you. Truly.”

  Most of his anger faded at the contrition on Brogan’s face.

  “Why, then?” Embry asked, because he was missing something obvious here, something he couldn’t see, or, he admitted reluctantly, something he couldn’t let himself see.

  “No. That’s not a talk we’re having yet. I’m only apologizing for what happened downstairs.”

  “Well, if we’re not talking, what are we doing?” Embry asked, and even to him his tone sounded bitchy.

  Brogan almost smiled, but remained undistracted. “What would you normally do at this point on a weekend?”

  “I’d be working.”

  “Okay,” Brogan said. “Teach me something about physics then.”

  “I meant working—”

  “I know what you meant. We’re doing physics.”

  “Force equals mass times acceleration,” Embry intoned.

  “You can do better than that.”

  Embry sank into a chair and scowled. This bossy thing was getting old fast. “You don’t give a shit about physics.”

  “I’m a little afraid of physics,” Brogan replied, scraping his thumbnail along the table’s edge in a twitchy, nervous gesture. “I have a hard enough time with addition. Half the time I forget to carry the one. But there has to be something you can teach me that doesn’t use much math.”

  Ten minutes later, this happened:

  “Who the fuck would do that to a cat?” Brogan asked, looking horrified.

  “They didn’t really. It’s theoretical. Just answer the question.”

  “Well, how the hell do I know if it’s alive or dead if it’s in a box? I can’t see it.”

  “That’s the point. The Copenhagen Interpretation of quantum mechanics would’ve meant the cat was both until you knew for sure by seeing it, and that’s—”

  “Screw quantum whatever,” Brogan told him. “The cat can’t be alive and dead at the same time. If you don’t believe me, just put the damn thing in a transparent box and be done with it.”

  Embry smiled. “Schrödinger would’ve liked you.”

  Twenty minutes after that, Embry’s mood was downright chipper and Brogan was miming tearing his eyeballs out.

  “You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for being. Far too pragmatic, but smart,” Embry explained later, slapping tomatoes and lean roast beef onto toasted whole wheat bread. When he was done he passed one plate over then cut the crusts off of his own sandwich—he didn’t care for the texture—which Brogan apparently found fascinating.

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-three. You know that,” Embry said, confused, and Brogan laughed.

  * * *

  The early afternoon was spent watching shitty TV, and Brogan tugged Embry’s feet into his lap and started rubbing, something that made Embry squint at him. He’d never gotten a foot rub before, and if Brogan hadn’t been so enraptured by the crappy action movie they were watching, he’d accuse the man of manipulation. But Brogan didn’t seem to notice that Embry was turning into a melted marshmallow on his couch.

  He ended up dozing, so when Brogan pulled him to his feet and steered him into the bedroom for a nap, it seemed only rational. And when Brogan lay down behind him, drawing Embry into his arms and pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck before whispering, “Sleep, baby,” it seemed only rational to do that, too.

  He woke about an hour later, according to the annoyed red numbers on the digital clock on the nightstand. Brogan was pressed all along his back, big and warm and breathing, and everything was so safe and whole and as it should be that the sudden welling of raw grief took him by surprise.

  He twisted, trying to get loose. He had to get it under control, push it down, and that couldn’t happen with Brogan here because Brogan only ever brought things out of Embry. He was useless when it came to helping Embry conceal things, and Embry wasn’t ready for his parents and—and Amy to come out, wasn’t ready for all of this. He hadn’t let himself cry for them yet because he didn’t have what he needed, didn’t have the resolution of making everyone pay, and if he tried to weather it without that solace, it would certainly crush him.

  His breath caught. And then caught again. He was still trying to scramble out of Brogan’s grip, but Brogan was h
olding on, stroking his arms, murmuring comforting things against his ear, and Embry tried to get away, he wanted to, really, but he was buckling instead, collapsing into Brogan, gasping and clinging and—and he—

  Oh, God, he’d let them slip away.

  “There it is,” Brogan whispered, “Let it go. You’re not doing anything wrong, Embry.”

  But he was.

  He didn’t realize that he’d said it out loud until Brogan replied, “No, you’re not.”

  He cried for a long time, for the first time since the basement, and Brogan held him.

  When he’d exhausted himself, he lay there mute, his head pounding, too tired to even be humiliated. Brogan was still wrapped around him, dropping the occasional kiss in his hair, running his hands along Embry’s forearms, shoulders and belly, anywhere he could reach, and Embry didn’t have the energy to tell him not to. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to.

  He felt Brogan take a breath, and wondered if he was going to try to make Embry explain, to ask him questions that Embry couldn’t answer, not under the best of circumstances and especially not now—

  But all Brogan said was, “I don’t suppose you want to help me clean my refrigerator.”

  Embry stifled a small, hoarse laugh.

  Of course Brogan wouldn’t ask, because Brogan knew. He’d said it weeks ago, back during Embry’s asthma attack: “You don’t like to talk, do you?” And Embry was so fucking grateful for him in that moment that he tugged Brogan’s hand up to his mouth and pressed his lips against Brogan’s knuckles in an awkward, fumbling kiss. Brogan’s arms tightened around him, and Embry whispered, “Yeah, okay.”

  So they cleaned the refrigerator, and Brogan smiled with considerable affection when Embry told him that zucchini should be thrown out before it reached a liquid state.

  * * *

  Next, Brogan taught Embry to play poker. “You have an excellent poker face,” Brogan said during their first nonpractice hand. They were playing with matchsticks.