by Jay Hogan
It seemed there were several programmes, therapists, and options available locally that a kid like Cory could benefit from—at a cost, of course. He needed to be properly assessed, and that was still a sticking point with Craig, but even without that, there were things that could be done.
Reuben knew his nephew inside and out, and based on that and the specialist notes, the doctor and Kelly had a fair idea where Cory might sit. The most important thing, they stressed, was getting Cory participating in the right groups as soon as possible. Craig was always going to be a problem, but Reuben figured that as long as his brother wasn’t paying and Reuben did all the running around, Craig would be okay with it.
I helped him settle a sleeping Cory in his car, which was parked in our driveway close to the house. Then it was just the two of us facing each other by the driver’s door.
He smiled softly. “I can’t thank you enough. For the appointment and for tonight.”
My throat tightened. “My pleasure.” And it absolutely was. The smile on his face alone was worth it.
He stared at me a moment, the beginning of a frown creasing his brows. Those grey-tipped eyes searched mine for something. Then he stepped in and without any hesitation pressed a firm kiss to my lips. The visceral heat that rolled through me at his touch caught me unprepared, and for a second, I didn’t respond, but when he grunted in disappointment and began to pull away, I chased his lips and moved with him, slipping my hand around his neck to hold him in place while simultaneously thanking the gods I’d left the porch light off so as not to wake Cory.
His body relaxed against mine, and he sighed against my mouth, parting his lips and allowing my tongue to slide alongside his and taste him again. It had been over a year since we touched this way, and I felt every second of that separation as I nipped and sucked and stroked at his mouth. Coffee, coconut, and something sweet swept over my tongue, and I couldn’t fucking get enough.
Slamming him back against the car, I kicked his legs apart to even our heights and angled his head for better access so I could keep plundering his mouth. He didn’t fight or try to wrest control, letting me take what I wanted. It was such a fucking turn-on. Running my hands over his chest as I worked his mouth, I realised just how muscled he was in comparison to me. You could fit two of my slender frames inside his arms, which only served to crank my shit further.
Looking how I did, and wearing what I did, most guys erroneously assumed me to be more passive, and likely a preferential bottom in bed. Not to say I didn’t enjoy being fucked and manhandled by the right guy—you wouldn’t find me complaining dick about that, but there was nothing better in my world than to have a big guy blathering, desperate, and begging me to let them come. Some of my best sex had come from being taken home by some wannabe alpha who’d picked me for a drooling bottom, only to find himself writhing under me with my dick up his arse by the end of the evening.
In both of my long-term relationships, it had become a problem. Guys had trouble with the discrepancy between how I looked and what I liked in bed. At the beginning they might profess to enjoy it, but eventually they got over it. Built, masc gays, more than others, seemed to need to prove themselves. Some even actively disliked us or were embarrassed by us. For others, a bit of fabulous at their side was okay, and could even prop up their masculinity, but having that same guy call the shots in the bedroom was another thing altogether.
So far Reuben hadn’t thrown up any of those warning signs. He was a big masc guy and exactly my type, but even the first time we’d met, he’d willingly let me take point, and now seemed no different. It was a rare combo, and one of the reasons I was so damned attracted to him.
I pulled off his mouth and nipped my way along his jaw and down his neck to the gentle curve where it joined his shoulder. There I bit down hard enough to leave a mark. He groaned and ran his hands down my sides and over my arse, pulling me close so I could feel his arousal against mine.
“Jesus, Cam,” he hissed. “You feel so goddamn good.”
Returning to his lips, I took his mouth again while my fingers slid between us to grip his dick through his jeans. I gave it a couple of quick strokes to test its size. Nice.
He groaned against my mouth.
“Ruby?”
Cory. Shit. I pushed off Reuben and stepped back, sucking in a couple of deep breaths. How had I forgotten Reuben’s nephew barely two feet away? The man himself looked disoriented and thoroughly debauched. Hair roughed up, shirt untucked, lips swollen and smeared in lip gloss—melon lime, to be precise, and damn if that wasn’t tempting to go back in for another taste.
He shook his head as if to clear it, but kept his eyes glued to mine. Without moving, he tapped a finger on the back-door window. “Coming, kiddo.” His voice was thick with arousal.
“You wish,” I mouthed with a wink. Ugh, what was I doing?
He grinned, trailing a lazy appreciative gaze over me. My traitorous body lit up wherever those grey eyes landed, and my breath hitched. With supreme effort I schooled my expression to a wary neutrality and took another step back.
He frowned.
“That wasn’t smart of us, Reuben. I think you’d better get your nephew home.”
He sighed. “Yeah, I know.”
He climbed into the car, and I watched his tail lights disappear, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that I was in deep, deep trouble.
Chapter Nine
Reuben
CAM WAS avoiding me. It wasn’t rocket science. We hadn’t talked in the five days since that kiss, my lyric challenges were going unanswered, and the whole thing was just pissing me off big time.
Mostly I was pissed at me. I’d been the one to break the rules, and even though he’d sure as hell responded, I was pretty sure he wouldn’t have initiated anything on his own. We were fucking tinder to flame, and I knew that when I’d kissed him—relied on it. I wanted him. He’d been so brilliant getting that appointment, and then babysitting Cory when Craig had lived up to his usual fuckheadedness. Added to that, I was so damn high from the hope Kelly and the doctor had given me that I just couldn’t resist getting a taste of him. Couldn’t give a flying fuck about anything else except getting all up in his shit, as much as I could. And now he’d gone AWOL. Truthfully, I didn’t blame him.
“Taylor! Get that damn head of yours in the game or get off the fucking field and into the gym,” Thomas Corrigan, assistant coach of the Blues, bellowed from the opposite side of the field.
Shit. I’d missed a high ball barrelling in about ten metres to my left, leaving Scott Peterson, our number ten, swerving across to cover for me with a what-the-fuck look on his face.
“Sorry, mate,” I shouted an apology.
“Don’t sorry me—just catch the fucking ball, dickhead. I’ve got enough to do without covering your sorry arse, wonder boy.” The last was said with a decidedly sarcastic bent. A few of the guys were struggling with the extra media attention I’d been drawing, and I didn’t blame them. At least the AB selector we’d had dogging our training sessions had taken the day off, or he’d have put a line through my name in the first twenty minutes. I wish the same could be said about my father, who’d decided to show up today of all days. The glare he was sending me from behind the fence would only be a taster of what I was in for later.
The extra spotlight was hard on everyone, especially when I was playing like I had been today. I couldn’t nail a position on a high school first fifteen with the shit I was cranking out, and judging by the amount of head shaking, I’d seen there were more than a few of my teammates who agreed with me. And Malosi, the smug bastard, was sporting a wide smirk, envisioning an up in his ranking. I really needed to get my shit together, a timely reminder of exactly why Cam and I weren’t a good idea.
For the final forty minutes, I focussed on lifting my game and actually managed to draw a few smiles from the coach, and even a backslap or two from my teammates, who were no doubt relieved to see some glimmer of form before the weekend game.
The Blues were currently top of the board, and everyone wanted to keep it that way. Last season we’d finished middle of the pack and this season the sponsors would need an improvement.
Malosi jogged alongside and turned to keep pace while running backward. Show-off. “Good to see you’re not all flash and crash, Taylor,” he ribbed. “Make sure you bring the good shit Saturday.”
“Piss off, Lefao. With you snapping at my heels, I’d damn well better,” I joked, though we both knew it was more serious than that. He was a good player, better than good. With a bit more experience and game time, he’d offer a genuine challenge for my spot. Cam had been right from the start. I needed to focus… and apologise.
Before hitting the showers, I grabbed my cell and fired him a text.
Sorry for the other night. My bad. Out of line. Won’t happen again.
Look at me being all adult and shit. Snagging a towel from the stack on the bench, I headed for the showers, hoping the belated apology would be enough.
I WAS home before I received a reply.
My fault too. Story of my life with you.
That sounded hopeful. I pressed my luck: coffee?
Really? You think that’s a good idea?
Of course I didn’t. No, but I live for the thrill. Your virtue is safe. Unfortunately.
He answered immediately. I’d have to find it first. Think I lost it with our high school basketball star.
Really? So, he was…?
Don’t think so. But he was hot and his girlfriend was away :))
My father glanced suspiciously from the kitchen at my snort of laughter. For some unfathomable reason, he’d decided to make cheeseburgers for our dinner, first time ever. Since he didn’t normally give a toss about the four of us doing jack shit together, and had been surprisingly reserved after training, I figured he was up to something. I wondered how long I’d have to wait to find out.
I needed to close out this text convo before I was caught. Awesome.
That’s what he said ;)
I pushed. So, coffee?
A minute or two passed. Then….
Okay.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Note to self: keep it in your freaking pants.
WE MET back at Grind It Out in St Heliers, Thursday evening. Cam sauntered in looking hot as hell, sucking all the attention in the café, although for all intents and purposes, he only had eyes for me. It was one of the things I really liked about him. That intense focus. Was it just me or was he like that with everyone?
Wearing skintight black leather pants, a tight white ripped tee under a loose black cardigan, and a thick black leather-and-steel choker around his neck, he looked all kinds of sexy and gorgeous and… well, sexy. He’d styled his hair high and off to one side and smudged dark blue guyliner around those copper-gold eyes. A quick glance around the room confirmed more than a few open mouths, the odd knowing smirk, and a couple of overly appreciative eye fucks that elicited something embarrassingly close to a growl from my throat.
He sat down, and my gaze fixated on the leather choker and the way his Adam’s apple bobbed tantalisingly behind it. A wide silver ring hung at the front, sending all kinds of filthy thoughts running through my head. When I dragged my eyes up to meet his amused stare, it was clear he knew exactly what had been going through my head.
“What the hell, Cam?” I rasped. “Are you trying to out me in front of the entire café? ’Cause I’m pretty sure I just cracked a boner the size of the Sky Tower.”
He smirked. “Just testing your commitment. You like?”
I took a gulp of water and swallowed hard. “Like? Jesus Christ. I think I blew my load the second I clocked that damned thing around your neck, and I might have just sprained my dick.”
He snorted and signalled the server for a coffee. “You don’t care I’m not low-key today?”
I’d figured the fashion statement wasn’t random. He was still pissed and proving a point. He wasn’t gonna tone who he was down for me. “Nah. We’ve got nothing to hide, right?”
The answer seemed to satisfy him. “It’s not like you get to fly under the radar lately anyway,” he said, indicating a table of teen boys staring our way. The group seemed at a loss to decide which of us was more attention-worthy, and as my gaze clocked them, one got to his feet and walked over for an autograph, offering a pen and one of the café menus.
It wasn’t that uncommon a request, but it had been happening a little more frequently, what with all the whispers about my chances of getting the royal AB call-up. I loved the fans, especially the young ones, and on the whole, they were respectful, but as I signed, I noted the boy’s attention wandering to Cam, and I hoped the kid wasn’t going to be a dick. Cam just gave him an easy smile. I handed the menu back, but the boy didn’t leave immediately.
“Hey, um… I like the leather thing.” He pointed at Cam’s neck.
The surprise on Cam’s face was comical. His eyebrows shot up and he cleared his throat while I choked on a laugh. He pinned me with a glare, then smiled at the kid, telling him where he could buy one. Little more than sixteen, the boy wrote the name of the shop on the menu alongside my autograph and hurried back to his table, where he huddled with his mates.
“His mum’s gonna hate you.” I laughed.
Cam smirked. “I don’t doubt it.”
The coffee helped break the ice after the whole kiss fiasco, and although things between us still felt a little awkward, it wasn’t long before we were back to the comfortable bantering we were used to sharing, and I recognised with a pang just how much I’d missed him. In a short time, he’d become a good friend, something I determined not to risk again just because I wanted his arse. Even though I so, so wanted his arse.
He was keen to know what I’d done about Kelly and the doctor’s recommendations, and I was proud to say I’d contacted the support group they’d suggested and was going to a meeting next week. Also I had an appointment with a teacher aide specialising in a range of kids with needs like Cory to discuss school options and was even looking into a speech therapist.
They were the top three priorities Kelly and the doctor had stressed, but I still had to find some way to get Cory properly assessed. Craig had only agreed to the other stuff because I was footing the bill and would be responsible for the appointments. Plus, it meant more free time for him. Go figure.
He’d dropped me in it with our dad, though, about the doctor’s appointment, and already my father was on my back about how unnecessary it all was. Cory was just lazy, he’d come right at school. And I couldn’t expect Craig to take on more work or fork out any more cash. Then he started in on Craig and asked why he didn’t just hand the kid over to his other family for a bit and be done with it?
I’d expected my brother to scoff that they’d even be interested in taking Cory in, but instead he looked sheepish and guilty, and my suspicions bit at my throat. Surely he wasn’t considering this? A shiver of panic ran through me. I never did find out what my father had been scheming the night he’d cooked for us, but I somehow suspected this was it.
I shared all this with Cam. He listened but didn’t try to leap in to solve it for me, which I was grateful for. The Blues were flying to Sydney the next day for a Saturday away game against the New South Wales Waratahs, and I’d be back in Auckland Sunday. We tentatively arranged to meet up Tuesday after his shift, and my training, and I was relieved I hadn’t completely shafted the whole friendship by behaving like an idiot. Kind of hard to enforce limits with someone whose tongue was shoved down your throat, and yes, I wished I could repeat that as often as humanly possible.
Chapter Ten
Reuben
IT WAS four days since the game in Sydney, where we’d killed it against the Waratahs twenty-four to seven, and in front of their home crowd, making the victory even sweeter. Rugby wasn’t the dominant game in Australia like it was in New Zealand but it was up there, and Aussies were nothing if not a parochial, patriotic lot who hated to lose at anything, especial
ly to their geographic sibling, New Zealand, a tiny country of four million people, barely the size of Sydney. The rivalry between the two nations was intense to say the least.
As far as my own performance, I’d fucking kicked it out of the park. Even before the first whistle, I’d felt that eerie sense of being at home in my body and in tune with the team. I’d barely needed to see the high ball to know it was safe in my hands, moved effortlessly into position, calculated plays, called the ball, and knew intuitively where to place my body at any one time. Those days didn’t come often in professional sport, but when they did, it made everything worthwhile and kept you hungry for more. Even my father called the hotel to congratulate me on a good game. I was flying fucking high.
The elation lasted well into the next week, and Cam was still excited about the game when we met on the Tuesday night. He even admitted to sending his beer flying while leaping to high-five his cousin Jake when I intercepted a pass to claim one of our tries. That was made all the better when Mathew scored the next one. I laughed when he told me he’d worn blue guyliner and eye shadow especially. I wanted to ask what else he might have worn but thought better of it. Didn’t stop my mind going there, though.
We’d laughed and joked through the hour as I regaled him with stories from the locker room and the aftergame function, where the Waratahs’ hooker fell off his karaoke stool and passed out drunk onstage. Four Blues players carried him off to a corner, dressed him in one of their official jerseys, and posted photos on the team’s Facebook page. One of those photos made the sports section of the Sydney Morning Herald, and all those involved were called in for a finger wagging by management. The rest of us pissed ourselves laughing. Fuck, I loved this game.