Cooper Construction Series Box Set

by Jen Davis

  His friend narrowed his eyes at Robby’s fast approach. “What’s wrong?”

  “I, uh, think I outed myself to Matt. I think I might have also accused him of being a homophobe.” The more he thought back on the entire interaction, the more he was sure he’d overreacted.

  Brick leaned against the cab and laced his hands over his stomach. “Did he deserve it?”

  “Probably not. He gave me a hug and kind of froze up afterward.”

  “And?”

  He covered his eyes with his palms. “There’s no and…just me always waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

  “So, apologize.”

  Robby uncovered his peepers to see Brick looking at him blandly. “How am I supposed to face him? I quoted Dirty Dancing.” He banged the heel of his hand against his head.

  “I—I’ve never seen that movie, but I’m sure it can’t be as bad as you think. All I’m saying is if you fucked up, own it. Apologize. If he’s really your friend, it will be enough.”

  Apologize. He could say he was sorry. It would suck, but it was the kind of thing his mama always called a natural consequence. Those were the times she didn’t have to punish him, because the way something worked out would be punishment enough.

  Like the time he climbed Mrs. Peterson’s tree without permission, then fell out and landed on his backside. He couldn’t walk right for days.

  Or the time he tried his father’s bourbon and ended up with his head in the toilet, begging God to make the misery end.

  He’d earned his lumps back then, and he earned them now. He could only hope he hadn’t poisoned their seed of friendship before it ever really had the chance to bloom.

  ***

  Matt

  If he didn’t need the money so damn much, Matt would have called out sick from work, just so he wouldn’t have to face the almost-friend he had so deeply offended. Of course, it would have only delayed the inevitable, but at this point, he would take any reprieve he could get. With things messed up with Robby, the world had turned upside down. Unfortunately, being able to afford food for his mother trumped his urge to hide under his covers, which was how he came to be here, casing his work site from the car.

  No sign of Robby yet, which was unusual, but Brick’s pick-up was parked along the curb.

  He opened his car door. Closed it. Sunk down in his seat.

  What were the chances the big guy knew what happened?

  Hell, he barely knew what happened. The most important part, though, he’d hurt Robby with his bumbling, self-conscious bullshit.

  He’d been so excited about his job, and Robby had been happy for him. Then he made the colossal mistake of putting his hands on the other man.

  But the touching wasn’t really the mistake, was it?

  It all went bad when he had realized how the touch had affected him. When his body responded against Robby’s lean strength, and the man’s damn wavy hair brushed against his cheek.

  He’d frozen. God only knew what kind of look he’d had on his face. Did Robby see how horrified he’d been?

  Obviously, but for all the wrong reasons.

  Fuck.

  Robby was gay.

  And now he thinks I’m judging him for it.

  Finally, for the first time in—forever, really—he had made friends with another guy, and he fucked it up because he was getting a boner.

  He’d be excited it had finally happened if he weren’t so damn embarrassed.

  Why did he have to be so bad at…people?

  Peeling away the fingers he had clenched on the steering wheel, he opened the door again, this time forcing himself to relinquish the safety of his sedan. This was just like any other day. He’d say he was sorry and retreat back into the quiet solitude the job had always given him.

  It didn’t matter if he wanted to tell someone about the drunk guy who serenaded his girlfriend on top of a table at the bar. Or how he couldn’t wait to try the new free download from PlayStation, which would be available tonight.

  Keeping to himself wouldn’t be the end of the world. He was good at it. It came easy. Or at least, it always had before.

  Simple. He’d just keep his mind on his work. The seams in the ceiling sheet rock where he’d spread joint compound yesterday needed sanding, and if he wanted it to look smooth, he’d have to do it by hand. Too much pressure would gut the mud into valleys, not enough and the whole thing would look lumpy.

  He abandoned the car and tackled the master bedroom first. Situated out of the way, no one would cross his path unless they made a point to do it.

  Setting up the extra-tall ladder, he alternated sanding with double checking his work with a flashlight. Earbuds piped his favorite Otis Redding and Sam Cooke playlist directly into his brain. “I’ve Been Loving You” never failed to transport him to another place entirely.

  A tug on the left leg of his khakis brought him back to earth. Popping the bud out of one ear, he glanced down…and almost lost his footing when he met Robby’s gaze. He disentangled from the music entirely and carefully descended the ladder.

  “I was an idiot.” Robby spoke before Matt’s feet hit the floor.

  Definitely not what he was expecting.

  “You’ve never said or done anything to make me believe you would judge me for—being gay. I let my hang-ups take something small and turn it into something big.” Robby wrapped his arms around his waist, his ever-present clipboard conspicuously absent. “I probably imagined the whole thing.”

  It would have been so easy to let Robby think their awkward moment had only been in his imagination, but it would make him a really shit friend, and this was his chance to make things right. “You didn’t imagine it.”

  Robby reared back, and Matt held up his hands in supplication.

  “Wait, please. Just hear me out.” He dragged his hand over his head. “I’m not great with people. Obviously.”

  Robby stilled, watching him carefully.

  “I only had one friend growing up, and she was a girl. Is a girl.” This wasn’t going well. “What I’m trying to say is—I froze. Not because you’re gay. How would I know if you’re gay? I froze because I hugged you without thinking about it, and then I was afraid I’d done the wrong thing. I overthink stuff. And you—you’re the first guy friend I’ve ever had. I didn’t want to mess it up, and, well, I went ahead and messed it up.”

  “What you’re saying is,” Robby drawled, “you’re even more socially awkward than I am.” His face lit up. “That’s the coolest thing I have ever heard in my entire life.”

  Matt scowled. “You’re not making your life sound very exciting.”

  “Ha!” Robby laughed. “You have no idea. Maybe I’ll tell you the story someday. And maybe you could tell me about the girl with enough game to manage to keep you all to herself.”

  “Eh. Maybe one day.” Or, hopefully, never. “Are we good, Rob? ‘Cause I’m really sorry I kind of freaked out on you.”

  “Yeah. We’re good. Especially if you can overlook an occasional, irrational, emotional outburst, fueled by intermittent low self-esteem.” Robby punctuated the statement with an exaggerated smirk, and it was like a fifty-pound weight lifted from Matt’s shoulders.

  “You need to work a little on selling yourself, Rob. Seriously.” He had never thought of his friend that way. He hoped Robby didn’t either. “I have a class tonight, but you want to game with me afterward? I think I’m going through withdrawals.”

  Robby’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and he bounced on the balls of his feet. “You see the new download? I’m so stoked to jump in.”

  And just like that, the world was right-side up again.

  Chapter EIGHT

  Robby

  Robby ran a dust-cloth over the TV for what was likely the fourth or fifth time in as many minutes, though calling it a dust-cloth was probably—no, definitely—an insult to dust-cloths everywhere. In reality, he dusted with an old tube sock which he’d worn a hole through the toe of months ago. It worke
d just as well.

  The past few nights had been awesome, staying up late, taking out targets on the PlayStation with Matt. They’d gotten into a groove, logging on just after dinner and setting up a private chat on the headsets. Every night, the conversation started off about the game, but in bits and pieces, they evolved into more.

  One night, he shared with Matt his love of all things Marvel. How he still couldn’t re-watch the Avengers: Infinity War movie and how it never stopped bothering him when Rhodey had been recast after the first Iron Man movie. Matt liked Don Cheadle better in the role, but, heck, it just proved the man wasn’t perfect.

  And it wasn’t like he hated all recasting. The Incredible Hulk was hands-down his favorite character, and he loved Mark Ruffalo. It might have been a good segue into how he always thought of Brick like the Hulk, but he kept that little nugget to himself.

  He admitted his soft spot for a good romance too. Not the tearjerker kind, but the ones where the guy inevitably screwed up and had to make a grand romantic gesture and a promise to love the woman until the end of time.

  Another night, Matt told him about the time he’d shared an elevator with Stan Lee at DragonCon, and he was so star-struck, he hadn’t said a word. The convention was a sci-fi fantasy lover’s haven, and Matt was freaking adorable in his full-on geek mode.

  He also told Robby about his dreams of becoming an architect and how he was taking night classes to knock out his last few electives.

  At one point, they’d talked about their favorite games, and Robby gushed over his VR headset. Yeah, the set-up had set him back a few hundred dollars, but he had bought all the gear used at GameStop, and it had been worth every penny. Matt had never so much as stuck his toe into the virtual reality pool, and of course, Robby had to remedy the injustice with an invitation to come check it out.

  Which was how he now found himself obsessively cleaning his already spotless apartment, waiting for Matt to arrive. Everything had to be perfect, or at least as close to perfect as his low-rent one-bedroom could be. The carpet was vacuumed, the sofa cushions fluffed. A bowl of potato chips graced the coffee table, and drinks were chilling in the fridge.

  The pizza was due to arrive in about half an hour. He’d gone back and forth about whether to have it here when Matt arrived but decided they would enjoy it more if it was hot. Plus, if things got awkward, they could focus on the food.

  Please don’t let things get awkward.

  His heartbeat picked up at the soft knock on the door. The place was as clean as it was going to get. Shoving the dust-cloth under one of the cushions, he advanced to the door.

  Please go well. Please. Please. Please.

  His cheeks strained at the too-big smile on his face as he opened the door; his back teeth clenched so tightly, they threatened to splinter in his mouth. But one glimpse of Matt fidgeting with a grocery bag and shuffling his feet on the porch made the tension melt away in an instant.

  “You need a hand?” He reached out to snag the brown paper bag.

  Matt had been holding it horizontally because it had a vegetable tray inside. “I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to bring anything.” As he stepped over the threshold, his gaze flitted from one end of the room to the other, looking everywhere except at Robby.

  It was impossible to stay nervous around someone even twitchier than he was. “This is perfect. Thanks.” He pulled off the clear plastic protecting the food and placed the platter next to the chips. “Snack food ‘till the pizza gets here.” He dipped a broccoli floret in the reservoir of ranch dressing, then popped it in his mouth.

  “You had me at pizza.” Matt swiped a handful of chips from the bowl and crunched them with a grin.

  “Wait. You haven’t even heard the best part yet.” He cleared a path to the kitchenette in five long strides. He pulled the glass pitcher from the fridge and held it up triumphantly.

  Matt followed him over. “Tell me I’m not looking at the famous Rum Punch.” He lifted one of the two tall glasses on the counter and tipped it forward for a fill-up.

  “I didn’t taste it,” Robby admitted, pouring for Matt. “But I’ve made this recipe so many times, I’m practically a pro.” He filled his own glass with sweet tea and clinked it against Matt’s. “Cheers.” Closing his eyes, he tipped his head back and indulged in the sugary goodness. Not quite as exciting as a cocktail, but smarter.

  Matt groaned. “Oh yeah. I’ll take this over a beer any day of the week. What’s in it?”

  The recipe rolled off his tongue, the ingredients long memorized from years of tinkering with the perfect proportions. He’d played bartender countless times for John and his friends.

  The pizza arrived a little ahead of schedule, but the savory sauce was the perfect complement to the sweet drinks. The quiet prayers he had sent up not to bungle the evening quickly faded until they were forgotten. Over pizza slices, they laughed about Kane’s hatred of all fictional motorcycle clubs. They speculated about how much Cooper Construction was making from its deal to subcontract for Berringer Homes. And they dished over their favorite celebrities, almost all with roots in sci-fi or fantasy.

  Matt tried out a few of the virtual reality games, but they all made him sick to his stomach. Resident Evil, in particular, prompted him to pull off the headset and declare the experiment an unmitigated failure.

  Thankfully, the nausea seemed to vanish the minute Matt took the visor off, and Robby spent the next five minutes forcing him to watch the videos he’d made on his phone of Matt screaming at imaginary monsters.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he laughed so hard. “You want me to make another pitcher of punch?” He rubbed his hands together. “Oh! Or you can make this one. Show me your new bartending skills.”

  Matt shot him a dubious look. “My bartending career has spanned one shift. You really want to take a chance with my hands in your favorite recipe?”

  He took Matt’s hand and pulled him toward the kitchen. “The best thing about this drink is how hard it is to mess up. There are only degrees of how good you can make it. And I don’t mind sharing my secret, which is to use orange and pineapple juice from concentrate instead of fresh and then use club soda instead of water to dilute it.”

  He probably should have released Matt’s hand as he broke the recipe down, but it felt so good being skin to skin. Matt’s palm was cool—his fingers long and strong. The best part? He showed no signs of discomfort. He didn’t try to disentangle himself or step back. If anything, he moved closer as Robby used his other hand to pull the various rum bottles forward for inspection.

  “Most people will tell you to use half light and half dark rum.” He lowered his voice, as though he were sharing a secret. “The dark gives it a depth of flavor, but you need to split the other half between the light rum and coconut rum.”

  “Coconut.” Matt was so close, his breath fanned over Robby’s jaw as he spoke. “Not spiced rum?”

  He sucked in air through his mouth and imagined he tasted the breath that had left Matt’s body. He took a moment to savor the idea. Just a few inches and he could taste Matt’s mouth for real. He pulled back.

  A dangerous line of thought. He’d made so much progress with Matt, he would not obliterate it with an overture guaranteed to embarrass them both.

  “No. Ah, if you’re looking for a good fit for Captain Morgan, I’d suggest it as a substitution for tequila in your margaritas. It’s especially good for those of us who have a rocky history with Jose Cuervo.”

  Either Matt didn’t notice his retreat, or he didn’t react to it. Instead, he asked more questions about drink recipes and created a single-serving version of the Rum Punch under Robby’s tutelage.

  Matt smacked his lips together in approval with his first taste. “Almost like a real bartender made it!” Drink in hand, he settled himself back on the sofa. “I may need to crash on your sofa tonight, man.”

  “It’s all yours.” He sat on the sofa’s far end. “Don’t you have a shift at the bar tomorro
w?”

  “Sure do. Ten AM. I’ve got my boy too. He’s going to stay with my mom while I finish my shift.” Matt released a yawn into the crook of his arm.

  Robby perked up. Matt never brought up his son. “What’s his name?”

  “Jimmy. He’s one. Smart as hell, my kid. Best thing I ever did. I just wish I could have him with me all the time.”

  “Your ex getting in the way?”

  “My—oh, Patty. Yeah, you could say that. Things with her are complicated.”

  “Tell me about her.” Robby wanted to know everything.

  Matt’s pinched expression eased. “We met at DragonCon. I’d never been, but I saved all the money I earned from cutting grass and washing cars to pay for the ticket, and it was worth every cent, just to watch from the sidelines. Heck, it would’ve been worth it for The Walking Dead panel alone.”

  He swallowed more punch. “Patty recognized me from school, even though I didn’t recognize her. To be fair, though, she was covered in body paint and dressed in some kind of sexy alien costume from the Shatner-era Star Trek.”

  His gaze went distant. “We read the same comic books, loved the same sci-fi shows. She embraced my inner geek. We were like two peas in a pod all through the rest of high school and college. Until we slept together, and it all turned to shit.” He shook his head. “I ruined our friendship by letting it go somewhere I knew it shouldn’t go. I hurt her, and she hates me.”

  Wow. Hate seemed like big leap from embarrassed or disappointed. How could anyone hate Matt? “I doubt she hates you, she—”

  “Trust me. She tells me every chance she gets how much I hurt her. How I took advantage of her friendship.” Matt scowled into his drink before taking a big gulp. “She thinks I’m gay. That I’m lying to myself and when we were together, I was lying to her.”

  Robby gaped. “Wh—why would she think that?”