by Ashton Cade
Clary’s shoulders stiffen, eyes narrowing as he comes closer. “I’m only thinking of your odds in the election, Garrett,” he says gently, like that’s supposed to make it better that he explicitly ignored my wishes. I’m starting to wonder if letting him come help me was such a good idea after all. It’s been good to see him, and the family’s enjoyed the visit, but I’m thinking that he might be more into this campaign than I am, and there are some sacrifices I’m not willing to make.
“I’m gonna tell you the same thing I had to tell Eli this morning after you nearly scared him off—thanks for that, by the way,” I spit, sarcasm dripping from every word. “If it comes down to me having to pick between Eli and the election, I’m gonna pick Eli. Every damn time.”
Clary scowls, jaw dropping, shaking his head at me. “You’ve got to be joking.”
“Like hell I am.”
“You can’t seriously be willing to tank your chances in the election for someone you’ve only just started seeing. You, yourself, called it casual!”
I shrug.
“It’s not as casual as it was,” I say, wondering what I mean by that. It’s something to unpack later. Now’s not the time.
“Serious politicians do what it takes,” Clary says. “They do what they have to to win. Anything it takes. Relationships come and go; this is your political career we’re talking about.”
I fold my arms and study Clary carefully. There’s something deeper going on here. Bitterness thick in his voice, his eyes hard. I don’t know what’s going on with him, but I don’t think it really has to do with me or Eli.
Wonder if that’s why he was so eager to jump on a plane out here.
“Look, that might be what politicians are like, but that’s not me,” I tell him, letting go of my anger to clap him on the shoulder. My cousings hurting, and I’m not sure there’s anything I can do to help, but I can be here for him, as much as he’ll allow. “I want to help Umberland, but not the expense of me or Eli. I’m not looking to be a martyr for a cause, so if that’s what it comes down to, I’ll bow out of the race.”
Clary makes a face at the suggestion, but then sighs, shoulders slumping.
“All right. You’ve made your point. We’ll work around this obstacle.”
“You don’t even know that it is an obstacle,” I tease him.
He arches a brow at me. “Really?”
I shrug. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”
He shakes his head. “If you say so. Let’s go put up these new signs.”
We stop by the diner first, putting up posters in the windows at Sheryl’s. After that, it’s on to the rest of town, putting up signs in public corners, knocking on doors trying to garner support.
We’re visiting the house next door to the B&B, standing on the porch and waiting for a response to the doorbell we just rang, when the door of the B&B creaks open and old Mrs. Giddons comes shuffling out with a broom clutched in her gnarled hand.
“What’re you doing?” she asks, her voice weathered from decades of cigarette smoking.
“Minding our own business, how about you?” I ask pleasantly enough. It’s tough to be nice to the lady who’s got a habit of running people out of her “hotel” for being gay. Especially considering my own relationship these days.
Clary looks horrified by my response, and turns a winning smile on Mrs. Giddons.
“Hello! Garrett here is running for the town council and would love to know he could count on your vote?”
“You can get the hell out of here,” she says, shaking the broom at us, shoving it across the space between the porches to swat at us.
“So I guess I don’t have your vote then?” I ask, unable to help myself. God, it’s fun to push this old woman’s homophobic buttons.
“You sure as hell don’t!” she wails. “Bunch of perverts in that family of yours! Back in my day that filth was illegal,” she snarls, still swatting the broom at us. She’s not really getting anywhere close to hitting us, but she is scattering birdseed from the bird feeder hanging from her neighbor’s porch all over. I don’t want them to have a big mess to clean up on my account, so I grab Clary’s arm and jerk my head.
“Come on, let’s try another house,” I say.
Clary’s scowling though.
“What is she talking about our family?”
I sigh, shaking my head. “You can’t listen to anything that crazy old woman says,” I tell him, pulling him down the porch stairs with me. “That family’s nothing but trouble. Ryan’s ex-wife? She dated Mrs. Giddons’s nephew for a while. He went crazy and kidnapped Ryan’s kid to get back at her.”
“You’re talking about Barb?” he asks.
Right, he’s been down at the bar pretty frequently. How could I have forgotten that?
“Yeah, Barb. And Hal’s brother Heath… Well, he’s a real piece of work. Beats on his kids, I think. His son Steven was wrapped up in a group of kids setting fires. Burned down Dad’s stable and Sawyer’s house. It was a fucking mess.”
Clary sends a wayward glance over his shoulder back to Mrs. Giddons’s B&B.
“Sounds like she shouldn’t be throwing rocks from that glass house of hers,” he says.
I snort. “Especially since her main objection to any of us is the same-sex relationships in the family. There are a couple of marriages that might not have happened if this town had a tolerant hotel owner.”
“Hope she knows how much she’s helped,” Clary says, laughing too. It’s hard to take criticism seriously from the likes of the Giddonses. They’re a whole heap of trouble in one family, and I say anyone that’s on their bad side is probably doing something right.
By the time we get all the signs posted up, and I’ve met and shook hands with dozens of people, I’m exhausted. My feet are tired, my face is chapped, and all I can think about is seeing Eli again. Clary and I go our separate ways, and I head to the clinic to surprise Eli and see if he’s free for dinner.
My stomach is bubbling before I head in. We’re still not anything “official” and showing up at his work might be taking it a step too far. I don’t know. But I’m not backing out now. I need to see him.
The door chimes when I walk in, and I see him before he sees me. Eli looks up from the desk, the professional mask in place for a stranger, but then he sees me. Recognition flickers through his features, his eyes soften, his face breaks into a big smile, and my heart jumps up into my throat.
He looks so genuinely happy to see me, and then he’s on his feet and hurrying around the desk to greet me.
“What’re you doing here?” he asks, grinning from ear to ear. Guess my surprise had its intended effect.
“I was in town campaigning. Wanted to know if you’re free for dinner,” I say, taking his hand in mine, standing close enough that we’re practically embracing.
“Yeah, I get off in less than twenty if you want to wait?”
“Perfect,” I say, kissing him on the cheek before I take a seat in the empty waiting room.
Eli heads back behind the desk, and then he’s going off through another door, looking very busy even though he sends a coy little smile my way before disappearing entirely. The door opens again, but it’s not Eli, it’s an older man in a white lab coat—the doctor on staff, I presume. Eli’s talked about him a couple of times—Dr. Peterson—but he hasn’t said much. Every time he says anything about him at all, he seems pretty quick to change the subject.
Dr. Peterson’s pretty unassuming at first glance. He’s older, a little pudgy around the middle, graying, with thin-framed glasses perched on the end of his nose. But that’s where the friendly demeanor ends. There’s a hard set to his mouth, a mean look in his eyes that makes me feel defiant. It makes me feel the need to glare right back at him, challenging him—for what, I don’t know.
The way the guy’s looking at me makes me uncomfortable, but he doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. My whole body’s on alert, though, ready to pounce, to spring to action against t
his man who’s presenting himself as a threat.
Our stare-down goes on for another few minutes before the doctor leaves again, leaving me to wonder what the hell just happened and whether or not I should be worried about it. But then Eli’s coming back, ready to leave with me, and all those thoughts are gone, replaced by pure happiness.
Eli
With a hot fudge sundae in front of me and a dollop of whipped cream on my finger, I feel slightly better.
“I know I shouldn’t have dessert before dinner,” I tell Garrett, sucking the whipped cream off my finger, “but I think I deserve it today.”
He makes a face and leans forward, concern etched in his brow. “Why? What’s wrong?”
I shrug, eyes flicking to the windows covered in his campaign signs. Sheryl’s is bustling right now, the dinner rush crowding into the little diner, a dozen conversations overlapping, filling the air with the garbled music of mixed voices.
“I’ve just been feeling off all day,” I admit.
“Thinking about what Clary said to you, aren’t you?” he asks, a hint of a growl in the back of his throat. I sigh. I hate that he can see right through me. I’m so happy to be here with him, and I just want to keep being happy. Is that so much to ask?
“Look, I told Clary where my priorities are,” he says.
“You did?” I ask him, heart in my throat, breath stuck in my chest. I don’t think he’s about to tell me to kick rocks, but I can’t help but be worried about it.
“Yeah, I did,” he says. “That’s you, Eli,” he says, voice thick with meaning, eyes shimmering at me, making my heart beat faster.
I don’t know how to respond. My chest is all fluttery, throat tight. I don’t know if I should be his priority, but I kind of like that I am.
“That doctor was giving me a weird feeling when I was waiting for you,” he says, making the ice cream stick in my throat, hot fudge gumming up my insides.
“Did he?”
Garrett nods. “He kept staring at me with this weird look. Did he give you any trouble?” I see the way Garrett’s hands tighten into fists, ready to come to my defense. It’s enough to make me practically swoon, but it’s also not something I can indulge in. As much as I love the idea of Garrett pummeling the smug doctor’s teeth in, I know that would only cause so many problems. For everyone.
“Nah, it’s all right,” I tell him. “He’s just weird,” I lie. He doesn’t need to know about the past between Dr. Peterson and me. He doesn’t need to know about the creepy vibe, the way I’m sure he’s trying to find a way to use it against me somehow.
I am kind of glad that I’m not the only one getting the vibe from Dr. Peterson, though. Maybe that means it’s all in my head. Maybe he’s just like this with everyone, and I need to stop taking it so personally just because we have a past neither of us has acknowledged.
Ugh.
“If he bothers you, I can take care of him,” Garrett says, a hint of a smile on his lips.
“Oh yeah? Gonna step in and be all macho? Beat him up for me?”
He chuckles. “If I need to.”
“Pretty sure Clary’s head would explode if you did that. You’d tank the election!”
Garrett laughs, a full, deep belly laugh that warms me all the way through and infects me too. I’m laughing too when he jokes, “This is Umberland, babe. Getting in a fight with some city-slick doctor would probably help my chances.”
I’m still chuckling, but there’s a warm fuzzy feeling brewing in my stomach, growing, climbing up my chest and warming my heart.
He just called me babe.
My throat tightens, tears stinging in my eyes as I try to blink them back and not cry into my sundae.
I’ve been with a lot of guys. A lot of situations.
But dating?
A real relationship?
It feels too good to be true.
“Here’s your burgers, boys! Enjoy,” Sheryl says, dropping off our plates in a hurry. She’s got no time for chitchat tonight with a packed house.
“Thanks Aunt Sheryl,” Garrett calls after her. I’m already diving into the fries.
Sometimes I eat my feelings. Sue me.
“Did I freak you out, calling you babe?” he asks finally, arching a brow at me, mouth thin and worried.
“Kind of the opposite, actually,” I admit, cheeks heating.
“Oh?”
“I like the idea of being your ‘babe,’” I say, teasing him with a smile.
“Who says you’re not?”
I groan, biting my bottom lip, the sudden urge to jump across the table for him overwhelming.
“Does that mean you’re coming home with me tonight?” I ask, feeling bolder than usual. But what’s there to be shy about with Garrett? He makes me feel like I can be myself. Like I can let loose and enjoy life. “I don’t wanna run into Clary in the morning again,” I add, the implication unmissable.
Garrett grins at me, his face transforming with it. Damn, he’s sexy. He takes a bite out of his burger and the juice drips down his hand, then his arm. He lifts his arm up and licks it, eyes connecting with mine, holding my gaze as his tongue drags up his forearm to his wrist, all the way along the side of his hand, leaving a shiny wet trail in its wake. He wraps his lips around his pinkie and sucks before going back to his burger like nothing happened.
My mouth’s dry, head spinning. I want his lips wrapped around my cock like that. I want to feel his groans vibrating through his throat, rippling through my balls as he drives me wild with that tongue.
“You keep teasing me like that and I’m not going to make it through this meal,” I hiss under my breath.
Garrett gives me a sly smile.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says innocently.
“I think you do,” I warn. “And if you’re not careful, you’re gonna get it later.”
His smile only grows, then he takes another bite of his burger, getting through it way faster than I’m managing. To be fair, my mind is on other appetites.
“What am I gonna get?” he asks, sultry, sinful, enticing. I groan again, gripping the edge of the diner table, knuckles white. I’m glad this place is so busy right now, or people might notice how much Garrett Rainier’s turning me on without even trying.
“How do you feel about a stiff cock inside you?” I ask under my breath, panic alarms ready to go off at the tiniest tell from him. I don’t know what his reaction to that will be, if he’s interested in—
“Shit,” he growls, putting his burger down. “Aunt Sheryl? I think we’re gonna need a to-go box,” he calls, waving frantically enough to send me into a fit of laughter.
When I wake up the next morning, Garrett’s still in bed with me. He’s awake, though, on his phone, one arm draped over me, one up over my head on the pillows.
“Morning sleepyhead,” he says, smiling, kissing me on the temple.
“Morn—” I wince, screw my eyes shut at the sandpapery pain in my throat.
“What’s wrong?” Garrett asks, sitting up, suddenly concerned.
I clear my throat, but it turns into coughing that lasts long enough for Garrett to get up and get me a glass of water.
“You sound awful,” he says, sympathy in his tone as he sits on the edge of the bed and strokes my hair away from my forehead. “I’m gonna make you tea,” he says suddenly, jumping to his feet.
I nod thanks, and roll over, groaning, taking stock of how bad I feel.
My whole body’s aching, muscles fatigued. I feel dehydrated, and the soreness in my throat is likely swollen glands.
No doubt about it: I’m sick.
Garrett’s back with tea a few minutes later, and fluffs up the pillows behind me, tucking in blankets around me, being a perfect nurse, if I’m honest. It’s sweet. Charming in a way I wouldn’t have expected it to be, since taking care of sick people is my whole job.
But it’s not his job. He’s doing it because he wants to. Because he cares about me and wants to take
care of me.
“What’s the verdict?” he asks. “Think you’re going to stay home?”
I hadn’t even considered that. Normally I would never call out sick unless it was really dire, but with Dr. Peterson… Well, the excuse to not go in doesn’t sound so bad.
“That might be a good idea,” I tell him, slurping on the tea.
Garrett nods. “Don’t you worry, I’ll pick up Craig and take him to school after our work. You just stay here and feel better, and if you need anything, you just lemme know, okay? I mean it.”
I nod, turning the mug in my hand. I hate to see him go now, but I know there’s work to do, and Craig will be waiting. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself while I’m sick.
I just kind of like the idea of Garrett doing it.
“Thanks,” I say, giving him a weak smile. He bends down and kisses my forehead.
“Drink all of that; you need the fluids,” he says with a wag of his finger toward the mug before he leaves. Even that makes me smile.
At least until the door closes.
Then I’m home alone and Garrett’s not here to lift my spirits.
Not to mention I’ve still got to call out of work.
Great.
“Dr. Peterson,” he says when he answers the phone. Of course Dr. Peterson is the kind of man that answers the phone with his own name.
I cough for good measure. “Dr. Peterson, I’m sorry to do this on such short notice, but I woke up this morning with a sore throat and fever. I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to see patients today.”
He huffs on the other end of the call.
“I wonder what it is that made your throat so sore,” he mutters, the implication clear, the homophobia unmistakable.
But what the hell? He’s the one that hired male prostitutes—probably still does if we’re being honest—and he wants to act homophobic? It really is all projection with these people, isn’t it?
“I’ll do my best to be in tomorrow,” I say, deciding to ignore the comment. It’s not worth getting worked up over. It’s not worth starting a fight with the guy who could get me fired.
