by Anyta Sunday
“We don’t have to do anything,” Eric whispered into his ear. “We can watch a movie, just hang, but I’d like you there, in bed, next to me.”
Rory swallowed. “I’d like . . . maybe, I mean . . .”
Eric wanted to rub away the little crease between Rory’s brows.
“I want to sketch you again.” Rory’s fingers slid to his koru tattoo. “Maybe, without your shirt? It’s just your ink is incredible—”
Eric laughed. “Just my ink?”
“Fuck.” Rory’s cheeks burned. “No.”
“I’d love if you drew.”
Rory stepped back, a quirk at his lip. “Nice. I’ll try out the new pencils and paper you got me.”
When Rory left, Eric turned on his laptop to be greeted with the Skype message:
Like, WTF?
Ring. Soon.
Now!
Eric flopped onto the middle of his made bed and rang Will’s cell. The blinds were down and parted, and the evening sun made the room into a prison with bars of light and shadow.
“What the—” was the first thing Will said, picking up his call, “seriously, Eric, what’s going on?”
“So you saw that, huh?”
“Heath went to answer the door to let Candice and Sig in, so he didn’t see it. He thinks I’m having him on. Just keeps shaking his head when I insist Rory gave you a cat for Christmas—it was a cat, right?—and then kissed you. He says I’m out of my mind if I think he’ll believe me. And I want to agree with him, did I misunderstand something. I mean, you and Rory?”
The bedroom door creaked open and a few seconds later, Yowler jumped up on the bed, climbing onto Eric’s stomach. Eric sighed down the line and petted his kitten.
“Yes, he got my kitten back. I thought I’d lost him, but Rory brought him back to me. It was . . .” the warmest moment of my life. “I was so freaking happy, I completely forgot about our call. That you could see us.”
“So it’s true. How long have you been . . . are you two together-together or . . . I mean, do you love him?”
Eric closed his eyes and focused on the purr on his stomach. “I don’t know if we are together-together. I hope so, but this is new to Rory. And to me, too. I haven’t ever . . . felt like this before.”
“So you do, then?”
Eric found himself nodding, and the soft, tender feeling that had been growing steadily the last month felt like it was uncurling its tendrils and blooming inside him. “He’s talented, more caring that you know, sweet . . .” Romantic, and didn’t even know it.
“And what about him? Does he . . .?”
“I don’t know. I think he has a lot to process. It wouldn’t be fair to expect.”
“Do not start making excuses,” Will sounded worried and a touch angry. His voice turned away as he spoke to Heath, probably. “You believe me now. Can you talk to him?”
There came a clattering and a clearing of a throat, and Heath was on the line. “Hey, Eric. Hope you’re good, man.”
Eric grunted a response. “What do you have to say?”
“Look, Rory is a good guy, I know that. He stood by me and my family in the hardest times when it was no doubt just as difficult for him.” Heath hummed. “But be careful, too. I thought he and I had a close relationship, but in the end he just left. No good-bye, no anything, he just left. I guess . . . maybe be wary getting emotionally invested. Or be prepared he might leave again. I’d hate you to think you had something special and then—boom—it’s gone.”
Eric clutched his hand tight on Yowler until he meowed. He breathed through the pain just imagining that brought him.
“Rory’s different now. He’s not going to run.” But a shiver ran through him even as he said it. Rory hadn’t run yet, but he’d been tempted to. What happens if the temptation got too big? If Eric wasn’t there to stop him leaving again?
“I hope that’s the case. Just . . . be sure.” The phone crackled as it changed hands once more.
Will’s voice came tight down the line. “Even if he doesn’t leave. He’s not out, is he? That’s going to put a strain on things. You never really know if you’re committed or not. There are all these “excuses” that you let yourself believe—giving you false hope. You think you’re in love and he’ll tell the world in time, when he’s ready.” Will’s words sputtered down the line as if he were having a hard time keeping it together to say them. “And after a while of convincing yourself you’re in love and that it is so strong it would be able to handle anything, you blurt it out in front of his entire family. Then the illusion of love shatters with a fist to your face, and voices murder each other across the table—”
“Hey-hey,” Heath said in the distance. “Come ‘ere. God, I’ll punch him for doing that to you.”
Will’s breaking voice said, “Just trust me, Eric. Dating a closeted guy will only bring you pain. And you’ve had enough of that this past year.”
Chapter Seventeen
Rory grabbed a bag, practically humming as he filled it with a change of clothes and his art supplies—charcoal, mainly, since he wanted to break in the new pencils Eric had bought him. He couldn’t move quick enough to get back to the guy. He zipped his duffel bag after stuffing in some beach shorts and a towel. Downstairs, the phone rang.
Rory hurried to reach it before it went to the machine, expecting to hear Eric on the other end, reminding him to bring swim gear or something.
It took him a moment to register the voice as Uncle Davy’s. “Just wanted to ring in and wish you a Merry Christmas. You good?”
Good. Hell, he was fucking fantastic. “Yeah, I’m all right. How’s the holiday coming? Give me the facts.”
Uncle Davy was quiet a moment. “Facts. Thought you hated them.”
Rory took the phone to the lounge and sat on the couch, lifting his feet up, one arm around his knees. “Shit. I was a prick to you about that.” He picked at the loose threads on the knees of his jeans. “I’m . . . sorry.”
As he said it, he glanced out the doors to the deck. For a second, he felt the courage rise in him to tell him everything he said was true. That he was a fag. That he was letting himself accept it. But as fast as the courage came, it left, leaving him stuttering. “I-I-I . . . um, thanks for calling. I wish you guys a Merry Christmas too.”
A clacking sound came down the line, maybe Uncle Rory’s tongue or something. “There’s another reason I called. Your mother—”
“No.” Rory felt sick, he rested his head back against the couch and stared at the moldings on the ceiling skirting board. “I haven’t called. I can’t, yet, okay?”
“My sister loves you, Rory. She’s been worried for a long time. She misses hearing your voice. Even if it’s only a quick call, she’d love it if you rang. It’s Christmas, after all . . .”
Rory shook his head, moldings blurring. With hollowness in his gut, he changed the subject. “Lily around?”
“Lily’s grounded.”
“Grounded? On Christmas day?”
“She crossed the line with her pranks.”
Rory shuffled into a straighter position. “What’d she do?” He could feel a small grin pulling at his lips.
“She pulled a prank on her parents, that’s what.”
“A few more details, Uncle Davy.”
His uncle sighed, but was that an amused edge to it? “She bought a snake from someone on craigslist, and hid it in June’s hotel bedroom.”
“What? But . . . why?”
“Look, she’s pleading with her big puppy-dog eyes for me to let her speak to you. I’ll give you five minutes. Have a good day, Rory.”
Barely a second passed before Lily groaned into the phone. “It sucks being grounded in San Fran.”
Rory heard the unmistakable sound of a door closing. Lily getting some privacy, no doubt. “A snake, Lily? My fourteen-year-old self slaps you a high-five, my twenty-eight-year-old self is shaking his head. Seriously. What brought that on?”
Lily didn’t chuckl
e like he expected her to; instead there was a pause. Then Lily said, softly, “Dad thinks I have no idea him and Mum have been having issues. But I’m not as stupid as he thinks.”
Rory interrupted. “Hey, Uncle Davy doesn’t think you’re stupid.”
“Yeah. I guess I know that, but . . . I did it because I wanted them to sort it out and get it together. You know? They’ve been talking almost every day the last few weeks but they still have separate rooms.”
“So the snake?”
“Mum’s scared of them. I thought that she’d be so frightened she’d jump into Dad’s room and . . . well that would be the end of the “talks”.”
Rory swallowed, wishing he knew what to say. “I’m sorry, Lil’.”
“I was right though. The prank worked perfectly. She stayed with Dad the whole night. Only Mum got mad at the hotel and even madder when I admitted it was me.”
He hummed his sympathy.
“I’m over pranking. So over it.”
“Because of what happened?”
“Yeah, no, there’s . . . something else. I didn’t just cross a line with Dad. I mean, what I did to Mum was wrong, but I did it for the right reasons. I want them back together again. I want the both of them coming back home. I don’t even get why their fight is such a big deal. Who cares Mom wants another kid and Dad didn’t tell her he got a vasectomy.” Lily’s voice broke. “They have me. I’m better than nothing. They should just be happy.”
Rory had never heard his cousin so sad before. He hated the fact the Pacific Ocean was between them right now. He wanted to give her a hug and tell her it would be okay.
A sharp intake of breath whistled in his ear. “I feel guilty, Rory. I should never have taken Jared’s diary.”
At the mention of a Forster brother, Rory stilled. Was Jared the name of the boy who’d dodged him outside Lily’s room, or was he the boy at the window—the one that looked like William? He pushed the thought to the back of his mind, concentrating on Lily. She needed him right now. It wasn’t the time to wallow. “Did you crack his code?”
“Yeah. I shouldn’t have taken it. I thought it would say stupid stuff. Not real, serious stuff. I just . . . I thought he was crushing on Sammy, you know? But he’s not. He’s really not.”
“Is this serious stuff that you need to tell someone about, Lily, like his parents?”
Lily was quick to protest. “No. No! Not that type of serious. More . . . I just should never have invaded his privacy like that. Even Sammy warned me not to stoop so low. I didn’t listen. I should have. This is by far the worst I’ve done. What do I do, Rory?”
“I don’t know I’m the best one to answer that. I fuck up way too often.”
Rory thought about how he’d been to Eric that first time they’d met, then the way he’d been outside the restaurant to Heath . . . and what a dick he was to Will and so many others. Fuck.
“Well, I guess you could start by giving him back his diary and tell him you couldn’t crack his code. Then keep whatever you learned to yourself. Don’t tell anyone. Not even your best friend.” Surely, he was the last person to give this advice. He took a breath and said it anyway, knowing, at some point, he’d have to do the same. “And then, after admitting you were wrong to do what you did, apologize.”
Rory used the spare key to get into Eric’s place. Usually, he used it and put it back under the rock by the cabbage tree, but the metal was a welcoming weight in his hand and he didn’t want to give it up.
Toeing off his shoes and hitching his bag strap higher onto his shoulder, he fished his keys from his pocket. He threaded the key through the ring as he wandered to the living room. Eric wasn’t there.
He jingled his way to Eric’s bedroom, pausing at the partially opened door.
“Come in,” Eric said.
Rory did, stopping at the end of the bed, staring at Eric sprawled over the covers, Yowler nuzzled into the crook of his arm. “Purring into your armpit, is he?”
Eric grinned. “He started with my bellybutton.”
Rory threw his keys to Eric. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind?” Eric sifted through the keys until he found his. His fingers looked white as if he gripped it hard. “They’re wrong, they have to be.”
“Wrong? The keys?”
“No. It’s nothing. The keys are . . . right where they belong.” He started to push himself up with his elbows and Rory told him to stop.
“Just like that. That’s how I want to sketch you.” He dropped his bag to the floor, found his gift in the living room, and came back. He blinked at Eric. “I thought I told you to stay as you were.”
“I remember you saying you wanted to sketch my tats.”
Rory’s gaze roamed over Eric’s taut torso, ink shiny where the light hit. He wanted to drop his sketchbook and crawl on top of him instead, feel the warmth his body offered. Swallowing the urge, he opened the curtains, stretching more orange light over his subject.
Sitting on the window sill, his knees bent to brace the sketchbook, he worked. The narrow ledge bit into his arse, but he ignored it. Too involved in the piece before him. Silence, save the scratching of his pencil over paper, cushioned them; comfortable.
When he’d finished—or enough for now—he rested his head back on the window frame and studied it. “It doesn’t do you justice by half.” His gaze flickered to Eric, smiling at him, and back again. The nerves he’d had earlier were back, but fuck that. He wouldn’t let sweaty palms and goosebumps get in the way of what he wanted right now.
Dropping his sketchbook next to his bag, he turned to the bed. With Eric’s gaze on him, he peeled off his t-shirt and stripped his pants. Eric’s breath hitched and grew ragged.
When he lowered himself next to Eric, he shifted Yowler to the pillow. Dipping his head, still watching Eric, he kissed the groove of skin leading to his armpit. Eric inhaled sharply through his nose. Capturing Eric’s hairs between his lips, he pulled gently, then slowly trailed kisses down his side.
He explored every inch of Eric’s skin that was exposed, and Eric moaned and arched as he did.
After many torturous touches, Eric couldn’t lie back and take it anymore. He wriggled out of the rest of his clothes and took no time losing Rory’s boxers as well.
“God you’re beautiful,” Eric said in his ear as they rubbed against each other.
The words penetrated deep inside and he sighed at the pleasure of them. Fuck. But he loved how close he felt with Eric. How safe. How valued.
Rory pulled Eric on top of him, loving the weight pressing him into the mattress, cocooning him.
“I want you to . . .” Rory couldn’t say the words. “I want.” He cupped Eric and kissed him, hoping he’d understand he wanted him inside.
“I want that too,” Eric said, and touched their lips together, “but . . . I want us to be ready.”
“Mmm. I am ready.”
“You can’t even say it, babe. And even if you could. I’m not there yet.”
Rory drew back as much as he could into the pillow, and Eric rolled off him. “You don’t want—” Rory started.
“Not want. Because you have no idea how much I want you right now. But . . . I need to be sure of some things first.”
Eric’s eyes pleaded with him to understand and not to take it personally. Still, the rejection stung. He lay back on the pillow, trapping Yowler’s tail, and moved off it, turning his head toward Eric.
The guy scrubbed his face with his hands. “Sorry.”
Rory reached out, pulling Eric’s hands down. “You don’t have to apologize. If you’re not there that’s fine. I mean, I didn’t expect that, but I’m not that much of a prick that I’d pout for not getting sex. We can do other stuff.”
He sat up and swiveled into a sitting position. Eric mirrored him, a fucking adorable smile on his face. He shook his head. “I didn’t mean I didn’t want any sex with you.” Eric moved in, hands clutching the back of his head, drawing Rory into a passionate kis
s that had him gasping. He pulled back to say, breathily, “There’s so much we can do together. Let me show you?”
Thank God it was Friday. He only had another twenty minutes before work let out. He’d been anticipating this day the last forty-eight hours since coming up with his plan. Rory had stayed with him both nights since Christmas, and it was getting to a point where Eric wanted him so, so badly it hurt. Especially when he could see Rory wanted the same.
He looked up from his computer screen to the ice cream manufacturing chart glaring at him from the wall.
Blending: their two bodies merging together, his hard cock stirring Rory’s insides up, heating him, almost bringing him to boiling point.
Pasteurization: the way their blood would sing and bubble with each thrust.
Homogenization: their grunts churning together to sound like one extended exclamation of pleasure.
Ageing: he could do it forever.
Hardening: the moment before he comes, when he doesn’t think he can get any harder or aroused as he is—
Jesus. He couldn’t think straight.
He packed his gear together. A little pre-emptive, but he couldn’t wait any longer.
He silently thanked Marc for not commenting as he left ten minutes early. He was treading a fine line as it was at work, but honestly, he didn’t care.
It took fifteen minutes to reach Rory’s house, but he knew the guy wouldn’t be back from looking after Willow yet.
Eyeing the porch, he let out a relieved breath. No pumpkin had arrived yet. But, judging by everything Rory had said, it would come.
And Eric would be ready.
From the glove compartment, he grabbed the fake gun he’d purchased yesterday and got out of the car. He tucked the thing into the inner pocket of his jacket and snuck to the side of Rory’s house. Pressed up against it, well hidden from street view, he preyed on the front path.
When those boys came around, he was going to give them a little scare. Just enough to get them to stay away. Because he couldn’t have Rory catch them again. He couldn’t have Rory see his William. Couldn’t . . .
