Freckles

by Amy Lane

  “Carter, what are you thinking about?”

  “Uh . . .” Finally, a blink. “Quitting my job?”

  Sandy laughed, and was dismayed to find that his cock got a little bit harder. That he could make a workaholic think twice about his job was a real turn-on.

  “Oh.” He raised his eyebrows. “I was thinking something entirely different.”

  Carter’s mouth stayed open, but his eyes focused. He caught his breath, and a shy little smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

  And then he licked his lips.

  Sandy’s mouth went dry, and he took a quick pull on his soda cup. Carter glanced away then, but the little smile remained.

  “Carter?”

  “Hmm?” He picked up his take-out container and stabbed at things with his fork.

  “What do you want to do after this?”

  Carter met his eyes in obvious surprise. “Uh . . . usually I watch crap television and eat cookies.”

  “That doesn’t sound bad. I do that a lot—even when I have a boyfriend.”

  Carter shrugged. “Well, Greg used to go out. Dancing or clubbing. I mean, sometimes it was fun, but . . .” His half smile fell away. “A lot of the time I just wanted to . . . you know . . .”

  “Stay in,” Sandy said, understanding. “With your dog.”

  The smile bloomed again, became something special. “It’s better with a dog.”

  “You should try it with a person and a dog,” Sandy told him. “What’s on TV?”

  Lucky for Sandy, Carter had almost an entire week of shows taped.

  Carter offered like a gentleman to let Sandy pick the shows, and while Sandy was working the remote, he went to sit on the club chair, leaning back slightly, one ankle resting on one knee.

  Sandy looked at Carter posed like Fred MacMurray, and laughed. He stood and grabbed Carter’s hand, pulling him up and straight into his arms.

  “Hey,” Sandy murmured, putting his face in the hollow of Carter’s neck. “We’ve had a first kiss. We can touch now.”

  Carter gazed at him, befuddled and bemused, and opened his mouth in what might have been protest. Sandy took his mouth, gently, nibbling on his lips, all in play.

  “TV,” Carter mumbled, and Sandy nodded.

  “Yeah. I get it—no putting out on the first date,” he whispered. “Just . . . I like you, Carter. C’mon. If we’re going to do a quiet night at home, let’s do it right.”

  He kicked off his shoes, leaving them on the floor because, yeah, he was a little bit of a slob, and then sat in the corner of the couch, one leg along the back, the other propped up in front of him. He held out his hand, and Carter took it, situating himself in the V of his legs and the circle of his arms.

  Sandy had to close his eyes for a minute. “How’s this?” he asked—it was perfect for Sandy.

  “Nice,” Carter said softly, leaning his head against Sandy’s shoulder. “But I’m so comfy that if you don’t pick a show, I’ll fall asleep.”

  Sandy liked his choices—lots of action adventure and sci-fi, and he decided on a triple feature of Grimm, Sleepy Hollow, and The Shannara Chronicles. They had to shift places, of course, easing strained or extended muscles, but for the most part, Carter relaxed into Sandy’s arms—and boy, did he feel sweet there. They didn’t so much talk through the shows as speak under them—usually about an actor, or the storyline, or other shows of the same type.

  Quiet conversation, but every time Sandy felt Carter’s chest rise and fall under his arms, he got a thrill in his stomach. This guy—this crazy-pants guy who’d brought a dog into the vet’s to have it checked for fleas, had negotiated a hell of a week. And after all of that, he seemed content to put his trust in the arms of someone willing to hold him, to offer him affection, to be kind.

  Sandy got to study him as they sat, taking in the occasional gray hair.

  “How old are you, Carter?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “Me too.” After taking in the gaps in the CD tower and the DVD library, he asked softly, “When did your boyfriend leave?”

  “Monday night.”

  “Were you dating long?”

  “About three months.”

  That was promising—three months of a bad relationship. Hopefully he wasn’t nursing a broken heart. As he sped through the next commercial break he asked, “What was your longest relationship?”

  Pause. “About three months. You?”

  “About three years. We’ve been broken up a few.”

  “Why?” Carter asked, shifting in Sandy’s arms.

  “Because I want to be a priority.”

  Another pause. “Good. You should be.”

  Another show, more comfort, and Sandy took in the way Freckles was an accessory in Carter’s lap in the same way Carter was an accessory in Sandy’s.

  “Are you sure you never owned a pet before?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “You’re good at it.”

  Pause. “Thank you. But it’s only been a couple of days.”

  By the time the last show ended, Carter was dozing lightly in his arms, and Sandy was ready to go home.

  Well, he wasn’t really, but if he didn’t get the brass ring tonight (and the thrumming in his groin really, really wanted the brass ring!) he was ready to leave Carter with a kiss and let him think about maybe doing this again.

  Or maybe a movie.

  Or a trip someplace they could take the dog for a walk, like the park.

  Maybe a concert.

  Or a weekend in Tahoe.

  Maybe Backgammon.

  God, maybe sex. He was just so damned kissable, Sandy was really hoping for the sex.

  Sandy turned off the television, and Carter stood, offering a hand up. Sandy found them face-to-face in the same space again, this time Carter looking mussed and dear.

  “This was an awesome first date,” Sandy told him—in case he had doubts.

  “It’s okay if we’re not naked?” Oh, bless him—he seemed concerned.

  “Sir! My virtue!” Sandy cracked, and was delighted when those pale cheeks turned red. Very gently, he removed Carter’s wire-frame glasses, folded them, and set them on the end table. “Breakup,” he prompted, voice dropping. “You were hurt?”

  Carter nodded, and then glanced away. “I was saving for a cruise, actually. He . . . I mean, he wanted me to take care of him, and I was okay with that. I had the good job, he waited tables for money. I . . . I just took so many cases, you know? And we never saw each other, and . . .” Grimace. “My boss is not a nice man. I do not come home from work a very happy person. I was probably shitty company, you know?”

  Sandy nodded, understanding. “I’m a working student,” he said, stating the obvious. “I do not have as much time as I want to spend on a relationship. Rick pretty much bailed because suddenly I was not home as much as he wanted me to be, and because I wanted us to live together but he didn’t want me to be home that much. But I would really like to spend some of my spare time with you—are you okay with that?”

  Carter’s smile—slow blooming, but damn, what a kick. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I . . . uhm. Text me.”

  Sandy caught his chin and kissed him, hard, tongue invading, chests touching, and realized Carter kissed the way he smiled. He responded slowly, but every move after the first one was powerful, directed, purposeful.

  And he sure did get the purpose of kissing. His hands came up to cup Sandy’s jaw, and he pulled Sandy in with an awakening hunger. Sandy chased the kiss, practically crowing in triumph. He’d known it. He’d had a feeling mild-mannered Mr. Crazy-pants Kent was a secret sex machine; he’d seen it in the man’s choice of dog bed!

  Sandy was the one who backed away, because as much as he wanted it, he had school and work and adulting, and now was not the time. But for a moment, he saw a raw need in Carter’s eyes, an almost feral starvation for kiss and touch and kindness.

  “Hey,” Sandy said, trying to bring the quiet and gentle back in
to their night. “Hey. It’s okay. I’ll be back.”

  Carter swallowed and nodded, pulling himself under control with an effort that was good for a boy’s ego.

  “Carter?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Your guy, the one who just left? He was stupid. If he’d been smart, he would have made you want to come home and not driven you away.”

  Carter nodded, a vulnerability washing his features that Sandy wanted to protect.

  “It’s true,” Sandy told him. “You’ll see.”

  And then he absolutely had to find his shoes and go.

  “So?” Cedar said, bouncing excitedly on her toes.

  “So what?” Yes, he was pretending he didn’t know what she was talking about, because he was sort of an ass that way, and he loved tweaking her adorably pert little nose.

  “So how did the date go?”

  “You’re awfully sure of me,” Sandy teased, but the truth was, he’d texted her the day before, telling her that he’d made his move on Mr. Crazy-pants with the tiny dog.

  “You said it was a date!” she protested. “And damn, you move fast. I mean, I wasn’t expecting you to make your move until he brought the dog back after Thanksgiving.”

  Sandy grinned, all teeth. “He was just too delicious to wait.”

  Cedar’s big brown eyes widened salaciously. “Oh, you did not!” She made not sound like the scandal of the century, and Sandy felt bad about letting her down.

  “No, I really didn’t. Well, I made a move, but I didn’t sleep with him. I mean, not that I haven’t moved that fast, but not this time.”

  “Really?” Cedar cocked an expressive eyebrow at him. “Why not?”

  Sandy’s evil grin of triumph toned itself down to something softer. “Because . . . he was really human. Not, you know, an appetizer. An actual person. I wanted him to like me in the morning.”

  “Aw . . .” Cedar held her hands to her heart. “Our little Sandy-slut is growing up!”

  Well, it was true—he hadn’t been celibate since Rick. He’d had a few brief moments—a few one-nighters, or weekenders, or one that made it a week—but the school, the job, the cat, the “I’d rather not do the club thing, thank you” had all reared an ugly head, and he’d realized that no relationship was worth faking his way through it if he wasn’t feeling anything but the sex.

  His damned cat was better company than most of the men he’d fucked, and that was the truth.

  But not Carter.

  Nope, not a talker—but conversation wasn’t like pulling teeth, either. He was smart, but not showy, quiet but not boring, gentle without being a doormat.

  According to Alexis, he was the nicest guy in the world, and he was saving her ass and making her a respectable businesswoman. Sandy told her that if she designed some business cards, he’d spring for them, since she was official and all, and she’d replied, “No worries, Uncle Sandy—Carter already has it covered. I think he’s sort of stealing them from work, but the idea made him happy.”

  Sandy had grunted something over the phone yesterday, but now after talking to Carter, he really had to wonder—what was with the guy’s job? He didn’t seem like a mutant workaholic—but he couldn’t be that unhappy at something and not have it affect his life, either.

  “He was just really nice,” Sandy said, smiling. “And not in the ‘He’s nice but . . .’ way. It’s the ‘He’s totally nice, and I want to see more of him’ sort of way.”

  “Well that’s awesome,” Cedar said. “Because Mrs. Schneider’s here with little Damian again and you’re up. It’s wonderful you have something to live for!”

  Sandy had to look at her twice to see if she was being sincere, or if his snark had finally rubbed off on her. He still hadn’t decided which when it was time to go get the holy shit scratched out of him by a cat that the entire staff had wanted a DNA panel for, because they all swore he was anything but domestic short-haired cat.

  When he came out of the exam room (after making sure demon-pussy was fully anaesthetized and would not rampage through the entire store wreaking havoc on mankind) he saw he had a text.

  A picture of Freckles chewing the fur on her ass with the caption: Is this normal?

  Who said romance was dead?

  Good morning to you too!

  Sorry. How are you? I had a nice time last night. I hope you got home okay. I didn’t even ask where you live. I am a horrible person. Is my dog going to burst into flames and die?

  Sandy laughed. Okay—sneaky sense of humor there. Sandy approved. No. But she’ll barf a lot. I’d stock up on the pee pads.

  I’m going to hire a designer. She’ll redo the whole place in pet-stain-resistant.

  More laughter. Ooh—surprise, Mr. Clark Kent—there was a supersized funny bone there too.

  Wait until the first wave passes. Trust me, the best is yet to come.

  Stellar. FTR—last night really was nice. Unexpected, but nice. What’s your schedule like this week?

  Sandy was surprised to feel his face flush. He thought, He likes me! He really, really likes me! and tried hard to keep himself from dancing where he stood.

  I get off work at eight. Come get me and we can go out to dinner?

  Will the dog be okay if we leave?

  Oh God. Well, good thing Sandy knew what he was getting into when he signed on.

  Dinner, yes. He sighed. A movie at the end, probably not. At least not after her first week home.

  Which one do you want more?

  Sandy grinned. Takeout dinner. We can eat on way. I really want to see a schmoopy holiday comedy that makes me embarrassed to be in the theater.

  “Sandy, we’ve got people!” Cedar hissed, and Sandy looked up from his phone to realize that yes, they’d gotten busy again.

  He put down the phone just as Be there at 8 scrolled across the screen, and then he was underwater.

  “You brought a change of clothes in your car?” Tommy asked as Sandy ran out of the employee bathroom at two minutes to eight.

  “It’s not haute couture, but it’s not scrubs either,” Sandy said hesitantly.

  Tommy wrinkled his nose. “Jesus. The clothes you could wear. Such a fucking travesty.”

  Sandy stared at him blankly, realizing that Tommy might have been forced to wear the regulation polo shirt, but his jeans and shoes always looked runway-model perfect.

  “Uh, 501s are timeless classics,” he said with dignity. “And the sweatshirt has a Shih Tzu on it—you know, like his dog?”

  Tommy shook his head. “Fucking Hot Topic. Oughta be a fucking law.” He stalked away, leaving a bemused Sandy to hustle back to where his secret Prince Clark Kent Charming was waiting.

  Like the night before, he was wearing jeans too. Unlike the night before, he was wearing a zip-up jacket, black and puffy, and a gray stocking cap over his ears.

  “You hipster, you,” Sandy said, smiling.

  Carter’s response was a sort of helpless shrug. “Yeah—the ex picked it out. The jacket and the stocking cap are the newest things I own.”

  “Well I was just told that my own sense of fashion stinks on ice. Let’s go to the movies and be passé together, you think?”

  Carter’s shy smile devastated him. “Yeah, okay. I brought food. We can eat in the car, if you like.”

  “Where’d you go?” Sandy asked, wondering at Carter’s general disdain for takeout.

  “I made sandwiches. It was terrible—I had to slice pickles and tomatoes, rip off lettuce. There was even mayonnaise and oil and vinegar involved.”

  Sandy actually closed his eyes at the thought of food that wasn’t out of a box. He and his sister were having Thanksgiving dinner with their mother that Thursday, and he’d been pretty sure that would be his next encounter with food of the non-fast variety.

  “You are . . . You have no idea. You’re like a sandwich-making stud. That’s awesome!”

  Oh, that blush! Sandy wanted to kiss his cheek, but he refrained. He waved to Cedar, who called, “Nice to se
e you again, Mr. Embree!” and then he walked out into the night next to a guy he was starting to like more with each passing day.

  The movie was fun—just as romantic and schmoopy as Sandy had asked for. Carter couldn’t stomach popcorn, but he did share a package of M&M’s, leaning close to Sandy in the dark and offering him a few pieces as the movie went on.

  Sitting near enough to someone to let thighs touch, and hands, and shoulders—that was a special sort of intimacy right there, and Carter thought he would go out to the theaters a lot more if he could hold hands in the coziness of the movie theater and know everything was going to be okay.

  They stopped for hot chocolate on the way back to Sandy’s car, and it seemed only natural to kill the engine and drink it when they hit the PetSmart parking lot.

  “You liked the movie, right?” Sandy asked, sipping at his chocolate appreciatively.

  “Yeah,” Carter said. “I mean . . . yeah.” It had been an old-fashioned fairy-tale remake, live action, and Carter had appreciated everything from the costumes to the sentimentality. “I mean, I love it when people do updates on things, or snarky twists—but sometimes it’s just . . . you know, nice, to have the old-fashioned story, no irony needed.”

  Sandy regarded him for a moment in the scarce light from the streetlamp. “That’s . . . unusual,” he said, right when Carter felt his face heat. “You know—hip, slick, and ironic. That seems to be what people like these days, right?”

  Carter’s blush took the plunge and swept over his neck and cheeks. “I get it. I mean I understand it. But so often it’s sort of mean, you know?” He sighed. “I’m sort of irritatingly sincere.” This was true too. Greg had mocked him for it, and in the first few weeks after his rare moment out dancing and their Oh, hey, we seem to have some chemistry here relationship had started, Carter had assumed it was gentle teasing. It hadn’t been until the end that he’d realized that he just didn’t get that sort of sarcastic meanness, because he’d never think to use it himself.

  Sandy surprised him by tapping his cheek with a fingertip. “Sincere,” he said gallantly. “Not irritating. Just sincere.”