But I’m not going to do anything, except get him settled and comfortable. Once his cheek rests on the pillow, I marvel at him. High, cut cheekbones. Slightly lopsided, but full lips. A jaw so square it could be used as a right-angle ruler. But with his eyes closed, he looks peaceful.
Dammit.
Bustling about the house, I place water and Kleenex on the bedside table, pull the blanket over him, and kiss his forehead gently.
He’s so out of it, he’ll never know.
I linger for a moment, letting his hair caress my face. Inhaling his shampoo. Feeling the warmth radiating from him.
Straightening up, I run my hands through my hair and shake my head.
Shane turns over and mutters, “I love you.” Then curls up and goes to sleep, snoring loudly.
I head to my room, knowing a thin wall separates us physically, but his refusal to accept his feelings may be a deeper divide that can never be breached.
* * *
Tonight’s dream features him hooking his fingers in his waistband, dropping his black sweatpants like the curtain to a show, while my throbbing heart travels to my throat, where it remains.
I stare at his cock. Along the underside of his erection, red and blue veins wrap upward like rebellious stripes on a barber pole refusing to stay in the lines. His dick is hard, thick, and heavy in his hand.
It’s magnificent.
In the haze, I kneel before him, ready to be subservient. The carpet abrades my knees, and my tongue readies, anticipating the pleasure I’m going to deliver. Hoping for moans and grunts and a lost, crazed look in his chestnut eyes.
My eyes travel from his muscular thighs to his deep cobblestone abs to his intensely aroused face, hoping he doesn’t shut me down. Us down.
But no, we’re good. His wide eyes barely hold in the inferno blazing behind them.
He runs his hands through his short, superhero haircut, jutting his dick toward me, and my own cock twitches.
He nods.
I nod.
I take a deep breath.
He’s mine, and we’re finally doing this without fear. Without being ashamed.
Together.
On my inhalation, I extend my fingers, noticing the blue veins on my dark tan skin, the individual hairs on my arms, a faint pale scar on my wrist from where I fell riding my bike.
Saliva pools in my mouth, wanting his taut muscle.
I lean forward.
Almost there.
Just this once—
But there’s nothing to grasp. No one’s there. My fingers fall into air.
I cry out and wake up in bed alone, sweating, thrashing, my hand around my own stiff cock. It’s 4:58 a.m., and Shane Nichols will never be my lover. I roll over, but the weight in my chest doesn’t move to the side. It just settles in like unformed clay, heavy and opaque.
Pumping myself violently, almost ripping my skin, the release I give myself is poor consolation.
I want the real thing, and I’ll never have it.
* * *
Later that morning, a sleepy, yawning Shane, wearing only his jeans, shuffles into the kitchen as I’m making coffee in my gray sweatpants and Bob Ross T-shirt.
“Morning, sunshine,” I call. “You look like hell.”
Actually, he doesn’t. He enters the room as my Adonis with bedhead, scruff, and no shirt. In other words, perfect. How can someone with a hangover look better the next day? It’s truly not fair. He sits at the bar and cradles the glass of water I hand him, but doesn’t take a sip. A green tinge still lines his face. He avoids my eyes and keeps his distance.
“How drunk did I get last night?”
My smile feels forced, and it hurts to look at him. “Very.”
He peers around the room blankly, stretching arms up, making his muscles dance.
Sexy as hell.
For fuck’s sake.
“After I told my parents what I did and they were so happy, I suppose I needed to celebrate my engagement.”
My breathing falters, and my stomach clenches. “Right. Do you remember any of it?”
“Some of it.” He rubs his eyes with his fists, a move so charming my heart soars. No, Randy. You’re pissed. Mid-rub, he stills. “Fuck. We missed taking Kim to the airport.”
I turn my back to him and get out coffee cups. “Her parents were planning on taking her.”
“Yeah, but we could have said goodbye one last time.”
My throat closes up, and a headache threatens. I pour two cups of coffee and pass him one.
He steeples his hands and presses them to his lips. “Thanks for coming and getting me. I know I’ve been . . . I know yesterday was a surprise to you. I’m sorry we fought. I shouldn’t have had it out with you, when I didn’t tell you what I was going to do.” His eyes are soft. “I don’t deserve you.”
A derisive laugh leaves my throat before I can stop it. “True. You don’t deserve me.”
Shane’s eyes catch mine, and I see a flicker of something behind them. Indecision? Regret? Maybe I’m just imagining it. Then he chuckles, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s thinking of our fight or something else. “Yeah. I was going back and forth all afternoon about what to do. It was driving me crazy. Finally, I figured the only way to get me out of my misery was to just ask her.”
It’s not the only fucking way to deal with our whatever, Shane.
I turn to the fridge and take my time getting cream for my coffee. I never really thought his relationship with Kim was real. Thus, I’ve never felt guilty about my feelings for him. I was just biding my time, waiting for him to wise up.
But now I’m wondering if I’m even allowed to feel this way.
And I’m wondering if any of this would hurt Kim.
God, I just need to get over him.
I sit across from him. After he takes a few more sips of his drink, I get brave enough to ask questions. “When did your parents give you your grandma’s ring?”
“A while ago. They’ve always wanted me to, uh, you know.” His voice is low. “Marry her.” He blushes.
I can picture the scene. Ron and Denise calling Shane into the living room and presenting him with grandma’s ring to use when it came time to get engaged. Since the only girl he’d ever been linked to was Kim, obviously they meant her. They know her parents well since the Browns and the Nichols go to church together every Sunday. While her family is visible in the community due to her mom’s successful weight loss business, his is prominent in other ways. Ron Nichols served as mayor twice, and Denise is on the school board.
Shane’s parents are friendly people. Kind and loving. But the idea of having a non-hetero son would send them to therapy. They donate money to conservative causes designed to ensure traditional values are maintained. They actively talk about political events and their personal political views, which don’t match his. He’s gotten the message over the years that if he tells them, they’ll disown him—and I don’t blame him. I’ve seen it. Despite his need to face who he is, he’s too scared to lose his family.
With a tight chest, I scrape my hands down my face and stay on my side of the kitchen island.
After we finish our first cup of coffee in silence, I pour him another, and he gives me a small smile. “What are you doing the rest of the day? I had plans to go to the gym. Wanna come?”
Giving him a half-hearted shrug, I pull myself together and rub my belly, always covering my true feelings with a joke. “What are you saying?” I’m no Santa, unless I puff it out, but I definitely don’t have the definition he does. “This doesn’t count as a washboard?”
The crinkle around his eyes and his genuine smile melt my cold, dead, irritated heart. His eyes stay on mine extra long. “I want the company, I think.”
“You know it’s a cold day in hell to get me to the gym.”
While I should just go somewhere quiet to think, maybe getting out some frustration is just what I need.
> * * *
“Spot me?” I ask.
Sitting on the bench, my legs on either side, I lower myself backwards to bench press the barbell. Just the effort of slowly lying backward wracks my nerves. Yes, I realize the bench will hold me up, but since I’m not so good with crunches, falling backwards gives me vertigo. I feel like I’m falling blindly into the void and don’t know if I’ll make it to solid ground. I’ve got no support.
Maybe this is why I don’t go to the gym often. Maybe this is why I don’t mind an extra ham sandwich at lunch—although thankfully my genes have kept those sandwiches from showing in my jean size. Maybe this is why the gym has always been Shane’s refuge, not mine.
I’m starting to reevaluate that stance, though. As I lie on my back on the bench, my feet spread wide on the ground and hands reaching up to grasp the bar, Shane moves to my head to spot me, then takes a sip of gator-juice.
He’s right there.
I can smell him—a bit salty, coppery, but also with a zesty soap scent. If I could lick, I would.
Then I frown.
His crotch is right by my face in thin black nylon shorts. My God, even his knees are handsome. The dusting of hair on his legs makes my fingers stretch to touch him. I blink and shake my head slightly, needing to focus, or I’ll show how much I like having his groin in my face.
Shane bends over the bar and talks to me, his face upside down. “How many reps you going for?”
“Ahnold pump iron ten times,” I say, using my Schwarzenegger impression again.
He glances down my body, his eyes lingering along my torso, but then he gets to my shoes and does a double take. “How long has it been since you bought shoes?”
“A while.” I do a weird shrug while lying on my back. “What? You think I need new ones?”
“Yes.”
Shane’s meticulous personality doesn’t allow for sneakers with the toes ripped out so badly you can see my socks. “So, like, you wanna go school shopping with me?” I ask, imitating a bored teenager.
He snort-laughs. “Yeah, sure. In the meanwhile, let’s start you with a plate on both sides.” Moving to the rack, he comes back with two large black circular weights, his pretty biceps bulging even though he moves ninety pounds as easily as two books.
“You got it, boss.” Exhaling, I put my hands up on the metal bar. It’s thick and scratchy, with a crosshatched area so it doesn’t slip. While two plates should be doable for me, I don’t want to embarrass myself.
And maybe I can pound out my feelings for him this way.
“Randy, you can do this. No problem.”
Breathing in and out of my nose rapidly, I grip the barbell and push up, doing ten presses as fast as I can. My muscles burn, and I replace the bar and pant. “You do this every day?”
Peering down at me with those eyes, he’s amused. “Normally with two plates on each side. Or more.”
“You’re Hercules.”
He shrugs and downs some more electrolytes. I watch his throat undulate as he swallows, and it’s about the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.
Fuck.
After a moment, I’m ready to bench more weight. But this time, as I place my hand on the bar, Shane’s pinkies brush my index fingers. Casually, so casually, he explores the space between my thumb and pointer finger, his strong finger pressing my skin.
What the hell?
I’m not imagining this, right? My head twists from side to side, checking out what’s going on with the rest of the gym. No one pays attention to us, because they’re engrossed in their own routines and exercise. Shane’s almost absentminded, like he doesn’t realize what he’s doing, but the inside of my fingers tingle from his touch.
I look up at him. His skin is flushed, and his eyes shine. Almost imperceptibly, he inches his whole body closer to me, and I experience his presence. His warm, solid body so close to mine. He keeps stroking the sensitive part of my hand, and it’s like he’s exploring somewhere else on my body. Some other area that reacts as much as this area does.
It’s so fucking naughty. Brazen, but subtle. Sensual, but chaste. If he keeps doing it, I might show through my shorts.
We have to stop this.
I can’t do this to Kim. I can’t do this to me.
With an exhale, regretting breaking the spell, I begin another set of ten bench presses. This set goes a little slower. At the end, when my muscles fail, Shane guides the bar back to the rack above me. As he does this, he extends his torso, and the material of his shorts falls over the top of my head.
I close my eyes in ecstasy. Or anguish. I can’t think which.
It’s not just the thin fabric of his black athletic shorts. I can feel him underneath. How full he is in his pants. How one touch would make him explode. We’re in public, but lifting weights with Shane feels intimate. A cocoon of just the two of us in our own little world.
He lingers above me a moment too long, then steps back and whips out his phone, texting someone like nothing happened.
Motherfucker.
A flash of anger sizzles through my spine. I figure out immediately that Kim’s texting him when he takes a Skype call from her.
And I’m helpless to do anything. Because she’s my best friend, too.
With an embarrassing amount of effort, I sit up, dust my hands off, drink water and watch him talk to his fiancée face-to-face on his phone.
While wanting to throw the barbell across the room with a guttural roar.
Kim’s saying how weird it is to discover this other place on the planet where there are millions of people who have never heard of her. His response is to dazzle the screen with his megawatt smile, the charming one I haven’t seen in a while. “You’re so weird,” he says with fondness in his voice. I can’t hear everything she’s saying, but his voice gets deeper. “I like that about you.”
How come he waits until she gets to Spain to flirt with her?
Or have I never seen it?
I’m irritated and on edge, trying to figure out why I’m torturing myself with him.
To avoid strangling him, I snatch his phone, plant my feet wide apart, and make sure my face takes up the whole screen, smiling maniacally like everything’s all right.
“Yoko! Parlez vous Spanglish?”
Her sweet face has a broad grin, and it hurts to see her. “Hey, Randy. Did Shane finally get you to go the gym?”
To keep from showing her my clenched, grinding teeth, I let the phone pan down my torso.
“He convinced me to sculpt these gorgeous abs into the washboard of your dreams.”
“I don’t dream about washboards,” she says.
Then why the fuck are you dating a guy with magnificent ones?
Rage pounds in my ears, and my vision clouds. Once again, I hide it. I tsk at the screen and shake a finger. “Ah, but see? Now you will.”
“Give me that!” Shane yoinks back his phone, and instead of pounding a wall, I slap him on the butt. Hard. Shane’s eyebrows raise, but he says nothing and focuses back on Kim, discussing her classes. He’s always been interested in her studies, almost dictating what she studies. His control freakiness doesn’t just extend to his precise haircut and over the top exercise regimen, but how he treats everyone.
He likes to be in charge. Orderly. Organized. Prepared. Dominant.
This is why I like him.
This is why I need to leave.
This is why he’s making me so mad I’m shaking.
“Gotta go,” I say, trying to still the involuntary tremors in my body. “Meet you tomorrow for Meals on Wheels.”
The surprise on Shane’s face registers, and he checks the time. “We’ve only been here fifteen minutes.”
He’s right, but I need to leave. I’m not getting in the middle of him and his fiancée, and I can’t take another minute with him this close. Otherwise that fight we almost had will turn into a bloodbath.
* * *
“Here you go, guys. Let me know if you have any issues, but the route’s the same as last week.”
Mandy knows we’ve memorized the routine. Every week since he turned sixteen, Shane and I have volunteered for Meals on Wheels. Shane started when he got his driver’s license, and I started because he did. We’ve stuck with it because after five years, we’ve really bonded with the people on our route. I’m not going to ghost them just because every time I see Shane, I have to fight getting hard—and want to kick things. Mrs. Svenson and Mrs. Olafson are adorable and laugh at my jokes. They’d miss me if I didn’t come for my weekly delivery. I’d miss them too.
And besides, I apparently can’t stay away from him no matter how many times I vow to do just that.
Hashtag masochist.
We load up the meals and begin the route. Kim calls on Skype as we head out, but when she finds out we’re busy, she ends the call. Her voice sounds different. More confident, maybe? Or determined? At any rate, I’m sure lover boy wants to talk with her later.
I crack my knuckles as we drive to our first client, Jerry, in silence.
“You ready for the new release of Rainbow Six?” Shane asks, his voice a croak.
I’m not sure how many hours we’ve spent playing the Tom Clancy tactics video game that requires teamwork and strategy. “Yeah. New missions. Cool.” I stare listlessly out the window.
But I’m wondering if I need a new teammate.
“I hear the expansion pack is going to be epic.”
I close my eyes briefly and open them.
Are we friends? I guess we’ve always been best friends. And maybe I need to stop wanting more than he does.
Given how he was acting in the gym, though, it makes me think he wants it as much as I do. So I’m confused.
As usual.
“Yeah,” I say, not sure what I’m agreeing to. But when we pull up to Jerry’s house, I grab a meal and plaster on a smile.
Jerry’s a thin AIDS patient who has staved off the disease this long, but the antiretroviral therapy has taken its toll, aging him faster. While we’re not required to do more than wish people well, that doesn’t count for him. We always stay longer.
“Good to see you, J-Man,” Shane says. He grins, hugs Jerry, and hands him an extra container of soup.
Mixtape: A Love Song Anthology Page 36
