Alex (Striking Back #4)

by S. M. Shade

  “God, Ian, you have no idea how bad I want to suck you, but I don’t think you’re ready for that. I’m going to make you come, though.”

  I can’t resist a peek at him. Blond curls lank with sweat, golden eyes full of desire. He’s fucking beautiful. Why didn’t I notice that before? A tingling sensation starts at the base of my spine and I gasp, “Going to come. Oh fuck.” I barely get the words out before I’m overcome with sweet relief and mind blowing pleasure.

  Doubt and shame rush in when my head clears. Shit. I let Alex jerk me off. I came on his damn hand. The look on my face must betray my anxiety. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, and pulls my boxers over my deflating dick. I quickly pull up my pants while he rinses off his hand. When he returns, he pours us another drink and relaxes beside me. “We can blame that on the alcohol too,” he says.

  My laugh turns into a snort, which makes us laugh even more.

  * * * *

  Everly’s voice wakes me. “This looks familiar. Get up, slut puppy.” The vibration when she kicks the bed rattles my head. Damn it, I drank too much. An image of Alex’s hand around my cock flashes through my brain. Shit. Did I really do that? I’ve never done anything like it, never been into men. I can’t process it right now with Ev grinning at me.

  Sitting up, I scrub my face with my hands, then look down. At least I’m wearing underwear. “Do you mind?” I mutter, reaching for a pair of jeans beside my bed.

  “Not a bit.” Ev glances at the number scribbled on my arm. “Where is your latest victim?”

  Probably in his room, though I doubt he’s feeling victimized. “She left this morning,” I lie. “What time is it?”

  I throw on a sweatshirt, apply deodorant, and run a brush through my hair. It just touches my collar and I really hope I get to keep it. “Almost ten. Kyle gets out of school at three, and Mason and I are going out of town. Can you pick him up?”

  “Uh, yeah, sure. Where are you going?”

  Ev makes my bed while I pull on a pair of socks. “The shelter in Tennessee needs some help. The manager quit and someone needs to get things organized. We’ll be gone for a week or so.”

  Perfect. I won’t have to worry about them popping in this week. “Well, be careful.”

  “Always am. I’ve got to run. I left you some doughnuts in the kitchen. You might want to get moving before Alex eats them all.” She smiles at me, then wraps me in a hug. “He’s so much better, Ian. Thank you for taking care of him, getting him through the worst of it.”

  Trust me, he’s repaying the favor. “You’re welcome, pup.” I hug her and kiss her cheek. “Text me when you get there safe.”

  “I will,” she promises, flashing me a smile on her way out the door. I love Everly. She’s been my best friend since we were kids and she started following me around the group home like a lost puppy. Hence the nickname, pup. I hate lying to her and part of me wants to tell her, just so she can tell me it’ll be okay. But I can’t do that to her. She has enough to worry about.

  I have my own shit to deal with today and he’s waiting in the kitchen. How do I play this? What do you say when your gay friend gives you an amazing hand job? Last night, we just kept drinking and laughing like nothing happened, but I know Alex and he’ll want to talk about it. That’s the last thing I want to do.

  Chapter Four

  Alex

  “I just think we should talk about it so you’ll quit acting weird,” I tell Ian, climbing into the passenger seat of his car.

  “I’m not acting weird. It’s a three hour drive. Are you going to keep hounding me the whole way?”

  “Probably. Or we could just get it over with now.”

  He sighs, but the corner of his mouth twitches up. “Fine. Thanks for the hand job. I really appreciate it.”

  “Very funny, and you’re welcome.”

  “I’ve never done anything with a guy before,” he mumbles, keeping his eyes frozen on the road.

  “I figured. Do you feel like I took advantage?” I kind of did, though that wasn’t my intention at all. But when his cock got hard right there by my hand, I couldn’t resist. I expected him to stop me, maybe even get pissed. His reaction was more than I ever could’ve hoped for. The way his lips parted when he came, his eyes squeezed shut in fierce concentration. I’ll never forget it.

  “No. It’s not like you held me down. I just…I’m not gay, you know that, right?”

  Straight guys don’t tend to be that cool about a hand job from a buddy, but now isn’t the time to argue it. He has to come to grips with his sexual needs in his own time. “I know.”

  “Can we just let it go and act like it didn’t happen?”

  “It’s not like I’d tell anyone, Ian. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay, not freaking out or anything.”

  “I’m good.”

  “Good, I won’t bring it up again.” I grin at him. “Pun intended.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” he laughs. We spend the rest of the drive talking and joking like nothing out of the ordinary took place.

  Kyle is sitting on the steps of the main building, surrounded by other kids when we arrive. Two different girls stand to hug him before he hefts his bag over his shoulder and hops into the car. “Looks like you had a good week,” Ian teases as we trade seats, so I can drive.

  “It was great! The art classes are fun and the teachers really know their stuff,” he replies, excited.

  “I was talking about the girls.”

  Kyle laughs and turns to Ian. “Yeah, did you get a good look at them both? What do you think? The blonde or the redhead? I can’t choose.”

  “Who says you have to choose?” Ian asks, and I smack him.

  “Don’t pass on your whore dog ways. Kyle, spend some time with them and see who you like, not who has the biggest tits or will put out the fastest.”

  “Yeah,” Ian scoffs. “Because you always choose your boyfriends based on personality. That’s why they’ve all looked like Abercrombie and Fitch models.”

  “Total coincidence.”

  Kyle and Ian talk girls and video games most of the way back. Like two little kids, they dive on the video game console as soon as they get through the door. It reminds me that I have something for them. I slip the new game out of the drawer and toss it on the coffee table. “Thought you might like this.”

  You’d think I gave them a new car by the looks on their faces. Since I know I’ll be invisible to them for the next few hours, I take the opportunity to get out of the house. I’ve been stitched to Ian’s hip for over a week, so I’m sure he’s glad for a break too. After promising to pick up tacos for dinner, I head to the gym to meet Parker for a workout.

  “Hey, asswipe,” Parker greets. “You finally tear yourself away from playing Mr. Fix-it?”

  “Why? You miss me?” I adjust the weight on the leg press and get started.

  “Miss kicking your ass. You want to spar after your workout?”

  “Only if there’s an audience to watch me put you on your ass.” Laughing, he jumps on an elliptical near me. “How’s Macy?”

  “She’s good. Worshipping the ground I walk on, as always.”

  “Think you got that backward.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” A smile forms on his sweaty face, and I marvel at all the changes the past year has brought. Mason settling down with Everly was no big surprise. He’s always wanted to start a family of his own. But Parker tying himself down to one girl was a shock, proposing to her nothing short of miraculous. I suppose they’ll have kids before too long.

  It makes me think of Cooper and the plans we made. Our relationship was still pretty new, hell, we only lived together a few weeks, but he was something special. I’ve mourned Cooper, but I haven’t really mourned what we lost until now. The future and all the possibilities. I have to think I’ll find those things with another man eventually, but for some reason, the thought is depressing.

  “Find me when you’re ready to fight,” Parker says, jumping off the elliptical.<
br />
  It feels good to get out of the house and back to the gym. After an hour long workout, then another hour sparring with my brother—and knocking him on his ass twice I might add—I’m more than ready to go home and eat. One little detour to the bookstore is in order, since the new Stephen King book just released.

  Ian and Kyle surface from the game long enough to inhale a truckload of tacos and then go back to it. I’m glad for the time alone and spend the rest of the night reading.

  The house is quiet when I wake. They must’ve played that game all night. It’s Saturday, visiting day at the prison. I didn’t go last week since Ian needed me, but I’m going today. Can’t let the bastard forget what he has coming. I wonder if Ian has thought anymore about getting in touch with his maternal grandmother in Hawaii, but I imagine he’s tucked that away for now.

  The day passes quickly. I make my usual prison visit and then take Kyle to the gym for a bit. Kyle needs a few school supplies, and Ian accompanies us to the mall where they eat their weight in Cinnabons. We catch a movie before going home. It all seems so normal considering the last week, and what’s to come in the next one. Ian and I drop Kyle back at school on Sunday and make it home in the early evening.

  Ian pours a tumbler of bourbon and flops onto the couch. I’m met with a glare when I pluck the glass from his hand and replace it with a bottle of water. “You don’t need to go into tomorrow dehydrated or hungover. You have to take care of yourself.”

  Cursing, he flips on the T.V. but doesn’t really watch it. His eyes wander away as he becomes lost in his thoughts, worrying about tomorrow. “Hey,” I grab his foot that’s been bouncing nonstop for ten minutes. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine.” He scoops up the remote and surfs through the channels without paying attention.

  “What worries you the most?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t want to end up all skinny and frail. You’ve seen other chemo patients. They look like they’re dying, or wish they were.”

  “You only have one cycle. One dose of one medication. I’m not saying the next couple of days won’t be miserable and hard, but you’re talking about people who have had months of chemotherapy. You won’t be like that.”

  Fear battles hope in those oil drop eyes. “You think so?”

  “Yes. One thing at a time, remember? Right now, you need to try to sleep. Tomorrow, you let them give you an IV. Try not to think past that.” I squeeze his shoulder. “I have a Valium if you want it. Help you fall asleep.” My doctor gave them to me after Cooper died, but I didn’t use the whole script, and I think Ian could use one tonight.

  “Yeah, thanks, that’ll help.” Apparently it does, because an hour later, he’s snoring away on the couch.

  Ian is too nervous to eat the next morning, but it’s probably a good thing since we don’t know how nauseous the drug will make him. He doesn’t say much until we get to the chemotherapy day clinic. One look at the patients in the waiting room and I can feel him ready to flee. A young woman, twenty-five at most, gives a sympathetic smile. A purple scarf is wrapped around her bald head and her sunken eyes and skinny body tell the story of her suffering.

  An elderly couple sit together, talking in low voices, the port in the man’s chest visible above the neck of his t-shirt.

  I squeeze Ian’s shoulder. “It’s all right. Just go sign in.”

  After he walks away, the lady with the scarf leans over and asks, “His first day?”

  “Yeah, he’s a little nervous.”

  “Of course he is. Leukemia?”

  I glance up to make sure Ian can’t hear us. “No, testicular.”

  “That’s pretty treatable isn’t it?”

  “Yes, he’s fortunate, though I know he doesn’t feel like it at the moment. They hope he’ll only have one cycle since there’s no evidence of it spreading.”

  She gives a wide smile. “That’s wonderful. They must’ve caught it early.”

  Shifting in my seat, I ask, “Do you mind if I ask…”

  “Cervical. Stage four. There’s no symptoms for that one until it’s too late.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve made it longer than they thought I would, and I have no intention of giving up anytime soon.” A nurse steps out and calls her name.

  “It was nice to meet you,” I tell her.

  “Candace,” she says.

  “I’m Alex.”

  “Take care of your friend, Alex. The first time is hard.”

  Ian returns as she’s led away. A little boy, maybe eight years old bounds through the door and straight to a pile of toys in the corner. He’s bald, but otherwise you’d never know he was sick. “Stay right there, Isaac,” his mother calls, before stopping to chat with the nurse.

  Ian watches the little boy play for a moment, then moves to sit beside him on the floor where they spend the next ten minutes building with blocks until Ian’s name is called. As we head down the hall to the treatment room, he turns to me. “I’m fucking lucky.”

  “We both are. It can happen to anyone, young or old.”

  “It’s bullshit. He’s just a baby.”

  “I know.”

  “I can do this,” he says before entering the room, his voice filled with pissed off confidence.

  “I know that too.”

  * * * *

  Ian is fine for the first few hours. I’m just starting to hope he’ll be one of the lucky ones who doesn’t suffer the side effects when he darts to the bathroom. The nurse gave him a shot of an anti-nausea medicine before we left the clinic, along with a prescription to help the next few days. Apparently, the shot has worn off.

  Since he hasn’t eaten all day, he doesn’t have much to bring up, but anyone who has had a good hangover knows dry heaves can be even worse. He waves me away when I check on him, but takes the glass of water and wet washcloth I offer. Every time I think he’s got to be done, I hear him retching again.

  It’s gone on for too long. He can’t spend the night leaning against the toilet. I quickly make up the couch with bedding and put two liners in a small trash can to place beside him. His nausea pills and a glass of water wait on the coffee table. Sweat coats his body as he leans with his back on the tub, his eyes closed.

  “Come on, man. I’ve got you set up in the living room.” Without a word, he allows me to lead him to the couch. Just that short walk has him retching again. The nausea pills are meant to be placed under the tongue to dissolve and he manages to take two of them. Thirty minutes later, he’s still hanging off the couch, heaving and gagging. He can’t even hold down a sip off water, and he’s broken a blood vessel in one eye from straining.

  “Never again,” he croaks, “I’d rather die than do this again.”

  I’m tempted to take him to the hospital where they can at least give him something stronger and keep him hydrated, but I have an idea first. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Ian isn’t a pot smoker, but tonight he will be. I grab a joint out of my stash beside my bed and sit on the floor beside the couch. When I fire it up and try to hand it to him, he shakes his head.

  “Don’t be stubborn. Cancer patients use it all the time. It might help,” I tell him, and he relents, taking a draw and trying to hold the smoke. He coughs the first one out almost instantly, but the next few go down easier.

  “I haven’t been stoned in years,” he says with a small grin, handing the joint back to me.

  “That’s probably enough then.” As tempting as it is, I don’t want to smoke. I need to be able to think, to take care of him and drive him to the hospital if necessary. A few minutes pass, the longest amount of time he’s had without vomiting. “Feel any better?” I ask.

  “Yeah, my stomach’s settling a little.”

  “Try some water. Just a sip.” Shaking hands take the glass, and I fetch him a clean wet washcloth to wipe his face. He’s sitting on the couch when I return, the remote on his lap. “You look a little better.” He looks like shit. Pale
as milk, wet with sweat, and trembling.

  “Worse than any flu or hangover I’ve ever had,” he says, leaning back, exhausted. “Every muscle in my body hurts.”

  “You still have a few painkillers leftover from the surgery if you want to try to hold one down.”

  “It can’t hurt.”

  Thirty minutes later, a giggle escapes me as I peek at him. Between the weed and painkiller, he’s stoned off his ass. “Feeling better?”

  “Mmm,” he murmurs, leaning against my side when I sit beside him.

  “Do you want to go bed or sleep here?”

  “Going to stay right here.” When I go to rise, he grabs my arm and pulls me back down. “I got through the day.”

  His head rests on my shoulder. “You did. One thing at a time. Right now you should get some sleep while you can,” I advise.

  “Thank you.” His dark eyes look into mine. “I wouldn’t have made it through today without you.”

  His eyes close when I run a hand through his hair. “You’re welcome. You can be kind of sweet when you’re stoned.”

  “Don’t tell anyone, asshole.”

  “That’s more like it,” I laugh, and he smiles. “Get some sleep,” I tell him, and move to the smaller sofa.

  “You don’t have to sleep here. I’ll be okay.”

  “Shut up.”

  Snoring fills the room a few minutes later and I breathe a sigh of relief. That was so much worse than I expected. At least we know the pot works if he gets worse again. The nurse said the nausea can last a few days, the aches and pains a little longer. She also advised me he’d be weak and tire easily for a few weeks.

  My own exhaustion is setting in, so I stretch out on the sofa to try to sleep. My gaze is drawn to him. Even sick, he’s too damn gorgeous. What I’d give to kiss those sculpted lips, and not just a peck like New Year’s Eve. Images of him with my hand around his cock flash through my head and I try to blink them away. It’s not like me to get stuck on a straight guy, it’s pointless, that’s gay 101, but I’ve seen how he looks at me lately. He’s grateful for my help, but it’s more than that.