Bad Judgment

by Sidney Bell

  Pay attention to the example you just used, he told himself. Broken glass in your belly is what you should be trying to avoid.

  “Good luck with your blackmail or whatever it is,” he said.

  Embry shook his head. “You’re ridiculous.” He looked every bit the twenty-three-year-old nerd in his bare feet and dorky T-shirt. No wonder they were both inept at this. Brogan was stupid with infatuation for the first time and Embry’s romantic history was enough to make anyone want to take up the cross. But he was lovely and uncertain and trying so hard to crush Brogan’s heart beneath his heel as gently as possible, and Brogan couldn’t help that every cell in his body wanted to stay. There were so many things he wanted that he couldn’t have.

  Brogan wanted to tug Embry into his arms, wanted to kiss that mouth. Wanted to feel Embry unravel against him, panting and hard and desperate. Embry didn’t have to want Brogan as much as Brogan wanted him. He just had to want him enough.

  Brogan didn’t say any of that, however, and he didn’t dare let it show. Embry already had too much power over him, and Brogan’s pride wouldn’t allow him to crawl.

  Blank-faced, he left.

  Chapter Eleven

  Watching Henniton behave with over-the-top solicitousness toward Embry for the rest of the week was unbearable. Henniton opened doors for Embry. Brought him coffee. Listened to his opinion with embarrassing amounts of interest. As if any of that could add up to satisfactory code for I’m sorry I broke your face.

  Embry, for his part, accepted this put-on attentiveness with a performance of his own: slowly thawing ice. He was good enough at it that even Brogan began to wonder if Embry was falling for it. But then he remembered Embry yelling, “You think I don’t know he’s a bastard?” and he returned to being impressed with Embry’s acting skills.

  Those same acting skills enabled Embry to do an excellent impression of a robot whenever Brogan was in the room. There was no eye contact, no morning greeting, not even a nod of acknowledgement. Their part of Oregon didn’t see much snow, but as soon as Embry and Brogan were in the same room, the weather turned downright arctic.

  It was driving Brogan fucking crazy, because it made him think he’d imagined everything that happened between them. Brogan spent half his time going over the events of that afternoon, reassuring himself that he wasn’t insane for feeling like he did, and the other half trying to forget what Embry had looked like pressed up against that wall, jeans around his thighs, hips working, mouth open, eyes clenched shut as he panted and said, “Please.”

  Worse, in a way, was his memory of their conversation, Embry listening to Brogan’s words as if they were priceless instead of clumsy. He’d told Embry things he’d never told anyone, revealed his shame and insecurities, and to have Embry understand... Brogan wanted that. He wanted it so much it hurt.

  And every time Embry looked through him instead of at him, he felt about two inches tall.

  The picture of Embry he’d been working with was hopelessly flawed. Oh, the fastidiousness and the sarcasm and the blushing—that was all real enough, but the rest of Brogan’s assumptions were shit.

  Embry was right. This whole time Brogan had been trying to turn Embry into a victim. He’d wanted to believe that Henniton was coercing him because then Embry wasn’t—Brogan didn’t like thinking it, but he forced himself to put it in blunt, ugly terms, forced himself to face a reality he’d been hiding from for weeks—a whore. So he’d told himself that Embry needed help, that he was preyed upon, that he was fragile.

  As Brogan distanced himself from that afternoon, his mind sharpened onto little details that he couldn’t bring himself to focus on at the time. Details like Embry saying that he was handling it fine until Brogan showed up (although he really wished he knew what “it” was). Like Embry admitting that he was playing Henniton during his interview. Embry noting—thoughtfully, almost as an aside—that he’d learned that a knife in the back hurt worse if it came from someone you trusted.

  And a knife was coming. Brogan was sure of it.

  Brogan spent the weekend trying not to think about any of it, with the inevitable result that it ran furiously in the back of his mind the whole time.

  He devoted Saturday to chores then met up with his siblings at Jackson’s house so they could watch a movie on the new flat screen. They sat around shooting the shit for a while afterward: Jackson was getting the runaround from a client and Sheila’s ex was late with the child support again. And no, she said with an eye roll, she did not want Brogan’s help.

  He made a mental note to offer again when rent was due.

  They asked what he was up to and he told them about working overtime before they moved on to other topics—their relationship did not entail Brogan talking about his problems. It wasn’t disinterest so much as habit. He hadn’t been about to talk about fencing stereos with a brother whose every waking thought revolved around pogs, or mention that he was failing English to a sister who seemed to think that Brogan’s sole purpose in life was to French braid her hair.

  On Sunday, he watched a shitload of bad television, starting with the action movie double feature. He was half asleep by the time the good guy killed the last bad guy and ended up foggily watching the first two hours of some reality show marathon involving screaming teenage girls in bizarre outfits before he realized that they were in a modeling competition. He watched a couple more hours, growing increasingly confused as to why anyone would want to be in the fashion industry if everyone was so mean but captivated by the train wreck anyway. When his stomach started to rumble in the early afternoon, Brogan watched a fifth episode while trying to cook at the same time. That got him soggy chips smothered in rubbery cheese, undercooked ground beef, and canned black olives that he should have drained better.

  It smelled like car exhaust.

  If Embry were here, he would cook something that doesn’t smell like that, his mind whispered traitorously. Maybe he could make that noodle thing again, the one with the asparagus. Call him. Be obnoxious until he agrees to come over and make noodle things just to shut you up.

  “Embry is too busy being an evil genius to make food that doesn’t taste like nuclear weapons and I’d rather kick him into the ocean anyway,” he said, because saying it out loud was proof that he meant it.

  But the stuff-that-would-be-nachos was unappetizing, so he recorded the last of the modeling marathon and went to Mario’s.

  They spent the cold evening on the deck grilling steaks. Mario had heard about Henniton’s assault on Embry and kept trying to bring it up with Brogan, who kept changing the subject. He already knew what Mario’s opinion would be—that Brogan had done the right thing by extricating himself from the situation.

  When he got home, he caved to the impulse he’d had for days. He took his cock in hand and let his mind recall the sensation of Embry’s mouth under his, the feel of that lean body in his arms, the taste of Embry on his tongue.

  The intense orgasm left him disgusted with himself.

  This wasn’t healthy. Jerking off to thoughts of Embry wouldn’t help him get past this. Embry wasn’t his problem. Brogan didn’t care. Then he amended that with a far more honest affirmation: he shouldn’t care, and if he gave it enough time, he wouldn’t care.

  He watched infomercials until one in the morning and only narrowly avoided buying something plastic that he would never use.

  * * *

  His phone rang three and a half hours later. Wiley had a fever and needed to go home, so Brogan agreed to come in early. He stumbled through a shower and remembered to feed Giz, then got in his truck with a fervent wish that his zombie brain wouldn’t mow down any road signs. The sun had barely broken the horizon on Monday morning when he parked in the nearly empty Touring lot. He took a minute to get his things arranged, and then paused when a blue Nissan Maxima pulled up two spots away—Embry’s car.r />
  Embry moved like he was tired as he got out. When he turned to get his briefcase, he jumped a mile upon seeing Brogan with his door now open.

  “Shit,” he muttered, taking a deep breath. “Wear a fucking bell, why don’t you?”

  “Pleasure to see you, too,” Brogan said, and if some of the anger bubbling up in him colored the words, well, that was too damn bad.

  Embry scowled, but it seemed directed at himself as much as Brogan. He eyed the building longingly, as if tempted to walk away without another word.

  “You might as well go,” Brogan said. “You don’t want to break your record of flawless rudeness.”

  Embry’s lips tightened. “How are you, Mr. Smith?”

  Brogan rolled his eyes, not sure why he was surprised at the dart of pain. “Forget it.” He started to walk around the end of the Nissan to go inside.

  “What?” Embry said, the word short and crisp.

  “‘Mr. Smith?’” Brogan asked witheringly. “Could you be any more of a prick?”

  Embry flushed. “I didn’t want to presume—”

  “I’ve had your cock in my mouth,” Brogan interrupted. “In my world, that implies at least a first name basis.”

  The tips of Embry’s ears turned red as he hissed, “Would you lower your fucking voice, please?”

  As if anyone would hear them—the parking lot was empty and it was dawn o’clock. The only people awake were Wiley and Nora, and the security cameras didn’t have microphones, so all they’d see was Embry cutting Brogan into pieces—it wouldn’t even seem out of character for the bastard.

  “Not that it wasn’t enjoyable,” Brogan mused, cocking a hip against the trunk of Embry’s car and pretending to consider it. “All in all, a rather satisfying experience, actually. Although, your dismount needs work. Pretty bad technique, mentioning the other guy before the taste of your come is gone from my—”

  “Now who’s being a prick?”

  Brogan scoffed. “As if it bothers you.”

  “It does.”

  “I’m surprised that someone you think of as ‘Mr. Smith’ could leave so much of an impression, especially considering the sheer amount of disregard I’ve gotten over the last week. Tell you what. I’ll leave you to it.”

  Brogan straightened and walked past him, jolting when Embry’s hand closed around the bend of his elbow.

  “If you’re interested in round two, I’m afraid I’ve got a previous—”

  “Stop,” Embry said under his breath. “Just...would you shut up for two goddamn seconds? I am trying, you have no idea how hard I’m trying, when all I really want to do is strangle you.” He glanced around, but they were still alone. Other than distant birdsong, it was quiet.

  “Wait,” Brogan said, his eyes going wide. “You’re mad at me?”

  Embry shifted his weight, glaring at the ground now.

  “Oh, that’s rich. That’s... I don’t even have the word for what that is, but whatever the right word is, it’s that.”

  “You’re a fucking idiot.” Embry turned as if to stalk into the building, and now it was Brogan’s turn to catch his arm. Embry twisted, almost evading him, but Brogan managed to nudge him against the trunk of the Nissan, ignoring the cursing that the move provoked. Brogan’s substantial anger couldn’t keep him from noticing that Embry smelled good, that he was near enough to touch, to kiss, to hold.

  Cameras, Brogan reminded himself.

  “We’re not done yet,” he said as Embry’s whole body stiffened. The Doomscowl appeared, and for a second Brogan wondered if he was about to get hurt. Then Embry took another hunted glance around and snapped, “Get your hands off me.”

  Brogan let him go, but angled his body in a way that made it clear they weren’t done yet.

  “Explanations first, because from where I’m standing, you have no right to be pissed at me. Did I break an unwritten rule or something? Or maybe it was written and I missed it. I can sort of see you putting that in a memo. Perfectly typed. Spell-checked. The font would be all-business of course, because you barely have blood in your veins, let alone—”

  “I was trying to be kind, dickhead,” Embry growled, eyes narrowed, mouth trembling. “I didn’t want you to think I was teasing you or trying to rub your nose in it. You can’t help being here and seeing me with him every day, and I thought... I meant to make it easier for you, so you wouldn’t have to be nice if you didn’t want to be.”

  “You’ve been freezing me out as a way of helping me get over you,” Brogan said, trying the theory out loud, as if it might make more sense that way. Nope, still stupid as fuck.

  “What would you have felt if I’d done anything else?” Embry’s mouth worked as if he were having trouble coming up with the right words. “If I’d acted like we were friends? If I was nice to you? I—I wanted you to be clear on where you stood. I didn’t want to fuck with your head.”

  No, Embry wouldn’t want that. He’d never had anything but games in the two pseudo-relationships he’d had, and it sort of made sense that this whole frigid week had been Embry’s attempt to make it easier for Brogan. And of course Embry—solitary, self-critical Embry—would assume that Brogan would want nothing to do with him if sex were off the table.

  Brogan wasn’t like Henniton or that asshole student. Not to Embry. Damn if that didn’t make everything that was aching inside him light up with warmth.

  It also occurred to him that Embry might’ve been embarrassed by how much he’d revealed the last time they’d spoken. He’d let himself be vulnerable, and Brogan should’ve expected the mad scramble to regain his footing.

  Brogan considered him for a moment. “Your social skills really are underdeveloped.”

  “Fuck you,” Embry spat, hurt coloring his expression before he managed to control it, and then he twisted past Brogan, heading for the building. Brogan abruptly felt like the dickhead Embry had called him.

  Brogan jogged a few steps to catch up, already saying, “Wait, wait, please, don’t go,” even as he touched Embry’s arm. Embry stopped, but his spine was so tense, his limbs so inflexible, that he seemed likely to break rather than bend, an unbearable idea. Brogan slid in front of him, cupped Embry’s cheek in the palm of one hand and whispered, “Sorry. I’m sorry. That was mean.”

  The reaction to that simple touch was heartbreaking. Embry gave Brogan a look of utter betrayal, as if Brogan had done something unforgivable in being kind to him, before resignation crossed his elegant features. His eyelashes fluttered closed. The impossible rigidity in his body vanished so quickly that he swayed closer to Brogan, and he made a thin, pained sound.

  Brogan reminded himself again about those damn cameras, but God, how could anyone let Embry go right now?

  “Are you mad because I left?” Brogan asked, stroking the silky skin at Embry’s temple with his thumb.

  Embry’s eyes clenched more tightly shut. “It was the right thing for you. I get it. I don’t have a good reason to be mad at you.”

  “When has that ever stopped you?” Brogan smiled, feeling almost fond, and he couldn’t quite wrap his brain around how easy it was for Embry to tie him into knots. But it was hard to mind, because for the first time, it was clear that he’d been having the same effect on Embry all along. “It’s how you show your affection.”

  “You’re ridiculous,” Embry complained, but he leaned into Brogan’s hand. That trusting movement—and the want that it implied—drove Brogan crazy. He wanted to lift Embry onto the trunk of the nearest car, ease his knees wide and step between them, wanted to be sweet to him until Embry melted, until Embry had forgotten everything and everyone else. He thought Embry might let him, too, because he was trembling, his breath shuddering, his face tilting so that he could mouth tentatively at the pulse at the base of Brogan’s palm.

  “God,” Brogan whispered,
reminding himself of all the reasons he couldn’t fuck Embry right then and there. They were outside and anyone could show up, Henniton would definitely find out, Brogan might get fired, and it was really cold outside, so they might end up with hypothermia or frozen dicks.

  Also: cameras.

  He almost didn’t care.

  “You do still want me,” Brogan said, and yes, he did sound like he’d been swallowing nails.

  Embry’s head fell back, anticipating Brogan’s kiss against his throat, and that was a reasonable assumption to make, seeing as Brogan was nuzzling him there. This was utter insanity.

  “Yes,” Embry whispered. He licked his lips. “I do.”

  The triumph that rocked Brogan had him grinning wolfishly against the skin of Embry’s neck—for all of five seconds, before he remembered that triumph only showed up when someone won something. And Brogan might have won Embry’s compliance just now, but he hadn’t won shit in the long run.

  Because say the world fell into place for once and Brogan managed to get them both off in the next five minutes without anyone or anything interrupting them. What happened next? Embry would feel like shit, but that wouldn’t keep him from sliding out of Brogan’s arms and back into Henniton’s, and Brogan couldn’t stand it.

  Feeling like coils of barbed wire had lodged in his guts, Brogan let Embry go. Embry peered up at him, dazed and open for a few seconds before he came back to himself, and for a moment it was clear on his face, all the regret and sadness and want inside him. Then it was gone, wiped blank the way only Embry could manage it, and he slipped away. They looked at each other for a long minute as they breathed and buried all the things that had tumbled out between them.