“Jesus, Derek.”
He winced. “I know. I never meant for it to end up like this. But sometimes, life just . . . gets ahead of you.” He stared at the table, clearly unable to meet my eyes.
After a while I said, “Does Mum know all this?”
“Some of it. I never told her about what happened the day of the funeral. Or that I’d stopped writing to him.” He shifted his gaze back to me, adding almost defiantly, “But I sent all the child support payments. Right up till he was eighteen. I was only ever late with a few at the start, when I first bought this place.”
What did he want? A medal? I thought of the years I’d spent shuttling between my parents, a bedroom in both houses, both of them wanting to spend as much time as possible with me. What if one of them had just left me, like Derek had Mack? A regular payment into a bank account wasn’t sufficient compensation for that kind of betrayal. That abandonment.
Another thought occurred to me. How could Mum have let this happen?
“I can’t believe Mum—” I began, but straightaway Derek interrupted, pointing a finger at me.
“Hey, your mother is not to blame for any of this! For years, I wouldn’t even talk to her about Dylan. She tried to get me to open up, but I wouldn’t.” He shook his head. Rubbed his hand over his face. “It’s all my fault, Nathan. I took the easy way out.”
Well, I wasn’t going to disagree with that.
Instead I said, matter-of-factly, “Okay, but you’ve got a chance to make it up to him now. And to do that, you need to talk to him. Apologise for your mistakes.”
He stared at me, seeming genuinely shocked. “I can’t,” he whispered. “He doesn’t want to know. He hates me, and I don’t blame him.”
“You need to at least try,” I insisted. “For your sake as much as his.”
“But I don’t know him anymore,” Derek said desperately. “When I last saw him, he came up to here.” He indicated just above his shoulder. “Now he’s taller than me, a fully grown man. And he’s made it crystal clear he doesn’t want to discuss the past with me. How am I supposed to make him listen?”
I glared at him, as annoyed by his excuses as I was dismayed. Derek wasn’t usually the sort to give up easily, but he seemed to want to throw in the towel on this without even trying. The unfairness of that, to Mack, burned in me.
“What about what he did for Rosie?” I hissed, trying to keep my voice down. “Don’t you think you owe it to him to swallow your pride, apologise for giving up on him, and thank him for saving your daughter’s life?”
Derek went white. He stared at me in silence, mouth clamped shut, a muscle working in his cheek. I had the weirdest sense he was only barely holding back tears, but that couldn’t be right. Derek never cried and rarely showed any real emotion. He and Mack were alike in that respect.
When he said nothing, I pushed my chair back and stood. “You know this might be the only opportunity you get to put this thing with Mack right. You shouldn’t waste that chance.”
I sent Mack home shortly after Derek left.
“It’s been a long first day for you,” I said. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine,” he argued. “I can stay on with you till closing.”
“No way,” I insisted. “I don’t want you overdoing it.”
He frowned. “But it was my idea to start early. Now you’ve got to work through till closing on your own.”
“It’s fine. It’ll be pretty quiet now anyway,” I said. “Go on.”
He grumbled a bit more, but when he started untying his apron, I knew I’d won.
As he headed out the door a few minutes later, I called after him, “Have a nap!”
He laughed at that, but when I got back to the flat after closing, sure enough, he was out for the count on the sofa, snoring softly.
I grabbed a blanket and settled it over him. In sleep, the wariness in his expression had melted away. I paused, looking down at him.
My chest ached.
Christ. What the hell was I doing?
I made myself turn away. Dinner. I’d make dinner.
I was chopping onions for a stir-fry when he ambled into the kitchen a few minutes later, yawning.
“Want a hand?”
“Nah,” I said. “This won’t take long.”
He didn’t leave though. Instead, he leaned against the counter, watching me work, saying nothing. I smiled at him but stayed silent, waiting for him to speak. I was learning to give him space to do that.
Eventually he said, “You and Derek seemed to be having a deep and meaningful chat earlier.”
Ah.
I kept my gaze fixed on the red pepper I was slicing into strips. “Yeah, I suppose we were.”
Silence. Then, warily, “Was it about me?”
“Maybe.”
I expected him to demand I tell him exactly what we’d been talking about then, but he didn’t. He frowned. “Listen, don’t worry about me and Derek. It’s not your problem, okay?”
I put the knife down and turned to look at him properly. His expression was guarded, and he had his arms crossed over his chest, hugging himself. I found myself remembering that first night again. How he’d asked me to hold him. Did anyone else ever hold Mack? Were his grandparents affectionate in that way? Any of his boyfriends?
Had he even had boyfriends in that way, or had he just fucked around? He’d never mentioned anyone significant to me.
I clenched my hands by my sides to stop myself reaching for him. “He feels bad, you know? About the past.”
Mack gave a short, astonished laugh. “You don’t really believe that, do you? My dad’s a dick, Nathan. He wanted nothing to do with me when I was kid. Don’t go getting ideas into your head about fixing us.”
I took a deep breath. “I totally understand why you feel he didn’t care about you, I do, but I also don’t think that’s necessarily true. Maybe if you two talked—”
“Jesus, will you take a hint?” he yelled, eyes blazing. “I don’t want you to get involved in this! The whole world is not your fucking responsibility!”
Stung, I snapped back. “Okay, understood! I’ll stay out of your business. I just wanted you to know someone fucking cares. Excuse me for giving a shit.” I turned away and picked up my knife again, grabbing the pepper, but as annoyed as I was, I failed to pay proper attention and sliced into my index finger.
“Fuck!” I dropped the knife, crossing to the sink, yanking on the tap, and sticking my hand under. The cold water sluiced away the blood as I examined the cut.
“Jesus, are you okay?” Mack asked, coming up behind me. He stuck his head over my shoulder. “You’re bleeding a lot.”
I peered at the cut. “It doesn’t look too bad. Can you get me a plaster? There’s a box in one of those drawers.”
While Mack rifled through the drawers, I pressed on the cut with my thumb to stop the bleeding. He found a dog-eared box of plasters, which he upended onto the counter, shuffling through them to find one the right size.
“Show me your finger.” He ripped the outer packaging of a plaster open.
“Just give it here,” I said, holding out my other hand. “I can do it.”
“Calm down, Mr. Control Freak. I’m not going to mess up. Show me your finger.”
Huffing a little, I held out my hand, gingerly lifting my thumb. The bleeding had slowed, revealing a cut that was small but deep. Mack carefully laid the white gauzy bit over the cut and wrapped the sticky ends neatly round my fingertip.
“There,” he said, and his voice was strangely husky.
I glanced up.
I think I meant to say thank you. Say it and step away and go back to chopping vegetables. But Mack’s face was closer than I’d expected it to be, and his dark gaze was on me, his expression strangely tender. Unguarded.
And somehow it seemed like a good idea to kiss him.
It was a brief kiss. Short and warm and—for me—heart-stopping. Till he pulled back, simultaneously pushing at my
shoulder with one hand to make sure we broke apart.
Shit, I’d read him wrong.
My stomach turned over sickeningly, and I opened my eyes reluctantly, expecting to see regret, maybe even horror on his face. Instead, to my surprise, I found him gazing at me questioningly. No, more than questioningly. Flirtatiously, with one eyebrow raised and an amused look that said Are you thinking what I’m thinking?
I whispered, “This could really complicate things.”
He smiled. “Only if we let it—and I don’t intend to. Do you?”
I just stared at him helplessly, and he moved in closer, pressing his hips against mine. His already-hard cock prodded mine, and I couldn’t suppress a groan.
“There’s no reason we can’t just have some fun,” he said huskily. “We’re both grown-ups. I fancy you, and I think you fancy me . . .”
Fucking understatement of the year.
“I do,” I agreed, sighing. “Kind of a lot. Have I been really obvious?”
His eyes widened as though my words had taken him aback. “Not at all.”
For a long moment, we stared at each other, then I said, knowing it was a terrible idea. “Do you want to come to my room?”
His answering smile was slow.
Just like on that first night, Mack shed his clothes quickly, not waiting for me to begin. He discarded his stuff on the floor of my bedroom and paced towards me, loose-limbed and lean. I envied his ease with his nudity. For my part, I was glad of the closed blinds and the low evening light.
My gaze snagged on the surgery scar, and I reached out, tentative, barely grazing the purplish edges with my fingertips.
I said, “Are you sure you’ll be okay with—” only to break off at Mack’s chuckle. When I glanced up, his dark eyes were dancing with wicked amusement.
“I’m in full working order,” he assured me with a grin. “I’ve experimented.”
The image of Mack experimenting as he lay naked on the bed in my spare room made my mouth dry up.
“Okay,” I said hoarsely. I stepped closer to him and sought his mouth again. He didn’t reject me but his answering kiss was a mere brush of his lips before he started nibbling his way down my throat.
It felt too good to complain about the loss of his lips on mine. Instead, I let my head go back, encouraging him, while he fumbled with the buttons at the neck of my polo shirt, then drew it over my head.
The stab of embarrassment that hit me whenever I first got undressed melted away at the expression on his face. It was obvious he liked what he saw. He ran his hands up my sides, dark eyes heavy-lidded as they greedily took me in.
“You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous,” he muttered, his Scottish accent more pronounced than usual. He bent his head to kiss my shoulder while he played with my nipples, brushing them with his thumbs, then pinching them tightly, making me moan and my cock jump.
“Gotta taste your cock,” he said, lowering himself to his knees. He kissed my belly as he started working my jeans open, tonguing my belly button and rubbing his cheek against the slight softness there.
I stroked his head, tunnelling my fingers gently through his hair. I loved the colour of it, as dark as brown gets before it’s officially black, and the silky feel of it, cool against my fingers. I remembered how much he’d liked me tugging on it that first night, and tangled my fingers in it again, just enough to hint at what he wanted. He moaned in answer and yanked my fly open, carefully working my cock free before taking me down his throat.
“Fuck,” I groaned. “That’s so good.”
He sucked me eagerly, expertly. I could’ve come in about thirty seconds with all that wet heat and perfect clasping pressure on my swollen dick but I didn’t want this finishing anytime soon, so instead I tightened my fingers in his hair warningly. He came off me with pop, sitting back on his heels to gaze up at me with a molten, dazed expression.
“Let me do you too,” I pleaded. “We can sixty-nine.”
“Okay,” he murmured, clambering to his feet.
I shed my jeans en route to the bed, my shyness burned away by the lustful way he looked at me. Mack laid himself down with his head at the pillow end, so I lay down the other way and reached for him.
I fucking loved sixty-nining—I could do it for ages, edging my partner over and over—and it seemed Mack liked it too, if his eagerness was anything to go by. He swallowed my dick down to the root, his slick tongue working my shaft, before I had even tasted him. I arched against his mouth for a long, blissful moment before galvanising myself into action, sliding my fingers over his sharp hip bones, then curving my hands over his buttocks to pull him closer to me.
He smelled amazing: clean and musky at once. I was conscious of him as a healthy male animal and it felt good—right—to push my cheek against his shaft and turn my face to lick his warm skin.
I licked him without using my hands, without taking him into my mouth yet, painting every millimetre of his shaft with my tongue, till he was groaning around my own dick, his lips losing suction as he reacted to my attentions. Only for a second, though, and then he was sucking me desperately again.
I moved off his cock, dipping my head further down to explore with my tongue the tight wrinkled sac that encased his balls, urging his legs to part. He shifted obediently to give me more access, gasping as I tongued and sucked the tender spheres of his testicles, gently mouthing, then releasing them. He gasped as I moved lower still, nibbling my way slowly down, past the silken patch of his perineum, till I found the very edge of his entrance, pink and tight and mostly obscured from view, but close enough to just graze with the tip of my tongue, if I stretched.
At that first glancing touch to his rim, he gave a cry that was part protest, part astonishment, part surrender, and I grunted with satisfaction at his reaction, pushing his thighs wider to open him up to me.
I lifted my head, saying hoarsely, “Keep sucking my dick,” before dipping back down to my own task.
He resumed blowing me, but already his technique was growing sloppy as I distracted with him with the opening bars of what I’d now decided was going to be the best rimming he’d ever had.
I don’t know how long we lasted in the end, him sucking me in a desperate, messy way that made me feel like a fucking king while I dismantled his sanity with a relentless rimjob that had him sobbing and begging around my dick. At last though, he pulled off me to gasp, “Gonna come—can’t hold off.”
I retreated and finally gave him the prize I’d promised him at the beginning, taking his delicious cock into my mouth, while sliding two fingers into his now soft and relaxed hole.
He cried out and started coming almost immediately, coating the back of my throat with a spray of salt like a breaking wave. With a groan of gratitude, I let myself go over an instant later, giving up the iron control I’d been exerting to keep my pleasure in check, surrendering to the wrenching, pulsing orgasm Mack dragged out of my guts with his incredible mouth.
Afterwards, Mack flopped to his back, gasping, “Fuckin’ hell.” And I burst out laughing, giddy with the joy of sexual release. A moment later he joined in, and we lay there, head-to-crotch, splatters of semen drying on us as we laughed breathlessly at nothing in particular. It felt like relief and amusement and happiness all wrapped together, a reaction, maybe, to the suppressed sexual tension between us finding its ease.
Eventually, I sat up, turned myself the right way round and looked down at him.
“Hey,” I said, offering a crooked smile.
He smiled back, if a little guardedly. “Hey.”
What I really wanted, in that moment, was to lie down beside him and pull him into my arms, but I didn’t feel like I could. Without saying or doing anything, Mack had somehow made himself remote.
Slowly, he sat up, managing to create some mattress space between us as he did so.
When he met my gaze, his smile was broad but curiously distant. “God, I needed that,” he said, then chuckled. “Thanks, man.”
Lik
e I’d scratched an itch for him.
My heart sank. Fuck, I’d known as soon as he’d suggested this that it wasn’t a good idea.
Well, it wasn’t Mack’s fault that I wasn’t into casual hookups. Of the two of us, I was the unusual one, probably.
I dropped my gaze, not trusting myself to speak. What was I supposed to say, after all? You’re welcome?
He didn’t seem to notice my lack of reaction, was too busy getting up and grabbing his boxers from the floor, donning them quickly.
“Christ, I’m starving,” he announced. “How about I finish making dinner?”
“I’ll do it,” I said automatically, getting to my feet. “I’ve already started. I only need to finish chop—”
“Nathan,” he interrupted, his tone exasperated. “Can you just let me do something? For once?”
My head jerked up and I looked at him, astonished. “What?”
He gave a hard sigh. “You don’t have to do everything, all the time.”
“What do you mean” I sounded defensive now. “I don’t.”
“Yeah, you do. You take care of everything, for everyone. But I don’t need you to do that for me. I know it’s important for you to—” He stopped, pressing his lips together.
My heart was pounding. “To what?” I bit out. “What do you think is important to me?”
He eyed me for a long moment. “You like to be needed—and that’s fine. Your mum, Rosie, my dad, they all need you. Personally, I think they expect too much of you sometimes, but if you’re all right with it . . .” He shrugged, then added, “But not me, okay? I don’t need that. I can do my fair share.”
I didn’t know what to say. I just stared at him. What was he saying, that I had some kind of martyr complex? Or worse, that I got people to love me by making them feel beholden to me? My cheeks were suddenly hot. I must be bright red. I felt insulted and stupid and thoroughly rejected.
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