by L. A. Witt
On the not-so-bright side, it meant my job was fucking boring. Even the patrols were bored out of their skulls, and they could usually at least bust some speeders. Today, there were four speed traps set up around NAS Adams, and last time I’d done a radio check-in, only two tickets had been issued between them. A friendly competition—whoever wrote the fewest tickets bought beer tonight—didn’t help. Couldn’t bust people for speeding unless they were speeding, and that meant they had to be there. Hell, this was one of those days when I could probably get away with sneaking a couple of drinks at lunch. Except then it would be just my luck that something would happen, and I’d have to show up at a scene. Not a good idea with alcohol on my breath. No matter how much more bearable the day would be with a glass in my hand, I wasn’t that reckless anymore.
Unfortunately. Fuck, today was going to last forever.
I took out my phone and texted Anthony. I am so bored right now.
Isn’t that like a jinx for cops? Say you’re bored & someone will rob a bank?
Probably. But right now I wouldn’t even mind that. SO FUCKING BORED.
LOL Oh don’t worry, sweetie. You won’t be bored tomorrow.
I couldn’t stop the low groan that escaped my throat, and I was glad I was in my office instead of out in the open where someone might wonder what the fuck Chief Jackson was looking at on his phone.
Going to hold you to that, I wrote back.
;)
A second text quickly followed that one. I can’t focus today.
I chuckled. Neither can I.
Not that texting with him helped. We didn’t send dick pics back and forth or anything like that. The suggestive comments about everything we’d be doing once we were in the same room were more than enough. I knew what his dick looked like, and I didn’t need to see it—I needed to feel it. In my mouth. In my hands. In my ass. Hardening against my thigh as we sleepily drew together in the early hours of the morning.
So looking forward to seeing you, he texted.
Me too. Should I go ahead & order flowers to apologize to your roommate?
LOL Fuck no. He & his GF keep me awake. Turnabouts fair play.
Well in that case, game on.
Exactly. LOL. And I’ll queue up that porno so you can watch it while I blow you.
I shuddered so hard, another quiet moan escaped. Thank God for an office door. At the rate we were going, I’d have to hide in here whenever I was at work. Ever since he’d told me how much he loved blowing someone while they watched a porno, I’d been almost laser-focused on that fantasy. I couldn’t imagine being able to concentrate on anything while my dick was in Anthony’s incredible mouth, but it was definitely worth a try if only to turn him on.
Less than twenty-four hours. All I had to do was get through less than twenty-four hours. Twenty of which were apparently at work, because this day was fucking crawling. Could my shift just end so I could have a damn drink already?
Finally, the clock admitted it was 1700, so I joined my guys in the main conference room for guard mount—shift change. We briefed the incoming shift on everything that had gone on during our shift—a whole lot of nothing—and my shift and I downloaded our weapons for the night.
Not a moment too soon, I was heading for the door. Time to grab a drink—a triple sounded good—and make some dinner, and then pack so I could head to Denver tomorrow.
I was halfway across the parking lot when MA1 Walker caught up with me.
“You coming out tonight, Chief? We’re all going out to grab a few beers.”
Now I was really itching for a drink. And, hell, it would pass the time. Get me closer to tomorrow. I still needed to pack, and check in for my flight, and—
Eh. Packing could wait.
“Sure.” I smiled. “I’ll see you guys there.”
I could not sit still.
I’d been in baggage claim for a good half an hour already, and Noah’s plane hadn’t even touched down yet. I’d paced and squirmed all over the house forever before I’d left. After all, there could be traffic. Or it might take me a while to find a place to park. Or his flight could come in early.
Yeah, right. There was no traffic. I found a parking space in seconds. And his flight was delayed ten minutes because the world was a giant bag of dicks.
Now we were in that ten-minute window. When, in a parallel universe, Noah was already wheels down and on his way to me. But no, I had to wait a few more minutes. Fuck.
I was so excited I couldn’t see straight. Screwing off on my phone couldn’t hold my attention. There was no one around who looked like they wanted a stranger to strike up a conversation. Nothing to do but wait. Wait. Wait. I didn’t wait well. The more I was looking forward to something—or someone—the less patient I was. The more I needed to do something to occupy my hands, brain, feet. Hell, I’d even checked the restrooms near baggage claim in case one might be suitable to . . . get reacquainted. After all, a lot of the restrooms in this airport doubled as tornado shelters. Seemed like they were sturdy enough to handle a Noah-Anthony reunion.
The thought made me chuckle. I was so tired I was almost slap happy. Not that I’d been awake half the night or anything. Or practically ping-ponging off the walls until I’d finally decided to leave early in case I couldn’t find a place to park. My roommate had laughed at my impatience and all my rationalizing about leaving early. At least he’d probably be gone by the time I came home. Jay was smart like that—if I was this excited about a man I was going to bang, things were going to be loud.
Rocking on my feet to expend some nervous energy, I stared at the screen. It refreshed, and when Delayed turned to Arrived, I almost spontaneously combusted.
Of course the plane still had to taxi, attach to the gate, and wait for God knew what to happen in that interim before someone finally opened the fucking door. And because no one had invented teleportation, Noah had to hoof it off the plane and through the terminal, and the Denver Airport was fucking massive, so it took forever to make that walk.
Six hours later—or maybe like ten minutes; I’d kind of lost track—he appeared, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and looking as fuckable as ever. I couldn’t help grinning like an idiot.
“Hey,” he said when he was in earshot, and held his arms out.
“Hey, you.” I hugged him tight, wishing like hell we could do more than that in public. “So good to see you.”
“You too.”
I took a breath to say something else, but caught the faintly pungent scent of alcohol. I figured he must’ve just had a drink, and ignored it.
At least, until we started toward short-term parking, and his gait wobbled slightly.
What the hell?
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” He laughed, adjusting the bag’s strap again, though it seemed pretty well seated on his shoulder.
The scent of alcohol still lingered in my nose. “You’re not . . . drunk, are you?”
“No!” He chuckled. “I had a few on the plane, but I’m good.”
I eyed him dubiously.
“I’m a nervous flyer,” he said. “Sometimes it takes a couple of drinks to calm my nerves.”
“Oh. I guess I can understand that.” I paused. “You should’ve told me. I’m fine with flying, so I could’ve come to Anchor—”
“It’s fine. Like you said, my neighbors don’t get to hog the noise complaints.” He glanced at me and winked.
I hesitated but then chuckled. “Fair enough. To the car?”
“Lead the way.”
Aside from that slight wobble, his gait was perfectly steady. So maybe I’d imagined the whole thing, or my brain was exaggerating it. I didn’t like flying either—I could totally see why someone would drink to bring down the anxiety. Thanks to Clint, though, I automatically assumed any drinking was a red flag, especially once someone showed signs of actual intoxication.
Get a grip. He was nervous about flying. You’re projecting, plain and simple.
So,
I put it out of my mind, and we continued toward short-term parking.
Noah hadn’t brought much with him, so he didn’t bother putting it in the trunk, and set it at his feet as he dropped into the passenger seat and exhaled. “God, I am so glad to be off that plane.”
“Rough flight?” I buckled my seat belt. “Or just not a fan?”
“Little of both. We hit some turbulence, and that was about the time I started begging for a drink.”
“Eh, can’t blame you.”
He fussed with some papers for a second—his boarding passes, I thought—and stuffed them into his bag. As he leaned back, he said, “Also doesn’t help that one time when I flew into a base on a cargo jet, I swear our pilot was a fighter pilot before.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“Fucker was banking like he was in a Super Hornet.” He made a gesture like his hand was a plane taking a sharp curve, the imaginary wings almost vertical. “Dude was crazy.”
“Wow.” I laughed. “I don’t think I’d enjoy that.”
“I sure as hell didn’t.” He shuddered. “When you’re already kind of nervous about being in the air, that shit is obnoxious.”
“I believe it.”
He looked out at the scenery. Not that there was much, considering the Denver Airport was surrounded by basically nothing. “They really built this place in the middle of nowhere, didn’t they?”
“Well yeah,” I deadpanned. “You don’t build the headquarters for the New World Order in downtown Los Angeles.”
He eyed me. “Come again?”
“Oh come on. You’ve never heard the conspiracy theories about the Denver Airport?”
“I have, but do people actually buy in to that shit?”
I nodded. “They do. My ex-wife’s brother totally thought they—”
Noah did a double take. “Wait, you were married before?”
I glanced at him and smirked. “Yes. The Illuminati built an airport in the middle of nowhere because God knows the center of the New World Order needs to have a Quiznos and a Hudson News, and I was married before.” I sighed dramatically, patting his thigh. “You’ve had quite a few big shocks today, Noah. If you need to take a breather, let me—”
“Shut up.” He laughed and squeezed my hand. Sobering a bit, he said, “But . . . seriously? You were married?”
I shrugged. “Is it really that hard to believe?”
“No. No, of course not. I know a lot of gay men who were married before. I just . . .” He chewed his lip like he wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence.
“Not usually out-and-proud flamboyant guys like me?”
“Uh . . .”
“It’s okay.” I laughed softly, giving his thigh another pat before I put my hand back on the wheel. “For the record, it was a long time ago. I was young and in denial, and she was young and desperately wanted to get out of her parents’ house. So, we got married.” I paused, cheeks burning. “That’s . . . that’s actually why I went to a state school.”
“Really?”
“She couldn’t afford to go to school outside of Omaha. I wanted to be with her, and we figured if we moved in together, at least she could get out of her mom’s house.”
“So you gave up a shot at one of the bigger schools to be with her?”
I nodded, bracing. “I know, we were dumb kids.”
“No, I don’t think so.” His voice was suddenly soft. “You were taking care of each other, and it isn’t like you bailed on going to school at all.”
“True.” I exhaled and stole a glance at him. “You’d be amazed how many people thought I threw away my future for some girl who’d never stick around. Then we got married, and—surprise! I’m the one who divorced her.” There was a lot more resentment in my tone than I’d anticipated, and I cleared my throat as I rapidly tapped my thumbs on the wheel. “Sorry. You, uh, didn’t come all the way out here to listen to—”
“Anthony. Relax. I don’t only want to know you in the biblical sense, and she was obviously a significant part of your life.” He paused. “How long have you been divorced?”
I had to stop and think about it. “Almost eight years now. And . . . I mean, we’re friendly now, but we don’t see each other much. I moved out here, she went to Indianapolis, and our paths don’t really cross. But we stay in touch on social media.” I smiled. “In fact, her birthday’s coming up, which means I should probably remind her husband.”
Noah laughed. “Seriously? He needs his wife’s ex-husband to remind him?”
Rolling my eyes, I nodded. “He means well. He really does. He’s just kind of a space cadet. You know, the kind of person who panics that he forgot his keys, and freaks out for like twenty minutes before he remembers he’s in his car on the highway with the keys in the ignition?”
“Oh, yeah. I work with some people like that.”
“Don’t we all?”
“Oh yeah.”
“So what about you?” I glanced at him. “You ever married?”
“Nope.”
“Did you ever date women? Or have you always been out?”
“I . . .” He laughed again, dryly this time. “Well, ‘date’ is being a bit generous.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning nothing ever got serious with a woman. It was all casual flings until I realized no matter how much sex I had with women, it wasn’t going to turn me straight.”
“Oh.” I gave a slight nod. “So, beards, kind of?”
“Beards that I couldn’t make stick, I guess.” He gave a quiet, almost sarcastic chuckle. “Not that I’ve had much better luck with men.”
“Eh, I don’t know if you’re missing much.”
“How do you figure?”
“I’ve got one divorce and one other long-term relationship under my belt. Yeah, it’s kind of lonely in between, but the endings kind of suck.”
He studied me. “You don’t sound all that bitter.”
“I’m not. I mean, not really.” I shrugged. “They are what they are. I don’t have a great track record with relationships, but I’m optimistic.”
We exchanged smiles. Yeah, I was definitely optimistic.
“Doesn’t sound like you’re doing too badly, though,” Noah said. “Hell, I work with a guy who’s a year older than me and is on his fourth wife.”
“Fourth?” I blinked. “My God. At some point, you think he’ll figure out he might be the problem?”
“One would hope. Because divorces get expensive.”
“Tell me about it,” I muttered.
We shifted to lighter topics, thank God, and I continued following the familiar path from the airport to my front door. When I took the exit for my house, I shot him a grin. “We’re almost there, by the way.”
“Are we?” He returned the grin. “Good. Because I spent enough of my flight thinking about you, I’m lucky I didn’t have an awkward boner the whole time.”
I laughed even as goose bumps prickled up my spine. “Well, hang tight for another ten minutes or so, and there won’t be anything awkward about you getting a hard-on.”
“Ten minutes? That long?”
I didn’t respond.
But I did accelerate.
It was a few hours after I’d arrived before I finally noticed there was more to Anthony’s house than the bedroom.
When we’d pulled in the driveway, I’d had a minute to take in the tidy yard and immaculately cared-for split level, but then we’d both had other things on our minds. After we’d fucked, dozed, and showered, we’d gone out to find something for a late lunch, and when we came back, I actually gave the place a second look.
Especially for a rental, it was seriously nice. The rooms were big, and the vaulted ceilings above the spacious kitchen and living room made them seem huge. Considering the house was occupied by two single guys who’d probably combined their existing possessions and décor, it was hardly a bachelor pad filled with mismatched crap and scattered beer cans. They both apparently liked black
-and-white furniture, and I was pretty sure their dining room table—like, an actual table with eight matched chairs—was genuine hardwood. Not covered in neglected mail or random crap, either.
A few houseplants sat on tables and countertops, and they didn’t look fake or neglected. They’d be long dead in my house.
As we walked into the living room, I paused. Very prominently displayed on an end table was a bong that had seen better days, and under that, a copy of Penthouse that was even more weathered. I had no idea if Anthony smoked weed—this was Colorado after all—but I was pretty sure he wasn’t bisexual.
I gestured at the magazine. “Let me guess—your roommate’s?”
Anthony turned to see what I was pointing at. “Oh, those? Those are for when the missionaries show up.”
“The—” I blinked. “Come again?”
“The Mormons and the Jehovah’s Witnesses come by, like, all the time.” He nodded toward the porno and the pipe. “So Jay and I always make sure we have one or both of those in hand when we answer the door.”
I lifted my eyebrows, waiting for him to tell me he was kidding and one of them had left the bong and pornos out by mistake. He didn’t. And for some reason, I really wasn’t surprised.
“Come on.” He beckoned for me to follow him, so I did. As he sat down on the couch, he picked up a gigantic remote and turned on the flat-screen TV. Of course I joined him. He scrolled through some menus and settings, then found an arrangement of folders, and clicked on one marked Mom I Told You Not To Snoop.
I chuckled. “You have issues with your mom getting into your stash?”
“Oh please.” He quirked his lips. “How many times do you think my mom had to stumble across something when I was a teenager before she swore off snooping forever?”
“I can imagine. So why the file name?”
“Because I’m a smartass.”
“That’s fair.” I glanced around. “And, uh, you’re sure we’re going to be alone? I mean, in the bedroom is one thing, but—”
“Trust me, darling.” He winked. “My roommate knows better than to show up unannounced when you’re here.”
