Conventionally Yours (True Colors)

by Annabeth Albert

  When he broke the kiss to suck in a breath, a pained moan escaped my throat, as much a demand as protest. “More. Need…”

  “I know. Me too.” He paused to breathe deeply, and I could feel his heart hammering against my own. “But if I go faster, this will all be over, and I don’t want this to end. Want to kiss you forever. Want this to go on and on.”

  “It can.” And he might be the one with more experience, but I still had one thing in my favor—logic. “It doesn’t have to end. We can just do it again.”

  “Are we sure you’re not a genius?” He laughed, but I captured his mouth in another kiss before he could finish. Something seemed to snap in him, some last piece of control, and I reveled in the new intensity of his kiss, of the way his body moved more intently against mine. More. I wanted more. And my body was already one step ahead, a familiar build in the most unfamiliar of circumstances.

  “I’m—”

  “Me too. Me too.” His breath was harsh in my ear, hands urgent on my hips, pressure so achingly perfect that I too wanted this to last forever. I cursed the layers of fabric between us, but no way could I slow down enough to deal with something mundane as undressing. No, I needed—

  “Alden.”

  That. Right there. His voice breaking, my name on his lips. The trapped-in-a-particle-accelerator feeling intensified until I was exploding, a billion pieces of light and energy, no holding back, hurdling forward right along with him until our moans mingled as our bodies shook.

  Slowly, I came back to myself, aware first of my breathing, as uneven as my heart rate. Then my limbs, heavy and sated. My throat, scratchy and raw. I knew a flash of gratitude for the relative privacy of the little cabin, hoping the logs were as soundproof as they looked. With that gratitude came a healthy dose of embarrassment—I’d been loud. And sort of out of control.

  But then, so had he, and from the dopey grin he offered me, he was neither horrified nor embarrassed himself. “Doing okay?”

  I had to consider the question, and as I did, his eyes shifted from laughing to something more tender and concerned. It was that hint of vulnerability, something I almost never saw from him, that had me nodding. “More than.”

  “Good. We…uh…need to clean up.”

  “Yeah.” I hadn’t really ever considered that part of this enterprise, the awkward and sticky part. I studied the curtains. “You can have the first shower.”

  “We’ll share.” Not giving me much chance to object, he tugged me toward the bathroom. “I got you messy. Now I get to clean you up.”

  For all we’d just shared, this was weird—undressing with someone else, trying not to stare, even though he was too gorgeous to ignore. His body was tall and lean, with ropy muscles and freckles in unexpected places, hair hopelessly rumpled from us rolling around, and kiss-swollen lips that made my blood hum and made me want to kiss him anew. Maybe I’d wait until we were clothed though. I felt supremely naked, on multiple levels, negotiating the small space and even smaller tub. And I wasn’t sure there was anything romantic about trying to make sure neither of us ended up cold and wet. Letting him have more of the hot water seemed only polite, but shivering was hardly sexy either.

  “Come here.” He pulled me under the water with him, right into his arms, slippery and soapy, and suddenly everything made sense again as his mouth found mine. Nothing stayed awkward for long when we kissed. This kiss was different too, transformed by the memory of what we’d done and the future promise of good things to come.

  “You really are brilliant,” he said as he pulled back.

  “I…am?” I’d seldom felt fewer working brain cells, but if he said it, I wanted to believe him.

  “Yup. When in doubt, just do it again. Rinse and repeat.” He didn’t give me much time to bask in his words before he was kissing me again, carrying through with that promise, and as our mouths met, over and over, all I could do was hope that I could give him his wish—that this didn’t have to ever end.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Conrad

  Never had I wanted to drive less than I did that final day of the trip. We had about seven hours of driving time plus the stop in St. George ahead of us, and we needed to be in Vegas for the evening registration for the tournament so that we’d be ready to play first thing in the morning.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow everything could change. Tomorrow we’d be rivals again. Or something. Not this… Whatever this was, it wasn’t what we’d been, what we’d have to be again, and I did not want to think about it until tomorrow.

  And today, today I wanted to spend hours in bed in this cozy cabin. When the alarm went off at the crack of dawn, I pulled Alden close to me and buried my face in his neck, pretending I hadn’t heard it, pretending for a moment that this wasn’t a motel but rather a little house with a little bed and a warm guy who was mine and that this was every bit as real as it felt.

  Because it did feel real. All the kissing our way through Colorado and the sex here in Utah felt more real than anything else had in years. I wasn’t imagining the tidal wave of emotions that kept threatening to swamp me, wasn’t imagining the way Alden looked at me with a combination of awe and longing, wasn’t imagining the way my body responded to his. It was real. The bigger question was for how long, but I refused to consider that with a warm Alden pressed against me, smelling like hotel soap and sex.

  Then he stretched, rolling in toward me, all sorts of interesting parts bumping together. “Can we…”

  Even in the dim morning light, his blush was visible as was his meaning.

  “Totally. We can.” I claimed his mouth in a kiss before he could have second thoughts about hitting snooze for this.

  No way was I passing up an opportunity for more. I was perfectly happy to go at any pace Alden needed, wasn’t in a rush to try other things, and was perfectly happy letting him lead the way that morning. I wasn’t ever going to get tired of the combination of his lips against mine and our bodies moving together.

  And thus, we were late getting out of bed. Fantastically, splendidly late. Later still after another shower. And I wasn’t going to complain in the slightest.

  “We can skip breakfast,” I offered as we loaded up the car. “Save time.”

  “No.” He gave me a stern look. “I’ve seen you skip meals. It’s a long way to St. George to have you grouchy.”

  “I’m not that bad.”

  “Yes, you are.” His expression managed to be both affectionate and exasperated, and I liked it, liked him fussing over me more than I should have. “And if we don’t eat around here, there’s not a whole lot until we hit the Salina area an hour or two from now.”

  “Okay, you’ve sold me. Feed me.” I let him use his phone to find a cheap diner with a fifties vibe, red vinyl everything inside a squat adobe building. I continued my quest to find decent biscuits and gravy, partly to save cash, and partly to watch Alden make a face before he ordered buckwheat pancakes. It didn’t escape my notice that Alden didn’t turn down the bacon that came with his breakfast, only to add it to my plate.

  “I don’t need—”

  “Consider it my contribution to the no-cranky Conrad fund.”

  “Fine.” God, I wanted to win at the tournament in the worst way, put these money worries behind me. The last few days hadn’t changed anything in that regard. If anything, I wanted it more than ever, wanted to be someone worthy of a guy like Alden, and maybe a part of me wanted to impress him as well. Just as he’d wanted to be able to beat Danny and Bart on his own, no help, I wanted to be able to beat life on my own and not need his help, however well meaning it was.

  As we ate, Alden kept glancing around as if he were casing the joint or something.

  “What’s your deal?” I asked, polishing off his unwanted bacon. “Anxious about making St. George on time or what?”

  “Not that.” He rubbed his neck and studied his rem
aining pancake pieces. He lowered his voice. “I don’t know how other people do it.”

  “Do what?” I asked cautiously.

  “Be casual. About, you know.” He continued his whisper, his eyes still shifting around. “Feels like everyone must be able to tell.”

  I had to take a sip of water to hide my smile. Matching his whisper, I leaned forward. “You think everyone can tell you—”

  “Yes.” He cut me off before I could say had sex aloud. Which was adorable, if confounding.

  “They can’t,” I assured him. “Any more than you can tell which of them—”

  “Okay, okay.” The tips of his ears were red, as was his nose. “Point taken. It just feels…weird.”

  “You’re still you. I’m still me. Nothing that much has changed.” I could tell from the way his face scrunched up that he didn’t like that explanation. And maybe it wasn’t completely accurate because darn near everything had changed for me internally—the way I saw him, the way I saw my life, the way I saw this last year. All of it. So I tried again. “Okay. A lot changed. But my point is that we’re fundamentally the same people. We just happened to figure out that we like k—”

  “Yes. That.” He shot me a warning look, dropping back to a whisper again. “We’re in public.”

  “Yes, and as soon as we’re not, I’m going do that to you until you stop worrying about stupid stuff.”

  I don’t think I was imagining that he ate faster after that, and I was as good as my word back at the car. But quickly, because we had to make St. George. The scenery all the way there—all rugged rocks and vast landscapes—was spectacular, but unlike the day before, we kept the stopping to a minimum. Limited kissing, much to my disappointment. And at the game store, it was my turn to be uncomfortable.

  It was located in an upscale-looking, newer strip mall, with a nail salon neighbor, taco place on the end of the row, and ample parking for Black Jack.

  “So, you boys have a good night last night?” the owner asked. He was an exceptionally tall man who looked somewhat like Gandalf or maybe Dumbledore, with long, white hair and beard—not a costume—and his earnest demeanor made me feel bad for my mumbled reply.

  “It was all right,” I said right as Alden said, too cheerfully, “We saw the stars at Arches.”

  Damn it. Now we sounded suspect, but I kept my voice cool and my body a proper, friendly distance from Alden.

  “Yeah. That was pretty cool.” I tried to tell Alden with my eyes that it was what had come after the stars that had been truly spectacular. But it felt somewhat like trying to flirt in the presence of my grandfather. Not Professor Tuttle, who although older, was way cooler—or at least I figured he’d be cool if he got wind of Alden and me being…

  Whatever Alden and I were. I didn’t think we were likely to march into the next game night at Arthur’s store holding hands with matching deck boxes or anything, but we could and no one would care except to tease us—me especially, given my rep—mercilessly. I had to tamp down the surge of longing at that vision. I could not go getting sentimental about the future. And it was the present I needed to worry about, here where I was far less sure about our reception than back in New Jersey.

  The owner guy was pretty ancient, with the vibe of his store being more “Grandpa’s special collectibles we don’t touch” than a hangout open to all. Almost everything remotely valuable or interesting was in locked glass cases, and the place was operating-room-level clean. The clientele was a weird mix of clean-cut young men our age in white button-down shirts and dark pants playing some of the more “family friendly” card games along with scruffy tourists in tie-dye browsing the souvenir racks.

  “Do you want to play one of us, sir?” I asked after he’d shown us around with me filming and asking polite questions about his store. “Or maybe you have a particular patron you want us to play?”

  “Oh, play each other. I always do enjoy the animosity between you two on the show. And after, I’ll give my critique of where you went wrong. I’m a ‘Gamer Grandpa,’ too, you know.” He laughed at his own terrible joke, but I couldn’t join him. My heart was too busy sinking to his immaculate tile floor. I hadn’t played Alden since…everything. The kissing. The hours and hours of talking about the most important things and nothing at all and all the points in between. The meals. The falling asleep together and waking up together—everything. And now I had to play him? What if it ruined this thing before it even had a chance to get started?

  As I set up the camera, Alden’s worries from the diner finally caught up to me, got into my head. What if our viewers would be able to tell? How weird would that be? But wouldn’t it be worse to go back to sniping at each other like usual, trash talk and all that, and ruin this fragile new thing between us?

  Hell. I just didn’t know. And I could tell he was struggling similarly because we fell into a ridiculously stilted conversation, both of us playing fake-nice until I was about to go nuts and drag Alden outside to remind us both who we really were.

  “Which deck are you playing?” Alden asked as he arranged our play mats, tone similar to my mom asking other ladies at a fancy luncheon whether they wanted a tea refill.

  “Not sure, and you don’t need to do that. I can get my own stuff out.” I sounded way too chipper, but I couldn’t seem to rein it in.

  “Oh, it’s no problem,” the suddenly social and sunny Alden pod-person replied. “The sun is coming in over here, so I took this seat so it won’t be in your eyes. Maybe you want to play one of your aggro ones? Make it a fast game?”

  Him suggesting that I could play the sort of aggressive, free-wheeling style he hated was a major clue that things had taken a turn for Weirdsville, population us.

  “Nah. Not feeling very aggro. No need to bring out all my best burn spells before Vegas.” Hitting him repeatedly with direct damage to his life total just didn’t appeal to me right then. “Why don’t you play your time-winder deck? You always seem to have such fun with that one.”

  “Yes, but you’ve never beaten it. I want a fair game. Would you like to play one of my other decks perhaps? Your choice?”

  “My decks are fine.” My voice tightened up. I definitely did not need a pity victory. But I remained reluctant to fight on camera, or even in person, really. “But thank you. I think I’ll play my frog soldiers. Old favorite. You can go first, no need to roll for it.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “Where’s the fire in your veins, boy?” the owner asked me as I took my seat across from Alden. “You don’t let the opponent go first if you don’t have to. Get in there and give us a good game.”

  But I didn’t want a good game, just one that got me out of this store and back to Alden with what little time we had left before MOC West ruined everything. Because if this was hard, being at the tournament was going to be nine million times harder, playing where the stakes actually mattered, where we both still wanted the same thing, and where no amount of politeness was going to save this fragile thing we’d built.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Alden

  Conrad was playing like crap. But to be fair, so was I. However, for the first time, I found his mistakes far more distressing than my own. One of the things I’d always secretly admired about Conrad was his threat assessment—his ability to know what was the biggest risk to him and address that risk with single-minded intensity until the next big obstacle cropped up. I relied more on sequencing—combinations of cards and complex plays that didn’t respond to what the other player was doing as much as simply setting myself up as a unstoppable foe through the correct series of actions.

  I never would have told him prior to this week, but Conrad was the best player I knew at improvisation, and even after years and years of playing, I didn’t always see the board the way Conrad did. At his best, it was like he was a mind reader, like he knew exactly what card I was going to play before I playe
d it. Sometimes before I even drew it.

  But that day, Conrad played with all the insight of a garden gnome. It didn’t help that the owner of the store was watching us with avid eyes, vulture-ready to feast on whoever lost with more of his commentary. He kept giving each of us unhelpful advice—telling Conrad to be more aggressive when his main issue seemed to be muddled thinking and telling me to use defensive strategies that weren’t even in my deck.

  Because both of us seemed reluctant to go in for the kill, the game dragged on far longer than it needed to. I didn’t want to stomp Conrad though. For the first time, maybe ever, I had something I liked more than Odyssey. Him. Us. The private moments we’d shared. And I’d take losing if it meant getting closer later. After all, this was a throwaway game, not even likely to yield usable footage, not with the owner getting in the frame and making his commentary by talking over us.

  Come on, Conrad. Attack. I tried to order him into action with my eyes. But he didn’t, leaving himself wide open to whatever I wanted to do next.

  “Guess I got a bad hand,” he said, stretching. He was lying. I might not be the best at reading people in general, but I knew him by now, knew how distant and deceptively casual his voice got when he lied, how he refused to make eye contact, and how he fiddled with his cards when he was nervous. I wasn’t sure what he had to be nervous about right then, but I was disgusted enough at the lie to finish him off with a single attack.

  “Good game.” He reached across the table to shake my hand, a brief electric sizzle racing up my arm. “That was practically a mercy killing. I just didn’t have enough firepower.”

  I didn’t believe that for even a second, but I wasn’t about to call him on throwing the game with the owner right there.

  “I didn’t have all afternoon,” I snapped instead, my frustration getting the better of me. My irritation continued to mount as we had to suffer the analysis of the owner and a few rambling stories about meeting Professor Tuttle at another convention. Finally, though, we were free.