"Ah." I leaned into him, knees going weak. "Oh my God."
"Come on, Etienne," he whispered. "I made the shirt and everything."
I chuckled. "We can't do it here."
"Aww." He reluctantly pulled his hand out of my pants.
"It's got to be somewhere I can do the job thoroughly." I took his face in both hands and kissed him, long and openmouthed, until he melted against me again. "Somewhere you can swear really loud."
He grinned and squirmed against me. "Handcuffs?"
"Anything you want."
"Promise?"
"Promise. Anything."
"That's worth waiting for. But while we're here anyway…" He slipped off the counter, wedging himself between it and me and rubbing off on me at the same time. "Come on, I'll be fast. Almost came in my pants just now."
I laughed again, which he took for agreement. He wasted no time dragging me behind the changing screen in the corner. A quick glance over the top to check for passersby, and then I undid his belt and yanked it free in one quick motion. I went for the zipper.
No underwear.
I gasped. "Jesus Christ, Brady."
"Ah," he said, "I thought you'd like that."
More laughter. "You planned for this?"
"Of course I fucking did. You gonna give it to me, or what?"
I turned him around to face the wall in reply and dragged his jeans down over his ass.
He wriggled out of them and leaned forward, palms against the wall, leaving me staring at him—still in his FUCK ME, ETIENNE T-shirt but bare-assed and waiting.
My fly was still undone, and I couldn't resist kicking off my jeans and leaning against him, arranging my dick—straining through my shorts—in the split of that remarkable ass. I kissed the back of his neck and wound my arms around him. His response was to rub up on me, opening up a little farther. I took his stiff cock in one hand and started out slow. He squirmed on my dick and voiced a little moan, then, "Unh, yeah."
I stroked him, kissed him, and he angled his ass to give me a thrill with every jerk, until my cock was so hot I could've come like that. But no, I didn't make that mistake anymore—it was all about him. I pulled back a little, spit on my fingers, and rubbed them in a tight circle around his asshole.
He shuddered, his hands curling into fists against the wall, and arched his back sharply. "Yeah, ah fuck…"
I picked up speed, pressing my still-thickening cock into the back of his thigh as I went. His whole body caught my rhythm. I milked it from both ends, pushed every button I knew at once to get it out of him, fast and hard.
"Oh, yeah, mmmnnnn…" He hit the wall with one fist and came with a sigh.
I held him tight, kissing him while he finished and recovered. When I finally let him go, he shook himself a little. I rearranged myself against him, laughing as I looked down over his shoulder. "So much for the wall."
"It's probably seen worse." He laughed too, breathless. "Your turn."
Before I could respond, he was on his knees, ripping down my shorts. He pushed me back against the opposite wall and went straight for my cock, swallowed it. Jesus, had to be halfway down his throat.
I groaned at the white-hot thrill and let my head fall back, eyelids fluttering. God, he was incredible. He was magnificent. He was—
"Brady?" said an alien voice.
My eyes snapped open. I tried to pull away.
His fingers bored into my hips as he went down again, causing tiny stars to explode behind my eyes. Then up, then down. Never broke his rhythm.
I peeked over the screen to see Tyler at the dressing room entrance. He had one eyebrow cocked but didn't seem too concerned to find me alone where I had no business being. He asked, "Have you seen Brady around? Bass player, jacked-up hair, tattoos?"
I sputtered. "Um, he—"
Brady chose that precise moment to start stroking my balls, still sucking me off fast and hard.
"Uh…" I blinked, trying to clear my head, face on fire, but Jesus, he was—
Tyler took an inquisitive step into the room. "You okay, man?"
I had no idea what I was trying to say. "He…uh…"
A wave of heat burned through me. His mouth was so hot, and he was so, so good at that, and—
Brady backed off, leaving my dick standing there, dripping and pink. He looked up, making the most hilariously annoyed face, and said, "Goddammit, Tyler, I got a cock down my throat here. Can it wait?"
Tyler closed his eyes. "You must be Etienne."
"Um…" I would've had an answer, but Brady licked me at the strategic moment, so all I got was, "Unh—yeah. Hi."
I was going to die of embarrassment. As soon as I had a little blood in my brain, anyhow.
"Yeah, nice to meet you." Tyler turned his back, but before he escaped into the hall, he shouted back at us, "Hey slut-bag, when you're done choking on a dick, we have a meeting."
"Yeah, yeah." Brady went down on me again, shoving me straight back into his throat.
I laughed and burned and groaned, clawing at the wall behind me. Rational thought or trying to sort out the appropriate emotion for the situation had to wait until I finally came down his throat. My knees shaking and my body thrumming, I practically slid down the wall when he let me go.
Following which event we both laughed so hard we ended up in a half-naked, well-spent pile on the floor.
*~*~*
As predicted, I was mortified when Tyler and I were really introduced before I went home. But he seemed to think it was hilarious, so at least we'd entertained him.
The whole episode was representative of my mood for the rest of that week. I walked around with a dopey grin on my face that more than one of my coworkers commented on. A few of them had seen Brady either loitering outside the shop or when he stopped in during the day, and they'd figured everything out. I didn't mind. I loved my job for surrounding me with books, but the people were a nice perk too. I was laughing off a comment one of my coworkers had lobbed at me over a stack of books—Nancy had taken to calling me sweetheart—when I turned and saw about the last person I expected.
The smile must've slipped off my face, but I tried to restore it. Professionalism, that sort of thing. "Paul. Hi."
He smiled back. It was a great smile, the kind that looked genuine even when it wasn't. All courtesy and light. Helped that he was good-looking, in that gentlemanly, low-key way.
Not as impressive as it had once been. But it felt as though I hadn't thought of him in a long time. I'd forgotten what he looked like, in the detailed sense.
"How's it going, Et?"
"Okay." I let my smile go wry. "You know, daydreaming, the usual."
He gave a little chuckle, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his flat-front khakis. "Don't be like that."
"You're right. Bad customer service." By that point, I knew my smile would be more lopsided than anything else.
He laughed, and for a moment I was pleased to think he was in one of his friendlier moods. But he crushed that illusion, moving nearer and getting a familiar serious look in his eyes. They were hazel, the green ring around the center bright enough to be shocking. I used to think it made him look sincere but now I noted it with vague appreciation. Oh, that's why I put up with him for so long.
"I'm sorry I haven't called. I've been working some things out. Prioritizing, thinking about what's really important."
I paused, vaguely baffled. "Don't take this the wrong way, but why would I expect you to call?"
He shrugged. "I feel like we left things in a bad place."
I stepped back, looking for cues in his body language that'd tell me…something. "Well, you cheated on me. And then you accused me of driving you to it by being a loser." Which, again, I had not thought of in a long time. Maybe that was why my voice was so level and my mind so clear, even in the face of this apparent lapse of his usual, stoic sanity. "And then you begged for forgiveness, and I kicked you out."
At long last, he had acquired the grace to at
least look ashamed of himself. He lowered his gaze and cleared his throat.
I added, "I'm just saying, it's hard to believe it took you this long to realize that was a bad place."
"We were together a long time. We should be friends," he said.
How could I adequately express how absurd this was? How uninterested I was in having him back in my life? How weird it was that someone who so plainly disliked everything about me would even consider such a thing?
I'd never wished for poetry of my own before, but right then I would've given a lot to be better with words.
He caught my eye. "Let me take you out for a drink after work. I've been thinking—"
"Are you lonely?"
Paul didn't ask for things unless he absolutely had to. Paul expected things, and if they didn't happen, he sulked until you figured it out on your own and gave them to him. If you could hold out for a month, maybe—just maybe—he might actually tell you what he wanted. Which would be a relief, if he didn't sulk for another week because you'd made him say it out loud.
Logically, I could only assume what he wanted now was company. And he'd been forced, by some strange and no doubt uninteresting turn of events, to ask for it. From me, of all people.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "That's not what I'd—"
"Yes, you are."
He smiled, slow and sweet. He hated being called out—except when it was his plan all along. "Okay. That's one way to put it."
"This is going to sound awful, but that's what it was like being with you for three years. Lonely." Written, the words look bitter, but my voice was even and my mind still clear.
His brow furrowed. "We were together all the time, though."
For another long second, I stared at him, astounded.
When I trusted myself to respond, I almost laughed. "It's my fault for hiding out in my little world. But I did try to show you, and you didn't want to see it. You practically bricked me up in there, and then you hated me for it."
"I would never hate you. I just—"
"Don't." I'd always thought myself the clueless one, but no. Remarkable what four months can do for your clarity, really. "You actively disliked everything that made me happy, and I knew it. I should've ended it, but I'm an idiot. So I got trapped with the one guy I couldn't talk to, and that—that—is lonely. So forgive me if I'm not exactly jumping to save you now it's your turn. That's not my job anymore."
He stood there, cheeks flaring pink, his eyelashes fluttering stupidly. I suddenly understood the expression about getting something off your chest. It felt like I could exhale after a century of holding my breath.
And then he said it. "Are you seeing someone?"
By then I couldn't help it—I laughed out loud. "Yeah. I've been having a mind-blowing affair with Arthur Rimbaud since the night you moved out. Been happy ever since."
I wasn't just seeing someone, anyhow. It was Brady. He wasn't the reason I was over Paul, but it would have been disingenuous to say I'd have been as forthcoming about it without Brady's particular brand of bluntness in my life. That really had felt good. Wow.
He'd be so proud when I told him.
Paul stared, clearly trying to decide if I was screwing with him or not.
I tried to tone down my smile. He was a bastard, but he must've already figured that much out, or he wouldn't have been there in the first place. I didn't need to rub it in. "Are you here to buy a book or to make nice with me?"
His eyebrows rose.
Huh. Go figure. I said, "Didn't see that coming."
With no change in expression, no particular inflection, he said, "You're the only person in the world who wouldn't, after that conversation."
I didn't know if that was an insult or a compliment. When it came to Paul, there wasn't much of a difference. "Well, not to be vague. Nothing you could ever say or do would make me want to be your friend, let alone anything more. You overestimated my sweetness and underestimated my self-respect. We're done."
He looked to the floor. "We can at least be civil."
"Sure. Can I help you find something, then?"
"What do you recommend?"
"The self-help section's over there."
"Etienne—"
Thank God the bell jingled to indicate a customer wanting to check out. That meant I got to leave him there, staring wistfully at the self-help section with his hands still in his pockets, looking like a lost teenager.
I'd never disagreed with Susanne, but now I actively agreed.
The guy was a manipulative little jag-off.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"How's your week?" Brady asked.
"Good. Convinced a few people to go indie instead of buying bestsellers. Drank too much coffee." I took a sip of my Americano to illustrate. "Told off my ex-boyfriend—and I have you to thank for that."
"How do you figure?"
"You just do things. Say things. Thought I'd try it on."
"Bet it looked good on you." Brady grinned, one elbow leaning on my customary table as he drew frosty circles on the lid of his own coffee. Never met someone who liked cold coffee—not iced but cooled off—like him. "Was it the baby face in that picture?"
"There's a…? Oh, right. On the end table. Yeah, that's him."
"Facedown too. Must be a real douche bag."
"Is it facedown?"
"Yeah. Always has been. I looked out of curiosity. Cute but kinda vanilla. I'm hotter." He looked up. "Right?"
I laughed. "Are you for real?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Yes. You are hotter by miles. Also smarter, funnier, and better in bed, before you ask."
"No shit? Better in bed?" He shifted in his seat.
My dick began commandeering blood just like that. I still didn't know him entirely, maybe. But I knew his body, and I knew what that little movement meant.
He hunched closer over the table. "Don't act so surprised. I oughtta track that guy down and thank his dumb ass for whatever he did to lose you."
"How do you know it wasn't me?" I smiled, like I had a secret.
"It was either him, or he's crazier than a shithouse rat. You're way too fucking sexy. Hell, I'm even thinking about getting a phone."
"Okay, I know that's a compliment, but I don't quite get it," I admitted. "How does that indicate extreme sexiness?"
"Well, you know how I can't sleep sometimes?" He cocked an eyebrow.
That familiar compulsion to pin him against the nearest wall boiled up in me. "Yeah."
"I think about what I could be doing if I was with you instead. I get all kinds of great ideas in the middle of a sleepless night. Just think if I could call you up and beg you to let me in."
"That's pretty sexy," I had to admit.
"Quiet in here today." He licked his lips. "Grab that bathroom key from the register, and I'll show you—"
He paused midsentence when he looked to the window. The expression on his face went from playfully predatory to crestfallen in an instant. My heart, which had been pounding like mad, grew heavy.
"Ah, shit," he said.
I followed his gaze to see the dark-haired youngish guy—Brady's "family problem"—tapping on the window.
Things had been so perfect that I guess I'd let myself believe they'd really gone away, delivered unto me the truth about Brady Sinclair and his frosty magic and disappeared into the ether. Now it came rushing back.
"I better go talk to him," Brady said, sounding like he'd rather go jump off the Fort Pitt bridge.
"Who is he, exactly?"
He sighed, blowing upward at his bangs, but it was more than annoyance. There was that fretful and unaccustomed downturn to his lips that I'd come to associate with sadness. His gaze was restless as it lit first on me, then the table, then the window, then the coffee, then back again, in a way that was perhaps even more disturbing. Something wild and cold. "My cousin. Malory."
"And the other guy?"
"Uncle Jim. Jesus, he better not be here too. Sick
of this shit." He stood, adjusting his package and flipping the guy—Malory—off at the same time, as if to let him know what he'd interrupted.
I looked up again to see Malory flip Brady off in reply and turn his back to lean against the window.
My hands tightened into fists, but I hid them under the table. "You said they want you to leave town? To go home with them?"
"I'll tell you the whole tragic tale tonight, okay? You gonna be home?"
"Yeah. But I don't under—"
"Sweetheart, it's not that I don't want you to come. Just, the less they know about you, the better." He leaned down and kissed me quickly. "It's not a big thing. Okay if I come by about eight?"
I nodded. He bit at his lip, and that weird something in his face, his eyes, made my heart hurt. Like uncertainty. Fight or flight. Or freeze.
I wanted to argue, but before I could think of a good objection—such as, perhaps, their setting things on fire last time he met up with them, his obvious reluctance to talk about them at all, or their inappropriate and creepy habit of stalking him—he was out the door and pointing down the street with an unlit cigarette. Whatever hung in the air between the cousins was heavy. It pushed them apart and pulled them together, their eyes not quite able to meet, their hands fidgety.
I tried to imagine Marcel and me in their position, or Suse and me, or any of us and one of our handful of cousins scattered across the world. But I couldn't fathom it. I watched them walk away—identical gait, identical build, almost, except Brady's shoulders were wider and his hair shorter.
But all I could hear was, "They want me to have to leave." All I could see was that weird expression on Brady's face—and not depression either. I'd seen it before, that first night when he'd almost left. Something like it the last time he'd confronted this Malory, though I'd chalked it up to the effort of extinguishing a fire on that occasion.
That was what panic looked like.
I fidgeted for a minute, my body and brain equally confused about what the hell had just happened. Then I stood, threw away the rest of my coffee, and started down the street after them.
I would've passed right by the alley if Malory hadn't been yelling.
"—great life! No house, no car, no identity, no job. Far as I can see, all you have is some J. Crew-looking—"
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