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Jared Shore was calling himself every name in the book when he got back to his room. He shoved the keycard into the little machine and became irrationally angry when it flashed a red light at him.
“Fucking cocksucker,” Jared yelled, kicking at it. That would have made him feel better, but cocksucker just made him think about the elevator and Courtnall, with his wide eyes and his blowjob mouth and his split lip and goddammit, why did Jared kiss him? He was such a moron.
“Just a minute,” his roommate, Jace Wynn, muttered as he came to open the door for Jared. “You’ve been knocked in the head too many times, man. Calm down.”
Jared pushed past him with a grunt and tossed his stupid, ineffective keycard on the dresser. He gave a brief, cursory glance at the bed, where a girl was lying naked and smoking a cigarette. “It’s a nonsmoking room,” he said, which was him being a dickhead. But he was tired and horny and stupid, and he needed a shower and some sleep—before he found out what Courtnall’s room number was, so he could go put that kid on his knees like he’d wanted to do all night, and see that pretty mouth wrapped around his dick.
Idiot. Why did you do that?
It wasn’t like Jared was new to any of this. He’d been around the block enough times to know what all those looks Courtnall was giving him meant. Even if the kid himself didn’t know, which was maybe the thing that got Jared’s blood going and made him want to do it in the first place. He was going to get off in the shower thinking about how hard Courtnall was, how he’d kissed him like he was desperate for it.
He glared at Wynn as he headed to the bathroom, for no other reason than it was obvious Wynn had gotten laid—probably twice—while Jared was out. That might not even be the same girl who was there when Jared left. Wynn was popular with the ladies. And he should be. He was young and attractive—one of those players who knew he wasn’t ever going to play for the Stanley Cup, so he played for pussy and drinking money instead.
Jared liked Wynn a lot better than some of the roommates he’d had over the years. And in the old days, he wouldn’t even have left the room while his teammate banged some chick in the bed next to him. He’d even joined in a time or two.
But he was thirty-one years old, and he knew he only had a few years before he was going to have to hang up his skates for good. Three at best. And it was mostly stubbornness that kept him lacing up for whatever financially precarious ECHL team requested his services. After the debacle of his college career, he’d had a single season with the Adirondack Phantoms (mostly on the bench), and a tryout with their big-league club, the Philadelphia Flyers of the National Hockey League. Other than that, he’d played for teams with ridiculous logos in cities no one visited—teams that went under without anyone even noticing they were gone.
But he was still playing professional hockey, goddammit, and that was all that mattered.
There was another reason he kept bruising his fists and his body, wearing a succession of terrible jerseys night after night in half-filled arenas. Hockey was all Jared Shore knew how to do, and he had no idea what it would be like to do anything else. It was terrifying. So, even though he was probably risking his health and turning into nothing more than a glorified goon, Jared kept at it. He was a contrary bastard, that way. It was the same reason he’d decided to be a Colorado Avalanche fan when he grew up in Michigan, a few hours from Detroit and the Red Wings.
Sometimes he really liked his life. He had no debt, virtually no possessions, and he made a decent enough living to support himself. He wasn’t married and didn’t have any kids—that he knew of, anyway—and he never really minded being traded off to this team or that. They called the ECHL “Easy Come, Hard to Leave,” and Jared knew why. He’d watched a lot of his teammates—kids who showed up fresh-faced and eager to join the big leagues—fall prey to the trap of the minor league’s minor league. Decent money, very little responsibility, and a schedule where you mostly played games on weekends and worked out the rest of the week. And also took a lot of naps.
Some guys resisted and got called up to the more prestigious—and more financially solvent—American Hockey League, and Jared even knew one or two guys who went up to the NHL and were never sent back down again. But as Jared got older, those guys became more and more rare, and the norm were dudes like him or Wynn. Guys who realized that it was as good as it was going to get and didn’t mind all that much. They were getting money to play hockey. When he walked off his college team at Ferris State, Jared knew that a lucrative pro career wasn’t in the cards for him. But it never really had been. So the fact he had a pro career at all was awesome.
Guys like Courtnall, though... he had that shine, all bright like a new penny. It’d been a while since Jared had paid all that much attention to rookies, but fuck, the kid was good. Drafted by the Bolts and only twenty years old. He had his whole goddamn life ahead of him and a career that didn’t necessarily have to be played out in civic arenas on two-dollar beer night.
Jared turned the shower on full blast and stared at himself in the mirror while the bathroom filled up with steam. There was the fading remnant of a black eye from that game in Baton Rouge the weekend before, and Lane’s ridiculous punch had given him the slightest bruise on his jaw. He also had the first scruff of a beard growing in, more red than blond, and the scar from where he’d been cut by a skate when he was twelve was a thin, white line down his left cheek.
It was gratifying to think someone as hot as Lane Courtnall thought he was attractive. Sure. But he was too old for this. Jared hadn’t ever been too picky about who he took to bed, whether they were girls or guys, as long as they wanted to be there and didn’t mind that he usually left town the next day. But he’d learned not to fuck his teammates, and while he might have broken that rule a time or two to get his dick sucked, he knew better than to do anything else.
As of late he’d mostly left all of that to his younger teammates. Like tonight, when he’d come back to the room to find Wynn sucking some girl’s admittedly amazing tits. He’d politely declined the offer for a threesome and decided to go to the bar instead—and very nearly broken every rule he had so he could fuck Courtnall. Sure, Courtnall was pretty, but it was more than that. It was how Courtnall was clearly attracted to him, had no idea what to do about it, and thought that Jared might not notice. How he’d offered him chicken fingers and shared the last one, had argued with a seasoned veteran about how hockey worked, and didn’t back down, even though Jared could be a scary son-of-a-bitch when he wanted.
How he’d stared at Jared’s hands when he went to pay for his drinks. The way he’d looked at him when they were standing by the highway. That whole “Tell me when.” The way he’d sucked on his lip—
Goddammit.
Jared got in the shower and winced at the hot water as it hit a few bruises he’d forgotten about. But his cock was causing him more pain than anything, so when the door opened and Wynn’s leggy brunette came strolling in, he didn’t say a word to stop her as she climbed into the shower with him, her hands on his chest and her mouth warm and soft beneath his own. It had to be a different girl. This one was all legs but had way smaller tits—not that Jared would complain.
When she got on her knees, he threaded his fingers through her long, soft hair and leaned back against the tile shower, careful not to choke her while he moved himself in and out of her mouth. His eyes slid closed, and he thought about Courtnall, imagined it was him down there, staring up at Jared like he had in the elevator—desperate and wanting things he clearly had no idea how to even ask for.
He remembered to warn the girl before he came, and she climbed gracefully to her feet and finished him with her hand. After it was over, he moved her against the shower wall and put his face in her neck and his hand between her legs. If she was faking it when she got off, he was too tired to call her on it. But she seemed happy when she left, and Jared waved a halfhearted good-bye and fell into bed, exhausted and wearing his boxers and a shirt from some team he’d played for years before that had probably folded and reopened in some other city, with some other name.
––––––––
The next day’s game being a matinee, Lane was regretting a few of his choices from the day before. It was nice to have his teammates not hate him, though, and he could see the coach was almost as relieved as he was to see things had been straightened out.
“Listen up. Don’t let your fucking centers get run over by that goon Shore,” he snapped, and Lane looked down at his skates and tried not to be irrationally angry at Coach Spencer for calling Jared that.
“Aw, Shore’s all right,” Adam Landers said, shrugging. “I played with him once, in Evansville.”
“He’s played with everybody,” Spence said, hitting Landers in the back of the head. He was smiling, though. “He might be older than I am. But today we fucking hate him, you got that?”
Lane kept looking at his skates, his face burning. Adam noticed and nudged him in the side. “Hey, don’t worry, Courts. I’m pretty sure Bridey and Becker aren’t going to let Shore demolish you again.”
“We’re not,” Bridey said, leaning over. “Sorry about that, Courts. But hey, you had a fight. And you were awful, but that’s okay. I’ll avenge you today.” Bridey hit one glove into the other, eyes sparkling. Shane McBride might have had a few screws loose. He actually looked excited. “Just score some goals, hotshot.”
Lane smiled at him and nodded. He wasn’t sure he liked his team thinking he was afraid of Shore. He was, but not for the reasons they thought. It was less being punched by Shore, and more how his mouth felt against Lane’s, the way Shore pressed up against him in the elevator, hot and hard and—
“Courtnall. Stop daydreaming. Gretzky, and get out there,” Spence yelled, and Lane shook himself and hopped over the boards to take his first shift. Hockey. He had to play hockey. Right.
With his team finally including him in the game, Lane expected to have a much better showing than the day before. Even if he was distracted by the Renegade’s enforcer, who seemed to be on the ice every time he was.
Bridey and Becker were almost overzealous about Lane’s safety, and obviously felt bad about previously making him a moving target, which meant they were manfully putting themselves in between Lane and the Renegades.
“Guys, I don’t think this is a good plan,” Lane told them, knocking his stick against theirs to show his appreciation. “I mean, I get what you’re doing, but could we maybe just forget about me and play hockey?”
His wingers nodded. Lane thought they maybe looked a little relieved.
Things went much better after a scoreless first period, and Reeder put them on the board during one of the six thousand power plays earned from all the penalties in the second. One of the Renegades scored at the top of the third, to tie the game at one-one.
The rest of the third period rapidly became the most fun hockey game Lane had ever played. Bridey and Shore got in a fight—which made Lane feel weirdly jealous and proud at the same time—and Bridey went down the tunnel to the thunderous applause of their respectable afternoon crowd. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t the Air Canada Center in Toronto. The atmosphere was great, and Lane remembered that he played because he loved it, and it was worth all the hazing and split lips in the world.
Especially when he scored the game-winning goal on a play that was almost identical to the one from the day before, where he’d been buried by Shore. Lane got his fist bumps and cheers, and he was happy to hear “Goal scored by number forty-six, Lane Courtnall,” over the PA system.
For his last shift of the game, he found himself on the ice with Shore. Clearly the Renegades were going for intimidation, and Lane grinned when he put his stick on the ice, looked up at Shore’s cool blue eyes, and waited for the puck to drop. Shore looked at him like he had no idea who Lane was, which threw him enough to lose the face-off. Shore took the puck and immediately sent it to his winger.
He bumped into Lane, and Lane bumped him back. He saw Shore’s quick grin as he skated over to the boards to end his shift. Luckily, Lane’s momentary lapse of good sense in the face-off circle didn’t end in a goal, and they won the game two to one. Lane decided to keep scoring goals because it was much better than having everyone hate him.
After the game, they went out for a celebratory lunch at Cruisers. And it was great. It was all perfectly what he wanted, until Ryan—Lane’s soon-to-be new roommate—threw his arm around Lane and pronounced, “Now we just need to get this guy laid, and he’ll be having the best day ever.”
Everyone laughed, but not in a mean way, and Ryan immediately started hitting on the waitress. Her name was Zoe, and she was clearly not impressed with her table of rowdy hockey players. She had a Southern drawl, a lot of tattoos, and hair an improbable color of red pulled back into two low pigtails. She was cute. Lane could appreciate that, but he could also tell Ryan was driving her nuts.
“Maybe you should ease up, Romeo,” Lane told him, and Ryan grinned and pounded him on the back—way too hard.
“You want dibs, is that it?”
Lane wondered if it would do any good to explain to Ryan that the girl was absolutely not interested, and that dibs were pointless. But Ryan might take that as a challenge, and the girl already looked irritated enough. So he just nodded, and Ryan made a lewd comment and went back to talking about some game he was playing on his Xbox.
It was fine until Zoe came back, and Ryan nudged him, looked at her, and wiggled his eyebrows. Did this actually work for Ryan, with girls? But Lane had absolutely no idea what to do either. If he was inexperienced with guys, it was even worse when it came to girls. Zoe leaned in to take their empty glasses, and Ryan looked at him expectantly. So Lane cleared his throat and said, “Hi?”
Ryan started laughing.
“Hi,” Zoe said flatly. “Did you want anything else?” She looked tired, even though it was only five o’clock in the evening. Lane couldn’t blame her.
Ryan coughed and said something like blowjob under his breath. Lane felt his face turn the color of Zoe’s hair and kicked him under the table. He was suddenly not sure it was a good idea to live with Ryan, if the guy was this embarrassing at a public restaurant. Maybe he was showing off, which guys tend to do. Lane was too worried about what someone might think if he tried that.
“A less embarrassing friend, if you have one of those,” Lane said seriously, and she cracked a small smile at him.
“Looks like you need more than one,” she said, giving a pointed look to the rest of the table.
“Probably,” Lane agreed, and since he and Zoe were speaking to each other, Ryan went back to his conversation and ignored them. “I’m sorry about him. We just got done with a game and we won.”
“Right. That’s a great excuse to make lewd comments at your waitress,” she snapped. “Do people show up where you work and say shit to you?”
“Oh, yeah,” Lane answered, nodding. “Sometimes they hold up signs. And they boo too. The other team’s fans, but sometimes if you’re not doing too great, your own.”
“What kind of sport do you play? Basketball?”
“Hockey,” Lane said. “For the Sea Storm.”
“Oh. Is that, like, a rec team or something?”
Lane laughed because it was a good reminder that the city he played in had no concept of hockey. “Nope. It’s the ECHL. Minor league.”
“Oh. Like minor league baseball. Jacksonville had a team once. The Expos.”
“So, wait. You know about the minor league baseball team that doesn’t play here anymore, but not the minor league hockey team that does?” He liked her, he decided. He didn’t want to sleep with her, but she seemed like a nice person, and she was easy to talk to.
“Welcome to the South... what’s your name?”
“Lane,” he answered. “Lane Courtnall.”
She waited, tapping her pencil on her pad of paper. “You’re not going to say, ‘Remember it, because you’ll be screaming it later,’ are you?”
“No. Why would I want you to scream at me?” Lane asked, bewildered—and then flushed hotly as the meaning became clear.
She laughed and patted him on the shoulder. “You’re a nice guy, Lane Courtnall. You do need better friends. My name’s Zoe.”
“I know,” Lane said. “It says that on your name tag.”
She gave him a weird look, which Lane was used to by then. “You need anything else? More water? I bet hockey makes you thirsty.”
“That’d be nice,” he said seriously. “Do you want me to carry some of those glasses for you? There’s a lot.”
“Are you for real?” She snatched his glass and added it to the stack on her tray. “No, I’ll bring you a new glass. But seriously, where are you from? The nineteen fifties?”
“Chatham, Ontario,” he answered and then added, “Canada,” because a lot Americans had no idea about Canadian geography, other than that it was up north.
She winked at him. “That explains it. I’ll be back with your water. And your check. And if anyone asks me to separate it, I’ll beat them to death.” She waved her notepad threateningly. “Make sure they know that, Lane.”
“Okay.” Lane waited until she left and told his teammates not to split the check because the waitress would be mad. They took that to mean he was trying to sleep with her, so he endured their teasing about it.
It was all fine until they went to leave, and Lane naturally went to get in the car with Ryan. “Can you drop me off at the Econo Lodge? I have to pack my stuff.”
“I know what you have to pack,” Ryan said suggestively, looking back toward the restaurant.
“I don’t even know what that means,” Lane told him, but he had a sinking feeling that he did, in fact, know what that meant. It meant that Ryan wasn’t going to drive him, thinking that Lane’s new girlfriend could take him home in the morning, and Ryan would be there around ten to help him move his stuff to their new apartment. Which Ryan told him bluntly, just in case it wasn’t clear.
“Might as well take advantage of that room all to yourself. You seem like the shy type, Courts.” Ryan flipped his sunglasses down. “And I’m not shy at all, so get used to that. I won’t fuck anyone in your bed, though.”
“Maybe you could wash the sheets?” Lane suggested, and Ryan cracked up laughing again.
“What sheets?” he said and clapped him on the back. “It’s the ECHL, bro. You’re lucky that place has a bed. Maybe you could sneak off with the sheets from your hotel.”
“I bet they’d notice.” Lane watched as Ryan hopped into his beat-up old Civic and left Lane in the parking lot, shading his eyes from the sun and wondering how far of a walk it was to the Econo Lodge. He went back into the restaurant and thought about calling a cab. Lane didn’t have a cell phone yet, and he’d been making calls home with a calling card. They didn’t appear to have phone booths in America anymore either.
Zoe was sitting at the bar, eating a cheeseburger and drinking a chocolate milkshake. She raised her eyebrows when Lane sat next to her. “I’m not going to sleep with you.”
“I just wanted to use the phone actually,” he said, eyeing her milkshake. He was always hungry. “That looks good.”
She picked it up and shook it lightly. “Huh. So it doesn’t bring all the boys to the yard. Just a cute, kind of awkward Canadian hockey player. I guess it’s something.” She saw Lane’s totally bewildered expression and giggled. “Don’t they have that song in Canada?”
“Maybe. Most music I know about is the stuff they play in the arena. Do you mind if I use your phone? And do you know a cab company?”
“What... did those jackasses just leave you here?”
“Just the one jackass,” Lane assured her. “He thinks he’s being... well, it doesn’t matter. I just need a ride back to my hotel.”
“You live in a hotel?” She took a sip of the milkshake. “Wow. Living the high life, huh?”
“I’m going to live with Ryan starting tomorrow. In an apartment.”
“The guy who stranded you here?” At Lane’s nod, she rolled her eyes. “Seems like a crappy roommate. But don’t worry, I can take you home when I’m done.” She gave him a seriously intense stare. “You’re not doing this to sleep with me, are you? Because it won’t work.”
“No,” he assured her, relaxing.
“Pinky-swear?” She held out her pinky toward him, and Lane hooked his with hers. She seemed happy with that, and leaned up and over the bar to grab a straw. Her shirt pulled up a little when she did, and when she sat back down and caught him looking, she raised her eyebrows.
“You’re pretty,” he said, blushing hotly. “Sorry?”
She put the straw in the milkshake and pushed it over at him. “Here. I can never finish these.”
Lane might not want to sleep with her, but he did really want some of that milkshake. He finished it and some of her fries and even the rest of her burger while they talked.
Zoe had moved from Georgia with her girlfriend, who was going to law school at Jacksonville University. Her girlfriend lasted a semester before she had a mental breakdown and left to go back home—which was a godsend, because she’d turned into a real bitch, and Zoe was happy to be single.
Lane was really happy about the chocolate milkshake and also about having a conversation that didn’t result in someone rolling their eyes or staring at him strangely. He didn’t realize what she meant by girlfriend until she said that. “Oh. That’s why you don’t want to sleep with me,” he said, nodding. “You like girls.”
Zoe burst out laughing. “Wow, you’re really... something else, Lane. But sure, if that makes you feel better. Let me go grab my stuff.”
He waited for her, watching the sports channel at the bar. They didn’t mention hockey. Not even once. It was still hot outside too, and he could go swimming at the beach if he wanted. He didn’t, but he could. It was all so strange—like a different world—and he felt more alienated than usual sitting by himself with the remnants of a chocolate milkshake, waiting for a waitress to drive him back to his room at the Econo Lodge.
Maybe that’s why, on the way back to his hotel, Lane blurted out, “The reason I don’t want to sleep with you is because I like guys.” It was the first time he’d ever heard himself say that out loud.
Zoe patted him on the knee. “I know,” she said, smiling at him. It was a nice smile. “Wasn’t sure if you did.”
Lane slumped down in his seat, shaking a little from the magnitude of what he’d just admitted, even though it was stupid. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known since forever. “I just haven’t... ever told anyone.”
“Well, I won’t. Don’t worry. Hey, Lane, I’m glad we met. If you ever want to come hang out, I have a sweet house on the beach. I’ll have to sell it at some point because I can’t afford the mortgage on my own, but I made Erin leave me money for the rest of the year when she hightailed it back to her daddy’s house.” Zoe swung the car into the parking lot and grabbed a piece of paper and a pen from the floor of her car, which was a mess. “That’s my phone number.”
“Thanks.” Lane put it in the pocket of his jeans. “I don’t have a phone yet, but I’ll give you my number when I do. A cell phone, I mean. I don’t think you want to call the apartment and talk to Ryan.”
She made a face. “Can’t you tell him I have a girlfriend?”
“Umm, that’s not really... you probably don’t want me to do that. He’ll just tell you to bring her over,” Lane warned, opening his door.
“What was I thinking? Of course. I do like guys too, but definitely don’t tell him that. I just thought you should know, since we’re friends.”
“You like both?” Lane asked enviously, and she giggled again. He liked her a lot, but if she came to his room with him, he’d just want to watch a movie or something. But he enjoyed looking at her, and she smelled nice, which was a change from hanging out with a bunch of hockey players. It was all very confusing. “Thanks for the ride, Zoe.”
“Of course. Hey, Lane, when do you play again? I’ve never been to a hockey game in my life. I’d love to see one.”
“Oh. Really? That would be great.” Lane beamed at her. He’d never had a friend come to a game of his, except for Derek. “I can get you some tickets. The next home game is on Friday night.”
“Cool.” She smiled. “I work again on Tuesday, so you should come in, and I’ll hook you up with a milkshake. And you can explain hockey to me, because all I know is there’s a puck and you’re ice skating.”
He agreed and waved at her as she drove off. It was nice to know someone in Jacksonville who didn’t have anything to do with the Sea Storm. And he was kind of looking forward to Ryan’s face when he saw Zoe at the game and when he found out that she was there for Lane. Of course, that would probably just lead to a bunch of questions. Maybe he should lie and pretend they’d hooked up, so that Ryan would leave him alone...?
He couldn’t do that. Who was he kidding? And then he thought about Jared Shore, and it made him hot and flushed. If he wanted to hook up with anyone....
Lane shook his head and went to his room. He was bored and restless and thought about calling Ryan to see if he could just move his stuff over. But Ryan was probably busy, and if he was busy doing what Lane thought he’d be doing, Lane didn’t want to go over there.
With nothing else to do, Lane went back to Bomber’s. He told himself it was because he was bored and maybe he wanted a beer or even more of the chicken things. But he wasn’t hungry and he didn’t even like beer that much. When he walked in and saw Jared Shore at the bar, he knew what it was he’d wanted and why he’d decided to come back.
––––––––
Jared wasn’t even sure why he was at this fucking bar again. Usually the team would have been on the bus and heading home the second the game was over, but they had a rare stopover and weren’t leaving until the morning.
The rest of his teammates were out, of course. A lot of them were going out with the Sea Storm players. Once they were out of the locker room, they weren’t opponents anymore. They were just hockey players, united under the same banner, and happy to drink, give each other shit, tell stories about where they’d played and who they’d played for, and talk about guys they might know from coming up through the ranks.
Jared usually liked that. Since he’d played so many places, he knew a lot of people, including a few guys on the Storm. But he wasn’t in the mood. Wynn had tried his damnedest to talk him out of “being an old man and staying home to polish your stick,” which made no sense whatsoever. But Jared was stubborn as a rule, so he was nursing a beer and pretending his reason for not going out hadn’t just walked in and sat next to him at the bar.
“Hi,” Lane said, in that earnest way of his. “Why are you still here?”
Seriously. Had no one ever taught this kid social skills? Jared shrugged. “We’re leaving in the morning. I wanted a beer. Why are you here, golden boy? Shouldn’t you be out celebrating your victory?” He didn’t mean that to sound quite the way it did, but luckily Lane seemed absolutely oblivious.
“I did. My roommate—or my soon-to-be roommate—thought I should go home with the waitress, so he left me at Cruisers.”
Jared wondered if Lane had any idea that he said things as if everyone else lived his adventures along with him and knew what he was talking about. “No luck with the waitress?”
“She brought me back to the hotel. But she’s a... friend.” Lane was blushing again, staring nervously at his hands. It was hard to reconcile this awkward young man with the cocksure little punk who’d smirked at him on the ice, but it was hot as hell too.
“Not your type?” Jared asked, pushing because he couldn’t help himself. Remembering that smile from the game was making him angry, but he didn’t know why. Which made him angrier. Jared wasn’t a mean guy, but something about Lane made him want to be one.
Because you want to fuck him and you know you shouldn’t. It was the beginning of the season. The kid was a goddamn rookie, and he played for the Renegades’ rivals. They played each other sixty goddamn times a season, it seemed like. He knew he couldn’t do a damn thing but stare at Lane Courtnall’s pretty mouth and get hard under the table. That’s why he was feeling mean. Being older and wiser sucked.
“No,” Lane said quietly. “Not my type.” He looked up, and his face was flushed, his eyes wild and heated. The look he was giving Jared—honest and desperate and a little scared—was too much.
Jared was going to take him to bed. It was a terrible idea, and he didn’t care. “You didn’t come here for a drink, did you?”
“No,” Lane said, and then, in the same voice, “I didn’t come here for the chicken things either.”
Jared wanted to laugh and kiss him at the same time, and if anything should have made him put a stop to this before it started, it was that.
Instead, he pulled out enough cash to cover his beer and finished it in one long drink. “Come on,” he said, nodding toward the door.
“Why?” Lane asked, all honesty and hopefulness, and Jared had to take a deep breath. What was it about that combination of cluelessness and utter directness that got him so hot?
“So I can give you what you came here for. But not here, Lane, because that might get us arrested, and I think we’d like some more privacy, don’t you?” There it was, that flash of meanness again, and he didn’t understand it at all.
Lane just nodded, and then he smiled almost shyly. There was enough of that grin from the ice in there to make Jared want to punch him in the stomach, which wasn’t doing anything but making him impatient.
It was earlier than the last time they’d dashed across the interstate, but it was a Sunday night, and the streets were practically dead. Still, they had to wait a couple of minutes, and Jared didn’t say anything, even though he could feel Lane’s eyes on him, waiting.
“I don’t have a roommate,” Lane told him when they got on the elevator and he pushed the button for his floor.
Jared almost made him go to his room instead, just to be contrary. Wynn wasn’t likely to come back for a while, if at all. But he didn’t say anything, just walked alongside Lane while they headed to his room. Lane was turned on already. Jared could tell. Just like the night before, when he’d been hard in the elevator. Jared wanted to put his hands all over him.
Instead, he watched with heated amusement as Lane tried—and failed—to open his door with the keycard. Three times. A lot like Jared the night before actually.
“Sorry,” Lane muttered, shooting him a nervous look as he tried again. His hands weren’t steady. It was messing with Jared’s head way too much, so he reached out and took the keycard from Lane.
Thankfully it opened on the first try. When they got in the room, Jared just watched Lane. As much as he wanted to get things going, the way Lane was just standing there dying for it, doing nothing but suffering, was hot in a way he didn’t want to think about too much.
“You ever done this before?” Jared asked, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer.
Lane’s laugh was breathless and a little wild. “What do you think?”
Jared couldn’t help his sudden grin. “Point taken.” He leaned against the door and crossed his arms, waiting. He was being an asshole, but he couldn’t help that either.
“Umm,” Lane said. He took a breath and raked a hand through his hair. “Here’s my... this is my room. There’s the, ah, bathroom. And. The bed.”
“You’re giving me a tour? I have the same room, you know. They’re not themed suites.”
“If they were suites, there would be a kitchen, and I wouldn’t have to burn the top of my mouth with bar food,” Lane muttered, which made Jared smile again. Oh, hell, no. He wanted to fuck Lane, not like him.
Jared pushed off the door and moved closer, his breath catching at how Lane responded to that simple closeness. “I know what to do. You’re sure about this?”
Lane’s laugh was almost unhappy. “I’m pretty sure. Yeah.” Lane was shaking, Jared realized, and his arms were wrapped almost protectively around himself.
Someone made him feel like shit for wanting this. It was pretty clear, and Jared understood that way too well. That streak of meanness had evaporated, but Jared was equally as uncomfortable with what replaced it. “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. All right?”
Lane actually glared at him. “Don’t—look, I’m not a scared fucking virgin, okay—”
“Yeah, you are.” Jared reached out to take his hand. Like they were in high school. What was he doing? “But it’s okay.” It’s also so hot I can’t breathe.
He tugged Lane over to the bed and dropped his hand so he could climb on it. He patted the mattress beside him. “Come here.”
Lane got on the bed and moved toward Jared, looking determined and a little annoyed. “You don’t have to go so slow. Okay?”
“What if I want to?” Jared murmured and leaned in to kiss him. It was quickly apparent that, even if he did want to go slow, it wasn’t going to be easy. Lane opened his mouth and kissed him back immediately, making a hungry sound and trying to get closer.
“I don’t,” Lane said, and his voice was already shot to hell. Jared could feel Lane trying to get on top of him, and Jared’s contrary nature took over. He put his hands on Lane’s chest and pushed him back, stopping him.
“You don’t usually get a whole room to yourself, you know,” Jared told him, kissing Lane’s neck. The noises he made were so goddamn hot.
“What’s that mean?” Lane asked, head tilted. He was holding on to Jared’s wrists in a death grip. Like Jared was a motorcycle he was riding, and oh, that was not a helpful image in Jared’s head. Not at all.
“It means, Lane, we have time to enjoy it, so you don’t have to go so fast.”
“Look, Jared,” Lane said, and he was glaring again. He was so weird. “You probably do this a lot, but I don’t. I haven’t ever. Remember?” He was also still trying to get closer and push against him. Finally Jared figured out what he was getting at.
“So you want to get off and then take your time. Is that it?”
“Yes,” Lane sighed, sounding relieved and frustrated all at once. “That’s what I’m saying. I can’t—please, just—”
That was enough, the please got him, and Jared rolled on top of Lane and kissed him, settling his hips against Lane’s and rocking down slowly against him. “This better?”
“Oh yeah,” Lane panted, kissing him again. The kid was so tense underneath him—so hard. He was like a live wire—all coiled, sparking energy.
“How do you want it?” Jared asked him, reaching down and finding the button on Lane’s jeans.
“I don’t care,” Lane moaned, his hips bucking up. “Just hurry, or I’m gonna—”
“Come in your jeans?” Jared grinned against his neck. He bit gently and rocked harder against him. It might be a terrible idea, but it was turning out to be fun as hell. “That’d be okay.”
“But I’d really... rather not. Can you push harder...? Oh, don’t stop.”
“You want me to push harder, or do you want me to take your pants off?” Jared teased. Lane was like a rocket underneath him. It was amazing.
“Jared.” Lane grabbed Jared’s shirt. “I don’t know. Okay? Just, whatever it is you’re going to do, do it already.”
“You’re really bossy,” Jared said, undoing Lane’s jeans completely. “I don’t know why, but I thought you’d be a lot more... I don’t know. Less bossy.”
“You thought about this...?”
Jared grinned and kissed him. He moved slightly so he could slide his hand into Lane’s jeans and watch Lane’s face while he did it. “I was at that bar for a reason too, idiot. Yeah. I thought about it. Do you like that?” His hand rubbed over Lane through his boxers, and Lane made a noise Jared had never heard in bed before, not with anyone, and immediately wanted to hear again. “I thought about you sucking me off.”
“Did thinking about it get you off?”
Jared bit him on the shoulder at a sudden wave of lust. Lane kept being very, very not shy at strange moments, and it was unexpected and also incredibly attractive. He finally got his hand around Lane’s cock and moved his hand slowly up and down, thumb rubbing over him, and said, “Yeah. I had a girl sucking me off, and I came thinking about you doing it instead.” Jared paused. “Okay. Maybe I thought about you two taking turns. Didn’t want to be rude, and she was really good at it.”
Lane’s entire body went tense and arched up off the bed as he came over Jared’s fist. As loud as he’d been the whole time, with the bossy demands and the moaning, he didn’t make a single sound until he fell back, gasping for breath.
Jared had to undo the buttons on his jeans because it was getting uncomfortable. He idly stroked a hand over himself while he watched Lane recover. Lane finally opened his eyes and grinned at Jared—bright and happy—and Jared almost closed his eyes because he didn’t want to see that at all. Instead, he leaned in and kissed him again, hot and slow.
“Think you could...?”
“Oh. Yeah.” Lane sat up, hair tousled, still smiling. His pants were undone, and his shirt was rucked up—Jared didn’t even remember doing that. He was messy but staring at Jared expectantly, like they were going to do drills and he was waiting for his turn.
Jared leaned back on his elbows. “Well?”
“Right. Sorry. I’m just—sorry.” Lane moved closer and put his hand on Jared’s cock. Jared’s hips bucked up, and he hissed, watching Lane through slitted eyes, breathing hard.
“Lane, seriously,” Jared snapped, covering his eyes before he strangled Lane to death.
“Sorry. Could you maybe show me how to do this? You’re really good at it,” he added, and Jared laughed helplessly and uncovered his eyes.
“Okay. Here.” He reached down, took Lane’s hand in his, and moved it over his cock, showing Lane how he liked it. And Lane paid attention like there would be a quiz later. Jared was going to make sure there was a quiz, an exam, and possibly a final. Lane watched the way Jared reacted, saying things, like “Oh you like it hard like that” and “What was that thing you did with your thumb?” He was killing Jared, he really was, right there on a crappy double bed in the Econo Lodge.
Eventually Lane told him “I got it now. Let me try it.” Jared had to think about horrible things to not come right then and there, because Lane was asking, and this was the hottest—and weirdest—hand job he’d ever gotten.
Lane wasn’t perfect, but he damn sure made up for it with enthusiasm, and when he looked at Jared and said, “Do you want me to put my mouth on you?” it was also the shortest hand job, because Jared came with a surprised moan, hips twisting, grabbing at Lane’s hand and making him tighten his grip, because that’s what he liked.
“Well, you were right about one thing,” Jared said, a few minutes later, sitting up to pull his shirt off. “You’re not a scared virgin at all. You’re just a bossy one who wants a detailed instruction manual.”
Lane ducked his head, blushing a little. “I just like to do things right, is all.”
“See. No. This is why I thought you were shy.” Jared reached over and took Lane’s shirt in his hands to yank it off. “You do the whole blushing thing—”
“I have really fair skin, all right?”
“—and you apologize a lot. And then you talk like you work for a gay phone-sex line. And you’re seriously strange. You know that, right?” He was also seriously hot, Jared noticed, with some impressive abs that made Jared want to come all over his stomach, just because.
“Do they have those?” Lane asked, watching Jared tug his jeans the rest of the way off.
Jared was still thinking about his little fantasy of coming all over Lane’s stomach. “Have what?”
“Gay phone-sex lines.” Lane watched him with that same expectant look from earlier.
“I—you know what the Internet is, don’t you?” Jared reached to take Lane’s jeans off, and his eyebrows raised as he saw Lane was getting hard again.
“I’m twenty,” Lane said, almost defensively. “Sorry?”
“Stop apologizing.” Jared pushed him down, pulled off his boxers, and then started kissing him again. They were both naked, and it felt good—different from the girl in the shower the night before. “I’m older than twenty, so you’re going to have to give me some time to catch up.”
“All right.” Lane made that sound like he was granting Jared a concession. “Tell me about the girl? I mean, if you want to.”
“I pretty much told you the whole thing.” Jared kissed him again, almost lazily, and he could feel Lane start to push up against him. It was going to be a long night, and he was definitely going to enjoy it, even if he ended up asleep for the rest of the week to make up for it.
“You could have done that with me. Last night.”
Jared’s breath hitched slightly. “Yeah. Believe it or not, I figured that.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Jared raised his head because Lane was pushing his hips up, but he was also lying with his hands at his sides, like he wasn’t allowed to touch Jared. “You can put your hands on me, you know. In fact, I’m going to be mad if you don’t.”
“I thought you said you needed time to catch up.”
Jared’s brow furrowed. “How is it you seem like you know what you’re doing sometimes, and then it’s like you just got dropped off on this planet?” He kissed him to make that sound less mean.
Lane didn’t seem to mind. “I’m very coordinated? I don’t know. Look, I’m not... I have no idea how to do this, but trust me, I think about it a lot. But you know, I usually get caught up in the part we just finished, not the other stuff. Like... touching you.”
Jared put his face in Lane’s neck, sighing and sucking gently at the skin there. “Stop thinking about it so much. Do you want to touch me?”
“Yeah,” Lane murmured, and then he sounded shy. This kid was giving Jared whiplash.
“Okay. Then do it. And you thought about it too, huh?”
“Mmmhmm.” Lane settled his warm hands tentatively on Jared’s back, until Jared rubbed Lane’s cock with his thigh. Then Lane dug his short nails in slightly, and that was much better.
“You can scratch me. I like that,” Jared told him. Lane immediately complied. He was very good at following directions, for someone who could also be really bossy. “Did you think about it last night?”
“I got myself off against the door.”
Jared lifted his head, trying to picture that. “Wait. What? How?”
“Hmm? Oh. The usual way. With my hand. What did you mean, though? Is there another way? Show me.”
That, right there. That was the thing that Jared couldn’t keep up with—and liked a whole lot more than he should. “I thought you meant you got off rubbing against the door.”
“No. I’ve never tried that. Should I? Can you get on top of me again? All the way on top of me, like you did at first.” Lane scratched his back, like Jared was a cat.
“Tell me what you did when you got home, and maybe I will.” He was totally going to, had been planning on it, in fact, but first he was going to make Lane ask him for it.
“I told you. I leaned against the door and got off thinking about you and the elevator.”
“Me and the elevator? Kinky. You’re weirder than I thought, Courtnall.”
Lane punched him on the shoulder. “You and me in the elevator.”
“And sucking me off? Or was I sucking you off? You need to use more words, here.” Jared grinned against Lane’s shoulder. This part was fun. There were some advantages to being older and needing recovery time.
“I didn’t get that far. It didn’t really take me that long.”
“You really were hard up,” Jared said, kissing down Lane’s chest.
“You have no idea,” Lane said, and his fingers dug into Jared’s shoulders again. This time, when Jared put his mouth on him, Lane scratched him like he meant it. He also thrashed around and moaned a lot, and he talked more than almost anyone Jared had ever been to bed with, which was at odds with the kid’s normal personality.
He sucked Lane until Lane was saying pretty things like “Please,” and “Can I come? Is that okay?” And then, when Jared told him no, just to see what he’d do, Lane said, “But why not? I really want to. Do you know how good your mouth feels?” Because there was no way to say no to that, Lane followed Jared’s nod of assent with, “Thank God.”
By that time, Jared was pretty much all caught up and ready to go again. And he had a brief, insanely hot moment where he thought about fucking Lane, because he was pretty sure Lane would be into it. But something told him it wasn’t the time. Instead, he stretched out naked on top of Lane again and rubbed against him, then straddled him and jacked himself off so he came on Lane’s stomach. It was just as good as he’d thought it would be, and the way Lane watched him do it was hot as hell.
Later he got to see Lane’s pretty mouth on his cock in the shower, just like he’d imagined the night before. And his insistence on doing it right would have been really annoying if it weren’t for the whole blowjob part.
Jared slept like the dead, until his phone alarm went off at six-thirty with a bus-departure time of seven fifteen looming and Lane taking up most of the bed and absolutely all of the covers.
Part of him wished he hadn’t heard his alarm. He had two days off, and Savannah wasn’t that far away from Jacksonville. It was the fact that he was actually considering going back to sleep that got Jared up and out of bed.
He scribbled a note to Lane on the little hotel notepad and left it next to him on the bed. That was fun, thanks—Jared. It seemed dumb, but he did have to go, and when he tried to wake Lane up and tell him, Lane tried to kiss him. That kid was insatiable. Jesus Christ.
At the last second, Jared turned around and went back to the bed, grabbed the pen again, and scribbled his number on the note. What the hell. It’s not like he expected anything to come of it. He never did. Jared had learned his lesson the hard way on that one.
But when he was on the bus, half-asleep in his seat and thinking about Lane being bossy and messy and “Can I come, is that okay?” a little voice told him maybe he hadn’t learned that lesson quite as well as he’d thought.