“It will never fly,” Mike said, shaking his head. I think he was shaking his head. His no-neck issue made the motion hard to figure.
“Why not?” Wyatt walked toward the center of the big space where we were standing. I refused to call it an apartment, even though I suppose, technically, that’s what it was. “Nobody’s gonna care. And we can use the money.”
“How much you think we could earn by renting this place?” Mike asked.
“Grand a month,” Wyatt replied.
“For real?” Mike laughed as if Wyatt had been cracking a stupid joke.
“Yeah,” Wyatt said. “But that’s only if we can make it look like something that didn’t fall out of your butt crack.”
The three of us—Wyatt, Mike and me—stood there silently, as if as a group we were judging the merits of the butt-crack analogy. My vote was for yes, the place was, in fact, butt-crack detritus.
It was one of those one-room places that had many names, depending on who was discussing it. Loft-style apartment. Efficiency. Cozy one-bedroom. Carriage-house flat. Wyatt had told Mike on the way up the place’s rickety stairs that nobody had officially lived here for thirty years, but over those three decades several Fenton boys had used the place to crash in an unofficial capacity. As I held my breath against inhaling a stench that could only be described as rotfilthbarfshitpissmold, more reasonable names for the space popped into my head. Horrifically disgusting hellhole, for example.
“It does have a few things going for it,” Mike said. “The location obviously. This carriage house dates back to the 1890s and some of the features are original. High ceilings. Casement windows—some with the original leaded glass. Full-size appliances. Not stainless but obviously functional.”
Wyatt and I looked at him, my brows raised and Wyatt’s mouth hanging open wide enough to catch the flies that were likely waiting to hatch from the filth overflowing the garbage can by the full-sized but not-stainless fridge.
Mike’s round cheeks went rosy. “Sorry.” He shrugged. “My mom’s a real estate agent. Marketing shit’s in my blood. Uh, also I dig HGTV.”
“Okay then.” Wyatt shoved his hands into his pockets. Now all of us had our hands shoved into our pockets, shoulders hunched, feet braced as if we were expecting an invasion of rioting bacteria. “I was paying bills for the house last night. We’ve paid a shitload more in fines than we were predicting this term—in fact, we went over the entire year’s line after that debacle we called a concert last month—and new income won’t hit until fall. If we can rehab this place we could probably rent it for a solid 2k for the summer term. That would help us a helluva lot when I do year-ends…”
“2k would be cool,” Mike wheezed, his gaze bouncing around the room. “But we might have to hold a special fundraiser to hire a haz-mat team.”
Wyatt snorted. I looked around the room even though I didn’t want to, feeling the kind of horror-fascination I usually reserved for the Barbie aisle at Walmart. The place was apparently a dumping ground for broken and unused furniture—typical college-student stuff with rickety wood frames and big cushions—a futon and a couple of those big circular chairs you could buy at Pier One, the kind as easy to get in and out of as a mini flying saucer. Cushions and a mattress had been piled up in the middle of the floor, along with a bunch of blankets and sheets and maybe a few sleeping bags. The pile came up to Wyatt’s waist, and Wyatt was a tall guy.
“The Princess and the Pea” fairytale popped into my head and for a half-second—no more than that, because this was no fairytale and I was no princess—I pondered the idea of climbing up the pile and lying down—
“What do you think, Ray?”
“About what?”
“This place.” Wyatt folded his arms, regarding me as if he expected an actual serious response.
“I think it’s a shithole,” I said, dead serious.
Mike grunted as if he agreed. “What do you think of the idea of getting pledges to clean it and rehab it?” he asked Wyatt. “There’s no way we can afford to hire a crew this year, right?”
“Getting a pledge to do it is a good idea,” Wyatt agreed, although his tone was skeptical. “But good luck finding one stupid enough to go for it at this time of the semester. We’d have to add some insane incentives. The social shit we’ve got on the calendar is already gonna be a total time suck. And then there’s exams…”
Wyatt gave me a sidelong glance. I had a feeling where this was going so I said, “I’ve never considered myself to be particularly stupid. And, so…” I made a production of poking at a pile of blankets that was gushy in the middle and crusty on the top, like one of those flourless chocolate cakes except a gazillion times less appetizing. “I’m outta here.”
My boots made icky-sticky scrunch sounds on the matted carpet—I think it was carpet, but hell if I was gonna kneel down and analyze it—as I exited the open door that led to a small landing atop the carriage house’s exterior stairs. The stairs resembled a Saturday house-improvement project gone awry, circa 1983—warped, cracked pieces of wood thrown haphazardly together and then tacked on (in a hopeful rather than skillful way) to the building. Maybe Tom and my dad had put them together. The shoddy nailing job looked kinda equal to their handyman skills. As I leaned on the rickety railing and sucked in a big breath of fresh air, Wyatt called out a few intriguing words.
“You can stay here for free, Ray.”
I turned back toward the door. Wyatt stood on the other side of the threshold, eyes bright, a narrow smile on his wide mouth. “If you’re not averse to a little sweat equity.”
“Uh. What’s that mean? Exactly?” Mike asked from behind him.
Wyatt leaned against the doorjamb. “It means if Ray loads all this shit into my pickup and hauls it to the dump, scrubs the floor, the walls and the windows, slaps on a couple coats of paint…”
I laughed. “Oh, is that all I’d have to do?”
“Yup.” Wyatt grinned. “Think about it in terms of cash. A grand in rent for a month, a grand for a month’s deposit. That’s a good wage for a few days’ worth of work. Better than what you earn at the diner, right?”
He had a point. But…
“I don’t want to live here,” I said. “No frickin’ way can I live in Fenton’s backyard.”
Mike’s jaw went slack and his eyes widened. As if he was wondering how anyone could possibly give up a chance to live within the confines of his beloved world of beer pong, giggling girls and barfing brothers. “Why not?” he asked. “When this place is cleaned up it’ll be a kick-butt crib—”
“I’m not a brother,” I pointed out the very obvious hurdle to this scheme they both appeared to be overlooking. “People would notice. Faking it would be absurd. I’m proudly not Fenton material.”
“Um.” Mike looked from Wyatt to me and then back to Wyatt. “Elvis has got a point. You gotta be a brother to live here. Says on the charter, remember?”
Wyatt joined me on the landing. The structure swayed. My toes braced inside my boots. My body didn’t trust the concept of being two stories above the ground on a rickety hunk of decking.
“I say we do fake it,” Wyatt announced, his voice sheriff-tough. “If anyone asks, Ray is a potential pledge who’s willing to put in some sweat equity to make this place livable by summer when we’ll really need it. Win-win. The house will save money on the reno and Ray will get a place to live.”
I gulped. Okay, so he sounded lawman-serious and all, but what he was talking about was straddling the frat-house law in a big, bad way.
“That will work?” Mike’s ape-y eyes were wide.
“Yeah.” The sheriff shrugged, all casual and justified. “Why not?
“That’s…” A cough escaped my fume-clogged throat. “Insanely stupid. I can’t even—”
“It’s brilliant,” Wyatt interrupted, white teeth flashing in the spring sunshine. “No one’s gonna have the balls to ask you to prove anything. If they do, you can tell them to fuck off and come talk to me. I can stall ’em until the end of the term with all kinds of bureaucratic bullshit. And it will be the perfect way to introduce a bunch of issues I want to talk about with the house council.”
“But,” I sputtered.
He held up his hand. “You can stay completely out of any inclusiveness discussions I want to have. Or you can add your two cents. But it’s not going to matter.” His hand dropped. “Nobody’s going to hassle you. I know these guys. And…” he paused, smiling as if the most unbelievable part was yet to come, which was difficult to believe considering the unbelievable stuff coming out of his mouth, “…it will sweeten their moods if I tell them I’ve recruited you for the pool team. A house that ends up in the top three in the tourney stands to make some serious cash. Which you, of course, would share.”
“Whoaaa,” Mike drawled. “That is brilliant.”
My fisted hands rested on my hips. “So this is all a ploy to get me on the Fenton pool team?”
Wyatt shrugged. Very casual. “Hey, we came in last place last year. Behind Vegan House even. We need someone who can sink some balls.”
Ha ha.
I snorted. “I’m desperate, but I’m not that desperate. And while I appreciate how you’re avoiding the ginormous elephant sitting on your plan, you’re totally not addressing how you’ll be opening a big ole can of slimy worms when folks find out a person like me wants to pledge here.”
My feet had clunked down three or four steps before Wyatt called out, “I told Dave I was your friend. And that I’d try to help you.”
I gripped the railing hard. Was he really gonna play the Dave card? I made myself turn and look at him.
“And,” Wyatt said, the crinkles around his eyes and the grooves in his cheeks smoothing into seriousness, “as a friend, I have to tell you that I think this is a good deal for you right now. It would only be for a few weeks. Until the end of term, until you find something else. Let me worry about any slimy worms that crop up.”
My fingers curved over the railing’s rough surface. Frayed wood bit into my palm and splinters seemed inevitable. Splinters in my skin and splinters in my heart. Dramatic, I know.
My gaze traveled up the railing and stopped when it reached the space at the top where Wyatt’s big hands were gripping the old wood, his knuckles knobby and white beneath his tanned skin. Once again, I felt the weird pull between us—a vital, living thing, green and vibrant and growing. Problem was, I wasn’t sure if this thing could keep growing in any kind of good way, or if it would end up twining and twisting and coiling around me until I couldn’t breathe, until I couldn’t think about anything else. I knew proximity—like if I moved into this place located in Wyatt’s backyard—would keep this thing between us alive. Honestly, it was the biggest reason for why I ought to say no.
But there were good reasons to say yes—reasons that were more important than my silly-scary feelings for a cute boy, and I needed to fight off my urge to run, and think about those things. I was homeless and broke. I didn’t want to leave Ellery right now because I didn’t want to leave Dave. And moving onto campus and at least pretending as if I was getting back into the swing of things here at Ellery would knock out a couple of Tom’s fucking bullet points.
Also, the situation was bizarre enough—yeah, because, come on, me pledge Fenton?—that living here would likely slam a few of those bullets right back into Tom’s smug-assed soul. It would serve him right if I told him I wanted to pledge the most popular frat at Ellery with the shiniest boys who were most guaranteed to have future success. Tom was a big fan of Ellery’s Greek system, after all. He was a Fenton alum for chrissake.
Mike folded his long, bulgy arms across his broad, bulgy chest. “I gotta say, Wy, even though you’ve come up with great get-cash schemes in the past, a few of the bros are gonna be quizzing you about this, big time.”
“I’m up for quizzing. It’s gonna be good—you let me deal, okay?” Wyatt’s hands were still resting on the railing, but I could almost see them rubbing together in an I’m-ready-for-anything kind of way. He was psyched about this idea.
“Okay,” Mike said, shrugging. “You’re good at dealing, bro.”
“Whaddaya say, Ray?” Wyatt raised his brows at me. “You could clear a boatload of cash playing pool. And I’d get to tell Dave I’m helping you.”
The sheriff was good at this—playing the pool card and the Dave card brilliantly. Plus, unknown to the sheriff, there was the Tom card. And the fact that I was homeless. That was a card that trumped all others.
“Okay,” I said. “But I’m bailing if things get ugly.”
“Wouldn’t expect you to do anything else,” Wyatt said.
I wasn’t sure how to take that statement. His smile, on the other hand, was easy to interpret. It hit my face, as warm and bolstering as the April sun.
I clumped the rest of the way down the stairs, eyes on the Vespa.
“Do you want me to follow with the truck?” Sheriff Earp called down.
I retrieved my helmet, shoved it down on my head and squinted up at him. “Why?”
“To get your stuff.”
“Not letting my stuff get anywhere near here until after I swab the place down with industrial grade disinfectant.”
Mike did his nod thing. “Good thinking.”
Squinting at the space directly below where my two future (and totally fake) true bros were standing, I asked, “Could you leave the door open? And back the truck up to around there?” I waved my arm toward the space I’d been surveying. “I’ll start doing the job under cover of night.”
“Cover of night? For real?” Wyatt’s laugh was partially drowned out by the sound of the Vespa’s boss, ultra-powerful engine—hey, even pink scooters could dream.
I was scheduled to work the dinner shift, but Wyatt and Mike didn’t need to know that. The less they knew about my schedule the better, I figured. I didn’t have to worry about Mike trying to help me—with anything besides bank shots, anyway—but I was guessing my sheriff buddy was planning on plenty of input and advice on the reno job. And maybe on other things too.
The section of the dump for disposal of household trash opened at eight.
The recycling section of the dump opened at nine.
This seemed stupid, but then I’d been made brutally aware of how clueless I was about the solid waste business over the last week. Who knew there were so many details involved in throwing shit away? Important details like whether I had a sticker on the windshield to get into the place, and what their hours were and how much I had to pay to get rid of certain items.
Luckily I had my friendly neighborhood do-gooder with me (Wyatt) and he knew all about dump procedures. Turns out frat houses make quite a few trips to the dump throughout the year and can run up some big bills in the name of getting rid of trash.
We’d finished our fourth haul in ten days and we were heading back to the house when Wyatt asked me the same question he’d asked after each haul, “So you think the place is ready to move into yet?”
There were a dozen mini questions shoved inside this very basic query. What the heck have you actually been doing in the apartment I let you have for free? Where have you been staying every night, if you haven’t been staying here? And probably, given the way he kept checking me out with those snazzy green peepers of his, questions along the lines of: Are we ever going to move beyond the heaping, steaming, stinky trash phase of this relationship?
I hadn’t invited him into the space since the day he’d handed over the keys. I’d been tossing shit down into the bed of his truck or piling it outside the door on the rickety landing and he’d made a point of being around the same time every afternoon to help me with any needed schleps to the dump.
Today I decided I was gonna freak out both of us by giving him a brand new answer to his same old question.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think it’s ready.”
“For real?”
“Yup.” I had to smile because he sounded so frickin’ astounded.
“Good. That’s good.” His answering smile was a visual high-five.
I was still getting used to the idea that he had something invested in this project. Obviously he wanted the apartment to become more Disney and less Wes Craven. But I knew from the way he’d been helping me and virtually holding my hand (I’d been keeping my physical distance because it scared me how needily I responded to any of his touchy-feely kindnesses) that he was also invested in seeing me get settled into the space. This investment seemed risky. There were easier ways to make a point with his bros. Easier ways to do field research on sex-type things. Easier ways to win a pool tourney.
The more time we spent together, the more I realized he wasn’t the kind of guy to do things the “easy” way. He liked challenges. He liked logistics. He liked stupid jokes. He liked complex political theory. He liked looking me in the eye and holding my gaze in a goofball, sappy kind of way, and he liked giving me crap about anything and everything.
So even though I still freaked out every time my thoughts strayed toward the tender-tentative place in my brain that held on to deep thoughts like “Wyatt Kelly like-likes me”, I was getting braver about not flinching when our unexpected mutual attraction zapped me between the eyes and in the chest and in the gut and in other important parts.
“Yeah. My friends’ futon can stay in couch form for the foreseeable future. I think I mighta worn out my welcome.” I rubbed at the back of my neck with hands that were still sticky from the hand sanitizer I’d applied liberally after leaving the dump. Ten days of sleeping at Lucy and Amelia’s place might have done semi-permanent damage to my back. I was pretty certain the damage my visit had done Lucy and Amelia’s relationship was not permanent. Which was good.
“Friend, huh?”
“Yeah.” I shot him a look, letting him know his casually curious act was a failure. “My friends Lucy and Amelia. They’re a couple. They have a studio over on North Street. Perfect for two. Lousy for three, we’ve discovered.”
“Ah.” He smiled again, looking all happy-relieved.
His hands played over the steering wheel’s grippy bumps. There were bandages on the middle and ring fingers of his right hand. The bandages’ putty color and plasticky stiffness emphasized the play of muscle and tendon and bone beneath his tan skin. An old Aerosmith tune blasted funky, rocking goodness through the tinny speakers and Wyatt’s thumbs started banging an accompaniment against the wheel’s hard, shiny surface.
By the time we pulled into the frat house’s lot, Joe Perry’s waah-wow-waw-ing and Wyatt’s thump-a-thumping had kinda hypnotized me. I was disappointed when he dropped his hands and turned off the engine.
“Can I come up and take a look?” His eyes crinkled at the corners. He knew I loved to give him a hard time for asking.
“In a landlord capacity?”
“Would your answer change if I said it was in a friend capacity?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“Um…”
“Yeah, you can come up,” I said, laughing. “Any capacity.”
“Cool.”
The risers thunked hollowly as we climbed up to the apartment’s entrance. My abused body, sore ribs in particular, threatened a whine louder than the shoddy pine’s creak and groan. When the whole rickety structure began to sway and bend like a kite’s balsa-wood ribs, I grabbed the railing hard.
“Shit!” Wyatt was behind me. He planted his hand against the small of my back and we made our way gingerly up the last three stairs, both of us stupidly breathing sighs of relief when we made it to the landing. After a few trips up and down these babies, I’d determined the landing was just as unsafe as the rest of the structure.
“I put the fixing the stairs on the agenda for next month’s alumni and volunteer committee meeting,” Wyatt said. He’d called a frat-sanctioned construction company for an estimate on repairing the stairs. Turned out the whole biz had to be redone—pilings, supports, landings—and so the estimate had come in at a few grand. Fenton had some kind of rule about needing approval from various committees before funding big-ticket renovations. “Hope the damn things don’t collapse before then.”
“You and me both.” I swallowed. His big hand was still resting on the upper slope of my butt. Funny how that warm, light touch actually did have a bolstering effect. When I dug around my pockets for my keys, he dropped his hand. I’d treated the lock and hinges with WD-40—I’d become all slick-as-anything with my handyman skills—and the door opened easily.
Sucking in a tentative breath, I stepped inside. My nostrils fluttered in relief when cleanser-scented air hit them. Victory! No more stanky-stank.
“Holy crap…” Wyatt said from behind me. “Are you kidding?” He stepped across the threshold after me, his feet moving slowly as his gaze whizzed into each corner and cranny of the empty room. “Wow. You are a fucking stud for getting so much done so fast.”
“Thanks,” I said. Always good to be a fucking stud, right? I ruffled my hair, wincing when my ribs twanged again.
“Wood floors?”
“Surprise, right?” I’d taken a box cutter to the barfola-beige wall-to-wall carpeting (there was a good chance we were talking literal barf) in one corner of the room. The risk paid off. Underneath the disintegrating foam pad was oak, or some such nice, gold-looking wood.
“They don’t need refinishing.” Wyatt’s voice was all: we’ve won the Remodel-Your-Pad jackpot! “What did you do to them?”
“Nothing much. Just scrubbed ’em and swabbed ’em with Murphy’s oil.” I’d asked a guy at the hardware store what he recommended.
“It’s so damn clean.” He traveled the room’s periphery with a blissed-out smile on his face. “I had no idea it could look this good.” I resisted the urge to preen. I remembered how tidy his room had been and it felt good to have satisfied such a neat freak. He stopped at the tiny little range that I’d made scream with mercy with an SOS pad facial.
“Passes inspection, then?”
“Oh yeah.”
“So…painting comes next. I can get started as soon as I know what the budget is.”
“Just keep using our account at the True Value downtown. Knock yourself out any time.”
“You trust me to go there and just…buy whatever?”
He snorted. “Yeah. Couple gallons of paint and a few rollers aren’t gonna do in the budget. Can’t really imagine you ordering up a bunch of table saws and routers and shit just to prove you can.”
“Maybe I’ve always wanted that stuff. Or maybe that’ll be my next gig. Selling tools on eBay and craigslist.”
“You gonna buy out their supply of ropes and chains too?” His brows waggled, all goofy innuendo.
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.” One lame eyebrow waggle deserved another.
He stepped into the middle of the room again. “You know there might be some furniture in storage somewhere. I can check—”
I raised a hand. “Please. No. I’ll pass on any frat boy décor.”
“Hey, we know how to get comfy. It’s not all beer signs and Naugahyde recliners, you know.”
“I’ll come up with something,” I assured him.
“Okay. Let me know if you need any help.” It was his standard line before saying goodbye and going somewhere to perform one of his zillions of Ellery-sanctioned activities—on one of our dump runs he’d shown me his eye-popping calendar—so I was surprised when he folded his mile-long legs and sat down on the floor.
“Come sit.” He patted the spot next to him. “Enjoy the fruits of your labor for a few.”
His crooked smile was quirky and inviting, and I really wanted to sit next to him and just hang for a while. I didn’t let on that I felt this way, of course. Instead I said, “Guess I could use a break.” I clumped over and plopped down a few feet away from where his legs were stretched out.
He wore Levi’s and a flannel shirt today instead of his usual workout wear. The denim was worn white in all the right spots and the flannel had a nubby nap that made my palms itch to smooth and explore. I leaned back on my elbows and closed my eyes because I needed to keep my eyes and my hands in line.
“You ever wear anything on your feet besides those boots?” he asked after a couple of quiet minutes.
I cracked one eye open, glanced at him, glanced at my Red Wings. “I’ll be moving my stilettoes as soon as I can afford a U-Haul.”
He guffawed and collapsed onto his back with a thump. I closed my eye.
“You know, it’s not that weird of a picture…” he said, his tone a pondering one, as if he were figuring out a complicated physics problem, “…you in heels.”
“’Pends on your definition of weird, I guess.”
“Mmm,” he grunted in a noncommittal kind of way.
I eased my weight from my elbows. The floor prodded my shoulders and I performed a mini-crunch before lying flat, letting the clean, hard surface spread the bunched muscles around my shoulder blades.
A mid-morning lull had lazed over the space. The windows were cracked but the usual student and car noises were absent. Sunshine cast an angular shape across the floor—a rhombus? a trapezoid?—catching Wyatt’s legs in one angle and my midsection in another. Warmth found its way beneath my clothes and into my skin, and after a few minutes I began to feel like a sugar cookie—transforming from a cold, doughy blob to something light and crystalline.
I must have floated away—far and fast—because in my next moment of awareness my body jerked as if I was falling. I huffed out a grunt of pain. I’d managed to roll onto my side without being aware of it. Not a good move! my ribs screamed.
Wyatt was completely still beside me, eyes closed, gentle snores rippling his lips.
Floundering on one elbow, I tried to find purchase on the floor. My elbow thunked—the floor was too slick—and Wyatt’s eyes flared open, neon green, juiced with spring sunlight. His lips quirked. “Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
“Bad place to nap.” I rested my head on the floor.
Wyatt sat up in one flowing move—his super-conditioned torso bending easily, bearing weight no prob. I was jealous. “Wait a sec,” he said.
He stood, showing off more of that easy grace, and grabbed his bag from where he’d dropped it by the door. After setting the bag next to me, he took off his flannel shirt. I blinked up at him, blinded by his white tee.
“Here,” he said, handing me the blob of wadded flannel. “Put this under your shoulders…” He sat down beside me again and patted his thigh. “And put your head here.”
I tangled my fingers in my drooping hair. I was tired, but was I tired enough to use Wyatt Kelly as my personal pillow?
“C’mon,” he encouraged. “I’m suddenly inspired to finish the paper that was doing its best to kill me last night.”
Like an experienced wild-animal tamer, he went about his business with careful, deliberate moves, crossing his legs tailor-style, removing his laptop from his bag, firing it up on the floor in front of him, getting settled in, lulling me into complacency by showing me he was harmless. He ignored my prickling fur and the skittish trembling of my paws.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw his gaze travel around the room before settling back on his laptop’s screen. “It’s a good space,” he said. “You did a fine job. Now rest.”
He was such a good sheriff, delivering his commands with cushiony compliments. I settled against him. His thigh and the makeshift flannel pillow weren’t super comfortable but they were comforting which was more important to me in this place that I was trying to make my own. The freshly Windexed windows sprinkled diamond sparks across my face. I closed my eyes.
“Is this okay?” The whisper trickled into my consciousness. I liked the voice, the hushed tone, but I didn’t like the consciousness part. I’d fallen asleep again. My lashes fluttered and Wyatt’s eyes peered down into mine.
“What?” I tried to moisten my lips with my tongue but my effort failed.
Wyatt traced my lower lip with the tip of his index finger, following the contour with a touch so soft and slow I swear I could feel the whorled lines of his fingerprint. I closed my eyes again. The tip of my tongue followed his finger’s path, catching a trace of salt and a taste that was oddly familiar—the flavor of Wyatt’s skin. I hadn’t been licking the guy on a routine basis. But my body already knew how he tasted and sounded and smelled. I thought about him. Had long, lingering daydreams about the stuff we’d done in his truck. And when I was around him, I glommed every detail about him I could manage. As if my subconscious was sure a game show host would show up out of nowhere and give me a pop quiz on Wyatt-stuff…and passing the quiz was a matter of life or death or world peace or something.
“Need to touch you.” The whisper was deeper now, pouring a funky kind of liquid sensation into my ears. “Here.” His fingertip grazed the line of my jaw. “And here.” He toyed with the indentation beneath my ear. “And maybe here…” He traced the line from my neck to my shoulder. “Is that okay?”
I nodded. My breath went choppy when his knuckles brushed my throat.
“Soft,” he murmured.
I let the breath I’d been holding go. Should I say something? And if so what or when or how should I speak? He came to my rescue as usual, taking away my worries when he cradled the top of my head with one big hand and bent to kiss me.
My lips were already parted and I kept them open as his mouth moved tentatively over mine. My tongue darted, seeking more of the flavor I’d sampled earlier and a soft moan whuffed against my palate—I don’t know if it was me or him making the noise, but the sound stirred up a few instant flames and his tongue dove and found mine. We parted for air, made a slight angle adjustment and went back for more. He felt so fucking good. Firm lips and sharp teeth and surprisingly strong tongue molding me into something happy and quivering, tame but still wonderfully wild.
His smile unfurled against my mouth. “Hey, Ray?”
“Yeah?”
“Um, kinda need that ear.”
The fingers on my left hand were holding onto something warm and supple and wide. His ear. I couldn’t be held accountable for using one of his body parts as a handle, right? It was his fault he was such a good kisser and had muddled me beyond reason.
A giggle tickled my throat and I gasped, letting it out before it choked me. My face was hot and I turned it toward his torso. I blinked. Oh. Oh, hi. Mountain terrains had risen beneath faded denim. I wanted to try a deeper, bolder exploration of this territory. But if I did, what would be the best tool for exploring? Lips, tongue, fingers? I licked my lips, hesitating.
Fabric rustled as he bent to whisper, “We don’t have to do anything. I just wanted…” His lips brushed my temple, a soft sigh against super-sensitized skin.
Just wanted. Sometimes it was as simple as that.
I sat, shifted around, put my hands on his shoulders. His shirt was soft and dry beneath my damp palms. I used all that nice bulk and solidity to bolster me as I got up on my knees and straddled his hips.
I carded my fingers into the jumbled waves of his hair. The satiny strands slid across my knuckles—amber fields of grain. My own hair was back to purple mountain majesties this week. I laughed and he smiled in response.
“What?” he asked.
“Do all boys from Nebraska have harvest-y hair?”
“Nope.” His thighs shifted between mine when he brought one hand up to my waist. “Well…” he said, tipping his head like he was pondering my silly question more deeply. “Depends on what you want to harvest, I guess. My brothers and I visited the barber every six weeks like clockwork. Buzz cuts just like my grandpa’s.”
“You’re pretty close to your grandpa?”
“Yeah…my parents got divorced when I was around ten or so. My dad’s around every now and then but he’s not the reliable type.” He cleared his throat. “Gramps is the guy who always steps up to help my mom. He’s retired military. He doesn’t take any shit but he’s not an asshole. Usually.” His tone was both proud and dismissive. There were obviously more stories and feelings here, but they weren’t gonna be expressed now.
“Sounds pretty righteous,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“But I meant hair the color of the harvest…not the harvesting of hair.”
“Oh.” His fingers were toying with the belt loop on the back of my jeans. “Let’s see…” His thumb found a gap between denim and skin and started to dip, explore. Shivers quaked up my spine. “My brothers’ hair is kinda the color of wheat I guess. I’m more like a half-harvested cornfield in early September.”
“Mm.” Hard to make conversation when his thumb was doing what it was doing. He was tuning me up, getting all of my senses ready to sing happy-sexy songs. Everything inside me was getting too big for my skin to contain—my lungs were tight, my nipples were erect, each hair follicle was standing on end.
Letting my hands drop away from the hair in question, I leaned into his body, pressed my lips to the hard contour of his cheekbone. Another press…and then another one a bit lower. Couldn’t seem to help myself.
When I was twelve my family had vacationed in Georgia with my grandparents and we’d visited a roadside stand for fresh-picked peaches. The fuzz on the outside of the fruit combined with the thick juice of the peach’s flesh had been wickedly irresistible. I’d overindulged despite Nonna’s warning and the wide, red rash that formed around my mouth had taken the whole vacation to heal. I hadn’t cared.
Wyatt’s jaw was fuzzy like those peaches—warm, tiny prickles that made my lips tingle and sting so sweetly. His grip tightened on the small of my back. “Ray…”
“What?” My lips grazed his, inspired to seek more textures. His mouth opened under mine and our tongues tangled like they’d been waiting forever instead of three minutes for a joyful reunion.
“I want to see you, touch you. I want to—”
I bit down on his lower lip. When he moaned I gave him a little lick of apology. Then I went back to kissing the hell out of him. I knew what he wanted. The whole shebang. Penetration. With tongues, cocks, fingers, whatever. I wanted all of that too.
But the logistics seemed too complicated. At the moment I was so fucking close to coming, I just wanted to let it happen. Wyatt was determined to ride to my rescue, though, and I felt him fumble with the button and zipper on my pants.
“I got this,” he whispered against my mouth. “Okay?”
I exhaled a gusty breath. “Okay.”
From what he’d told me back in his “field research” days, I figured he was comfortable with clits and vaginas and the full array of sexy parts. This was good. I appreciated a hand of experience.
What wasn’t good was feeling nervous. My hesitation, the tightening in my gut, the way I was clenching his T-shirt—all that spoke of nerves. I knew he liked me because I was different. Was he expecting sex with me to be different? Crazy, wild, unique?
I didn’t want to disappoint him. Or myself. My body was just a body. It got aroused and it wanted to come when it was being touched like this…
My nerves got deep-sixed when he pushed his hand, sure and confident, into my briefs. One long, strong finger slid inside me and his thumb immediately found my clit. I jerked, shuddered, groaned. When he started up a rub-thrust—not too fast, not too slow—I ground against him and closed my eyes. A giggle began brewing in my midsection. It was gonna be okay. Just like he’d said. He’d started me down the happy road to orgasmic bliss and, fuck, I was glad there was no turning back.
His other hand was on my ass, firm but not really guiding my motion, resting there as if it was enjoying the jerking, thrusting ride. I rocked against him because friction was just what my body wanted, something hard and strong and so fucking here with me. Yeah…right here. The orgasm took me under, dunking me deep into a space where there was only pleasure washing warm and thick and golden all around me.
I sailed along on a honey sea for a few moments, waiting for the waves to become little laps. Wyatt withdrew his hand and then soothed me, running his hands up and down my shuddering back. Pressing my face into his neck, I inhaled slowly. He smelled like salty sunshine and I gave his neck a long, lingering lick.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his thighs quaking.
I smiled. Selfishly, evilly—now that I’d come—I wanted to take Earp to the edge but make him hover there for a while.
I needed better leverage, so I sat my ass on the floor. I could feel his gaze on my face, those spectacularly dreamy peepers tugging at my attention, but I resisted, wanting to focus on his package and the best way to get it open. I fumbled with the slippery metal buttons, breathing hard, anticipation and frustration making me impatient as hell. I needed to touch him more, know him more.
“Lie down.”
“Damn, Ray.” I glanced at his face to gauge whether that was a good exclamation or a bad one. Seemed good. His eyelids were heavy, his lashes dark and thick against the delicate skin below his eyes.
The buttons weren’t cooperating. When Wyatt’s hand covered mine, stopping my fumblings, I realized he might not be cooperating either.
“What?”
“Just making sure you wanna do this.”
The crests of his cheeks were orangey-pink. Same color as the tips of his ears. I reached up, ran my index finger over one hot, peach-textured ridge. I smiled. “What do you think I’m gonna do?”
“Um. That’s a trick question, right?” He laughed, running his tongue over his lower lip. His tongue and his lip were the same shade of red. They looked…well-used. And that was sexy as all get-out.
I told him, “I want this. I want you.”
“I’m glad,” he said, bringing his hand up to my face, exploring the curve of my cheekbone in an appreciative, lingering way. “But that doesn’t mean that—”
“Nope, you gotta stop being selfish.” I restarted my button fumbling.
“Selfish?” He was still out of breath, so the word came out like a gasp.
“Yeah. I won’t let you deny me. I’ve always wanted to do this.”
“Do what?” he rasped. I smiled. We had a habit of batting the same question back and forth.
He gulped as I achieved success with his fly. He raised his hips and I tugged his jeans out of the way, going for my next goal.
“This.” I got up on my knees and freed his cock from his boxers. As I’d expected—and felt a few times under cover of cotton—it was long and lean. Wyatt-like. Nice-looking in a quirky, busting-with-life way. I bent and gave it a friendly lick hello. It twitched. I took that as a good sign. Wyatt groaned, exhaling long and low, another good sign.
I took the head all the way into my mouth, and slave to texture that I was, I was already salivating, eager to experience all that smooth, shiny-sleek warmth. I swallowed around him, bobbed my head, experimenting. He tasted excellent. Super-concentrated Wyatt.
“Shit!” He gripped my hair. Not hard, not hurting. In kind of a comforting, I’ve-gotta-hold-on way. “Sorry,” he gasped. “Didn’t mean to…oh, fuck.”
I didn’t know exactly what he was talking about, but that was okay. I gripped his cock’s base, my fingertips briefly toying with the crisp-silk hair they discovered there, and then I carefully let the mushroomy head bump the back of my throat.
All noise stopped. Breathing, talking, the whir of the fridge, cars outside, the world close by and beyond.
My heart thumped as my tongue pressed and swirled. Bliss. Really, I felt like I was in heaven. Three heart-thumps, four, five…
Wyatt jerked, his fingers convulsing in my hair. I think he was trying to pull away but I held on tight to his hips. There was the most delicate, amazing pulse of flesh against my tongue and then his hips thrust forward again and I felt and tasted his climax. And, God, how cool was that? To actually get to taste and feel and take someone’s pleasure inside you? I swallowed and my pelvis quaked, I was damn close to coming myself. Again.
“Shit,” Wyatt breathed. A good thing, because I was starting to worry about how quiet he was being. “Sorry,” he said again, shivering hard.
I leaned back on my heels and looked at him. I loved the evidence of pleasure on his face—pink cheeks, black eyes, bite-swollen lips. I didn’t love the concern I saw there, though.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. My throat was a little thick, a little raw. I swallowed again.
He held out his hand and I took it. “Come here,” he said. He stretched out his arm.
I took his invitation. His arms came around me and I snuggled in. “Was it okay?” I asked when he didn’t say anything after a few moments. I was currently tasting the evidence that it was at least semi-good, but I’d never blown a guy before. I kinda felt compelled to ask how it had felt, mostly because I was curious.
His laughter made his shoulder shake comfortably under my cheek. The way he was stroking my back felt good too.
“It was crazy-good,” he said.
I pulled back to look at him.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I just…I don’t know if you noticed but coming makes me kinda goofy.”
I smiled. “It does?”
“Yeah. I kinda lose it, you know? I curse and groan even when I try not to. And I hold on too hard and I can’t think and even though I always try to pull back or even give a polite warning…uh, things get away from me.”
“You lose control.”
“That’s the short way of describing it, yeah.”
“You don’t like to lose control.”
His eyebrows rose and his lips quirked. “You’re getting to know me well.”
“I’ve been doing some deep thinking about control over the last few years…”
He brushed hair away from my face. His eyes were getting green again, his pupils contracting from wild man to regular human. “Get anywhere with that?”
I laughed. “Not really.”
We kissed. Mouth melding that began softly and then got deep and rich and melty, like a dish of Ben & Jerry’s in the sunshine. I twined my fingers in his hair—an urge I had to fight constantly but gave in to now with glee—and fiddled and twisted and tugged.
Wyatt’s phone buzzed, making his backpack’s straps rattle gently against the wood floor. We ignored it and kept on doing what we were doing because kissing conquers all, even text messages.
“Shit,” he breathed when we finally parted for air. His backpack rattled again. He raised himself onto an elbow, making an effort to get up maybe. Apparently I’d bamboozled him most excellently with my kissing—win—because his elbow collapsed and his head hit the floor with a thunk. The empty room amplified the sound of our unsteady exhalations.
“Ouch,” I said in sympathy.
“You have no idea,” he muttered, bringing a hand up to cover his eyes. “Even though I came five minutes ago, it hurts how bad I still want you. So fucking much—”
Something inside my chest lurched and I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to hurt him. Hell, I wanted to make him feel good. Better than good. I was pleased with my efforts so far, but now the inevitable worrying about relationship stuff came charging into the party, mean and ugly as a next-door neighbor with an anti-fun agenda. You kids are having too much fun! Cease and disperse or I’m gonna call the cops!
His phone buzzed again, another unwanted reminder of reality. I sat and reached for his backpack, sliding it toward him, before scooting a few inches away. I bent my knees, resting my dizzy head against the hard curve of my kneecap.
He retrieved the phone from his pack and looked at the message. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He was really fucking cute with his hair standing on end and his jeans undone and his tongue darting to moisten his lips as he scrolled through messages. A huge grin creased his kiss-pinkened cheeks and he laughed his deep, goofy laugh.
“Good news?” I asked.
He shrugged and shot me a glance. “Just Hoke and a couple of the guys being comedians about some dinner we have to go to tonight. Greek council shit.”
“Ah.” I rubbed my cheek against me knee. My jeans were smudgy and oily from the Murphy’s soap. Guess I got carried away with the slick stuff today.
“Hey, you,” Wyatt murmured, tossing the phone into his pack. His gaze fixed on my face, his eyes seeing too much. “I don’t have to go anywhere right now. I hope you don’t have to go anywhere either. You’re not gonna do the get-off-and-bail thing again, are you?”
“Pretty hard for me to bail when you’re the one who’s in my space.”
His brow furrowed. He was quiet for a few moments, as if he was considering my statement more seriously than I’d meant it. “You know all you gotta do to get rid of me is tell me to get lost, right? I mean, I like hanging out with you. And I wanted to make sure the dump haul wasn’t too much to ask from a human being without super powers. But I’d never want you to feel like you’re cornered or trapped or—”
I grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight. “Take it easy,” I told him. “I’m very accomplished at getting rid of people. When I want to. I just, you know…”
“I know?” He returned my finger-squeeze.
“Yeah. I’m a little freaked out about all this.” I dropped his hand.
“All this?” His fingers curled and flexed. Like they missed mine.
“Kissing and shit. Hanging out a lot. Are we going to keep doing it? Is this, um…is this going somewhere?”
“I hope to hell it is. Because I think we’re an awesome combo when it comes to kissing and shit.” He adjusted his boxers and the fly of his jeans and sent me a crooked smile. “It’s obvious you turn me right the fuck on, right? But the reason I keep showing up here and hanging around is because I like you.”
“Why?” I pressed my lips together. The question spewed out without my permission. But I guess it was legit to ask.
He raised his eyebrows. “Why do I like you?” His tone was sort of indignant. He was maybe a bit insulted by the question.
“Yeah.” I didn’t want ego strokes. I wanted truth. I had it on good authority and from multiple sources that my personality was more prickly than pretty. I was not an “easy” person. So, yeah. Why would Wyatt—a guy who could have all the easy and pretty he wanted—decide he liked me?
“I don’t really know. I mean, it’s hard to put some shit into words, you know? I like you because you’re you. Unique. Brave.” He shrugged and smiled. “Bold and strong and badass in a world where folks constantly wimp out and follow the herd. It’s something I notice and admire the fuck out of. Probably speaks to my own set of issues. But, hey, that’s the way this stuff usually works.”
I nodded. Bold and strong and badass was not how I saw myself. But seeing myself was something I’d been avoiding a lot lately.
He drew circles in my palm with his fingertip. “So I figure because of all this awesome kissing and shit we’ve been doing you might like me too.” He brought my hand to his lips and kissed the circles he’d drawn. “I won’t put you on the spot and ask why, but I figure you’d be okay with, um, how did you put it? This going somewhere.”
I did feel like I’d been put on the spot. I was better at driving relationships off the road than moving them forward. Or even steering them in the right direction. My heart fluttered and bashed around my chest, all panicked-bird and trapped and trying to get out, to fly away from this unexpected space.
“I dunno if I’m okay with it.” I drew my hand away and sighed. Why couldn’t I just come out and tell him he was reading me all wrong, that I was a lousy prospect for a relationship? Sure I could be honest and courageous with folks at the diner and so forth, but when it came to the hard stuff—dealing with my parents and Tom and all the people I’d tried to love in my life—I wasn’t any of the things he thought I was. Not really.
“Why not?”
“Um, because…” I said the first thing that popped into my head, “Because we’re supposed to be brothers. Fenton, forever, rah-rah and all that.”
His lips twitched. “Right, and everyone knows frat boys never get it on together.”
“That shit only happens in pornos.” I laughed.
“Or does it?” he drawled.
“Yeah, well. Okay. If it does, I’m not quite ready for prime time, I guess.”
“That’s fine. I can wait.” His tone was more sincere than joke-y when he said this. His front teeth bit down on his lower lip. I clenched my own teeth in response—they were bite-y and jealous of the ability to sink into that luscious curve whenever the urge struck.
“All righty then,” I said lightly, wrenching my gaze away. “What do frat brothers do together during their free time? You know, like when they aren’t jizzing all over each other’s sculpted abs?”
“Uh, let’s see. Well, as you know here at Ellery we’re all underachievers. We sure as heck don’t study. And we never go to class…”
My gaze settled on the laptop sitting next to him. The screen was dark.
“Did you get anything done on your paper?” I asked, suddenly remembering his earlier comment about a killer paper.
“Some.”
“Will you read it to me?”
“It’s econ,” he said, as if the topic alone would put a stop to any interest.
“That’s cool.”
He laughed. “I get the avoidance tactic that’s happening here. But there’s no way you wanna hear my theories on the causes of income inequality.”
“Are you kidding? I totally wanna hear your theories on that.” I made my eyes go wide and all frightfully interested. Because that paper topic was scary. No doubt about it.
“You’re bummed I woke you from your nap,” he theorized, “and you’re thinking now I should provide some verbal Ambien.”
“Read it.” I tipped my head toward the laptop. “Reading my drafts out loud to someone always helped me.”
“Okay.” He sat up, plopped his Mac on his lap. “You asked for it.”
I wasn’t even close to tired anymore—my veins were still juiced from those kisses—but I told him, “Kick me if I snore.” I picked up his shirt and re-wadded it, placing it a safe couple of feet from his long legs.
He regarded my antics with interest, then focused on the screen and began to read. “In their 2009 paper, The Long-Term Determinants of Inequality, the authors suggest—”
I sprawled beside him, smiling because I loved the way his mouth made the formation of those long, boring words look so fucking sexy.