“Mostly I sleep.” He grinned at Nick’s huff of breath. “Sometimes I think about this guy.”
“Some particular guy?”
“Maybe. He has dark hair and these hazel eyes that change color, and he works out a lot.”
“You like his muscles.”
“Yeah, I do.” Brian rubbed himself through his boxers and closed his eyes again to hear Nick better.
“And his dick.”
“Hah. Yeah. It’s pretty.”
“It’s huge and rugged and awesome.”
“It’s kind of ordinary size and pretty.”
“Wait. Do I know this guy?”
Brian fought a giggle. “I imagine I’m asleep after working all day, and you come in and strip off. And… do stuff.” He slipped his hand inside his shorts. Phone sex was still not one of his strong suits, but he was becoming a fan.
“Do stuff. That sounds… boring. I’m not boring in bed.”
“Nope.” He was running out of words. Nick was better at this. “What would you do?”
“Mm. Let me think. Are you face up or face down?”
He gripped himself harder. “Face up. Sleeping.”
“You won’t be sleeping for long once I crawl on top of you.”
“Tell me?” He didn’t want to talk, especially knowing Zander’s room was on the other side of the wall, but there was nothing better than lying here, stroking himself, listening to Nick say heated things in that low voice. Well, having Nick stroking him would be better, but for now, this was the best thing in his life. “What’ll you do to me, Nick?”
Nick’s chuckle was wicked. “Everything…”
Chapter 2
Nick Rugo pulled his mattress off the old bedframe and laughed at the stuff that slid out from under it. He’d been finding random things for days, clearing out his trailer for sale. Some of it was cash he’d tucked away here and there, just in case, but half of it was shit he didn’t even remember he had. This time it was an envelope he suspected contained more money, a bar napkin with a name and phone number scrawled on it from a guy he’d once had a very good time with, and a tattered paperback with a raunchy gay cover.
His friend Charlie hooted with laughter. “Seriously, Nicko? Porn under the bed? How old are you again, twelve?”
“Fuck you, Connors.” The book had been a straight-bros joke from an old roommate, who never realized how on point it was. After the guy died in a stupid mess of alcohol and a lake, Nick had sometimes read a few pages at night, hearing his friend’s teasing voice in the words.
So he’d stashed it in a safe place. Growing up in foster care, you learned to hide your private stuff away, protected but close at hand. It’d taken a long time, here in his own space, to lose that habit.
I’ll miss this place. But it doesn’t have Brian in it.
He tried to kick the book out of the way, his foot skidding on the slick cover as they manhandled the mattress upright. A corner of the sagging mattress bopped him on the head “Shit. Grab your end, you lazy slob.” Even as he said it, he reached farther around, trying to take more of the weight into his own hands so Charlie wouldn’t strain his bad arm. Charlie liked to pretend he was pain-free and strong as ever. The way he winced showed the lie. Giving his friend a hard time was required, but Nick would take a dozen thumps on the head over watching the line between Charlie’s eyebrows deepen like that. “Let’s drop it.”
“Nah. We’ve got it.” Charlie put his shoulder against the mattress. Together they got it on end, despite the unwieldy sag, and leaned it against the wall. Charlie did a fast squat, his back held stiffly upright, and scooped up the book before Nick could. “Now let’s see. The Latin Lifeguards?”
Nick swiped for it, but Charlie dodged.
“Ooh, nice.” Charlie pretended to ogle the sculpted bodybuilders on the cover. As he flipped the pages something fell out, fluttering to the floor. He glanced down at it and grinned. “What’s that? You used to wear ribbons in your curls?”
Recognition drove the breath out of Nick’s lungs. He bent and carefully lifted the little hair-clip off the dusty carpet. The bow lay limp in his palm. Small. Light green. The plastic clip underneath the knot was cracked, and the floral pattern was worn thin on the ends from rubbing it through his fingers when he was nine. And twelve, and fifteen. And twenty.
“Nick?”
He blinked hard, closing his hand on it. “Something I thought I lost.” God, I looked for it. He remembered the day he realized it was gone. He’d torn the place apart, looked everywhere, probably even under the damned mattress. He’d even looked again, after he found out what Brian could do. And here it’d been inside that stupid book all along. I should’ve searched harder.
Charlie raised an eyebrow silently and waited. One of the best things about Charlie was that sometimes he knew when not to ask. It let Nick eventually add, “It was Ariana’s.”
Charlie’s intake of breath showed he understood what that meant to Nick, to come across something of his missing sister’s.
“I need to put it in a safe place.” And to get out of sight for a moment. He clenched his teeth, breathing through his nose, and ducked out of the bedroom.
I found her clip in the pocket of my jeans, two days after the social worker took me away from her. It’d come out of her hair at the playground, and she asked me to keep it safe for her. She was so little and she trusted me—
Ariana had been five back then, to his nine, and he’d been in charge of her. He’d shoved the clip in his back pocket and taken her hand, a bit grumpy because he wanted to stay and play longer, but she’d needed the bathroom. By the time they were home, he’d forgotten. Days later, in his solitary room in his new foster home, he’d been desperately glad he had it…
His backpack was sitting on the kitchen counter, stuffed with random bits and pieces worth keeping. He dug his puzzle box out one-handed, not wanting to let go of that tattered ribbon. The edge of the plastic clip dug into his skin in a familiar way, and he forced his fingers to relax, trying not to crush the ribbon more.
I used to hold it, just like this. He turned it so the broken corner of the plastic bit deeper into his palm. Hold it and remember… try to remember. What color were her eyes? What kind of brother doesn’t remember his sister’s eye color? They were some kind of blue. He’d repeated that in his head for years, but the truth of it, the actual color— dark or pale, bright or pastel, gray-ringed or amber-streaked— vanished into a hundred faces over the last decade and a half. Even her hair became a vague impression of dark and curly with a tendency to break hair clips. Her face was a blur. Of course, by now she’d be twenty-one. That child’s face wouldn’t even exist anymore.
Sometimes it’d felt like he’d dreamed her up— one last piece of family still out there because he wanted it so badly. Distant and fading. Unreal. Especially after he lost the clip. He’d searched frantically when he realized it was missing. How the hell had it ended up in that book? Some sudden visitor who’d made him shove both trinket and erotica out of sight? Had he used it as a bookmark one night, on the edge of sleep? Or had he been called out suddenly and tucked it in there “safe” by reflex as he scrambled out of bed?