7. 7

7

Robbie McGuire

There’s a persistent tap on my door. It starts softly, rousing me just enough to wrench me from the black sinkhole of deep sleep. When I open my eyes, it’s quiet, so I drift off, only to be wrenched out of my slumber again. It’s happened three or four times now, a dull knock of knuckles on wood that won’t go away.

Who is this asshole? It’s the middle of the night, for fuck’s sake.

“Go’way,” I mumble.

It doesn’t stop.

It grows louder and louder. Persistence gives way to insistence. Bold and rude. Eventually, I lose my shit, throw my covers off, and fly out of bed, angrily shoving my legs into the sweats I was wearing before I went to sleep and pulling them up as I make my way to the door. I yank it open as hard as I can.

The sight of Ant Decker on my threshold hits me like a splash of cold water to the face. An icy jolt. A shock that makes me draw a sharp breath without really intending to do so.

He’s wearing all black. Black pants that hug his waist and flare out. A black top that’s so tight it somehow manages to make him look leaner and more ripped at the same time. The look is a lot, but it’s not the main thing I notice. His teeth are stained red and a stream of blood runs from his bottom lip and gets lost in his beard.

“Are you going to let me in or what?” he asks as if this is all normal and I’m the problem.

“Uh,” I say, stepping out of his way simply because I’m unsure what else to do. I glance down the hallway, looking for some explanation, only to find it completely deserted. At a loss, I close the door and follow him into my room. I find him in the bathroom, spitting blood into the sink. “What the hell happened to you?”

He’s turned on all the lights and the sudden shift from dark to light has my retinas struggling to adjust.

“What do you think happened, Einstein?”

I’m lagging from the shock of being woken and find myself unsure whether it’s a rhetorical question or not, so to be on the safe side, I say, “It looks like you got your ass kicked. Looks like you took a punch to the face. One here”—I point to his lip and then to the mauve semi-circle under one eye—“and one here.” I can tell he’s unimpressed with my powers of deduction by the way he blinks at me. Slow and infinitely aggrieved, irises fluttering in the upper quadrant of his eye sockets before he closes them.

“Well?” he demands. “What are you waiting for? Glue me the fuck up.”

He leans back against the basin, half sitting to give me better access to his face, acting like this is something that happens every day. He’s a hell of an actor. His performance is so convincing that I find myself getting my first-aid kit out and rummaging around for the spray I used on Lewis earlier.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he asks.

As a matter of fact, I’m not. I usually hand out basic supplies to people who need them, and for more complicated matters, I call my mom and ask her what she thinks I should do. Almost without fail, her advice is that I send the wounded straight to the ER on account of my complete lack of medical training.

I glance down at my watch. It’s after two in the morning. If it was someone else who’d been hurt, someone like Bodie or Luddy, I’d definitely put in a call. My mom wouldn’t mind, but I’m sure as shit not going to wake her for this asshole .

“Of course I do,” I say, uncapping the spray and aiming it at Decker’s mouth.

“Are you sure , sure ’cause that says for external use only ?”

“Just shut your mouth and it will be external.”

He presses his lips together tightly, wincing slightly when he does it. The bottom one is swollen, puffy and thicker on the left side than on the right. His top lip rests on it, whitening slightly from the pressure.

It’s the first time in years I’ve been around him without him actively antagonizing me, and I like having the upper hand for once, so I take my good goddamn time before spraying him. When I do, he splutters, turns, and spits into the basin loudly.

It pleases me.

“Two more sprays,” I say, glancing surreptitiously at the box the glue is in, hoping to find clear, concise directions for use.

No luck there.

I spray Decker a couple more times, fighting the urge to snort when he grimaces and hawk tuahs into the basin with more gusto after each one.

I give him a handful of gauze and let him do what he can to clean himself up. He swipes roughly at his chin a few times before turning to the basin and splashing his face until the water runs clear. He uses my towel to dry his beard, totally unbothered when he leaves a bloody stain. He holds the towel out to me with the panache of someone born into money and used to looking down on people.

It annoys me.

My hands get hotter. My face too.

I get the glue out of its box, wrestling with the packaging and finally resorting to ripping it with my teeth. He shakes his head at what a lost cause I am. A distant rumble of anger rolls through me. If someone hadn’t already laid hands on him tonight, I’d be sorely tempted to do it myself.

I wonder what happened? I wonder who the hell would be crazy enough to land a punch on him?

Curiosity gets the better of me. “How’d this happen?”

He gives me an icy glare. “Wrong place, wrong time.”

Ha! A likely tale.

“Let me guess, in this wrong time and place, you swung first?”

“No. I didn’t.”

Now that I’ve started talking, I seem to be on a roll. “Why didn’t you go to Josh?” Josh is currently tucked in, three floors down, easily accessible to someone who doesn’t give a shit about waking people in the middle of the night. “He’s obviously the best man for the job. He’s a trained professional. Dealing with this kind of shit is his wheelhouse. His bread and butter.”

God, I hate it when I start talking like this. Wheelhouse? Bread and butter? Who am I right now, my grandma? “You should go to him.”

Decker sighs and rolls his eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck at the back of his head. “I was leaving a gay club when it happened, okay, Princess? And I’d really prefer not having to explain that to everyone.”

“Och, um, oh. That’s, well, that’s fine. It’s fine .” It is fine. It’s more than fine. Who Decker fucks is none of my business. Literally doesn’t have a thing to do with me. He can do whatever he likes in his own time. In fact, I’m done asking questions now. I’m just going to glue his lip and let him be. “So,” I hear myself say, “why’d you come to me? We can’t stand each other. Why didn’t you go to Luddy or—”

He sighs deeper than before and this time, when his eyes settle back into their usual position, they’ve darkened to near black. He’s standing less than a foot away from me in an enclosed space, and like a true fucking idiot, I’ve gone and provoked him.

Shit, it’s tight in here .

He’s really close to me. He’s so fucking close I can feel the night air radiating off him. A frosty bite that overwhelms me and leaves me unsure if I’m hot or cold.

“I, er…” I have less than no idea what I plan on saying, so it’s a relief to hear my voice peter out.

A relief to me. Not to him. By the look of him, I just got on his last nerve.

He gets to his feet, eyes not leaving mine, and glowers at me. He lowers his head, crowding me, leaning forward so we’re almost nose-to-nose and I’m forced to look up at him. He looks different from here. More human. More animal too.

Jesus, he’s close. Too close. Way too close. It confuses my senses, and I start reacting like I did in the locker room shower. Veins and arteries. Blood and capillaries. Pulse racing.

“Because,” he says like he’s speaking to a blithering idiot, “you’re the only other guy on the team who likes dick.”

My head whips back and forth, a quick, idiotic left-to-right, to check if anyone heard him, despite the fact we’re completely alone.

My throat goes bone dry, but I feel compelled to say something. “Gguck,” is what I come up with. I swallow hard, swirling my tongue around my mouth as I search my mind for words, any words that might work in a situation like this. “I-I don’t like dick,” I manage at last.

It seems I’ve managed to provoke him again. And this time, it’s worse. His eyes go blank, black orbs that suck me in and swallow me whole, and he moves like a cat, lightning fast, pushing me against the wall until the towel rail digs into the small of my back. His hand on my bare chest is rough and hot. It burns like a brand. He tilts his head and curls his top lip into a snarl that shows me traces of blood, old scars, and new scars that haven’t knitted themselves together yet.

“Oh no?” he says, eyes not leaving mine. “Why’s your dick hard then?”

I shake my head and open my mouth to deny it. My jaw clicks, but no other sound comes out. I’m going to push him away. Obviously, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to do it any second now.

I’m going to do it as soon as my heart rate slows and my brain comes back online.

I reach out and watch, removed, as my hand clenches and my fingers knot into the fabric of his T-shirt. I mean to push him away. I do. In fact, I’m as surprised as he is when I hold him in place and thrust my hips microscopically toward him .

He doesn’t miss it. Instead, he takes it as an invitation, reaching down, top lip still curled, eyes laced with a distant trace of something that would look like mirth if he were anyone else, and cups my balls. His movement is quick, so sudden and unexpected it makes me see stars. His grip is firm, just hard enough to make me squawk. Before I have time to struggle, his hand trails up my shaft and circles me like a vise.

It’s so wrong it almost feels right.

“Hmm,” he says, stepping back and dusting his hands off like the absolute asshole he is. “Feels hard to me.”

It’s hard to explain what’s happening in my body right now. There’s anger coursing through veins, thick and red-hot. Shock too. Oh, there’s plenty of shock, prickly tingles that run up my neck and make my face feel numb. And though I’ll deny it with my last breath, there’s arousal as well. A fuck-ton of it. My cock’s acting like it’s never been touched before. Like it’s never had another person near it. Never been stroked. Never been tugged. It’s straining in my sweatpants, like the traitor it is, trying to get closer to Decker.

I cross my arms tightly over my chest, pressing my lips together, and do my best to ignore it.

“I’d like an apology,” I say when I’m able .

Decker blinks twice and his lips quiver with the effort it costs him not to laugh. “I’m sorry I made your dick hard, Princess.”

I close my eyes and imagine myself taking him by the throat and putting his head through the mirror behind him. It’s a violent, bloodthirsty thought that calms me a little.

“You didn’t make it hard,” I clarify, using an overly clear tone typically reserved for middle school teachers, “I was asleep. It’s morning wood…evening woo—it’s middle-of-the-night wood, okay?”

His lips stop quivering and turn up at one corner. It’s a cocky grin that costs him. His bottom lip splits open again, making him wince.

“Are you going to glue me up, or what?” he asks, pressing a piece of gauze on the wound to stem the bleeding.

“Fine,” I snap, “but sit down, stop being so tall, and keep your hands to yourself, or I’ll put your head through the wall.”

“Aw, did I make you mad? Did I make you question things you usually try to ignore?”

“What did I just say about talking?”

“Uh, nothing? You said to sit down, stop being tall, and keep my hands off you. ”

Shit.

He’s right.

“Well, stop talking too, or, or I’ll glue your lips shut.”

He emits a low, muffled sound. It comes from his chest, not his throat or mouth. It sounds almost like he’s saying, “Hmph.” If I didn’t know him better, I might be inclined to think it’s his version of a laugh.

He holds his hands up at his sides, and when I don’t move, he finally gets the message and tucks them behind his back with a self-satisfied smirk. The movement causes his T-shirt to stretch tightly over his pecs, and sweet Jesus, it’s hot in here.

What’s up with the air in this place?

My palms are slick, and in the mirror, I see tiny beads of sweat glisten on my forehead. I stand as far away as possible from Decker and take his jaw in my hand. His beard is thick and soft. Softer than I thought it would be. I mean, softer than I’d have thought it would be if I was the type of guy who thought about things like how a man’s beard might feel.

I run my thumb over his bottom lip, squeezing the soft, warm flesh together and swiping a healthy stripe of glue across the cut. I look away as the glue sets, keeping hold of his lip, squeezing a little harder than strictly necessary as I count slowly to sixty .

By the time I let go, the thermostat is well and truly fucked. It must be at least one hundred degrees in the bathroom. If I didn’t hate complaining so much, I’d be inclined to call reception and get them to send someone up here. That’s how bad it is.

“All done?” He purses his lips and raises his brows. It’s an almost-sweet look that doesn’t half suit him.

I toss the glue into the sink without bothering to put the lid on and get the hell out of there.

The rest of the suite is as hot as the bathroom.

I open the door to let some fresh air in, not caring when it thunks against the wall, and all but throw Decker’s ass out.

He stands in the doorway, arms at his sides, and looks at me as if waiting for something.

“How ’bout thank you?” I suggest. “How ’bout sorry I woke you, and I owe you big time. How ’bout that?”

I have a feeling he doesn’t like my tone because his eyes narrow and he leans in as if he means to headbutt me. My reactions are slow from the excessive heat in my suite and before I have time to step back, there’s a hand on the back of my head holding me so gently my entire body goes lax.

He tilts his head and leans in slowly. So slowly, I can’t breathe. My eyes close and my lips part, though I don’t think I made a conscious decision to do either.

An intense sting makes my eyes water. A sharp, bruising pinch has me clamping my hand to my mouth. “You fuck!” I hiss. “You bit me! What’s wrong with you? What the hell did you do that for?”

He exhales and his shoulders drop. “’Cause,” he says with regret, “I’m going to kiss you, and”—he takes my head in both hands and holds me firmly in place as he closes the space between us—“I want it to hurt you as much as it’s going to hurt me.”

Our eyes are open. Neither of us blinks. He moves so near to me that my vision blurs and my mouth drops open.

He kisses me hard, sweeping his tongue against mine with a force that leaves me gasping around it. His hand is still on the back of my neck, fingers knotted in my hair, pulling, making me arch back, forcing me to yield to him more.

My bones turn to liquid, and I flail against him, fisting his clothes, pushing him away and pulling him closer as I thrust my tongue into his mouth.

I slump against the doorframe when he pulls away. He steps back and eyes me thoughtfully, pleased with his work. He runs his thumb across his bottom lip tentatively, flinches, and says, “Asshole,” before turning and walking away.

“Decker!”

There’s an unexpected, brutish grace to his stride. Slow, sure steps punctuated with an unbothered swing of thick arms. When he gets to the end of the hall, he raises one hand leisurely and gives me the finger without looking back.