Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

CLAY

I'm pulled from sleep by the steadily building sound of jock rock.

Groaning, I sit up. I'm on the guest bed with no sheets, my sleeping bag unzipped and spread beneath me, barely comfortable enough that I can sleep. In my boxers, I shuffle to the front window to see who's blasting AC/DC on a Sunday only to realize that the music is coming from the back.

I curse when I look out the rear window. There must be thirty or forty people in the yard, laughing and mingling. There's a table full of food, and a keg set up at either end of the table.

Brunch with Sue and Nance. Damn it, that's right. No hauling boxes from the basement into the yard today.

When I check my phone, it's nearing noon. Sunday is the only day I let myself sleep in, and I guess I really needed it this week.

My crap is scattered around the house, and I step over power tools as I make my way to coffee. It's increasingly clear that I'm not getting out of Buffalo anytime soon, so I've bought minimal groceries, eggs and frozen pizza.

Collapsed back on the couch, I drink coffee and scratch my balls, trying to wake up as the raucous noise from the back grows louder. I was up late reading about realty. But my searches—like selling falling down house, and forcing owner to keep tenant— got me nowhere.

I still want to finish assessing before I meet with a realtor, but the more I explore the house, the more I start itching to just fix it myself.

Not that I have the funds to pull off a renovation. All my theoretical money is on the other side of selling this place. And I'll have plenty of new carpentry projects to occupy myself when I start my own business.

Hell, I'm probably out of my mind for considering anything except selling to the highest bidder. But I've been turned around since I got to Buffalo. Maybe I'm feeling some kind of way about Randy, and it's got me acting funny. Like how I spent all my life suppressing whatever questions or inclinations I do have about men, only to turn around and bark out "I'm bi" like a damn fool.

I blame Nicholas, and the fact that I keep accidentally talking to him.

Nicholas who acts nice and smells like flowers and wears T-shirts with suit jackets.

When I think about him, my skin burns. My senses get all confused, and I huff to myself, feeling like I'm standing there in his shop again while he laughs and smiles, soft and warm.

My dick twitches alive in my boxers. I cup my balls, and at my core, heat solidifies into a hard rod of want. Dragging my hand up my stiff dick, I rumble with pleasure.

Nicholas's face. His soft mouth.

What would it feel like to kiss him? Would he be gentle against me, or would he push back, drag his teeth at my stubble?

In my mind, my hands explore his side, his hips, his legs. I spit in my palm and pump my cock, and my imagination wrestles through desires, stumbling around, lurching and unsteady.

That mouth, and the sounds he would make when I slid my dick into his ass.

With a groan, I erupt. My hand is shoved in my boxers, and I grip my base as I shoot, flooding the cotton and making a sticky mess of myself.

When I get under the hot shower to clean up, I hear Ozzy rocking from the back.

Dressed, I eat cereal at the sink and gulp more coffee. When a cheer erupts, I walk over to the windows and see that a group of older women are playing catch, zinging a softball faster than I could. One of the women spins and catches it behind her back, and everyone else laughs and throws their gloves at her.

No way this brunch is ending anytime soon.

Someone turns up the music, and I grumble to myself, cursing under my breath as I stomp around, frustrated that I can't get straight to work.

Before my patience boils over, I come up with an excuse to head downstairs. Reluctant as I am to stick my head in a party, if I at least know how long it's going to take, I can make productive use of the rest of my day.

I grab my jacket and stomp downstairs. The shop is locked, and I walk around the long way, taking the alley around the house until I emerge in the middle of the party. Over by the food, I see Sue raising a coffee mug as she tells a story, a small crowd enraptured around her.

Her eyes land on me, and her head tilts slightly to the side. A second later, Nance appears in front of me, sporting her work shirt and holding a plate of scrambled eggs.

"We told you, brunch every Sunday. It's laid out in the documents."

I gesture at the scene behind her, unable to resist the urge to snark back a little. "Okay. But since when does brunch have kegs?"

Sue appears beside her wife. "Since the twice-retired players of the gay women's softball league, the GWSL, started meeting here. And that was when you were still in diapers," she says sweetly. "Care for some egg whites?"

"Twice retired," I say.

"The retired players of the GWSL decided some years ago, while at a brunch much like this, to start a seniors league up. But they've since retired from that, too."

"I was an ump," Nance adds flatly, and they both stare at me.

This feels like a trap, and I realize I should go before I accidentally accept a plate of eggs. "Can you just give me an idea how long this is going to last?"

"It really depends on the Sunday," Sue says innocently.

I shove my hands in my jacket pocket, and when I do, find their letter, which I yank out.

"This is for you," I tell them abruptly. "It was with Randy's stuff."

A slight change in expression comes across both of their faces, but Sue quickly recovers as she places the envelope in the pocket of her skirt.

"Thank you," she says. "You know, Randy loved to join us for brunch."

Nance gives her wife an exasperated look as Sue looks at me expectantly.

I shove my hands in my pockets. Thank god, before I have to say something for myself, a woman and a man appear, insisting they need the host couple to settle a dispute about scones.

Saved, I shuffle away, grumbling.

It's obvious my grandfather had a busy life here with lots of friends. Good for him.

Just makes me feel weird. Outside. Like someone hollowed out a pit in my gut and left something cold there.

Not that I want anything like this for myself. The only thing people ever do is disappoint you, and that goes double for family. Hell, Sue and Nance needed legally binding documents to handle Randy. It obviously wasn't all sunshine and roses and Sunday keg brunches.

When I get back around front, I see the light is on in the shop. There's Motown music on the stereo, and my spirits lift a little when I imagine Nicholas inside.

Of course he still listens to love songs when there aren't any customers. It doesn't even make him seem like a sap, either. He might not have a lot of guys trying to date him right now, but he seems to me like the kind of person who might actually end up happy in the end.

As happy as anyone is, I mean.

A sudden clamor erupts from inside the shop, banging metal and breaking glass, and I suck in a surprised breath. Concerned, I ignore the Closed sign and throw the door open, luckily finding it unlocked. "Nicholas!"

A groan pulls my attention behind the counter. My heart racing, I find him sitting on the ground next to large broken shelves, shattered vases and debris around him.

"Shit! Are you okay!"

He shakes his head quickly. "These shelves," he says. "They're always coming loose. I knew this would happen again."

Again? Hell no. The carpenter in me objects to that.

My boots crunch on the glass. I squat down next to him and offer my hand. "You're sure you're okay?"

Carefully, Nicholas takes my hand, and I heft him up. His grip is warm and firm, and I don't let go immediately.

Something tumbles in my belly.

"Thank you," he says, and I pull my hand away, coming back to reality. "I think I'm fine."

I furrow my brow. "You didn't cut yourself?"

Nicholas brushes off his jeans. "No, thankfully." He casts his eyes around the mess. "Although I'm feeling the loss of those vases right now."

I puff out a breath, relieved that he's not injured. Stepping around the mess, I examine the shelves. They're installed directly into the wall in his work room, floor to ceiling. Even in the un-collapsed portion, I can see brackets and braces that are half-broken, worn by time and overdue for replacing.

Nicholas washes his hands at the sink. "I take it you noticed brunch?" he asks.

I turn. "Right. I guess you're used to the noise."

"I know all the twice-retired softball players. And a lot of the once-retired and currently playing ones, too. They also tend to show up. I'll bring over some flowers in a bit. I like to wait until everyone's had a few beers. They really get enthusiastic about the bouquets when they're buzzed."

I grunt out something that sounds half like a laugh.

Makes sense that Nicholas is part of that big happy family. I'm glad he has that, even though an unfamiliar sensation stirs in me. Not jealousy, exactly, and not want. But a stabbing feeling that's hard to ignore.

"I've got brackets from an old project," I say, my brain refocusing on what's practical. "They should work for these shelves. Won't take much time to fix this mess."

Nicholas blinks. "You're going to fix the shelves for me?"

There are a million other things I should fix first. But the shelves are in my building, and they're a mess, and I'm here.

At least I'll be able to say I got something concrete done today.

"Yes," I say firmly. "Let me get my tools."

Before he can object, I'm upstairs. Methodically, I get my supplies together. It takes a while to find the brackets in my disorganized mess, and when I return to the shop, Nicholas has cleaned up most of the destruction.

He's standing by the counter, tying a trash bag. He's just in jeans and a t-shirt today, more casual than usual, and without the jacket, I can see his slim arms. The denim clings to his ass and his thighs, and his high-top sneakers are perfectly white and clean.

Nice ass. Firm and round.

Everything I notice makes me want to touch him.

When Nicholas stands up and looks at me, he smiles. It's that easy, natural smile of his, sweet as fuck.

I need to snap out of it.

"Are you sure you have time for this?" Nicholas asks.

I look down at my tool belt. "Yes," I say, not leaving room for him to argue.

The physical shelves are in fine condition, and I start by setting them aside and taking down what remains.

"Well, it's terribly nice of you," he says as he leans back on his work table. "Let me at least send you home with a vase of flowers to say thanks."

Heat flushes across my face. No one has ever given me flowers. "Sure," I manage, and glance at him. "You always come in on Sundays?"

"It's when I plan the week ahead."

I grunt. "I'm used to working long hours, too."

Where the shelves once were, a wall of mismatched hardware and supports now faces me. I grab my hammer and decide to start with the nails first. As I pry one out, Nicholas continues talking.

"Floristry can be exhausting," he admits. "Although not quite as physically taxing as carpentry, I'm sure."

I yank out another nail. "It's satisfying to work hard. And at least I sleep well."

Nicholas laughs warmly. "There's that," he says.

I keep my attention on the wall, working up a sweat as I crank out old, twisted nails. All the while, Nicholas busies himself behind me. I see him writing on a notepad, sorting through a drawer, and occasionally dipping out into the shop to mess with the flowers.

The last nail clatters to the floor. I catch his eye across the shop. "It will be loud for a minute," I say as I take out my drill.

"Be as loud as you need, please."

I start working out the screws, drill whirring, and Nicholas cranks up the music. All of a sudden, some pop song is blasting. It might be Harry Styles.

"Do you mind?" he yells above the noise, and I shake my head even though I hate the damn song immediately.

Nicholas starts to sway his hips, giving me a few chances to appreciate that ass discreetly. He works his way around the big table in the middle of his work space, gliding with the music, dancing while he works.

The drill jumps off the screw, and I slam my hand into the wall, pain exploding.

Fuck!

"You okay?" Nicholas yells, and I wave a hand at him.

"Yeah. Fine."

Okay. No more looking at his ass.

I pull down the last supports, and my breath comes out heavy and ragged.

I'm not sure what I'm trying to prove with this repair. But there's that way I'm starting to care what Nicholas thinks about me. And fixing something is how I know to help, even when I don't know what the hell else to say or do.

As Nicholas dances around the shop, working happily, I get the sense that I could renovate the whole damn building, and I still wouldn't be satisfied.