10. Matthew
10
MATTHEW
N ever?
That's a lie, but Fischer's a liar. He wasn't exactly around when Maggie and I were growing up. He probably would have disappeared completely if he hadn't nearly been blown up eight years ago. When he started working in journalism, he even changed his last name from Cannon to Elliot, which isn't even his birth mother's name. He made it up out of thin air.
Since his recovery, he's spent eighty percent of his time in other countries. It's no mystery why his shotgun marriage to Nicole never worked out.
I love having him back in town, though. While he was almost completely absent during my childhood, his injury changed everything. Granted, I get that wasn't the best part of his life, but my memories of it are good. It was the most settled I'd ever been, before or since. I had a routine. I had purpose. I had him. But then he got better and went back to work.
Seeing him on the news from time to time was no substitute for the real deal. I prefer the solidity of his body to an image of his face on a screen. I like his scent. The sound of his voice. It's not weird, no matter what my mom says. It's not hero worship either. If anything, I've saved him way more than he's ever helped me out, but maybe that's why I'm so attached. I like to know he's all right. And there's no better proof of that than seeing him up close in the Manhattan morning with the sunlight glinting off the golden strands in his dark blond hair.
"Gavin's pretty," I say, lifting my head to take a bite of my bagel.
"Figured you'd say that."
"You don't think so?"
"Not my type," he says.
I ignore that and look around his drab apartment. "You should let me bring some of my drawings over here. This place needs more personality."
"I don't need any charcoal renderings of giant dicks on my wall, but thanks."
"I can draw pussies, too."
Fischer laughs. "You remember what those look like?"
"It hasn't been that long," I say. It hasn't even been a year since I was with a cis woman. And Elodie Lafayette-Arnaud who lives on the twelfth floor has a beautiful body. An absolute work of art, including her pussy.
I polish off my bagel while Fischer returns emails. When we're both done, we turn to each other, and he wipes a crumb off the corner of my mouth. "You should lie down. You look exhausted."
He's right. I should . "You don't want to watch a show with me?"
"Look at you pouting." Fischer fusses with my face, combing his fingertips through my scruff and rearranging my hair. Then he gives my chin a squeeze, his thumb pressing into the cleft. "Go lie down."
He doesn't have to ask twice, but I like when he insists. "Rub my back."
His smile is fond, his eyes as silver as a mirror in the morning light. "You're like a baby."
"Maybe Gavin will want to do it when he gets back."
"I've got it," Fischer says, eyes narrowing slightly. "But you know if I lie back down, I'll fall back asleep."
"So?" I gaze at him wearily. "You don't have to work today."
He seems to consider it. "Do you have to work tonight?"
"I don't remember. If my alarm goes off at four, then yes."
He laughs. "Check."
I sigh, dragging my phone out of my hip pocket and opening it up. "No. I don't. I should get home."
His hand slides from my chin to my cheek, and I lean into it, closing my eyes.
"You're not gonna make it," he says.
"I will if you pay for a car…"
"Get in bed," he insists even better.
Fischer's not cheap, so he must want me here, and I'm such a sucker for him—always wanting to be where he wants me to be if I can manage it. I turn and give his warm palm a quick peck. "Thank you."
In his bathroom, I brush my teeth and rinse out my mouth, using items from the hygiene kit I always carry in my backpack. It's an old habit from my early twenties when I woke up in lots of random places.
When I come out, I find Fischer kicked back in bed, glasses on, scrawling on a legal pad. In a t-shirt and thin sweats, I can see way too much of him. I try to look away, but before I can, I notice his own glance lingering a moment on me in nothing but my boxer briefs before he clears his throat and returns his attention to his papers.
I walk around the bed to get in on the other side. "What are you working on?"
"It'd bore you," he says.
"Perfect."
He indulges my lackluster curiosity. "It's an article about a new piece of legislation that would allocate funding to support the creation of a permanent US presence in the Baltic peninsula, but it's got a poison pill that would also cut funding to an education program that?—"
"Enough. I'm sorry I asked." I lie down, facing away from him, pulling the covers up to my waist to leave him access to my bare back.
Papers shuffle, and his weight shifts behind me. He chuckles. "I count two new hickeys so far."
"You'll have to look lower to find the rest," I tell him.
"Jesus…"
I smile as my eyes close, liking the rumbling sound of his low voice. But nothing's better than the warm, firm pressure of his hand running down my spine. Hopefully, I'll fall asleep before I start enjoying it too much.
"Tell me more about your article," I say, determined not to get horny.
He does. Droning on purpose, probably, as his hand moves all over my back. "That feels nice," I say, mostly to myself.
He keeps rubbing, keeps talking in his deep, smooth voice. I drift, focusing on how comfortable I am and not on the electric pulses of pleasure I get when he touches me. I'm never more comfortable than when I'm with him.
Being in his presence is effortless in a way nothing else in my life is ever effortless. He grounds me and quiets my thoughts. Even in a bed that's not my own, with him in it, it feels like home.
"Gavin had many questions," Fischer says to me when I straggle out of the bedroom. He's back at the dining table near the French doors that lead to the terrace, surrounded with legal pads, two laptops, an iPad, and his phone. His hair is a disaster that's almost comical, and his glasses do nothing to make him look serious enough for me not to laugh.
"Did he walk in on us?"
"I left the door open. It wasn't like he barged in."
I go back into the bathroom, grab a hair tie and return to him. Standing behind him, I comb my fingers through his chaotic waves and pull what I can into a top knot, tying it up. "You looked like you stuck your finger in a socket," I mumble, my voice still rough with sleep.
"That's tight," he says.
"You'll live. Anyway, I just picked up a last minute shift tonight, so it's good I slept over," I tell him as I cross the living space to the kitchen.
"Want me to order some food?"
"Sure," I say. "If you're hungry."
"I could eat. Pizza ok?"
It's always pizza with this guy. "Sure. So what did you tell Gavin?"
"That you're a needy little baby who needs to be rocked to sleep."
"That's not entirely off base. Usually I prefer a different kind of rocking, though."
He snorts.
"Like you don't," I say.
"You're right. I wouldn't survive a week," he says.
"Same. I might have to call for a different kind of delivery later," I joke.
He sends a disapproving glare my way. "You'll get yourself fired."
"Please. Like anyone has any clue what goes on in the lobby at three a.m."
Fischer frowns, then looks back down at his laptop. "The more I know about you, the more I wonder whether I should."
"That hurts my feelings." I fill up his electric kettle and grab the tea he keeps stocked for me. While I wait for the water to heat, I lean on the counter and watch him work.
He never pulls his hair back, so to me he looks like he did when I used to help him wash up in the shower. I admit I may be slightly obsessed with his face.
He's traditionally handsome, square jaw, dominant chin, and large, heavily lashed pale gray-green reflective eyes beneath a strong brow. This afternoon, he has a weekend's worth of stubble, which is a lot for him, but because it's slightly darker than his sun-kissed hair, it sets off his full mouth. He's slender, dressed now in a zip-up hoodie and those thin gray sweats.
The truth is, I find Fischer attractive, but that's nothing new. When he was captain of his high school lacrosse team, he was an all American cutie, but I was five. When he was in college, he started growing his hair out and got glasses—Ivy League hottie. I was in elementary school. And then he changed his name and started his career in journalism—we rarely saw him then, but when we did, he was a "grown-up," and I was a gangly teen with bad skin.
The trouble I have these days is he wasn't always this attractive. The same way Patrick Dempsey gets better with age, so does Fischer.
Also, I have a weakness for the glasses. I like when he looks all "journalist" and not anchorman. This is the way I remember him.
When my tea is ready, I sit down across from him, grab one of the legal pads, a pen, flip to a blank page, sip my tea, and sketch him while he works.
Maggie texts me off and on, and I respond, but I keep coming back to the sketch, flicking my gaze from his face, deep in concentration, to the pad of paper where he's coming to life. Naked.
I shrug to myself and keep going. I give him a huge cock in the sketch, just so I know when he sees it later, probably when he's alone, he'll get a kick out of it. But I place the scars with precision. They're burned into my brain. When the knock comes to signal the pizza is here, I flip the papers back to cover the sketch and go to the door.
"You're still in your underwear," Fischer notes when I set the pizza box down on the coffee table and try to settle on his uncomfortable couch.
"You keep it too warm in here."
"You just run hot," he says. "It's sixty-eight degrees."
"You want me to put on my polyester suit?"
"You can borrow a t-shirt. Maybe some shorts."
"I think you're gonna be okay," I tell him, folding a hot slice and stuffing it in my mouth.
Using his cane, he limps over and plops down next to me, groaning from his knee. Our hips fall into the crease between cushions, smashing us together side by side. I don't bother to move, and neither does he.
In fact, when he gets his slice, he leans back, throws his arm across the back of the couch behind me, and we're practically cuddling.
Not exactly, but close enough. I wonder if he really does think of me as a needy baby.
"You don't need to snuggle me, you know. I'm already hot."
"I'm not snuggling with you. It's a small couch."
It's a regular-sized couch. No wonder Gavin had questions.
"You want me to sit somewhere else?" he asks.
"No, you're fine. I just don't want you to think I'm needy . That was the word, right?
"I was kidding."
"Were you?"
"Maybe I'm needy," he says. "I don't feel like I see you enough."
"How often do you want to see me?" I ask, curious.
"I'll put it this way—idle hands are the devil's playground."
I pause, my crust halfway to my mouth. "Are you gonna tell me what you've been doing with your hands?"
He gives me a look like he's trying to decide whether he can trust me. He must decide he can, because he follows up with, "You know about Raven, but did I ever tell you about the club?"
I look at him as he studies my expression. "No."
"There's an exclusive club up the block. A friend of mine runs it. I spend some of my spare time there…"
"Doing what?"
"Do I need to draw you a picture?"
I raise my eyebrows, interest piqued. "Can I go to this club?"
"You could probably work there, but I'm not sure you could afford the dues."
"You're not allowed to bring guests?" I ask.
"There's a vetting process."
My eyes widen.
"What?" he asks, defensive. "I'm single. It's safe." He shrugs. "I'm not ashamed."
"I'm not saying you should be ashamed. I just didn't realize…"
"Realize what?" he asks.
"That you'd be into sex clubs."
"It's one club, and why, because I'm old?"
"You're not that old."
"Well, the cane adds twenty years," he says, self-deprecating. "Where did you think I was going at night?"
I frown, giving that question some thought. "I thought you were doing the whole Tinder thing."
"Not completely off base, but the club skips a few steps. Mainly dinner and a show."
Interesting.
"Can I ask you a personal question?" It just occurred to me, and I have almost no filter.
"Sure."
"I sort of assumed the older you got—and with the one nut and everything—you'd have a lower drive."
"It's maybe fifteen, twenty percent less than it was in my twenties, but I was a fucking animal back then, pun intended, so…I'd say it's above average to high."
"Huh."
"You gonna answer the same question?"
"High," I say. "Very high. Maybe pathologically high."
He laughs. "Maybe I should sit somewhere else then."
"Maybe you should."
We catch gazes then, and he smiles, but it's not as cocksure as his usual smiles for me. "Yeah, I'm not your type," he says, breaking eye contact and grabbing another slice.
"Obviously I'm not yours, either. Wait—you never changed my diapers did you?" I ask suddenly.
"Jesus! No!"
I laugh, leaning back, and his arm tightens like a reflex around my bare shoulders. I run a hand down his thigh, not sexually or anything, just with the familiarity we share, which is more now than back when we were sharing a bed nightly. His quad is flexed, the muscle not what it used to be, but still firm. "Good," I say, relaxing back with my fresh slice and leaving my hand on his leg.
"Anyway," he continues, "My point was, if you had more spare time, maybe you could help keep me out of trouble."
This is the second time he's mentioned something similar. "But what about the trouble I like to get into? When would I have time for that?"
"I guess we need to mind our own business, then."
Yeah…no. "I'm off Friday."
"Wanna do something?" he asks. "You don't have plans?"
"I wouldn't mind going to this club with you."
"Don't you have a girlfriend?"
"Technically, we're not exclusive. She works late. And I'd behave."
He huffs.
"You think I can't?"
"Not at this place."
"Just because you can't keep it in your pants…"
"Hey—be nice, or I won't take you."
"So you would?" I ask. "Take me?"
"I'll think about it. But you need to think about it, too. Seriously. If you like this girl, you might want to steer clear."
"That tempting, huh?"
Fischer's eyes darken slightly, maybe reflecting my own. "Come see for yourself."