Microsoft Word - Taxes_and_TARDIS-NR_Walker.doc (2 page)

Shocked, his mouth fell open, and he blinked.

Twice.

"Oh, Jesus," I mumbled, horrified. "Sorry…"

He blinked again. I closed my eyes, wishing that my stupidity would just disappear. "Sorry. I didn't… I mean…"

I groaned, and taking a deep breath, I started again. "How about I take these," I said, reaching out and picking up my old shoebox off the desk, "and give the office a call when I have them sorted?"

I stood up, mortified at my inability to think or

speak in front of this guy, and walked toward the door.

"Brent?"

I turned around, thinking he'd tell me he'd hand my files over to another accountant. He surprised me by walking around the desk toward me. And there we stood, facing each other, him in his expensive suit pants and vest, and me in my dirty work clothes and boots, with my stupid mouth. He reached out and took the shoebox from me. "I'll take these," he said, clearly amused.

I wasn't expecting him to be as tall as me. His

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height surprised me, and as I opened my mouth to say something, only more stupid came out. "You're tall."

He laughed at me, and I wished the ground would

open up and swallow me whole. But then I was suddenly aware of how close he was, and how he matched my six-foot height, how his eyes were in direct line with mine. He was still smiling. "Do you always struggle in social situations?"

I looked into his blue-gray eyes and shook my head slowly. "Not normally, no."

He stared at me, tilting his head to the side. "And to answer your assumption before, no, I don't have a

boyfriend."

"Neither do I," I blurted out. Then I let out an embarrassed huff and tried to talk some sense. "Have a boyfriend, that is. I mean, yes, I'm gay, but I'm not seeing anyone."

And he smiled at me. Not an I'm-glad-you're-single kind of smile, but more of an I'm-smiling-because-you're-an-idiot kind of smile. I shook my head. Me, Brent Kelly, who played football, who could pick up any guy with just a suggestive nod, was being bent all out of shape by a bean-counting nerd.

A tall, delicate bean-counting nerd. A totally cute, funny, really smart, British bean-counting nerd with pink

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lips and long fingers. And a TARDIS-colored shirt.

Still smiling, he walked back to his desk. "I have your details if I need anything else," he told me. But then he put down the shoebox and picked up a business card.

"This is me," he said, handing me the small slip of cardboard. He pushed his glasses back up his nose. "If you need to contact me, you can phone my cell out of hours."

And just like that, he very smoothly gave me his

number. I took the card and read his name. "Well, Logan Willis, BCA. I might just do that."

The corner of his mouth almost lifted in a smile, but he tilted his head as though he was trying to figure something out. His eyes were intense behind his glasses, like he was trying to find the answers on my face.

I stared back at him, wondering what he was

looking for, and I wondered what he found when he huffed quietly and shook his head. "Okay, then," he said with a puzzled smile.

"Okay, then," I repeated with a nod.

I left him with the shoebox of receipts and papers, took his phone number with me, and went home on a

mission. I really needed to ease the ache in my dick. And I really,
really
, needed to find out what the fuck a TARDIS

was.

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I pulled my truck into my parking spot in front of my place, took the DVDs off the front seat, and went inside. Tim's utility was parked in the drive. I was surprised he was still home.

"Hey," Tim greeted me with smiling brown eyes and his freshly-showered, scraggly blond hair. "I was wonderin' where you were."

"Hey," I returned his greeting. "Thought you'd be out already."

"Got home late," he said, by way of explanation. He looked at me still dressed in work clothes. "You comin' or not?"

"Ah, no," I hedged. "I might have a night in."

Tim blinked and stared at me like I'd just sprouted a second head.

We'd known each other since we were both

apprentices and moved in together when we turned

eighteen. We were very similar—both electricians, both single, both liked to go out for a drink on weekends. We'd both pick up one-night stands, only he brought women home and I brought men. He didn't care that I was gay. He was laid back, easy to get along with, easy to live with. He

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was my best friend.

He still looked confused. "You're not coming?"

I looked down to the videos I was holding. "Um…"

"What the hell is that?" he asked, even more confused. "Are those porn videos?"

"Um, no…" I held the DVDs up so he could see the cover.

He looked at the DVDs then looked at me, wide-

eyed. "You seriously aren't coming out with me and the guys so you can spend Friday night watching
Dr. Who
?"

"Um…"

He rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Did you sniff the industrial adhesive at work today?"

I laughed, pulled off my over-shirt, kicked my boots off, and grabbed a beer from the fridge. I slid the first disc into the DVD player just as Tim called out, "Last chance."

"Nah," I replied, falling into the sofa. "I'm good.

You go. Tell the guys I said 'hi.'"

He snorted. "Well, I'm certainly not gonna tell them you're watching Dr. friggin' Who, that's for sure. Marty will be around in a flash to give you mouth-to-mouth."

I rolled my eyes at him, picked up the remote,

stretched my feet out on the sofa, and pressed play.

When I'd walked into the video store, I asked the

young girl behind the counter where I could find anything

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on
Dr. Who
. She pointed me in the right direction, but there were so many I wasn't really sure on where to start.

I picked up one, only because it had a blue, old-

fashioned telephone box on the front. That must be the TARDIS. I smiled. But the guy with curly hair and hokey scarf looked too '70s, so I put it back. I found other ones, which looked more modern and was the Tenth Doctor

series apparently, so I collected three of those instead.

I'd always liked science fiction. And by that, I mean I'd watched all six
Star Wars
films and most episodes of the
X-Files
. But this was rather engaging. Not saying I'd be running out to buy a TARDIS blue shirt any time soon, but I sat through the first DVD—which had three episodes on it—and rather enjoyed it.

I put the second disc in, and as I waited for the

episodes to start, I walked into the kitchen to grab something to eat. I noticed a business card on the floor, and realizing it must have fallen out of my shirt pocket when I pulled it off, I picked up the card and turned it over.

Logan Willis.

I grabbed a second beer, took the card, and sat back down in the living room just as the second disc's episodes started to play. But I really didn't watch much of the show.

I stared at the small rectangle of cardboard, and before I lost my nerve, I took out my cell and dialed his number.

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He answered on the second ring. "Hello?"

His British accent made me smile. "Uh, Logan?

This is Brent Kelly."

There was a long pause. "Yes?"

He sounded so unsure, and I'd wondered if I'd done the right thing by calling. Figuring I couldn't look any more of an idiot than I had earlier, I figured I had nothing to lose.

"So, this Dr. Who guy travels to different galaxies in the TARDIS thing?"

There was only silence on the line, so as always, I felt the need to fill it. "Because it's not very aerodynamic, and it doesn't seem like it's built to withstand the pressure of zero gravity."

After another beat of silence, he said, "The

TARDIS's are grown, not built."

Then it was me who was silent, replaying his words over in my mind. "Huh?"

He huffed out a laugh. "Never mind. Are you

watching
Dr. Who
?"

"Yeah," I admitted. "It's not bad."

He laughed again. "Which episodes?"

"Oh, I dunno," I started, but then grabbed the DVD

cover. "It's the second disc of the Tenth Doctor…?" My uncertain tone made it almost a question.

"Ah," he said. "David Tennant."

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"Who?"

"Never mind," he chuckled again. "Can I ask why you're watching it?"

"Um, your shirt," I admit. "I had no idea what a TARDIS was, and you mentioned
Dr. Who
… so I figured I'd start there."

"And do you like it?" he asked. His British accent sounded just as nice on the phone.

"Well," I sighed. "I don't think I'll be camping out at the next convention, but it's not too bad."

He laughed again. I was making him laugh, and I

quite liked that.

"You seem to be a little more conversational than you were earlier."

"Oh, you mean the ability to speak?" I said with a laugh. "Maybe it's because you're not in front of me, making me all flustered."

"Flustered?" he asked, incredulously. Then he snorted quietly. "Not likely."

"Yes, likely," I told him without shame. "I might not be too good with keeping my accounts sorted, but I can normally talk, yes."

He chuckled down the line, then he sighed. "So, you called me because…?"

"To ask you about the flying telephone box."

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"You mean the TARDIS."

"Mmm hmm," I hummed, stretching back out on the sofa, getting comfortable. "I thought if I was going to watch three DVDs of it, I might as well get someone to explain it to me."

"You borrowed three DVDs of
Dr. Who
?"

"Yeah," I said, then took a mouthful of my beer. "I haven't spent a Friday night at home watching TV in ages.

You saved me about fifty bucks and a hangover tomorrow."

He chuckled again. "So you're telling me I should adjust your books to allow fifty dollars per week in beverage allowance?"

"Is beer tax deductable?"

"Ah, no."

"Is renting
Dr. Who
DVDs deductable?"

"Are they educational to your profession?"

"They could be."

He laughed. "That depends on your accountant."

"Well, he's a fan," I told him. "He has a shirt that's TARDIS blue."

He laughed again, a quiet, deep, musical sound. The sound alone made me smile.

As much as I was enjoying the banter, I changed the subject. "So what did I interrupt? What are you doing tonight?"

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"Work," he answered. "Some guy dropped off a shoebox full of receipts and invoices. I'll be trying to reconcile his books for a while."

I grimaced. "Oh, that's too bad. Was he at least cute?"

There was a beat of silence before he answered.

"Not too bad."

I snorted out a laugh. "Not too bad? Oh, that's rough. You should at least make him help you."

He cleared his throat nervously. "And how would he do that?"

"He could bring you lunch tomorrow, and you could both go through all that paperwork together."

"Mmm." I swear it sounded as though he was smiling. "I don't know… he's not very good at doing accounts." And just when I thought he was going to say no, he said, "Would he bring the
Dr. Who
DVDs?"

"I'm sure he could," I answered with a smile.

"Okay," he said simply. He gave me his address, and we talked for a while longer. The conversation between us just seemed so easy, nothing too personal, and nothing at all like our earlier encounter in his office. I at least held my own side of this conversation. I even made him laugh a few more times before I told him I'd see him tomorrow, and we said goodbye.

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I just hoped I'd be able to actually speak when I was in front of him again.

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I was uncharacteristically nervous and at a loss to explain why. This guy, Logan, was nothing like the usual guys I pursued. My normal type of guy was similar to me—

bigger, more athletic, tanned. Sure, I'd had my share of twinks, but Logan wasn't even a twink. He just wasn't as masculine, as manly, as my usual type.

He was slim, lean, delicate. His face was pale, and dare I say it, pretty. Certainly not the sporty-type or the outdoorsy-type, he was geeky, a nerd. He was an

accountant who wore a vest, thick, rimmed glasses, and watched science fiction.

He couldn't be any further from my type.

So I really was at a loss as to why I was so nervous.

But I wanted him to like me. I wanted to impress

him. I wanted to make him laugh when I was with him so I could see what he looked like when he threw his head back with abandon.

I wondered if his skin was as soft as it looked. I wondered if his lips were, too. I wondered what he tasted like.