Play It Again, Charlie (9 page)

“Yeah, I know,” he grumbled over the sound of Sam's whining. “I'm late.” He poured some food in the bowl, then, while he was still bent down, used the scooper to dispose of Sam's mess in the litter box and snuck in a quick scratch at the base of Sam's tail. Then he washed his hands in the kitchen sink and headed to his bedroom.

He opened up the window in his bedroom all the way and let the curtains fall back down as he stripped off his jacket and tie. He stepped out of his shoes and hung up his coat and tie before sliding the closet doors shut, then worked on his shirt buttons as he walked into the bathroom. He had his shirt all the way open by the time he stopped in front of the mirror over the sink. Then he took a minute to stare at himself, trying to see an old Hollywood star, if an old Hollywood star had pain lines etched into his forehead.

At least he was starting to get his summer tan already. The color looked good next to his hair and eyes, but he glanced down at the pale skin of his chest, paler next to the curls of chest hair visible over the athletic shirt he'd worn under his white dress shirt.

New, bright shirts weren't going to disguise the lines at the corners of his eyes or the gray hair that only got more noticeable by the day. His hair was too dark for the silver not to stand out, a brown that was closer to black, something he'd had in common with his grandmother before hers had gone completely white. And it was too long. Charlie swept his bangs back and over, into the simple, low-maintenance style that had served him well for years now, but the rest was curling at his neck and around his ears.

Maybe a haircut, he decided, then sighed and bent over to splash his face with cold water.

He pulled his shirt off and used it to pat his face dry, then tugged off his belt as well and tossed the shirt into the laundry basket on the floor and put the belt on top.

He caught a glimpse of his arms in the mirror, also pale, though still darker than any of his sisters'. He didn't go to the gym obsessively, but his arms were strong— had had to be for a long time— and he looked down at the thought. His stomach was mostly flat. He was in good enough shape for most people.

But he leaned forward, resting his weight on the sink and taking a deep breath before he undid his fly. Then he pulled his pants and boxers down part of the way and stared at the main scar down his hip. Eight inches that had at least finally healed to the point that it was no longer pink, so it wasn't anywhere close to as ugly as it had been.

He looked up and past his reflection at the combination shower and bathtub, but he already felt damp and wilted enough without another hot shower. He kept on his pants and athletic shirt, toeing off his socks on the bedroom floor before heading back to the kitchen, where he put together a chicken salad with an apple and cayenne pepper and spread it between some slices of bread. Then he took that and two pills and some milk into the living room to his desk.

While his laptop started up, he washed down his pills with milk and a few bites. He shouldn't be eating while taking them, as it might upset his stomach, but he hadn't eaten all day again today.

He read through the news while he finished the sandwich, trying not to be aware of the fact that his apartment was so still he could hear himself chewing. Sam settled at his feet, staring up at him for a long moment as though considering his chicken before bending himself in half to clean his crotch.

There was a new e-mail from Ann in his inbox, a solid paragraph of “Ay, why are you ignoring me?” and then a listing of the success rates of dating sites and should she try one, and she would if he would. He clicked “reply” before he could think better of it, then sat there with his fingers over the keys and a headache building.

Bars were loud and impersonal, and he didn't care for sex with strangers. In his experience, sex was something that got better over time with someone. In college there had been a few flings that had lasted a week or two, but they'd always ended, most of the time with Charlie coming back from taking care of his family and finding a note, if that.

He finally wrote that he'd think about it and then moved on to the e-mail from Mark he still hadn't answered, even if he had already read it five times. He felt his stomach twist for a moment, as though he might have trouble keeping down his sandwich.

It was the pills, he told himself, ignoring the imaginary sound of Jeanine yelling at him for even looking at the e-mail again when he could probably recite it by now. He clicked on it again.

"Hey. Haven't heard from you in a while, but I'd love to catch up. I'll stop by Sunday to take you to lunch. And, okay, I have an idea to run by you. Don't be angry, you'll love it,"
followed by a smiley face.

Five lines to obsess over when he knew perfectly well that Mark hadn't given them more than a second's thought before sending it.

Haven't heard from you in a while.
As though
Charlie
should have initiated contact. As though it was his fault they didn't talk much anymore. Charlie felt the heat in his face and blamed the Vicodin. The rest of the e-mail was exactly what it always was: Mark tossing out the word love like it was nothing and assuming that he knew what Charlie wanted. Charlie closed it without responding.

Smiley faces were ridiculous for a grown man to use, even if Charlie had no problem believing that Will would use them. Will probably also had an account on every popular social site. Will would know exactly what color shirts Charlie ought to be wearing. Not that Charlie could ask him about any of that now, not with the way he'd sent him out of here.

Charlie dropped his head and shifted when he remembered Will's surprise. He knew what it was like to be rejected and shouldn't have done it like that. In his flighty and crazy way, the kid had just been being what he considered friendly.

As friendly as he was with everyone else. Charlie was thinking about impossible things.

He sat up, went out of his e-mail program to his usual haunts, then left them without remembering a single thing he'd read.

The pain was finally beginning to fade, though the pills were making him flushed all over. Charlie closed the laptop, letting it shut down on its own, then sat there with his eyes closed, seeing the same thing he'd been seeing behind his eyes all day, the memory that had stayed with him through six hours of classes and a solid hour of grueling exercise.

Will, watching him from so close, his eyes almost all black, his lips parted just enough, curved into a small, soft smile.

Charlie cleared his throat, opened his eyes.

He could try to think of a lie, tell Mark he had plans on Sunday. But of course he had nowhere to go, which Mark had known even before sending it. It was a wonder that he'd e-mailed first.

Charlie moved his feet from under Sam's butt, wondering how the cat could possibly be cold with the weather so warm already, and then pushed himself to his feet. He hesitated over the dishes but finally left them in the sink. He wasn't washing them tonight. With two pills in him, he'd been lucky to have managed this much.

He flicked off lights as he went, heard Sam following him. He limped into the bathroom and came out a few minutes later to see Sam already curled up at one corner of the bed. Charlie hit the bedroom lights too, shrugging off his pants in the dark, leaving his cell phone in his pants pocket on the floor, and crawling on top of the covers.

Curling onto his side was only comfortable for about half a minute and then he had to lie on his back and stare at the ceiling as his eyes adjusted to the trickle of light coming through the curtains. It was early to be going to bed, even by his standards. But he stayed where he was, breathing like he'd been told to when the pain was bad, letting it slip away, letting the pills mask it.

His skin felt too hot, one reason he hated the prescription, but between that and the darkness, he could feel his attention getting fuzzy, vague. Sweat itched under his arms, at his chest.

He'd forgotten what to talk about on dates and pushed out another breath, breathed in, regular and even, until his heart rate slowed. He could always talk about books, or movies if they weren't readers.

Will had been almost in awe that someone would own that many books, much less read them, but Will had seemed to know movies— at least, old movies— by heart, and would probably keep talking about them for days if anyone ever gave him the chance.

Charlie stretched now that the pain was dulled, shifting up until his head was angled toward the open window. He still had things to talk about, he reasoned, and for the time he'd been here, before Charlie had ruined it, Will hadn't seemed bored.

It was likely that anyone that radiant found everything fascinating. Charlie instantly felt his flushed skin prickle with more heat at his use of “radiant.” Inquisitive, he substituted, clever. Why, someone like that flitted around like a butterfly that had never found a sunbeam it didn't like. Not that he'd get an answer if he tried asking now. It was what he got for wanting more.

It wasn't something he would have let cross his mind if Mark hadn't e-mailed, if Will hadn't shown up and made him remember every single reason why Charlie was apparently so forgettable.

He couldn't hear anything from outside. The complex was quiet as it hadn't been for weeks, something he'd grown used to, a stillness broken only by college kids coming and going, Grayson's cocktail parties, Mrs. Brown's family visiting en masse. A footstep in the yard should be audible, even in here, but he didn't hear anything but wind rustling through trees, bringing in a fog that would be gone by morning.

It was so quiet he should have finally been able to sleep, but his eyes were open and so dry they burned.

If he had been smarter, he would have reached up when Will had been leaning over him and put one hand at Will's side to draw him closer. Gently at first, but then Will would have smiled at him, made that smug, pleased sound deep in his throat, and Charlie would have curled his fingers into the small of his back, holding Will tight so he would straddle his lap.

It wouldn't hurt, either, as long as he was fantasizing, so Charlie would bring up his other hand, slide it through Will's hair to angle his head back for kiss. Something long and drawn out, like they kissed in the movies, something that would make Will pull away to whisper his name and run his mouth down Charlie's throat, his body shifting to allow him to press his lips to Charlie's chest, his stomach, lower.

Or Charlie would hold back from kissing Will until Will would give him that pretend hurt look, and then Charlie would step forward, push with his body until Will's back was to the wall again like Will had wanted, and his fluttering hands would come up against the brick, and
then
Charlie would kiss him. He'd lick Will's smart mouth open and tilt his head back, breathe in every sound Will made as Charlie would pop loose the buttons on his fly and get his useless belt out of the way and wrap his hand around his dick.

Charlie inhaled sharply, blinking rapidly and trying to focus even with his whole body pounding.

His hands moved slowly, uncurled from sheets and not honey-colored hair. He tried to wet his lips, but his mouth felt like it had been swabbed with cotton. He moved his hands again, let his mouth fall open when he found himself partly aroused. He ran his fingers along his dick, then curled onto his side, lifting his head until he found the cool part of his pillow.

The lights on the ceiling had shifted, as though time had passed, but he knew he hadn't been sleeping. It was something else he didn't like about his prescription, feeling like he'd woken up only to realize that he hadn't been asleep.

It was still quiet outside. Charlie smoothed his palm across his pillow as he remembered urging Will back, needing him to say his name, to get down on his knees and not giving a damn about witnesses.

He didn't put a hand to his cock, just lay there with the breeze whispering in Will's voice. The image was different, challenging in the same way that Will was. But he could see it, feel it, words rumbling in his throat for a moment as he imagined saying them.

He rolled over onto his stomach, pushing his cock into the mattress and splaying one hand on his pillow. With his eyes closed, he tried to feel a hand at his hip, breath at his ear, fast and eager, but the wind was laughing, and he curled his hand around another, pressed down into heat and moved his head to follow the sound of that laughter, to push until it mingled with gasps and the way Will said his name.

It didn't mean anything, he reminded himself, but he listened for any sounds from outside. He'd already gotten used to coming home to Will— to seeing and hearing Will— and today there hadn't been anything. He didn't think it was a coincidence.

He wasn't sure what that implied, if he was only hoping that Will had been waiting to see him all those evenings, but he pushed himself up, and even numb from the pills his lower body protested.

His alarm clock said two in the morning. He hadn't heard if Will had come home. It was stupid of him to be listening, but Charlie liked doing stupid things, like taking twice his normal prescription dose in an attempt to get some sleep.

Sam was an unmoving lump in one corner, probably as wide-awake as Charlie was but ignoring Charlie on principle. Charlie ignored him back and rubbed a hand across his face before getting to his feet.

There was still no sound from outside, but his mouth was dry. He walked in the dark, trying not to think about his dick until he was standing against his sink and finishing a glass of water.

He had never done anything like what Will had been hinting for. Nothing even a little rough, ever. Charlie had always gone slow, liking to get to know someone, his body, to make him happy. But he never demanded, not when he wasn't likely to get what he was asking for. But Will had been hinting at something else, as if Charlie could say anything.

Charlie groaned and put the glass to his forehead. He wondered if Will would laugh if he saw what he was doing to him or just tell Charlie it was his fault for kicking him out. He already knew that it was his fault, and though it was impossible to apologize for everything or explain, he at least should say something to let the kid know he was sorry. If a door got slammed in his face, it was what he deserved for taking out his problems on somebody else.