Second Hand (Tucker Springs) (17 page)

I woke around five, my head pounding and my stomach in turmoil. El wasn’t there, which was fine because I threw up for an hour, eventually giving up and sleeping on the bathroom floor between bouts so I didn’t have to move so far to get the job done. When I woke up at nine, the bathroom rug pattern impressed on my face, I finally emerged from the bathroom and collapsed back into bed.

At noon I woke to the beeping sound of my phone announcing a text. It was from El.

Hope you’re feeling okay this morning. Sorry I didn’t stick around but wasn’t sure if you’d want me there or not. I hope you don’t think I took advantage of you while you were drunk. Even though I did. Call if you want.

Another text followed.
MoJo says hi and that she didn’t take advantage of you at all, so don’t take your disgust at me out on her.

I smiled again, though I bit the inside of my cheek at the same time, trying to quell the upset in my stomach that had nothing to do with too much rum. I felt like I should text back, but I didn’t know what to say. Telling myself I’d think of something later, I put the phone down and went to the kitchen to see what food I might be able to keep down.

Except as I searched through my cupboards, full of food instead of useless appliances, I remembered last night. Remembered the way El had smiled at me. The way he’d danced with me. I remembered his touch and the taste of his kiss and the wonderful feeling of being in his arms. I remembered the way he’d touched me and told me I was beautiful inside and out. I remembered feeling amazing. Cherished. Loved.

That feeling was tempered more than a little by the acknowledgment of what exactly I had done and with whom. Specifically, that the whom had been a man.

After my shower, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring into my own eyes. The chipmunk part of my brain was back on its wheel, chattering away about how it didn’t matter, how I had been drunk, how it was just messing around. Except that other voice wasn’t whispering in the back of my head now. It really wasn’t saying anything, but it wasn’t muted. It pushed the chipmunk further and further back, calling up memories older than the ones from the night before. Of kissing the neighbor boy, Dean. Of feeling my heart race when he’d breathed against my neck. Of catching sight of boys in the locker room and being turned on—and terrified.

Of being caught by Dean’s mom with his hand on my cock, of her screaming, of me begging her not to tell my mom. Of never seeing Dean again after that.

Of being tempted by guys at college but being rescued by Stacey and her willingness to direct my life. Of how the longer I was with Stacey, the less I thought about guys at all until I couldn’t even remember having ever liked them.

I stared at myself and had a strange sort of epiphany, or at least something that felt like one, a kind of companion to that unsettled sensation I’d had at El’s text, and just like then, I couldn’t put it into words. Because it wasn’t about words. It was about feelings. It was about wanting. About aching.

About
needing
.

The sensation carried me out of the house and into my car, which seemed to know it was supposed to go to Tucker Pawn, because that’s where I ended up. The shop was closed, but the feelings carried me around the side to a door which could only go up to his apartment.

It wasn’t until I heard MoJo barking excitedly and El cooing to her as he came down the stairs that I remembered I’d meant to call him, not show up unannounced on a Sunday afternoon. So when he opened the door, I was frozen in fear and mortification and the same emptiness I remembered through a rum haze when he’d told me he needed to take me home.

“Paul.” That was all he said, and he seemed surprised, but not exactly excited to see me. Wary, definitely.

I still couldn’t speak. I wanted him to smile, to tease me, because he always did. He wasn’t now, though. He just looked at me, guarded, unreadable. Unhelpful.

I think I’d arrived believing it would be some kind of movie moment where he’d sweep me into his arms and we’d kissed and everything would work out. The weird part was, I could feel that possibility lurking underneath us, except neither of us were willing to make that leap. Or maybe I was the only one wishing for cheesy violins. Maybe he was hoping I would buy a clue and go away.

He’d wanted me last night, though. That much I remembered. He’d wanted me this morning. But standing here now, looking at him with all his wariness, it was so easy to believe he’d come to his senses. Or that I’d already managed to screw everything up before I even had myself figured out.

It didn’t help that I
still
didn’t know what to say, what I felt, what I wanted. So with nothing else to offer, I said, “We need to talk.”

His expression the same, he nodded. “Probably so.” He opened the door.

Then he picked up MoJo and headed up the stairs.

I followed, forgetting I’d ever had a hangover and wishing like hell for a bottle of rum.

El fussed with MoJo as he led Paul into the apartment, trying not to let on how panicked he truly was.

He’d been bouncing off the walls ever since he’d sent the text, alternating between wearing holes in his floorboards and obsessively checking his phone to make sure the ringer was on, that the ringer still worked, that the phone worked, period, that it was loud enough for him to hear even in the bedroom if it rang, and most importantly of all, that Paul hadn’t called or texted him and he’d missed it.

Whether it was because Paul appearing at his door wasn’t part of his plan or because he’d appeared spouting the four most ominous words in the universe—
we need to talk
—El couldn’t say. Maybe it would have been this way on the phone, too. Maybe it had always been destined to head here. Maybe—actually, no maybe about it—he should never have opened this can of worms in the first place.

Except he knew all the way down to the soles of his shoes that he would do this all again in a heartbeat, even if Paul was about to kiss him good-bye. Without so much as a kiss.

Paul, he realized, still hadn’t said anything. Glancing over to check, El saw his guest holding up a wall near his small dining table at the edge of the room that was his cooking, living, and eating area. Paul looked as terrified as El felt, all but begging with his eyes to be let out of this conversation.

El let out a huff of air and swallowed a grimace. The hell he would coach Paul through cutting him loose. He plunked down on the corner of the couch and motioned for MoJo to jump up in his lap—a useless gesture, as she was already halfway there. “Have a seat. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

The only seats available were the recliner, which was practically to El’s back the way he was sitting, and the other end of the small couch he already occupied. It depressed the hell out of him when Paul chose to drag a chair over from the table. “I—I’m sorry. I know you said to call.”

“It’s fine.” El smiled, but it felt like something strange and constipated. He gave it up and focused on rubbing behind MoJo’s ears. “So. You said we need to talk.”

He could practically
feel
Paul’s discomfort radiating across the room. “I— Yes. I mean, don’t you? About last night? I—” He stammered a moment, and when El gave in and glanced up, Paul’s face, neck, and ears were red. “Or maybe you don’t. Maybe that was normal for you and no big deal.” Paul’s eyes weren’t closed, but they were focused so hard on a spot on the floor that El figured there’d likely be a hole by the end of the conversation. “It was a big deal for me.”

Hell. With a heavy sigh, El displaced MoJo and scooted forward on the couch, bracing his elbows against his knees. “It was for me too. Except it looks like it’s upset you, so I’m sorry. Like I said last night, you were drunk, and I knew better. I’m sorry.”

“No.” Paul’s gaze lifted quickly, urgently, then fell to the floor in a new wave of blushing. “I mean—” He began to worry his fingers, tugging at them and bending them into contortions that made El brace himself for the crack of bones. “I was drunk. Very drunk. But I think I remember everything. Including how you tried to get me home, and—” Now his eyes did fall shut, and the wind seemed to go out of him.

“I’m sorry,” El whispered, feeling shitty and helpless.

Paul laughed, a strange, tortured sound. “That’s . . . that’s just it. I don’t know that I am.”

The weight of dread over El froze and lifted slightly. “Oh?”

The fingers launched back into their contortions. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. Trying to. Mostly I feel confused and panicked and something else I can’t figure out how to describe except that it’s why I ended up over here. I mean—I thought I was over this. I hadn’t
thought
about this. Not in a long, long time.”

“Thought about what?”

Paul was almost sweating. “Being—being—” Those fingers were never going to make it.

“Gay?” El finished for him.

Paul shook his head, then stopped as if he were confused. “Yes—well, I mean, I don’t know that I am. All the way, I mean. It’s not like I had to talk myself into sex with Stacey.”

El could do without hearing that woman’s name again, ever. Especially when attached to sex with Paul. “Well, Kinsey didn’t make his scale out of nothing.”

Paul nodded, blushing a little. “I mean, I’ve been with guys before. Well, one. Sort of. One guy, one girl. I guess it’s never been a big deal to me—I’ve always been attracted to both. But it’s easier to be with women.”

Biting back comments about how much hell Stacey had put Paul through, El held still and waited. Paul, however, merely hunched over himself, his breathing coming fast and shallow. El gave up and scooted all the way to the end of the couch, reaching for Paul but stopping short of touching his knee. “Paul.”

Paul plowed on. “Sometimes I wonder how much of being with Stacey was taking the easy way out. It seems stupid now, as stupid as everything else I’ve tried to do, pretending to be someone I’m not. I don’t even have some great reason, like my parents are religious zealots who protest gay funerals or something. Not even close. It just . . . it was never safe to be with men. And I didn’t
hate
girls. I never sat down and reasoned it out, but I think some part of me decided why make a fuss? Why make life hard?” His hands tightened into each other, his whole body tensing as his voice rose. “Now it’s all awake, all those old feelings I thought I’d put away. They’re all right here, and I don’t want to be this, don’t want the complicated way, but I don’t want to say no, and you probably think I’m an idiot, which I am, but I can’t turn it off, I don’t want to try, and that was amazing and I want to do it again, but I—”

At
you probably think I’m an idiot
, El started moving; at
I don’t want to try
, he knelt in front of Paul, who was hyperventilating and talking as fast as a rabid auctioneer; at
I want to do it again
, he allowed himself one moment to savor the words, and then he took Paul’s face in his hands and stopped the flow of chatter with a kiss.

It was a sweet kiss, a slow kiss, meant to gentle Paul and possibly get a little air back
into
his lungs instead of letting it all fall out in a rush of words, but it didn’t stay that way long. Paul whimpered, rested trembling hands on El’s shoulders, and El groaned back, teasing Paul’s lips open to deepen the kiss.

“I’ll stop if you want,” he whispered, sliding his hands down to Paul’s waist. “Just tell me what you want.”

“I don’t know.” Paul leaned hard into El, his body clearly not suffering from indecision. “I just . . . I just . . . I . . .”

El placed a kiss on Paul’s chin. “It’s me. Okay? I’m not going to hurt you, and I’m not going to laugh. Tell me what you want. What you need.” He nuzzled his way back to that sweet, soft mouth. “Let me give it to you.”

Paul’s swallow was audible. “I’m sorry. I feel like a little kid. I probably sound like one. That can’t be attractive.”

“I promise you’re very attractive. And nothing like a kid.” El’s fingers dipped into Paul’s waistband, then paused. “We can just talk, Paul. I don’t want you to feel like I’m pushing you into anything. I’ve done more than enough of that already.”

Paul’s gaze fixed on El, hesitant and heated at once. “Maybe . . . maybe I want to be pushed.”

El allowed himself a moment to drink that in too. Then he pulled Paul onto his lap, nudged the chair aside, and kissed Paul without holding anything back while he pushed him with surety of purpose to the floor.

Paul’s needy gasps and clutching hands spurred him on. “Did you
really
want me from the moment you saw me?” Paul whispered between heated kisses.

“Yeah.” El couldn’t figure out where he wanted to touch Paul first, so he kept his hands moving, shoving aside clothing, seeking skin. “I want you now. Tell me what’s too far, Paul. Tell me right now.”

“Nothing. I want all of it.”

Remembering the dazed, frightened look he’d been treated to at the bottom of the stairs, El mentally wrote several activities off despite what Paul had said. “I don’t want you to freak out afterward.” His throat threatened to close in self-defense, but he shoved through the blockage and pressed on. “Because I don’t just want to make love to you today. I want to be with you, Paul.” That was as much as he could get out. He went back to making love to Paul’s neck.