Too Stupid to Live(Romancelandia) (16 page)

Sam had padded carefully around after the first time he woke up, looking at Ian’s house. Not in the medicine cabinet or anything, just . . . around. He’d found colorful rugs on hardwood floors and nice furniture. Two leather chairs in the living room flanked a muted sage, velvet-upholstered couch.

Ian was very neat. The dishes were done and the counters were clear. Someone had cleaned the floors recently, and there was no coating of dust on the end tables. Sam felt very out of place. Even the sheets on the guest bed (guest bed!) were high thread count and crisply white, covered by a damask comforter.

Most shocking of all, there was no television. Or at least he’d thought so, until he’d carefully opened what looked like an armoire in the living room—if Sam had an armoire, at a minimum the hinges would squeak—and found a small set.

It had all felt a little bit like visiting an alien landscape, not because Sam’s place was so different (which it was), but because Ian didn’t seem like the kind of guy who cared about stuff like this. Truthfully, Sam had expected an array of vibrating recliners sporting built-in cup holders facing a big-screen TV and a fridge full of nothing but beer. He thought Ian would be the type of guy who bought pans at the dollar store and threw them away when they got too dirty to use. It worked for him, after all.

Instead, it was the type of place Sam would like to become accustomed to. He could live here; would
love
to be surrounded by the comfortable but attractive tidiness of it all. He’d live that way now if he could, he just seemed to lack any decorative skill or even an iota of talent for organization. Or cleanliness. Yet another stereotypical benefit of being gay Sam seemed to have been shorted on.

A toilet flushed, water ran, and Sam quickly rolled over. He felt the door to the bathroom open with a rush of air across his arm. He did his best to fake sleep—something he’d always sucked at—and listened to Ian creep into the room, across the wood and rugs.

Ian leaned over him in bed, nearly jolting Sam into opening his eyes. He didn’t, though. Should he pretend to wake up now?

“Sam?” Ian whispered.

“Mmm?” Half-consciousness seemed like a good compromise.

“I have to go. Someone’s picking me up for a rugby game.”

Sam opened his eyes and turned to look into Ian’s face a few inches above his. He’d shaved, and Sam wanted to rub his cheek against Ian’s smooth jaw, but he didn’t. After a few seconds, he remembered to blink sleepily, like he’d just awakened.
Oops
.

Ian smiled at him. “You don’t have to get up.” He gripped Sam’s chin between his fingers and leaned down to kiss him quickly, and again, as if once wasn’t quite enough. “I’m leaving you a key so you can lock the door behind you when you go.”

Ian wanted him to leave?

Okay, sheesh, that was stupid. Even if he . . . well, he wanted to stay, but he shouldn’t because he had a lot to do and—

Wait. Ian was giving him a key? Sam’s mouth went dry. What did that mean?

“You probably have a lot to do today, huh?” Ian sat back on the bed, letting go of Sam’s chin and propping himself up on one arm.

“Yeah.” Sam nodded vigorously. “I have homework and a class to prepare for and you know. Housework and stuff.”

Ian looked like he had to stifle a smile. Sam had a feeling he wasn’t buying the housework excuse. “You teach?” he asked.

Sam nodded some more. “Yeah. I teach freshman and sophomore undergrads how
not
to write.”

Ian scrunched his brow. “How do you teach someone not to do something?”

“Mostly by telling them the way they did it is wrong.”

“So positive reinforcement isn’t a teaching method you use a lot?”

“It’s not from lack of trying,” Sam said.

Ian opened his mouth, but a knock on the front door cut him off. “Hell, there’s my ride.” He didn’t move. “Stay in bed awhile, the key is on the table next to the front door.”

“How will I get it back to you?” Sam held his breath.

“Next time you come over,” Ian said. The doorbell rang. “’Kay, kiddo, gotta go. Um, I took your number off your cell and programmed mine into it,” he added, standing up and grabbing something off his dresser.

Sneaky of him, but
so
thrilling. “’Kay.” Sam smiled happily, since Ian wasn’t looking. Then Ian turned and caught him smiling.
Damn it
.

Ian smiled back. “Maybe we can, uh, hook up next weekend?” Sam nodded, trying to tamp down his eagerness. “Okay, I’ll call you during the week,” Ian said, walking backward out of the room. A muffled voice was shouting his name through the front door. “Can you strip the sheets off the bed before you go?”

“Yeah. Bye.” Sam gave up trying not to smile. Ian winked at him and walked out. Sam heard a complaining voice when Ian opened the front door, then Ian’s answer—short and curt, the way he usually sounded.

“Why do we always take your car?” Ian asked on the way to Tierney’s parking spot. He knew asking wasn’t going to change shit, but he thought he would spread some of his annoyance around. He wasn’t annoyed at taking Tierney’s damn car again so much as annoyed at Tierney, period. For breathing. For knocking on his damn door when Ian had a warm, naked guy in his bed.

Warm, naked Sam
. Ian nearly tripped over his own feet.

Tierney saved him from any potential moments of introspection, thank fuck. “Dude, my car’s hawt,” he answered with a leer for his “baby,” stroking the hood as they reached his stupid car. “Chicks dig it.”

“Oh my God,” Ian groaned, walking around to the passenger side. “You’re just . . . such a fucking stereotype.” It was times like this he remembered why Tierney had insisted—unsuccessfully—on being called “T-bone” in college. He hadn’t been as fond of his other nickname: “T-boner.”

“What?” Tierney stared at him over the roof, brow furrowed. “What crawled up your ass and died this morning?”

That surprised a laugh out of Ian. “Nothing. Open the fucking car and let’s go.”

Tierney hit the unlock button and jerked his door open, looking annoyed and confused.
I just need to chill out
. It wasn’t Tierney’s fault Ian would rather be crawling up someone else’s ass right now. And it wasn’t like Ian hadn’t always known Tierney was a shallow prick.

After they got in, Ian could see Tierney’s hand trembling as he forced the key into the ignition and started the car. Had he pissed T off that much? He sighed. “Sorry, man. I didn’t sleep much last night.” Completely true, and it had been totally worth it.

“There was a time when you were just as big a horndog as you think I am, asshole.” Tierney slammed the gearshift into reverse. He planted a hand on the back of Ian’s seat, turning to see where he was going, but he stopped to scowl at Ian.

“Yeah, well I thought I had something to prove,” Ian muttered. He was skirting dangerous territory, but that conversation would be unavoidable sooner or later.

For a second he wanted to make Tierney face it head-on, tell him he liked guys and was totally, completely fucking gay, no two ways about it (anymore). But he lost the impulse when Tierney laughed, telling him, “Everyone has something to prove in college.”

“And you didn’t prove it
enough
?” Ian shot back, and instantly regretted it.

“What the fuck, dude? What is your fucking
problem
?” Tierney stomped on the gas pedal, squealing backward out of the parking space and jerking to a stop.

“Nothing.”

They were silent for the rest of the way to the park where they played, and Ian spent the ride thinking about his fucking problem.

Nothing went right after that conversation with Tierney. Ian’s team lost the rugby game, and during the ritual after-game beers, all the guys talked about chicks. Ian just didn’t care enough to fake it anymore. Then when he finally got back to his place, Sam was gone.

Which was what he’d wanted, right?

Right
.

On Monday morning, he woke up convinced his skin had shrunk. Or maybe his muscles and bones had grown. It just felt
off
, like things inside had shifted around and he needed some sort of dermal alteration, and possibly a couple of extra ribs.

He probably needed to adjust to these changes before calling Sam.

When Ian got to the office and Andrea asked how his weekend had been, he growled something at her. She lifted her eyebrows and went to make coffee. “You can get your own,” she said as she walked off.

“What the hell kind of assistant are you if you won’t even get me coffee?”

“I’m your assistant
director
. If you want someone to get you coffee, hire my little brother.”

Ian’s glare bounced right off the back of her head.

They spent the rest of the week interviewing people for the three positions they had to fill, and Ian was forced to be polite. Weirdly, he was starting to feel more polite. His skin settled into its new shape, and now he wasn’t calling Sam because he needed to . . . well, he wasn’t sure what, but something.

On Thursday, Dalton came in for his interview. Andy skipped that one, since she was his sister, so it was just Ian and a cute twink with big eyes and a sweet, elfin face.
That’s the kind of guy Sam should be with, not me
. Ian wanted to reach across the desk and throttle him.

Not that Sam was
with
him, of course.

Ian spent a half hour interviewing Dalton, but his mind was on Sam the whole time. It was distracting and maddening and completely fucking unprofessional and probably the worst interview Dalton had ever suffered through. Ian was just lucky he had a list of prepared questions.

After the first ten minutes, he found himself looking at the frown line between Dalton’s brows more than anything else. Sam had a little line like that sometimes. Ian devoted a lot of effort to remembering just exactly when that wrinkle appeared on Sam’s forehead—when he was doing something specific, Ian thought. He didn’t have that furrow all the time. It wasn’t the same as the wrinkle he had when he came.

“You seem very busy,” Dalton said suddenly, interrupting himself mid-answer to one of Ian’s questions. Whatever question that might have been. “I know you’re just interviewing me because Andy twisted your arm somehow, so maybe I should go.” He leaned over to pick up his messenger bag from the chair next to him, his mouth a perfect, upside down “U.”

Ian coughed uncomfortably. “I guess I’m busy . . . but I’m supposed to be busy interviewing people.”

Dalton shrugged. “You’re preoccupied,” he said simply, buckling buckles and zipping zippers. His bag was a nice one, leather and vaguely military-esque. Very fashionable. Ian had a flash image of him walking down the street with it bouncing along on his back.

But that wasn’t quite right, was it? He really looked at Dalton for the first time. He had an edge of experience, a hardness around his eyes.

“How old are you, Dalton?” Had he already asked this?

Dalton’s lips pursed, which probably meant Dalton had already told him. “I’ll be twenty-seven in March,” he said. “I worked full-time while going to school and finally earned my bachelor’s from State University in June.”

“The guy I’m seeing is a grad student there.” Ian nearly slapped his hand over his mouth. The
fuck
had he said that for? Dalton’s head bobbed up, and he looked as surprised as Ian felt.

“Oh. Um, is that why you’re sort of . . .” Dalton made a circling motion with his index finger near his temple. Ian’s eyes bugged out.
Crazy
? “Inattentive?” Dalton finished.

“Um . . .”

“Maybe I should get you some coffee?” Dalton offered.

“I guess . . .”

Dalton bounced up out of his seat. “Okay,” he said.

Ian watched him walk out, then looked down at the résumé in front of him. Dalton Lehnart had worked in the Dean of Admission’s office for five of his six college years. He typed seventy words per minute. Was that fast? It
seemed
fast.

“Here you go,” Dalton sang, traipsing back into the room. He set a mug in front of Ian. The right mug, no less—Ian’s favorite solid red, cylindrical one.