She looked impressed.“It’s good to see you butching it up a little,” she whispered.
“Thanks, Eva,” he whispered back.The professor wasn’t even there, but classroom habits died hard.“Adjusting myself in public is butch?”
“Totally.”
Ian hadn’t called him by Tuesday evening.Nothing to worry about—he couldn’t appear eager, after all.Sam knew they hadsomekind of connection.Ian would call him eventually.He went to sleep confident things would be fine.
Worry had set in by the time he woke up Wednesday.He went to the library and sort of managed to concentrate on his short story, but by evening he was sure that the strange sense of intimacy they’d achieved on Sunday morning had been too much for Ian.He never should have mentioned Ian’s injury, or asked him what happened.He should have pretended to believe Ian’s taciturn bastard act.
But being incurably curious and dopey, Sam had just had to pry a little.He’d thought he could see some of the paint peeling from Ian’s facade, so he’d picked at it until he could look underneath.When would he ever learn?Guys like Ian didn’t do sharing time.This wasn’t a romance novel, it was real life, and Sam had ruined everything.No more scorching hot, parametered sex for him.
Which was just fine, right?Because he needed to find out that Ian wasn’t the right guy for him and move on.Sam was a husband hunter, pure and simple.He didn’t have time to stop and smell the roses (snerk) with guys who were only stellar in bed and had nothing else to offer.
Okay, good, he’d settled that.Now he could stop staring at the phone.
He finally stopped staring at the phone Wednesday afternoon when he had to go work his shift at Fatty’s.Tineke eyed him suspiciously, but seemed to know better than to do more than circle him and wait.Married straight women could sense gay boy heartache like a shark could scent blood in the water.
By the time he had to teach his Thursday evening class, Sam had worn a cell phone outline into the back right pocket of his favorite jeans—the ones he wore for comfort when things weren’t going well.Sometimes, when life really sucked, he slept in them—just because undressing was too much work, not because they gave him an increased sense of security or anything.
That’s what his vintage Snoopy “Later Skater” T-shirt was for.
He barely made it through his class outline with the group of mostly uninterested freshman and sophomores.He let them go early.
At 3 a.m.Friday morning, he lay in bed wearing his comfort jeans with the newly redecorated pocket, his Snoopy security shirt, and his Batman Underoos, staring at his cell phone in the dim and lonely glow of the digital clock on his nightstand.
I’m truly, inarguably pathetic.
It might be time to call in the shock troops.But Nik would be in bed asleep already.
In bed, beside his boyfriend.His gorgeous, manly, in-love-with-him boyfriend.Probably wrapped in his possessive arms.
Sam sighed.At least Jurgen doesn’t have much chest hair.Nik couldn’t haveeverythingSam ever wanted, after all.
On Friday morning, Ian found himself hard-pressed to sayanythingto his therapist.Janet’s pleasant expression wore thin on the edges as he stalled.“Is this the use you want to be making of your time with me?”she asked him after a particularly long silence.
Ian slumped.“Not really.”
“Is there something you don’t want to talk about?”
“Yes,” he muttered, crossing his arms on his chest.
“I’m not going to make you talk about it, but we might want to talk aboutsomething.”Her knuckles were going white where she clasped her hands in her lap.
That was satisfying.He smirked, just the corners of his mouth.“I don’t want to talk about anything.”
“That’s your choice, Ian.”
“I saw that guy again.”
Janet raised an interested eyebrow, but said nothing.
“I told him I just wanted sex.”
“Ah.”
“What does that mean?”Ian snapped.
“It means, ‘I see.’”He studied her suspiciously.Was she biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling?He wouldn’t put it above her.“I’m not judging you.”
