Then he unbuttoned Kit’s fly.
Peeling Kit’s skinny jeans down took a moment, in which Kit had time to think. For once, he wasn’t mad about it.
He’d gotten all twisted up about schedules, and whether moving in together would upset their delicate equilibrium. But his relationships weren’t that fragile. Kit just had to keep trying. So far, against all his fears, that had been enough.
Holden could still color-code their sex roster if he wanted, sure. That was too funny to put a stop to.
Kit’s cock throbbed as Darius drew it out. Each steady, gentle touch forced Kit to concentrate on keeping his arms in place.
There was a warning squeak of tape when Darius swallowed him to the root.
Kit’s bubbly good mood lasted until his return to James’s house. He still couldn’t think of it as his house, especially when they were moving out. At the beginning, he’d thought surely he would have to leave eventually. James wouldn’t put up with a leech forever.
Maybe it wasn’t really James’s home either. It wasn’t the house he’d grown up in, and only the bedroom felt like a truly lived-in space.
That was where Kit found James, sitting on the floor. His back was to Kit, and the vibrant wings of his phoenix tattoo rose and fell with every breath.
“Hey, gorgeous,” James said, tossing a smile over his shoulder.
Kit sighed, but he couldn’t be mad. “Are you looking at them again?”
“Gorgeousandsmart.” James looked Kit up and down, taking in the dishevelment from his hair to his rumpled, un-taped sweatshirt sleeves. “I’ll be done in a minute, you go to bed. Or shower. I’ll join you wherever.”
Instead, Kit sat right next to James and leaned against his shoulder. James relaxed against Kit, even as he continued turning the pages.
James’s father had made the scrapbooks. There were nearly a dozen, topics spanning from holidays to vacations to ordinary life. Today, James was looking at one of several devoted to his mother’s achievements. Photos and news articles clipped from the paper or printed from the web. Evelyn Zhou again and again, solemn or smiling or glaring at the long-ago camera.
The sticky notes on the plastic sleeve protectors were recent additions. James had been trying to identify everyone who had ever been photographed with his mother.
“Have you thought about showing these to Holden?” Kit asked quietly. “He’s good at seeing patterns.”
“I hate that idea,” James said. “But not as much as I should hate it. Also, does this look like the bed or shower?”
The teasing tone was a relief. James was done brooding for the night.
Sure enough, two seconds later, Kit was in James’s arms.
18
“Feel free to call HR.”
Kit sat ensconced in Bishop’s office chair, as Bishop stood by the scanner. The chair wasn’t as monstrously ergonomic as James’s, but still big enough for Kit to sit cross-legged on. Size did matter.
“What’s this for?” Kit asked, twirling the straw around his glass of soda. It was a thrillingly elaborate twisty straw, striped pink and lime green. Not Bishop’s usual style. Either James gave Bishop a pack as a stupid gift, or Bishop bought them with Kit in mind, as a very nice, not stupid gift.
Bishop sipped from his own plain mug of plain coffee. “It’s an apology.”
How thoughtful. Unnecessary, though. Kit’s complaints about scanning Holden’s murder archives were more decorative than sincere. A melodramatic way to fill the empty air of Bishop’s office.
Bishop set aside the latest finished notebook. It was labeled Fantasy Football League and contained newspaper clippings of several gruesome murders that seemed completely unrelated to fantasy football.
“How’s James?” Bishop asked.
Kit slurped loudly from the twisty straw. “Fine, more or less.”
“I haven’t heard much from him,” Bishop said, not even trying to disguise the leading question.
Kit was reluctant to follow that line of conversation. No shit, Kit was worried about James. But he didn’t want to spill James’s emotional business. Sharing other people’s secrets would be hypocritical as fuck.
