CHAPTER EIGHT
CLAY
I’m pulled from sleep by the steadily building sound of jock rock.
Groaning, I sit up. I’m on the guest bed with no sheets, my sleeping bag unzipped and spread beneath me, barely comfortable enough that I can sleep. In my boxers, I shuffle to the front window to see who’s blasting AC/DC on a Sunday only to realize that the music is coming from the back.
I curse when I look out the rear window. There must be thirty or forty people in the yard, laughing and mingling. There’s a table full of food, and a keg set up at either end of the table.
Brunch with Sue and Nance. Damn it, that’s right. No hauling boxes from the basement into the yard today.
When I check my phone, it’s nearing noon. Sunday is the only day I let myself sleep in, and I guess I really needed it this week.
My crap is scattered around the house, and I step over power tools as I make my way to coffee. It’s increasingly clear that I’m not getting out of Buffalo anytime soon, so I’ve bought minimal groceries, eggs and frozen pizza.
Collapsed back on the couch, I drink coffee and scratch my balls, trying to wake up as the raucous noise from the back grows louder. I was up late reading about realty. But my searches—likeselling falling down house,andforcing owner to keep tenant—got me nowhere.
I still want to finish assessing before I meet with a realtor, but the more I explore the house, the more I start itching to just fix it myself.
Not that I have the funds to pull off a renovation. All my theoretical money is on the other side of selling this place. And I’ll have plenty of new carpentry projects to occupy myself when I start my own business.
Hell, I’m probably out of my mind for considering anything except selling to the highest bidder. But I’ve been turned around since I got to Buffalo. Maybe I’m feeling some kind of way about Randy, and it’s got me acting funny. Like how I spent all my life suppressing whatever questions or inclinations I do have about men, only to turn around and bark out “I’m bi” like a damn fool.
I blame Nicholas, and the fact that I keep accidentally talking to him.
Nicholas who acts nice and smells like flowers and wears T-shirts with suit jackets.
When I think about him, my skin burns. My senses get all confused, and I huff to myself, feeling like I’m standing there in his shop again while he laughs and smiles, soft and warm.
My dick twitches alive in my boxers. I cup my balls, and at my core, heat solidifies into a hard rod of want. Dragging my hand up my stiff dick, I rumble with pleasure.
Nicholas’s face. His soft mouth.
What would it feel like to kiss him? Would he be gentle against me, or would he push back, drag his teeth at my stubble?
In my mind, my hands explore his side, his hips, his legs. I spit in my palm and pump my cock, and my imagination wrestles through desires, stumbling around, lurching and unsteady.
That mouth, and the sounds he would make when I slid my dick into his ass.
With a groan, I erupt. My hand is shoved in my boxers, and I grip my base as I shoot, flooding the cotton and making a sticky mess of myself.
When I get under the hot shower to clean up, I hear Ozzy rocking from the back.
Dressed, I eat cereal at the sink and gulp more coffee. When a cheer erupts, I walk over to the windows and see that a group of older women are playing catch, zinging a softball faster than I could. One of the women spins and catches it behind her back, and everyone else laughs and throws their gloves at her.
No way this brunch is ending anytime soon.
Someone turns up the music, and I grumble to myself, cursing under my breath as I stomp around, frustrated that I can’t get straight to work.
Before my patience boils over, I come up with an excuse to head downstairs. Reluctant as I am to stick my head in a party, if I at least know how long it’s going to take, I can make productive use of the rest of my day.
I grab my jacket and stomp downstairs. The shop is locked, and I walk around the long way, taking the alley around the house until I emerge in the middle of the party. Over by the food, I see Sue raising a coffee mug as she tells a story, a small crowd enraptured around her.
Her eyes land on me, and her head tilts slightly to the side. A second later, Nance appears in front of me, sporting her work shirt and holding a plate of scrambled eggs.
“We told you, brunch every Sunday. It’s laid out in the documents.”
I gesture at the scene behind her, unable to resist the urge to snark back a little. “Okay. But since when does brunch have kegs?”
