“Okay,” Morgan said as he lifted his head. He dragged his thumb along Boyd’s lower lip, the stern set of it kissed out of the way. “Take me home.”
Chapter Seventeen
“I HAVEto go, you know,” Morgan said.
He sprawled across Boyd’s bed, all heavy muscle and long bones in the dawn light. Old scars freckled his body, most of them unremarkable. A skinned knee that had healed down to a shiny comma of white skin, a surgically straight crease just above his groin that was only visible because he was so ripped, and a pockmark on his upper arm that looked like chicken pox. His skin was damp with sweat and sticky with a glaze of half-dried come on his stomach and thighs.
“You know where the bathroom is,” Boyd said as he dragged a T-shirt over his head and resisted the urge to crawl back into bed. He flashed a grin at Morgan as he grabbed a pair of clean jeans out of his wardrobe. “Feel free.”
“Not what I meant,” Morgan said. He sat up, cock heavy and soft between his thighs, and watched Boyd get dressed. “I’m not your happily ever after. You’re—”
“What? A one-night stand? A hookup?” Boyd asked. He hitched up his jeans over his thighs and buttoned them. “We definitely slept together this time, slept in, actually, so you can’t say we just fucked. Not enough to keep you in town is still on the table, though.”
Morgan scowled. “If you’re pissed at me, why’d you fuck me?” he asked.
“Because you’re hot,” Boyd said. He gave in and leaned over the bed, one arm braced against the mattress, to kiss Morgan’s sullen, sweat-salty mouth before he could pull away. “And I was halfway in love with you three days ago, asshole.”
“You—” Morgan started to grumble and then choked on what he was about to say. He roughly shoved Boyd away and glared at him. “Fuck off. You are not.”
Boyd ignored the denial. He was done with people telling him what he could feel, even Morgan. He flopped down on the edge of the bed and leaned over to grab his sneakers and drag them on over bare feet. It was easier than looking for socks, and he would change into his uniform at the station.
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to play this game,” he said.
“What game?” Morgan growled. He grabbed the back of Boyd’s jeans and dragged him back onto the bed when he tried to get up. “I’m not the one playing pretend with my feelings. You don’t know how I feel.”
“I didn’t say I did,” Boyd said. “Maybe you don’t love me—”
Morgan curled his lip. “I don’t.”
That… yeah, that hurt. Boyd shrugged as he pulled Morgan’s hand out of his jeans. “Fine, you don’t love me, and you aren’t going to stay in town, but you like me. And anytime you realize that, you act like an asshole to get me to back off.”
“Take the hint, then,” Morgan said flatly.
Boyd bit his tongue and got up off the bed. He grabbed his hoodie, checked his pockets for his phone, and tossed the keys to Morgan, who snatched them out of the air. “Stay as long as you want. Lock up when you go. I’ve got a spare set at work.”
“The only reason you think you love me is because you think I’m Sammy,” Morgan accused as he scrambled off the bed. He held up the keys, so they dangled from one finger. “This? This is all some fucked-up attempt to play house with a ghost. So don’t act like this is about me. I’m just the stand-in.”
He tossed the keys into the sheets and stalked into the bathroom. The door slammed behind him, but Boyd shoved it open and followed him inside. Morgan had his arms braced on the sink, shoulders hunched and tight as he glared at himself in the mirror. He looked as frustrated with himself as Boyd was right now.
“Fuck you. And Shay and Mac and everyone who thinks they know what I feel better than me. Yeah, I loved Sammy,” Boyd snapped. His throat hurt the way it always did when he talked about it, a tight mixture of sentiment, loss, and grief. “He was my best friend, and hell, I don’t know what he’d have been if someone hadn’t taken him away. I don’t even know if he was gay or bi or not into sex at all. What I know is that you’re not him.”
Morgan looked up to meet Boyd’s eyes in the reflection. “What happened, you pass the torch of believing that I’m Sammy to Donna?” he asked bitterly. “Because she can barely spit my name out.”
“It was fifteen years ago,” Boyd said. The flare of anger had already started to fade. It never hung around, usually just long enough to get him in trouble. He reached out and brushed his hand over Morgan’s tight shoulders. His fingers lingered on the faded crescent welt on the back of his shoulder. It matched the one on his thigh, but it had healed better. From the back, it wasn’t so easy to brush off Morgan’s scars as everyday wear and tear. Morgan flinched at the contact, his hands tight around the sink, but he didn’t move. “None of us are who we were back then. Whoever Sammy might have been if he’d stayed isn’t the same person who’d come back. I don’t know that Sammy. But I know you, and who you are isn’t going to change just because of what DNA says. How I feel about you isn’t going to change. Okay?”
Morgan turned around. He leaned his hips against the sink and crossed his arms over his bare chest as he looked at Boyd.
“I don’t want you to love me,” he said.
“Tough.”
“I don’t want to be the one who breaks your heart,” Morgan said. “I guess I figured that would be easier if you knew I wasn’t going to stay. Or if you didn’t want me to. But….”
Boyd nodded. “But if it worked and I didn’t miss you…?”
The corner of Morgan’s mouth twisted up in a halfhearted stab at a smile. “I’d be so fucking pissed,” he said. “I want to be the one guy that, if I ever came back, you’d throw over whatever boring asshole you’d hooked up with for me. Even though you knew I’d fuck off again. Fuck up again.”
“Deal,” Boyd said. He stuck out his hand. Morgan rolled his eyes, took it, and pulled him in against the long, sweaty length of him. “Every time.”
