“Hold on,” he said to whoever he was talking to. “Grade? What do you—”
Grade grabbed both doors and slammed them shut. On the other side of the glass, Clay stared at him for a moment and then shook his head.
“Don’t you fucking dare—” he said as he lunged forward.
He didn’t get to finish. Grade quickly locked the doors, and Clay bounced off them like a big pissed-off moth.
Naked pissed-off moth.
Grade took a deep breath as he looked at Clay through the doors.
“Sorry,” he said.
Clay smacked his hand on the glass.
“Sorry,” Grade said again, and then he fled.
Chapter Twelve
“Shut the fuckup,” Clay said as Harry unlocked the balcony doors.
Harry held up both hands, palms out, and pressed his lips together in exaggerated “shut up” as he stepped back into the bedroom. He pointedly didn’t look down as Clay stalked into the room and shoved past him.
It was hard to tell if it was the scars or the cock he didn’t want to be caught staring at. Clay supposed it didn’t matter.
Clay grabbed a pair of jeans out of the laundry and dragged them on. Come was still sticky on his thighs and stomach, but he ignored that.
“What happened?” Harry asked.
“You need the birds and the bees talk right now?” Clay snarled as he dragged an old T-shirt on over his head. He tucked the front of it into his jeans and reached for the shoulder holster hung on the back of the door. “When two men really, really want to fuck—”
“Not that ‘what,’” Harry blurted out as he went red about the ears. He rubbed his hand over his face and cleared his throat. “I meant afterthat. On the balcony.”
Clay thumbed the code into the gun safe and yanked it open.
“I already told you to shut up, Harry,” he said as he pulled out the Beretta semiautomatic. He ran through the checklist on autopilot and slid it into the holster. He turned to give Harry a cold look. “We get on. Don’t make me fuck that up.”
Harry took a step back and then stopped. He screwed his face into a reluctant grimace and scratched his neck.
“Yeah, but…” he said.
“What the hell do you want?” Clay snarled. He stalked forward and got into Harry’s face, close enough that they almost touched. “You want a blow job? Go ask your wife.”
“I don’t want that,” Harry asked. “And that was an odd place to take this. I’m just… you sure you want to be a scary asshole about this?”
Clay grinned, thin and mean.
“If it’ll get you to shut up—”
“Not to me,” Harry said. “You like the kid.”
That was close enough to the bone to cut through the strangled hiss of Clay’s temper. He stepped back and grabbed a shirt to pull on over his gun. “He’s twenty-six,” he said.
Harry shrugged that off.
“I’m just saying—”
Clay ignored him and started for the door. Before he got there, Harry was in front of him.
