Ship It(50)

Smokey had snapped the pool cue before he even realized he was going to do it, sharp splinters of wood flying across the green felt. He took a swing at Heart, who leapt back, surprised, but ready for battle, always—the life of a demon, perpetually hunted.

“Whoa, man, what’re you doing?” Heart cried as he scrambled to put the pool table between them, but Smokey sprang onto the tabletop and took another swing, this time connecting with Heart’s shoulder. The cue shattered across his granite-hard demon muscles, leaving Smokey with just a shard of wood and his own fists. Heart let out a string of curses in demontongue as Smokey tossed what was left of the pool cue away and dropped from the table to a spot in front of Heart, who had the perfect opening to land a few blows as Smokey caught his balance, but he didn’t take it.

Smokey didn’t know why he was doing it except that he was already doing it and couldn’t stop now. He picked up a chair and sent it splintering against Heart’s abs. Heart staggered back but still didn’t fight. Instead, he hollered at the barman and patrons to leave out the front doors and not come back in, not for anything. Then he used his demon strength to flip the pool table a full turn and a half, sending the balls flying across the room, rolling under tables and chairs. The superhuman action was more than enough to convince the other patrons that leaving was wise.

Heart turned back to Smokey. “Just you and me now, let it out,” Heart said, low and warm, like he was Smokey’s mother or some shit, and the fact that Heart still wouldn’t hate Smokey, even after this, made him even angrier.

Smokey kicked a few pool balls aside, then lunged at Heart, who tried to dodge, but they had fought too many damn times before, and Smokey knew just how Heart would react. Smokey tackled him hard, landing with a crack of bone and muscle on the slick, dirty floor. Smokey managed a few blows across the face before Heart was able to judo Smokey off him, spitting blood and getting back to his feet.

“That’s it,” Heart said. “Keep it coming.”

Smokey could stop and think about what he was doing. He could open that part of his heart that felt feelings other than run and snarl and fight. He could talk, or he could cry. But instead, he curled his fingers in against his palm so they didn’t break, tucked his shoulder, and slammed Heart against the wall of the bar so hard that the Miller sign dropped off its nail and shattered on the ground, sending shards of the glass tubes skittering across the dirty cement floor.

Smokey fit his arm against Heart’s neck and pinned him against the wall. “Why aren’t you fighting back?” he barked.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Heart said simply.

“Well, I want to hurt you,” Smokey growled into him.

“I don’t think you do,” Heart whispered, their faces so close together now, Smokey could see the grain of yellow in Heart’s brown eyes.

But Heart was wrong. Smokey did want to hurt him. Wanted him to disappear back into the hellhole he crawled out of. Wanted to wipe him from his memory so that he didn’t have to face what Heart made him think about every time he looked at him with those fiery eyes that reminded Smokey of a hearth on a cold day. Of safety in a storm.

“You don’t have to be scared,” Heart said, so low Smokey almost couldn’t hear him over the thumping pulse in his ears. “You deserve to feel this way.”

That wasn’t true, not even a little, but looking into those eyes, Smokey felt the cold beat of anger still into quiet. Heart believed it, even if Smokey didn’t.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I forgive you,” Heart said, still pinned against the wall. And why should he forgive Smokey before the fight was even over? Or maybe it was over. The muscles in Smokey’s shoulders released, his forearm fell away from Heart’s neck, but he didn’t step back. It was true, he didn’t want to hurt Heart; he had wanted Heart to hurt him back, had wanted to feel the sharp crack of his nose breaking, the taste of blood in his mouth, the comforting wail of his muscles afterward.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Heart whispered. Smokey wanted to believe him. He knew Heart wasn’t going to fight him, but he wasn’t so sure this wouldn’t hurt. He wanted Heart to grab him, to flip him against the wall and press their lips together. He wanted Heart’s hands in his hair, on his chest, down his pants. But he couldn’t say it.

No, there’s no way this wouldn’t hurt.

Smokey was still standing so close he could smell the demon’s blood, but he didn’t step away. He let his gaze drop down Heart’s body, over his chest, his shoulders where he was bleeding a bit from the hit from the pool cue. Smokey wanted to take it back, undo the pain, fix the damage.

When he met Heart’s eyes again, Heart was smirking.

“What?” Smokey demanded.

“Dude, you just kicked my ass pretty good, so if you’re waiting for me to make the first move—”

So Smokey kissed him.

He felt a little dizzy, but not from the alcohol, and Heart’s lips were warm and heavy. Heart hooked his hands around Smokey’s hips and pulled Smokey against him so their bodies fit together like a knife and its sheath. Heart’s mouth opened, and Smokey slipped his tongue in and found he tasted like Bulleit and demon blood and firewood, and he wanted more.

Smokey’s defenses fell away faster than he would’ve liked, and before he knew it, he was moaning softly into Heart’s mouth as Heart half smiled and pulled Smokey even closer to him so that Smokey could feel the unmistakable bulge pressing into his hip, his own erection growing uncomfortably thick in his Levi’s. But the only important thing right now was the feel of Heart’s hands hot on his back, dipping under the waist of Smokey’s jeans, the taste of Heart in his mouth, the feeling of being held and needed and loved.