Looking for Trouble(20)
Holy shit. What if Clay wasn’t out?
“What? No. I am.”
“How long?” Dylan asked, truly interested in knowing more about him.
“Seven years.”
“Oh, wow. So it hasn’t been too long. And you were married to a woman before that?” He really hoped Clay would answer his questions. The last thing he wanted was to be shut down. He wanted to know what made him tick, who Clay really was.
“Yeah…Renée. She’s great. She deserves better than I gave her.”
“I’m sure you were great to her.” He couldn’t imagine Clay treating her badly.
“Maybe…maybe not. I couldn’t be the man who loved her the way she deserved.” There was a sadness to Clay’s words that Dylan felt in his chest. That was love right there, wanting to be who someone deserved and stepping aside when you couldn’t be.
“You can’t help who you are…who you love. I’m sure she understood. How did it happen? I mean, when you came out.”
And there it was. Clay’s eyes went cold, his body rigid. “I don’t want to talk about it.” It was because of the man in the photograph. Dylan knew it. He waited for it to happen, for Clay to end their conversation, but to Dylan’s surprise, he asked, “What about you? How old were you when you came out?”
“Fifteen. I knew before then, I always did, but I wasn’t officially out to anyone other than myself. The captain of my high school football team could tell. I probably wasn’t good at hiding it, and now I don’t ever try. He was walking around my neighborhood one day. He came around the block like five times before I braved up. I definitely wasn’t the kid who hung out with the football players, but I went outside…and the next thing I knew he was in the house, and I was on my knees for him. First time I ever did anything with anyone, and I went straight to giving a blowjob. Hell, he didn’t even kiss me first. He was too straight for that. I was scared to death, but I wanted him…and I wanted him to like me, wanted someone to like me, so I did it.”
Dylan closed his eyes, surprised he’d let himself admit that. Why the fuck had he let himself admit he’d been so hungry for acceptance that he’d blown someone to feel wanted? It made him feel weak, and there was nothing Dylan hated more.
“You deserved better than that,” Clay told him.
Dylan shrugged. “Whatever.”
He was shocked when Clay shoved to his feet, reached over the desk, and gently…so gently…cupped Dylan’s cheek, made him turn his head to face Clay. “You deserved better than that. He didn’t deserve for you to like him.”
There was a part of him that wanted to hold Clay’s hand to his face, wanted to nuzzle in, wanted to ask him why he thought Dylan deserved better than that, but of course he didn’t. Instead, he rolled his eyes and said, “Well, obviously. I’m much more fabulous than he could ever be! And of course Dad walked in and caught us.”
Clay sat down, was quiet for a moment, then cleared his throat. “How did Mike take it?”
“The sucking off a football player? He wasn’t pleased. I thought he was going to kill him. The gay thing? He said he knew, that he didn’t care. He said he loved me.” His dad would have done anything for him. Dylan wished he could have been the kind of son he’d deserved.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Clay
They stayed at the shop through most of the afternoon. Clay had another appointment come in—a small Celtic design on a man’s bicep. Dylan had watched him while he worked, and asked so many damn questions that Clay had almost accidentally snapped at him. Luckily, he’d caught himself. He didn’t want to make Trouble feel bad for his interest. There was more to the boy than met the eye, that was for sure. He was both confident and insecure, but Clay wondered how much of the confidence was an act…and the parts that weren’t, he thought maybe all circled around sex. The story about the football player had broken his heart. He wished he knew who the guy was so he could kick his ass himself.
When Clay hadn’t been working, they…well, they talked. A lot. Dylan was definitely a good talker, and Clay often had to try and keep up with him. They steered clear of Mike and topics that led to Gordon, but he discovered Dylan loved the scent of oranges. That he thought he might want to get a small tattoo one day, but he wasn’t sure what. That he hadn’t gone to college—though that subject had been cut off quickly by him—and that he could touch his nose with his tongue, of all things.
“See?” Dylan stuck his tongue out so it touched the tip of his nose.
Clay couldn’t help but chuckle. “You look ridiculous.”
“You try.”
“I’m not going to stick my tongue out and touch my nose.”
“Why?” Dylan crossed his arms and tapped his foot. “Are you afraid you can’t do it?”
“Yes. That’s my biggest fear. I’ve always been insecure about my short tongue.”
“Please, Clay. Just try it!” Dylan bounced as he spoke. He had been fidgety off and on throughout the afternoon, even taking the time to straighten Clay’s photo albums, stack the magazines on the table, and restock the toilet paper in his bathroom.
He sighed. Damn it. Why was he even considering sticking his damn tongue out to try and touch his nose?