Looking for Trouble(23)
He pulled out his sketchbook and played around with ideas—a jockstrap with a sheer pouch, a shimmery speedo, a pair of bikinis with the word Trouble scrawled on the ass.
Dylan smiled at the nickname. It was…sweet…personal. It made Dylan feel like in some ways, he mattered to Clay, because why would he make up a nickname for him if he didn’t?
Sketching helped center his mind some. Eventually, he heard Clay come into the house and realized he’d been outside the whole time. Damn it. He could have sewn, and Clay would never have known.
Dylan went to the bedroom door, thought about going into the living room to see if Clay wanted to maybe watch TV or…hell, he didn’t know—do something.
“You deserved better than that.”
“Trouble is fun. When’s the last time you got into trouble, Clay?”
“No. You’re Mike’s son.”
Dylan shook those thoughts from his head. Something about Clay was fucking with his mind. So instead of going into the living room, Dylan did some crunches, then push-ups. Afterward, he grabbed his dad’s letter.
Clayton Turner.
What happened between his dad and Clay?
Dylan stared at it until his eyes went blurry, then put it away and turned out the light. He lay in bed, knowing it would be hours before sleep claimed him, if it did at all.
The first thing Dylan did in the morning was take his pill. His stomach was twisted up in knots, that familiar fear taking root in his gut—what if he fucked up at his job? What if he wasn’t good at it?
He ignored the voice that often taunted him, and pulled on the PJs he’d stripped out of before he finally fell asleep around three. He made his way to the kitchen first, to get coffee going for Clay. He’d forgotten to get creamer the day before, but if Clay insisted on getting up early to drive him to work, he would make sure Clay had coffee.
Then he went back to his room and pulled out the only pair of black pants he had with him. He’d left most of his stuff with a casual buddy back home, not knowing when he would be back and having given up his apartment to go. Troy said he would have a Dancing Unicorn shirt for him when he arrived, but Dylan needed to add shopping to his list of things to do. He should have at least one other pair of pants he could wear to work.
He plucked a random tee out next, then his favorite underwear he’d made himself. They were a simple pair—red and blue, made with breathable material. It was silly, but they reminded him of Superman. He’d had a huge crush on the superhero when he was younger.
He went to the bathroom, took a leak, washed his hands, brushed his teeth, and got dressed. Some of his chest hair was starting to grow back. He’d have to get rid of that later. He loved body hair on men, but he kept his own shortly trimmed or shaven.
Once he was ready, he went back to the kitchen. Clay sat at the table, another magazine and a coffee mug in front of him. He was dressed in jeans and a flannel.
“Mornin’,” Clay said before taking a sip. “Thanks for making the coffee.”
“It’s the least I could do. You shouldn’t have to be up this early, but you’re stubborn.”
Clay cocked a brow at him. “I’m stubborn, huh? Let’s pretend you aren’t too. And I got you some creamer. It’s in the fridge.”
Dylan stopped mid-step as though his feet had grown roots and he couldn’t move. Clay hadn’t made a trip to the store when they were together. “When?” He frowned.
“Last night. I went out to my shop to weld a bit. When I came back in, your light was off, so I figured you were asleep. I remembered you’re a picky little thing and didn’t drink coffee without all that sugary shit in it, so I went to get you some.”
God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Why did Clay have to be so nice to him? “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Gone to the store?” This time it was Clay’s turn to frown. “It’s not that big a deal.”
“But you’ve already done too much for me. You’re letting me stay here and driving me around. You’re basically feeding me, and now you’re making extra trips to the grocery store too?” Dylan shook his head. “I could have gotten a drink at work. I work at a coffeehouse. Just…don’t. No favors, no special treatment.” This was all wrong. Dylan was supposed to come there and right a wrong. Deliver the letter and show Clay his dad had been sorry, that he’d always considered him his best friend. When Dylan decided to stay, he was supposed to be lightening up Clay’s life, not giving him more responsibility. This was supposed to be good for Clay…for his dad’s memory, yet so far it all felt like it was for Dylan. Clay had carried him to his truck the other night, while Dylan cried. What in the hell was wrong with him?
“It was three bucks and a ten-minute drive. It’s not like I bought you a new car or something.”
“I just…” Dylan shook his head, putting his hands on the counter, his back to Clay. He just what? He didn’t know what to say. Logically he knew it truly was a simple favor, but he was uprooting Clay’s life already. He would have been screwed if Clay hadn’t helped him out. Why was he always so damned helpless?
“I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“What? No!” He turned around. “I can’t do this before work. Thank you. Ignore me. I’m nervous about my first day, but I’ll be fabulous! You didn’t do anything wrong, Sad Eyes.”