Looking for Trouble(33)
“Well, I have to admit, I didn’t see this coming,” Renée said from behind him.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Of course you don’t. You never want to talk about anything.”
He shook his head. “Don’t do this. I’m not in the mood.”
He walked by her, but she followed him back to the office. “Grow up, Clay. Open up. Do something. You like that kid. You were jealous as hell. I could see it plain as day and you know it. He’s young, and I have to say that surprises me, but you like him. Why are you so afraid to be happy?”
He fell into the chair, rested his elbows on the table, his head in his hands. His leg bounced up and down.
She was right…about all of it. He was afraid to be happy. To move on. To care, because he had a habit of losing people he cared about. He’d lived through it enough, and he didn’t want to set himself up for that kind of pain again.
He wasn’t sure he deserved to be happy.
And he liked Dylan. He was jealous.
“You know Gordon would want you to move on. He would want you to be happy.”
His chest tightened at that. He would. There wasn’t a bone in his body that didn’t feel that.
“I want you to be happy too.”
“I don’t know how, Renée.” That was the most real he’d been in a long time. “Fuck, I don’t know how to stop loving Gordon…and…”
“You don’t have to stop loving Gordon. You’ll always love him, sweetie. That won’t change. But that doesn’t mean you won’t love someone else just as much, or even more. Our hearts are capable of holding more love than we know.”
Clay knew that. Of course he did. Well, he thought he did. Still, he nodded, looked up at her. “He’s Mike’s son.”
“Oh…” she whispered.
“That complicates things. He passed away. He wrote me a letter, which I haven’t read. Dylan found me to give it to me, and things just sort of unraveled from there.”
“Shit.” She walked over and put her hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry about Mike’s death. I know you already feel guilty about your past, but you can’t hate yourself forever for what happened. It was a terrible accident, but you don’t deserve a life of misery because of it. Mike is gone, but Dylan is here. And he’s a grown man. If you care about him and he cares about you, that’s all that matters.”
She kissed his forehead, grabbed her purse, and just like Dylan, walked away from him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Dylan
Dylan felt like an ass.
He’d thought about his reaction to Clay while he’d finished his workday, then while Troy had driven him home—not home—to Clay’s house to get his stuff. Then again on the drive to Troy’s small, one-bedroom house, which was cute as hell. Dylan had never had his own house. A few apartments, yes, but he wanted a yard and pets and something that felt more like his own. He wanted a home.
Ugh. He was being ridiculous.
So he went back to thinking about Clay while they ate dinner and hung out; while he showered, shaved, and as he put on his lucky jockstrap and his favorite jeans that made his ass look good as hell.
“You should wear this shirt.” Troy stepped into the bathroom, wearing a towel, as Dylan stood in front of the mirror in his jeans.
“Ooh, me likey.” Dylan plucked the royal-blue, button-up shirt from Troy’s hands. It was short-sleeved, and Dylan could tell it would be tight on his arms and biceps, which obviously was the look he was going for.
If Clay didn’t want him, he’d fuck Clay out of his head, damn it!
Dylan put the shirt on, then left the bathroom while Troy got ready. He grabbed his phone and went through the messages, just to make sure Clay hadn’t texted.
He hadn’t. Clay had never texted him. He wasn’t sure why he expected Clay to do so now.
The admission sat heavy in his gut, and his insides twisted up.
Troy called him over, and Dylan stood in the bathroom doorway as Troy talked about his ex, who was a bartender where they were going; about friends, and guys he hooked up with, and this one dude he thought Dylan would like.
It was as if the words unexpectedly weighed him down, dragged him closer and closer toward the truth he didn’t want to admit. He didn’t feel like going out. He didn’t want to hook up with anyone other than Clay.
“Can I ask you something?” Troy ran his fingers through his blond hair.
“Shoot.”
“Is something really up with you and your tattoo artist?”
Because of course Troy had to ask him that. “He’s not my anything.”
“So that’s a yes.”
Dylan fiddled with one of the buttons on the shirt. “No…well, we almost did something once, then realized things are difficult between us. But I don’t really think it needs to be that hard. We want each other. Who cares about the rest of it?” That was likely a selfish way to look at it, but Dylan couldn’t help it. “Or maybe he really just doesn’t want me.”
“Pfft. Please, baby boy. He wants you.”
“I’m not so sure about that. He’s so…together. He has his shit together, and he’s nice—no, he’s fucking kind. There’s a difference between nice and kind. I don’t really see him wasting his time on me.”