Looking for Trouble(34)
Troy frowned. “Okay, first, it wouldn’t be wasting his time. He’d be lucky to have you. You’re pretty fucking kind yourself. You’re a good guy, Dylan. I don’t know why you don’t see that. And second, you’re fucking hot.”
Dylan shrugged. “Anyway, I’m gonna find someone to make me forget all about my sad-eyed, flannel-wearing tattoo artist.” He tried to grin but wasn’t sure he pulled it off.
“No, you’re not.”
“Oh, gee, thanks. Love the vote of confidence.”
“You don’t want to go out. I think you’ll regret it.” Troy turned and leaned against the bathroom counter. “So how about we stay in? Eat ice cream and talk about boys. I have some stories about my ex you’d never believe.”
Suddenly Dylan felt lighter, as though things began to shift into place. No other man would have made him forget Clay. And Troy had maybe just been the best friend Dylan had ever had. “Thanks. I’d like that.”
He was going to kill Clay. Dylan was pissed at him for the whole scene in his tattoo parlor, for making Dylan want him, for turning him away. But mostly he was angry that instead of going out, he’d sat at Troy’s all night, because he’d had Clay on his brain.
That had never happened to Dylan, and it was all the fault of the man with the sad eyes, sitting in the house in front of him.
“So…are we planning on spending the night in the driveway?” Troy asked, and Dylan chuckled. “Get your ass in there. You don’t strike me as the type of guy to run from anything.”
That’s where Troy was wrong. Dylan was the type of guy to run from everything—accepting responsibility for his own actions, his problems, his fears, doing something—anything—with his life. He was the prince of running.
“I don’t know why I’m acting like this. I’ll probably go inside and Clay will be asleep. In the morning we’ll either pretend nothing happened, or I’ll flirt with him and he’ll tell me we can’t do anything about it, and I’ll know he’s right. It still won’t change how I feel.”
“That’s because you care about him. You can’t just shut that off. Emotions don’t work that way.”
Dylan turned to look at him. “Why not?” They both snickered. “Thanks. You’ve been a great friend and boss. The world isn’t full of those, at least I don’t have a lot of experience with them, so yeah…thanks.”
“No problem, Dylan. I kind of like you. You’re a good friend.”
They hugged before Dylan forced himself out of the car. He really didn’t know why he was making a big deal…well, about anything. He was acting like something major had gone down other than him realizing he didn’t want to hook up with anyone except Clay.
Which yeah, was pretty major for him, but it wasn’t as if Clay knew that. In fact, Dylan planned to do everything in his power so Clay didn’t figure it out.
He walked up the porch stairs of the brick, ranch-style home and went inside. A light shined from the kitchen. Clay sat in the spot where they shared breakfast every morning, and looked up at him. The moment their eyes caught, it was as if something began to crackle beneath his skin. His chest felt like it was being pulled apart because he both wanted to be angry with Clay and at the same time ask Clay why he didn’t want him.
Clay stood, and Dylan exhaled a sharp breath. He wore a pair of gray sweats, the outline of his cock plain as day, and no shirt. God, he’d always fucking loved a guy in sweats and no shirt.
“I shouldn’t have gotten upset with you earlier. You’re free to do whatever you want—stay wherever you want,” Clay said as he stepped closer.
And of course they were going there. Clay was going to brush this off like it was nothing, and Dylan guessed it probably wasn’t anything, but strangely it felt like something to him.
“Whatever. It’s fine. And I know I am. God, who knew there were so many pretty boys in Raleigh? I should have gone out sooner.” It was as if he couldn’t stop the lies on his tongue, no matter how bitter they tasted. What was wrong with him? Why did he feel so hurt?
He went to walk by Clay and into the kitchen, but as their bodies came close, Clay reached out and put a hand on Dylan’s waist. The simple touch made him flush, the feeling of Clay’s large hand on his slender hip as though it was supposed to fit there. Like the spot had been carved out just for him. “I was talking to this really cute guy, and…” Troy, he’d been talking to Troy. Dylan tried to continue, tried to make it sound like it was a man from the bar, but he couldn’t find his words.
But then Clay’s hold on him tightened. Clay’s other hand went to Dylan’s other hip, the pressure from his fingertips making Dylan tremble.
“Jealous.” Clay gently tugged Dylan closer, and he went, went so easily, a feather could have pulled him to Clay. “I was jealous because I didn’t want you to go out. I knew the house would feel empty without you, and I don’t have a right to feel that way. I’m not sure how I even can, when it’s only been a few weeks.”
Logically, Dylan could have—should have—been able to come to that conclusion on his own. Maybe he did, but a part of him wouldn’t let him believe someone like Clay could ever care enough about him to be jealous.