Don't Read in the Closet volume one (29 page)

There was no way he could come out to the one person in the world
he should have been able to. So he mastered the art of denial. Almost believed
it himself.

Until college.

Sharing a dorm room like they’d always planned had quickly become
a living hell. Owen had added another four inches to his height and filled out,
putting him just an inch taller than Rory’s six feet three, and twenty pounds
of solid muscle heavier. He was the most beautiful man Rory had ever seen. That
long, lithe body was a sculptor’s dream. And because Rory wasn’t the sculptor,
and never would be, he began to pull away.

Owen sensed that something wasn’t right and tried to understand,
tried to help, but every time he asked what was wrong, Rory said he was just
tired. College life, studies and the football team were a lot to keep up with.
Every concerned touch that followed -- a hand on his back, an arm over his
shoulder, a smack on the ass at practice -- became a stick poking a hornet’s
nest. And then
came
the final straw just over a month
ago: Owen sitting beside him on his bed, rubbing slow circles on Rory’s back
with that big strong hand, the two of them wearing nothing more than workout
shorts, bare thighs touching, had snapped the bounds of Rory’s rapidly thinning
resolve.

He saw himself pushing his best friend back on the bed,
straddling his hips and sinking into that hard, pliant body. And right on the
heels of that image, the deafening rattle of walls when the door slammed behind
Owen’s retreating back, leaving Rory in the dust with a hole in his chest that
would never heal.

He shook the image away and shot off the bed like he’d been stuck
with a cattle prod, then made the most heartbreaking decision of his entire
life. He moved out of the dorm the next day, and pushed the only person who
meant anything in his whole life further away.

I love you
.

Anger welled up inside Rory with frightening intensity. Owen knew
him better than that. Should have known no matter what he said, Rory wouldn’t
judge, wouldn’t turn away from him. Rory promptly shut down the little voice in
the back of his mind that tried to point out the obvious. He didn’t want to
hear it. Didn’t want to face the fact that while Owen should have known better,
he should have too.

Hypocrisy was a bitter dish. He wasn’t hungry.

“Fuck this,” Rory said in a muted voice. He pushed off from the
window and picked up a pair of jeans and his team jersey from the floor. He
quickly dressed, grabbed his wallet and keys, and stormed out of the apartment.

*
 
*
 
*

THE TEMPERATURE WAS still comfortable in the early morning light,
the world still in peaceful repose when he started walking. When walking
quickly proved not enough to ebb his anger he started to jog, accelerated into
run, and then kicked it up another gear into a full-out sprint. Breath wheezed
harsh and loud through his throat, lungs heaved, and thighs burned and
threatened to give out with every bone-jarring strike against the unforgiving
pavement. Sweat flooded from his pores, drying into salty crystals on his skin
as the arid climate sucked the fluids from his body almost as fast as he
expelled it. His gritty eyes watered and vision doubled.

But he was not crying. Rory Ballard did not cry.

He’d outrun his emotions by the time he passed through the gates
of Folsom Field. He hadn’t intended to go to the field, but his feet led him
there regardless. Abused muscles cried mutiny, and he collapsed on his back
near the twenty-yard line. Dew-tipped grass cooled his overheated skin through
his jersey, while his chest heaved and strained muscles twitched from the
intense morning exertion. He kicked off his shoes and socks so his sweaty feet
could breathe, but didn’t have the energy to sit up and take his jersey off.

If Owen had only stayed at the bar, if only he’d answered his
phone the million times Rory had called last night, this could all be settled
in one sentence.

I love you, too
.

Rory lost track of how long he lay there on the field, distantly
aware that the sun had risen higher and the surface temperature of his skin
increased. Familiar sounds of the world waking around him danced on the edge of
his eardrums -- morning birds
chatted
their merry
tune, insects buzzed, street traffic echoed from beyond the stadium. His gaze
followed an arcing contrail as it faded into a gossamer brush stroke across a
canvas of deep blue.

Something hard bumped against his elbow, and he wasn’t surprised
when he turned his head to find a football rocking to a halt in the grass. He
reached for the ball and turned it in his hands, then cradled it to his chest
and released a long breath that whistled through his teeth. He looked in the
direction the ball had come from, and saw Owen standing near the benches. He
was wearing a Colorado Buffaloes team T-shirt that emphasized his chiseled,
broad chest and solid biceps. Dark blue sweatpants hung low on a narrow waist.
Red diamond highlights sparkled in spiky dark hair.

Rory’s heart stuttered for a whole different reason.

With an unwavering gaze Owen moved silently into position thirty
yards away. He planted his feet shoulder-width apart on the fifty-yard line,
arms deceptively relaxed at his side, and waited.

It was a private ritual they started after their first home game
when they played for the Rocky Mountain Lobos in high school. The morning after
every game since, they’d meet on the field to toss the ball before the daily
demands of life came calling -- reliving the previous night’s game, shooting
the shit, talking about anything and everything that came to mind. Just the two
of them cocooned in an empty, 50,000-seat stadium that shut out the world
beyond its concrete walls.

“I’m an idiot,” Rory mumbled to himself. He looked back to the
cerulean heavens for contradiction. The sky returned a mocking stare at him, as
if to say,
Like that's a news flash
?

Suddenly, it all became crystal clear, like he’d been wandering
around having forgotten to take the protective plastic off the lenses of his
vision. All the times Owen had reached out for Rory, all the subtle ways he’d
tried to say through touch what he couldn’t say with words. But Rory was so
dead set on denial he’d missed every subtle signal. He mistook the caress of a
hopeful lover as nothing more than the kindness of a good friend. How many
years had they danced around each other? How many times had he misread Owen’s
friendship and pushed him further and further way, afraid he couldn’t control
his desires -- not realizing Owen wanted the same thing all along?

You’re an idiot and a
chickenshit, Rory Ballard
. No disagreement from above.

With a low groan, Rory heaved his disgruntled body off the ground
and shook the grass from the back of his jersey. He cradled the ball in his
hands a moment, watching Owen, the tension radiating off his best friend’s tall
body a tangible thing. Rory cupped the pointed end of the ball in his right
hand, angled his shoulder back, and let the ball fly. Owen deftly caught it.
His honed, naturally athletic form moved with the effortless, enviable grace
that made him a highlight reel darling, and he returned the toss.

For the next half hour, the only sounds were that of a leather
ball whistling through the air as it volleyed back and forth, and the steady
beat of a sunlit heart.

They’d paused only once by unspoken mutual agreement, to pull
their shirts overhead and toss
them
aside as the
morning temperature continued its relentless march
toward the
century mark.

Finally, Rory tucked the ball under an arm instead of returning
the toss, and wiped the heel of one hand across his forehead. “You’re my best
friend, Owen.”

Owen looked down, seemingly finding something intriguing about
his running shoes. “I’m so sorry, Ror.” He glanced up briefly, afraid to hold
contact. “You’re my best friend too, and I-- I miss you.”

Rory took a step forward. “You got nothing to be sorry for.”

“No. I was drunk and feeling sorry for myself and didn’t know
what I was saying,” his best friend said, eyes downcast, shoulders rolled
forward. “You know I-- I do…love you. But you know, like brothers.”

Rory’s next step faltered. A hairline crack zigzagged over the
surface of his heart and threatened to split it open. “Brothers?”

Owen nodded, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his
sweatpants, and flashed a quick, anxious glance over Rory’s shoulder. He was
lying. Rory knew it to the core of his soul.

“You’re such a dumb-ass!” Rory yelled across the open space
between them, making sure the smile in his voice was clear. Owen twitched but
didn’t raise his gaze. “Don’t you think I know when you’re lying? Did you never
think I might feel the same?”

Owen’s head shot up, and a comet of hope streaked across his dark
eyes. “You aren’t gay.”

“Neither are you.” Rory started walking again when Owen snorted
in response, determined and confident as he crossed the thirty-yard line. “What
if I told you I love you? What if I told you I want you?”

“Do you?” Owen’s voice cut and shook like he’d veered off the
side of the highway and hit a rumble strip. His gaze dropped back to the
ground.

“I do,” Rory said, willing Owen to hear his heart in his voice.
He stepped over the forty-yard line. “More than anything in this world.” Two
more strides, closing the distance rapidly. “What do you want, Owen?”

Owen’s chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths. Skin
glistened
burnished gold in the late morning sun. Around his
neck, a carved greenstone pendant in the shape of a triple twisted figure eight
hung by a thin strip of black suede, reflected brightly. The pendant rested
just below the hollow of his neck, and matched the one Rory wore. They’d gotten
the necklaces when they’d taken a trip to New Zealand after high school, to
celebrate their football scholarships. The path of life, it was called, the
Maori symbol meaning two people bonded for life by friendship and loyalty.

Distance closed. Rory stood on one side of the fifty-yard line,
Owen on the other. The narrow chalk-white line separated their bodies by mere
inches. Tension sizzled in the heavy air between them, and still Owen didn’t
raise his gaze when he began, “I want…”

“What?”

Owen mumbled; his words lost on a rising breeze.

“O…”

“
You
.” Owen raised his
gaze and locked onto Rory’s. Brown eyes dark and intense, the way Rory had
always dreamed Owen would look at him. Owen squared his shoulders and took a
deep breath. His voice was low but sure when he said, “You, Rory. I want you.”

*
 
*
 
*

RORY DIDN’T
KNOW
who reached for whom
first, only knew that Owen’s arms wrapped tight around his waist, and his arms
wrapped around Owen. Their bodies clapped together with enough force to push
the air from their lungs, and just before their lips met, Owen froze.

Breaths rapid and harsh mingled in the sliver that separated them
from complete head-to-toe contact. The sharp scent of mint and arousing scent
of male, of Owen, gusted over Rory’s cheek and teased his senses. The heated
press of Owen’s bare chest against his, seared through skin and tissue and
muscle and bone. Electric tingles raced the length of Rory’s tall frame. Rory
moved a hand to cradle the back of Owen’s head, threaded his fingers into the
silky locks, damp with sweat, and tentatively touched his mouth to Owen’s. He
waited for Owen to respond, and barely a heartbeat later,
Owen
leaned into the kiss.

The first kiss.

The kiss he’d dreamed of since he was thirteen years old. Owen’s
lips were soft as satin, hot as caramel on apple pie, and tasted just as sweet.
They moved gently across his own -- tasting, testing,
teasing
-- and when they parted Rory didn’t hesitate to accept the invitation. He swept
his tongue inside and slid it against Owen’s. He reveled in the subtle, rough
texture on the surface and smooth underside as they twined around one another.
A ragged moan rose up between them and Owen’s lean, muscular body pushed harder
against him. Every angle and ridge of bone and muscle fit into place as though
it were made for only him.

Owen’s hands burned a path up and down the expanse of Rory’s back
from the base of his neck to the rise of his ass. Owen held the back of Rory’s
head with one hand, slanting their angle to deepen the kiss that had yet to
break -- breathing be damned -- and cupped one butt cheek with the other,
squeezing hard as he rocked his hips into Rory. The rigid, unyielding length of
Owen’s erection rode against Rory’s and a guttural growl vibrated against his
skin as it surged up through Owen’s chest.

And then Owen forced his hands between them. The heel of one hand
followed the outline of Rory’s cock through the thin denim, while the other
frantically worked at releasing the button. Rory rolled his pelvis back only
far enough to give Owen the room he needed to complete the task. He wanted the
material that separated the last of their bodies gone. He wanted Owen to take
him in hand and pull every day of the last seven longing years from his body.

Owen tucked his hands beneath the waistband of Rory’s briefs, and
pushed them and his jeans down together. Hot sun attacked his bare ass and he
shivered. His cock sprang free of its confines and pointed toward Owen
instinctively. The rough heat of Owen’s hand wrapped around his shaft and Rory
jerked forward, sparks shot in every direction and had him a heartbeat away
from coming right then.
 

Rory broke the kiss for the first time and between gasping pants,
said on a hoarse voice, “Holy. Fuck. Owen.” He clamped his hands around Owen’s
wrists. “You’re killing me.” He hooked a heel behind Owen’s knee, and with a
quick push-pull, tackled his dazed best friend to the ground before he had a
chance to counter the action.