Who was he kidding? Of course he was.
He groaned into his arm. That was it. He had to get out of here.
Decided, he rolled his carcass out of bed and stomped over to his closet. He found a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt that didn’t look too bad and crammed a fresh-ish undershirt and boxers into his backpack, shoving down whatever papers and books he’d hauled home from campus the day before. Everything he needed for practice later that afternoon was already in his locker at school. Shoes and a baseball cap, and he figured he was good to go.
Before opening his bedroom door, he checked himself, though, listening with one ear to the wood. It didn’t sound like there was anyone out there, but you never knew. He really didn’t need to run into anyone right now. Preferably not Jason—who knew what he’d heard last night.
Definitely
not Greg.
“Goddammit,” he swore at himself. He might prefer to avoid things that were destined to put him in a shitty mood, but he wasn’t a coward. He pulled the door open and stole out.
No point chancing the kitchen. He’d just pick something up on the way.
As it turned out, all his concern was for nothing, anyway. There wasn’t anyone in the hall or in the living room. Half a dozen strides and he was out the door and off the porch and onto the sidewalk. Just that had him feeling easier. Head down, he made it to the corner without looking up at Greg’s bedroom window and without looking to see if his car was parked in its usual spot at the end of the block.
One quick stop at the bodega on the corner for coffee and a packet of crappy donuts. He even got lucky, and the number twelve bus was coming down the street just as he was coming out. He flagged it down, flashed his student ID and climbed inside, then threw himself down in a seat.
Christ, Marsh hated buses. Finally, twenty dull, jerky minutes later, he pulled the cord to signal his stop. When the bus lurched to a halt, he hopped up and pushed out the rear door, then humped it the half-block down the street.
Yulia’s apartment was in the back corner of a crumbling three-story walk-up with a broken front door that never managed to latch right. He pushed through it with his usual grumble of annoyance at the shitty job it was doing keeping creepers out, then made his way down the hall. At her door, he knocked out three short raps before fumbling for his keys. He’d just gotten them out when the door swung open in front of him, the chain going taut.
“What happened to you?” Yulia asked, standing there in a tank top and baggy flannel pants.
Marsh scrunched up his nose. “What happened to your hair?”
Running her hand through the tangled now-blue strands, she rolled her eyes and closed the door. The chain made a scraping sound as she slid it aside. He pushed the door open and strode on through.
“You don’t like it?” she asked to his back.
He set his bag down on the floor beside her couch and dug out the spare shirt and boxers. “Gonna borrow a towel.”
“You know where they are.” She followed him through the space, leaning up against the wall as he dug through the closet next to her bathroom. “Really, though.”
He stood, terry balled up in his hand. Tilting his head to the side, he took a better look. Blue. What the hell was he supposed to say about that? “It’s okay. I liked the red better.”
“Red is so pedestrian. It could almost be mistaken for something natural.”
“Not that shade of red.”
“Whatever. You’re just envious.”
“If you say so.”
With that, he locked himself in her bathroom and started up the water before stripping out of his clothes. He winced at the feeling of the dried come on his skin. Never a good thing. Except when it was.
Shaking his head at himself, he stepped under the spray. It wasn’t fully warm yet—the pipes in this tenement took forever to get going, but he didn’t care. He braced himself against the chill and ducked his head into the stream, scrubbing at his hair.
I’m gonna wash that man right outta my hair.
He wished it were really that easy. The memory of Greg on top of him was burned into him, that warm, wet mouth surrounding him, the nice hard dick inside his hand, and the pulse, the way he’d arched when he came…
Marsh cursed and reached for Yulia’s shampoo. The water was warm now, and he relaxed into it the best he could as he cleaned the shitty day and the shitty night away. He rubbed soap over his dick with disinterest, unwilling to do anything about it, even though he was half-hard. Stupid dick.
By the time he was done, he was feeling a little more human, and his erection had mostly gone down. He shut off the water and grabbed the scratchy towel from where he’d left it on the counter, dragging it over his skin with as much efficiency as he could muster, considering how crummy and tired and disappointed he felt. He pulled on his fresh underclothes and the same hoodie and jeans. Bundling his dirty clothes under his arm, he left the warm solitude of the bathroom and braced himself for whatever was coming next.
Only Yulia was apparently not in a ball-busting mood. She was sitting on the end of the sofa, a book in her lap, bright blue curls tied up with an elastic. There was cup of real, strong coffee at her elbow and another on the coffee table, and his vision got a little blurry for a second. He plopped down next to her and reached for the second mug. Sure enough, it was doctored up with just the right amount of cream and sugar, and it was the best thing he’d tasted all week. He hummed and sipped until it was about half gone, then set it aside.
He lay down next to her and put his head in her lap.
“We’re not having sex,” she said quietly, not looking up from her book even as she ran her fingers through his hair.
“Thank God.”
It had happened a few times since he’d met her during orientation their freshman year. Once that very day, and again the day after, and then not again for a year—not until she’d let herself into his room the morning after something she still hadn’t explained to him had rattled her to her bones. Once his junior year when a recruiting scout had passed him over.
Sex with Yulia was dangerous and athletic, and it always left him panting and empty and happy that, in the end, they were really just friends.
She sat in silence for a minute, petting his hair, not turning pages in her book. She didn’t ask again what was wrong, and he loved her so fiercely in that moment that he wanted to shake with it. Instead, he squeezed her thigh and pressed his face against her abdomen.
“I fucked up,” he whispered.
The gentle motions of her fingertips against his scalp stuttered, but she picked up her rhythm soon enough. “Oh?”
And it was too much to explain. There were the conversations he’d had the day before, first with the bursar’s office and then with his coach. The call he’d tried to make home to his brother was definitely off limits. Then there’d been the fruitless outing to the bar with the team that he
knew
he shouldn’t have gone on, but fuck. He’d wanted to drink and he’d wanted to get laid, and he’d wanted to feel like
someone
, but nothing had worked.
He’d gone back to the house he shared with a bunch of guys who were so much smarter than him it made him want to break something, and when everyone else had been either asleep or out on the town, he’d gone to the one place he never should have.
“I slept with him,” he admitted, quiet, eyes closed.
“Marsh…”
“And it was good. Fuck, you should have seen him. He was so good.” Greg had sucked dick like he lived for it, like he was dying for it, like beneath that genius scientist exterior, he was a cock-slut of the most epic proportions, and worse… “He looked at me like, like…”
Like Marsh was somebody he wanted.
Marsh curled up tighter and dug his nails into his palm. “Whatever. As soon as he got off, he kicked me out.”
“Are you sure that’s what happened?”
Laughter bubbled up, dry in the back of his throat. It hurt. “Pretty hard to miss the signs. He was considerate, too. Asked if I could make it to my room myself or if I needed help.”
He chanced a glance up, only to close his eyes right back down. The expression on Yulia’s face was downright dangerous. “He’s an idiot, then.”
Marsh snorted. “He’s the smartest guy I’ve ever met. Hell, he’d have to be. Sure wised up fast to the fact that he was wasting his time with me if I wasn’t actively touching his dick.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
He shrugged. Nonchalance didn’t cover up the way he felt cold inside. And it was the worst kind of self-pitying, whiny crap, but that was why he came to Yulia. She might kick his ass as often as not, but he could say anything to her. Turning farther into her warmth, he mumbled, “What would he want with me anyway? Dumb jock…”
In the span of a breath, her gentle stroking turned into a sharp tug, and he had to fight to keep from showing how much that hurt. “That’s your father talking.”
His shoulders shook, and he hid his face. “Maybe. Still.” He bit his tongue, but it didn’t help. Fisting his hand into the space between his body and the couch, he mumbled, “Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
Chapter Three
Good Lord but cold coffee was disgusting. Greg pulled a face as he slugged back the last little bit left at the bottom of his travel mug. Sliding the lid shut, he grabbed a mint from the container of them he kept in his other cup holder and popped it in his mouth. There wasn’t much chance of anyone getting close enough to really appreciate his coffee breath, but still. He had some standards left.
Not that it was easy to tell, looking around his car. It was a ten-year-old beater he’d picked up used, sure, but he could do better than this. Sighing, he took a minute to ball up the couple of protein bar wrappers and napkins from the seat well of the passenger’s side and jam them in an old fast food bag. Trash and coffee mug in one hand, he jimmied the door handle with the other and let himself out.
He hit the lock and slammed the door shut behind him, then rounded to the trunk to get his bag. Damn, it was heavy. He slung it over his shoulder and headed toward the house, ticking off the items on his to-do list in time with his steps. Finish analyzing that data for his advisor, proof his proposal for the symposium, come up with some kind of plan for the class he had to TA tomorrow.
His stomach let out a distressed, rumbling growl, and he rolled his eyes at himself. Food first, then coffee, then work.
Well, at least he had his agenda set for the evening. And the night. And the late night. Sighing, he dragged himself up the steps and pushed open the door no one ever seemed to remember to lock, only to be assaulted by the sounds of gunfire. Nonplussed, he dropped his bag and shrugged off his jacket, slinging it over the other dozen or so of them hung up on the hooks in the entryway, then peered around the corner.
“Hey,” Jason said, not looking away from the screen, thumbs flying over the controller.
“Hey.” Greg looked on for a minute. “That the new
Call of Duty
?”
“Yup. Totally awesome.” He listed to the side, tongue sticking out from between his lips. For a fraction of a second, he darted his gaze Greg’s way. “You want dibs?”
Hell yeah, Greg did. He shook his head, though. “Maybe tomorrow.” Ha. Hahahahahahaha. Ha. And maybe he’d also decide to give up on a PhD and get a job at McDonald’s instead.
“Suit yourself.”
Greg pointed toward the kitchen with his thumb. “There any of my Chinese left from last night?” If anybody had eaten the last of his sweet and sour, they were going to get a talking to.
“Should be.”
Better be. And if Greg were a better person, he’d offer to share, but then dinner would turn into dinner and conversation, which would turn into dinner and conversation and a drink or two, and maybe just one quick game, and no. There wasn’t time for that. Besides, he wasn’t sure he had enough to go around, and he was starving.
Greg watched for another minute, then shook his head and meandered down the hall. He barely hesitated at the offshoot that led toward the little bedroom under the stairs. And he was going to resist. He really was.
Fuck it, who was he kidding? He put his hand to the wall and swung around the corner toward Marsh’s room. His heart dropped the second he saw the empty door and the total lack of a muscle-bound blond anywhere within.
He cursed himself in his head for getting his hopes up. Sliding his hand down the wall, he pushed off it.
The day after he and Marsh had…done what they’d done, he’d woken up and stumbled down the stairs, feeling hopeful and anxious and ready to be crushed by disappointment all at once. He’d made up so many possible scenarios for how things could go down, but the only one he hadn’t been prepared for was to not see Marsh at all—to get no reaction from him.
An empty room Saturday morning had been par for the course. Marsh had a lot of friends and a lot of obligations with his team. By Saturday night it had been distressing. By Sunday, disheartening, and Monday Greg had started to feel sick.
Now it was Tuesday evening, and he was edging toward resigned and numb.
He shouldn’t have done it. Shouldn’t have taken what Marsh offered. A taste of cock and flesh and touch—touch he’d been wanting for so long—had made all the months of repression fade away. It had made resuming his sexless, solitary life unbearable.