Goldilocks: A Man, a Jersey, and a Tight End (2 page)

He could hear Jim’s grin right through the phone.

“So,” said Scott. “I’ll see you Saturday night?”

“Paul’s due back Thursday. We’ll have to celebrate,” said Jim. “When do you think you’ll be in?”

“Ah, late. Don’t wait up. I’ll see you Sunday morning.”

“I’ll wait up,” said Jim.

Scott felt something warm and good in his chest. “Okay, babe.” He disconnected and started up his truck, the buzz and the tingle all over him.

* * * *

Jim washed up and went back into the room, crawling in behind Brian and spooning him, still careful of his backside.

Brian clasped Jim’s fingers and brought them up against his chest. “You talked to Scott?”

Jim murmured his assent.

Brian laughed softly. “I heard you groaning.”

“Go to sleep, Brian.”

“Yes, sir,” whispered Brian. He wiggled a little closer. “Love you, Mama Bear.”

“Love you too, pup.”

Chapter Two

The following afternoon, Jim heard the door slam and he went into the living room. Brian had tossed his jacket and backpack on the couch so that the pack’s contents had half spilled out. Jim could hear the shower in Brian and Paul’s room running, and he was merely intending to remind Brian to put his things away properly until he looked down and saw the magazine peeking out of Brian’s backpack.

Brian came out of the bathroom, wiping his hands, and saw Jim sitting in the big chair in the living room, the magazine in his hand.

“Hey, that’s mine,” said Brian. “Put it back.”

Jim raised an eyebrow. “Brian, sit down. We need to talk.”

Brian crossed his arms and opened his mouth as if he were going to sass Jim, but the expression on Jim’s face must have made him think twice about it because he moved over to the sofa and threw himself on it instead. “Talk about what? That magazine? Are you kidding?”

Jim opened the magazine and looked at it. It was an extreme bondage magazine, oriented toward gay men.

“You going to tell me you don’t approve?” Brian snorted. “Gimme a break.”

Jim put the magazine down on the table and leaned forward, hands on his knees. The boy who sat before him looked nothing like the healthy, happy young man whom Paul had kissed good-bye four months earlier. It had been a progressive change. And so subtle as to be almost invisible. But Brian’s current expression, a kind of sullen resentment, and his tendency to say no to any request, were now his most common characteristics.

Now he sat in a twisted heap on the sofa, arms folded around his chest and one foot tapping nervously against the table leg.

Jim paged slowly through one of the magazines. The images were intense, many of the men bound so severely they would have to be in pain.

“Do you want me to do any of these things to you, Brian?”

Brian twitched. He wrapped his hands together between his knees and scowled at the floor.

“Do you want Paul to do any of these things to you?”

An expression, half anger, half agonized uncertainty, twisted up Brian’s face. “I don’t know.”

“I have a Saint Andrew’s cross disassembled at the back of my closet, Brian. If you need it, I’ll put it together for you.”

“You do?”

“I have some experience in these things. Do you need more serious discipline?”

Brian’s eyes widened, but he only said, “Maybe.”

“But I feel that’s something you should discuss with Paul first.”

“Over the
phone
? I
can’t
.”

The poor kid. Jim didn’t know if he was angrier with himself or with Paul. They should have known this would happen. They should have known that, no matter how frequent Paul’s phone calls and video conferences and e-mails, a relationship of this sort could not be maintained long-distance.

Now Brian was shaking his head and then shrugging. Jim could see Brian was struggling with a host of emotions, and he held out his arms. “Come here.”

He pulled Brian into his lap. The kid twitched and seemed to be all knees and elbows for a minute as he struggled with himself, but Jim just wrapped his arms around him and gave him a big bear hug until he felt every muscle in Brian’s body go limp.

“He’ll be home tomorrow night,” he whispered into Brian’s hair.

“Are you going to tell him?”

“About the magazine?” Jim kept his body loose and comforting, not showing his confusion. What was Brian trying to bring up? What issue? “I tell Paul about everything,” Jim said finally. “Especially if it concerns you and Scott.”

This seemed to be the right answer. Brian relaxed again, snuggling into his embrace.

“You want some dinner now?” Jim asked after a while.

Brian’s head shook against his chin. “Not hungry.”

“You’ll eat,” said Jim calmly. He helped Brian to his feet and headed off to the kitchen. “Come help me wash vegetables.”

Brian was restless all evening. He barely sat for ten minutes at his desk doing his homework, and long after lights out, Jim could hear him padding around in the kitchen. A very tired and very anxious young man greeted Jim the following morning and drove him crazy through most of the rest of the day.

“What was that?” Brian popped up out of his chair and ran to the window for about the twentieth time.

“Sit down, Brian.”

“He said he’d be here at six. It’s ten after six,” Brian whined, coming back to the table reluctantly and sliding into his seat.

Jim sighed. Brian had been fidgeting and jumping at every sound all afternoon. Now he sat in front of his untouched dinner plate, practically vibrating in place. “Paul is a man, not a train, Brian. He doesn’t run on a schedule.”

“Yes, he does,” said Brian. “He’s
never
late.”

“Eat your peas.” Jim tried not to smile. The kid had a point. Paul was the most punctilious man he’d ever met. “And if you leave the table again without permission, you’ll be facing a corner when he comes home.”

That subdued Brian, and he picked up a fork and finally began to eat.

* * * *

Okay, where did one begin with how many things weren’t fair about the situation? Brian mashed peas into a pile of goo, saw Jim giving his plate a dark look, and scooped them up and shoveled them into this mouth.

Not fair.

First of all, that Paul had to work in Northern California six months of the year.

Second, that Brian’s school schedule overlapped Paul’s trip north, so they had to spend about four months apart.

And third, that during that time he still had a growly and, in his opinion, overly domesticated top ordering him about and tattling to Paul whenever Brian got just the teensy-eensiest bit out of line.

His bottom still hurt from the paddling last night. Okay, he’d kind of been goading Jim into it. But some part of his brain had hoped that just
maybe
Paul would come home sooner if he thought it was necessary.

“Stop banging your fork against the plate, Brian,” said Jim. “If you’re finished, you may be excused.”

Brian took his plate to the sink, and that was when he heard the Harley in the driveway. Not the car backfires or lawnmowers that had been making him jump out of his skin all day, but an honest to goodness, turbocharged, four-muffler lowrider.

“He’s home!” Brian did a fair impersonation of Wile E. Coyote, arms and legs spinning, as he ran for the door.

The big oak door opened, and then his Papa Bear was standing there: all six feet four, black leathers, skintight jeans, and calf-high biker boots. He dropped the helmet he swung from one hand to the table when Brian hurtled into his arms.

Nothing smelled like his Papa Bear in leathers. Brian clung like a burr, face buried in the smell of hot leather and man, feeling Paul’s hands firm against his back, fingers in his hair, beard burn on Brian’s cheeks, and the squeak of his leather jacket under Brian’s knees where they wrapped around Paul’s hips.

“Honey…” his Papa moaned, and then there was the taste of his mouth. Brian couldn’t let go, feeling his man’s body moving, aware of those big hands holding him close, of the light changing around him as they moved, and then the sound of a door and the dimness and quiet of their own room.

“Welcome back,” he heard Jim say as they disappeared into their bedroom.

* * * *

Like sliding from the saddle, Brian reluctantly relinquished his hold long enough for Paul to shed the jacket and T-shirt under it, revealing the complex mass of snake tattoos with the
D.A.D.D.Y.
tattoo rippling over his six-pack.

Brian wanted to weep, his fingers running over the tat possessively. He kissed each snake head, and then his face was in Paul’s hands, and his mouth was being taken.

Then they were looking into each other’s eyes. And so much was said that neither of them could say out loud: about lonely nights and longing, about worry and hope and having faith.

Paul’s fingers were on his cheek, a wondering expression on his face. Then his fingers wandered through the mass of curls. Brian pulled the band free and let them fall so Paul could wrap those arms around him and feel the silky hair against his torso.

“I…I…waited…” Brian didn’t know how to explain, so he led Paul to the bed and let his clothes drop to the floor, then crawled back on the bed and lay down, arms stretched out.

Paul groaned and seemed to have trouble with his boots, finally climbing up and cradling Brian, the look on his face almost of agony. Breathing hard, Brian found Paul’s hand and brought it to where he needed to feel Paul.

Lips on his mouth, his neck, the bald head rubbed under Brian’s chin as those lips brought marks up on Brian’s collarbone, fingers finding the whole map of Brian’s body as if rediscovering it. Those fingers found where Brian had prepared himself, kept himself open for days for his Papa Bear.

With a desperate noise, Paul stretched Brian’s legs and pushed himself inside, long, hard, and smooth, like an oiled piston, and both men cried a high sharp sound of need.

“Baby…” wailed Paul, pumping hard almost immediately, the movement rocking Brian against the headboard over and over. Grabbing Paul’s shoulder with one hand, keeping the leverage against the headboard with the other, Brian arched and tried to work his body into his daddy’s thrusts, twisting and begging, then demanding, as Paul cried out with every shove. Finally, toes digging into the mattress, thigh muscles trembling, Paul froze against Brian, gripping him with both hands, and cried out against Brian’s shoulder.

Shuddering and with the heat of Paul’s release filling him, an orgasm snaked around Brian’s spine and shattered his brain.

Even the stars in the heavens didn’t blink for a long, long moment.

“You okay?” Paul’s nose nuzzled beneath Brian’s ear.

“I am now, Daddy,” said Brian, petting at the bald head softly, his eyes already blinky and his body dozy and limp for the first time in weeks.

“God, I missed you,” breathed Paul. His words were muzzy and sleepy too. Brian patted his daddy in a vaguely comforting manner, the world still rocking beneath them from the shattering sex as they fell asleep wrapped around each other.

* * * *

It was silly to feel sorry for himself, but that was what Jim was feeling. He punched the numbers of the cell phone in again and frowned when Scott didn’t pick up.

Ah well, the dishes needed washing. The rhythmic thumping had finally ceased by the time Jim had folded his dish towel and hung it back up. He smiled to himself. Waffles with strawberries for breakfast, he was thinking.

Paul and he still needed to have a talk about this arrangement. But that could wait.

Chapter Three

Scott was making good time and feeling mighty fine until around Albuquerque. That was when the twitchy feelings started in his muscles. He could see the purple clouds swelling the southern horizon, and his radio reported, among a ton of static, that a big storm was coming up from the Texas Panhandle.

Having driven across the terrain many times in the past decade, Scott had an eye and a nose for weather, and later he’d admit to himself that this storm was no more than a few raindrops and a heckuva lotta noise. But the twitchy feeling in his muscles was turning into a crawly feeling all over his skin and a grouchy, disagreeable disposition in his brain.

Seven hours out of California, just a hop, skip, and jump to home, really, and for no reason Scott could explain, he found himself deciding to sit the storm out instead of driving through, pulling his rig into the big parking lot of a little trucker bar where he’d been known to tie a few on in his day.

“Well, will you look what the storm blew in,” said Old Charlie. He slapped at his gleaming bar with a rag and sauntered over to where Scott had bellied up.

“Whatchya havin’, stranger?” Old Charlie grinned and winked. Because Charlie could pull a draft for you or point you in the direction of some available pussy, depending on your mood.

“Bud,” said Scott. “For starters.”

Charlie drew a draft. “Starting a tab?”

Scott placed his plastic on the counter. “Looks like.”

It took about half an hour for the thunderclouds to release themselves, but that jumpy feeling in Scott’s gut was just getting worse, and it seemed that, instead of making him mellow, each successive beer was making him just a little bit more aggravated.

“Hey, dude, could ya, like, try playin’ some other song?” said a big hairy man with a tiny baseball cap squeezed down over his head, sitting at the end of the bar.

Scott looked down at the number 17 button on the jukebox he’d been about to push again. Then back up at “dude.” The guy was about twice Scott’s height, tufts of hair pushing out of a red flannel shirt pulled tight over a barrel chest that was probably 50 percent beer belly and the other 50 percent painfully hard muscle.

“And what’s wrong with ‘Wichita Lineman’?” asked Scott, all that roiling and boiling energy he’d been riding sort of rolling up his spine, down his arms, and ending up balled into two fists.

If the man had known him at all, he’d have guessed what the look in his eyes meant. But he didn’t know Scott, did he? And wasn’t that sort of the point?