Page 16

The storm was still going, hitting the windows so hard that the shutters clattered, pounding on the walls like a giant was trying to get inside. Tornado sirens whined throughout the night, but Laurel had no way of knowing how close they were. Every so often, the door would creak and groan, and the deadbolt would rattle. Water had begun to seep in from beneath the doorjamb, staining the carpet, which was already in bad shape, threadbare in places and dotted with little burns from cigarettes or—something. Laurel thought of the crack across the bathroom ceiling and counted them lucky that the entire roof hadn’t fallen in. It was probably the worst hotel he had ever stayed in, because—let’s face it—he was an elitist snob, but with Casey here at his side, it felt like a little pocket of heaven.

“Here you go.” Casey handed him a steaming styrofoam container, then climbed up onto the bed next to him. They were both still naked, their clothes draped over the shower rod in an effort to dry them off, and Laurel checked him out unabashedly, the long lines of his body, his smooth lower belly and the vulnerable softness of his cock.

Casey noticed him looking. He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think I can go again yet, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I can’t either. I’m just enjoying looking at you.” He stoked a hand up Casey’s leg. “You’re so tan. Do you go to tanning beds?”

Casey shook his head. He scooped a forkful of noodles from his own cup, blowing on them. “I’ve always been like this. My dad used to make up stories, say we were creole, or his grandmother was a Cherokee princess, or some other bullshit. But I’m probably just very Swedish. Or Italian.”

“You might be secret Italian royalty,” Laurel said. Casey scoffed, but Laurel insisted. “No, really. I met a guy in Europe that that happened to. He inherited a castle. He and his boyfriend were super cute,” he added. From what he remembered. They had met in a club in Milan, and the undetermined number of Aperol spritzes he’d had made everything from that night warm and golden and a little fuzzy. He wondered if Casey would ever want to go to Milan, pictured him there, elegant and timelessly beautiful and just a little bit extra, just like the architecture of the city itself.

“Right.” Casey took a bite. Motioning with his fork, he said, “Try your noodles.”

Laurel looked down into the cup dubiously. The noodles were floating in some creamy-looking slurry, drops of hot sauce dotting the surface. “This is your secret recipe?” he asked.

“The shitty hotel room special. A taste of my childhood.”

Laurel felt obliged to try it, if only to keep Casey talking. Information about his past seemed to come out in bits and pieces, and this was the most he’d said in awhile. The soup was surprisingly good, even if it did mostly taste like salt, and Laurel’s stomach growled aggressively after the first bite. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. “It’s good,” he said. “What’s in here?”

“Just cheese and hot sauce.” Casey shrugged. “I had to get creative. We lived off of convenience store and gas station food for a long time. I think crappy food was, like, my only friend. I was a chubby kid,” he added, with an embarrassed laugh.

“You grew up just fine,” Laurel said. Honestly, Casey could probably stand to gain some weight.

“Yeah, well. It wasn’t like we couldn’t afford better, but my dad spent his money on other things. Luxury cars, fancy suits. Pain pills.” Casey chewed on the tines of his plastic fork, staring off into the distance. “He had to look the part.”

Laurel stroked his foot along Casey’s calf, watching him. It was like watching a wild rabbit at the edge of a briar patch, and he was afraid that if he made any sudden movements, or asked too much, Casey would dart back inside himself. “What did he do for a living?” Laurel asked.

“Lied to people,” Casey said flippantly, but there was tension in his jaw, his shoulders. “He wrote fake checks, talked people into get-rich-quick schemes and never delivered. Sold products that didn’t exist. Sometimes we pretended that I was tragically sick with childhood leukemia, or something else. I don’t even remember what all he did.” He set his cup of noodles down, picking at a loose thread on the bedspread. “He got caught eventually, and I got to live with my grandma while he was in prison. That was probably the only time I had any stability. The last I heard, he’s back out, and still at it. Tricking people on Facebook into fake Go-fund-mes and selling prayers on eBay.” He looked at Laurel, lips pressed together, face pale. “I guess you’re wondering why I decided to follow in his footsteps.”

Laurel didn’t say anything, just scooted closer to him, rubbing his shoulder, his neck. Casey relaxed into the touch, sighing.

“I don’t think I’m a very good person, to be honest,” he said.

“Eh. I’ve met worse.” Laurel’s heart was thudding against his ribs, and his tongue felt heavy. He knew he had to be honest, even though it was terrifying. But he had talked to Melody about the drinking, so maybe he could do this, too. His stomach dropped, and he said in a rush, “But I—I don’t want you to do it again. I mean, I guess in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter if some rich lady doesn’t get the perfect birthday party. But what about all the little people, the caterers and florists and other staff? They’re losing money, too, and they actually need it, and—it just makes me uncomfortable, Casey. I mean, if we’re—if we’re dating, or whatever it is we’re doing, then—then—”

“I know.”

“Don’t look away. I’m not mad at you.” Laurel took his hand. “I just don’t think it’s ethical, and I don’t want you to get in trouble, either. I mean, if you need money, I have—”

“I don’t want a sugar daddy, Laurel,” Casey said harshly. He tried to free his hand, but Laurel hung on tight.

“What do you want, then?”

Casey sighed, collapsing back against the pillows. “I want to get away. I was saving up, and then I was going to go—somewhere, I don’t know. British Columbia, maybe. I wanted to open up my own business and actually make an honest living.” He looked at him, eyes full of some unreadable emotion. “It just never seemed like enough.”

Laurel leaned in and kissed him, a soft, decisive kiss. “It’ll be enough. We can get away together.”

Casey ran the pad of his thumb over Laurel’s lips, studying him. “I want to believe you,” he murmured. Then he closed his eyes, burying his face against Laurel’s chest. “I’m tired of talking. Can we watch TV?”

“Sure.” Laurel kissed his temple, breathing him in. His hair smelled like the rain, and like the cheap soap from the shower, and underneath it was the familiar, undefinable smell of Casey himself, herbal and a little bitter and incredibly comforting. Something trembled in Laurel’s chest at the thought of maybe making this work, maybe being able to wake up next to him every morning, to nuzzle at his scalp and kiss him awake. “Turner Classic Movie marathon it is.”

“Wait, what? I didn’t—”

“Oh no, too late, I already have the remote! Get ready for fabulous costumes and choreographed dances and for your heart to be filled with song!”

*

Later, as they watched Rex Harrison being a loveable curmudgeon and Audrey Hepburn being her gorgeous, doe-eyed self, Laurel snuck a look at Casey. He had remained stone-faced throughout most of the musical, although Laurel could have sworn he’d caught him tapping his feet occasionally beneath the covers.

Noticing Laurel’s eyes on him, he said, “What?”

“Just curious what you think.”

Casey nibbled on a moon pie. “I mean, it’s just a makeover rom-com, but with singing.”

Laurel sputtered. “ Just ? This is the origin of the trope! And—and her hats alone elevate it, I mean—”

“What is it with you and Audrey Hepburn? Your mom is obsessed with her, too. That was supposed to be her Halloween costume.”

“Yeah.” Laurel sighed. “I guess I get it from her. I grew up watching all of these movies. It’s kind of the only thing we have in common. She’s always wanted to be, like, a lady . But she’s not very good at it.” He took the moon pie from Casey’s hand, stealing a bite. The chocolate was warm and melty. “I know, I know. A gay guy who loves musicals. Groundbreaking, right?”

Casey shrugged. “I mean, I have nothing to say. I’ve always leaned into every stereotype I could, as long as it got me ahead. I think it helped me seem—harmless, to your mom.”

Laurel wondered what that would be like, wondered if it had felt any more genuine than what he’d been doing, straddling some weird limbo where he was and wasn’t himself. He considered asking, but then Casey added, “Besides, I’ve kind of always wanted to be a florist. So maybe I’m just as groundbreaking as you are.”

Laurel felt himself smile. “You’d be an amazing florist. Much better than being a party planner. I still can’t believe she fired you.”

“I can. I kind of cussed her out a little bit. And said she didn’t give a shit about you, and that Howie Bonard was an asshole.”

“Oh my God,” Laurel blurted. “I think I love you.”

His stomach went cold as soon as he said it. He hadn’t meant to, and Casey had frozen up on the bed, hand halfway to his mouth. “Laurel,” he said cautiously.

“Shit, forget I said that.” His heart was hammering in his throat, and he was babbling, probably making things worse. Laurel could feel his face getting hot. The thing was, it had felt natural to say. Natural and easy and strangely not terrifying. “I mean—forget I said that now . I will say it. But when I do, it’s going to be romantic and unforgettable and we’ll be in some sweeping, gorgeous location, like a cafe in Venice or something, and—”

“Come here.” Casey put an arm around him, pulling Laurel against his side. “You’re bright red,” he murmured, nuzzling against his blazing-hot neck. “And your hands are covered in chocolate.” He kissed Laurel’s palm, his knuckles, sucking his fingers into his mouth one-by-one, and Laurel’s nervous trembling got an edge of desire to it, sparks going off in his lower belly. Casey was settling over him on the bed, one hand on his hip, and Laurel gasped as he began to kiss his way down his neck and over his chest with aching slowness, lips plush and lingering. He had the vague thought that he should pause the movie, but when he reached for the remote, he ended up knocking it off the bed, and then he couldn’t care anymore, because Casey’s mouth had enveloped his cock and it was just the velvet softness of his tongue, the silky strands of his hair between Laurel’s fingers and the wind outside battering at the door.

*

The credits were rolling, and Casey looked distinctly unimpressed. Though to be fair, they hadn’t really paid attention to all of the movie, so Laurel would have to make him watch it again.

“Not your favorite?” he asked, drawing circles on Casey’s chest with his fingers. The hair there was dark brown, and correspondingly dark stubble had started to come in along the line of his jaw. There was something precious about seeing him imperfect like this, without the nice clothes and the skincare regime, his usually slicked-back hair all mussed from Laurel running his hands through it.

Casey made a face. “I just don’t understand why she didn’t marry Freddie. He was rich, and hot. And he had, like, the most romantic song of all of them. They could have opened a flower shop and had a bunch of hot working-class sex. But instead she went for the grumpy old guy.”

“That’s because she and the grumpy old guy have an intense, antagonistic connection that’s simmering with unresolved sexual tension,” Laurel explained. “Besides, Freddie’s kind of a doofus.”

“Huh.” Casey pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Well, maybe I have a thing for rich doofuses who can sing.”

Laurel wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he retrieved the remote control from the floor and brought up the TV guide menu. “Well, let’s watch another one. I’m going to turn you into a musical lover if it kills me. Here, you’ll like this one. It’s about a con man with a heart of gold, just like you, and an uptight librarian that—”

Casey grabbed for the remote. “I am not a con man with a heart of gold. Can’t we just watch Law and Order or someth—”

There was a cracking sound from outside, so loud that Laurel felt it in his chest, and a flash of light too bright and close by to be lightning, and then the TV winked out, the room plunging into darkness.

“Shit,” Laurel said, pulse fluttering in his throat. “Do you think it was a transformer going out?”

“Probably.” He felt Casey’s hand against his lower back, smooth and calming, though he couldn’t see anything, eyes not yet adjusted to the sudden blackness. Casey’s lips touched Laurel’s temple as he said, “Well, what do we do now?”

Laurel leaned into him. He was still a little jittery from the shock of the power outage, the sudden explosion of noise. His skin felt tingly and electric, and the brush of Casey’s shoulder against his sent a cascade of sparks traveling down his arm. “I don’t know.”

“We could try to sleep, I guess.”

The sheets were stiff and rough, and smelled like bleach with an underlying odor of mildew. Laurel didn’t really want to fold himself into them, and now that sleep was on the table, he found that the exhaustion of earlier in the day had been replaced by a kind of giddiness. “Hmm,” he said. “That sounds boring. Who needs sleep?” Laurel’s hands found Casey’s chest, mapping him out inch-by-inch. There was something decadent and intoxicating about exploring him this way, unable to see anything, every sensation heightened. He bent his head, dragging his tongue over his skin, finding his collarbone and lavishing kisses across it. Traveling lower, he kissed the dip between his pecs, found one of his nipples and sucked it into his mouth, teasing with his teeth. Casey let out a little yelp, his nails digging into Laurel’s thigh.

“God, do you ever stop?” he gasped.

Laurel smiled, pleasure blooming in his chest at the shakiness in Casey’s voice. “To be honest, I don’t know if I can come again tonight,” he said. Finding his way back up Casey’s body, he propped himself up above him on the bed. The fine outline of his profile was barely visible, and Laurel brushed his nose against Casey’s before leaning in for a slow, lazy kiss. “But I never paid you back for earlier, and I really want you to fuck me again.”

“Well.” He heard Casey swallow, and felt his cock twitch and begin to grow heavy against Laurel’s lower belly. “I mean, I’m not going to say no.”

“Yeah, somehow I didn’t think so.”

Casey ran his hands down Laurel’s body, settling on his ass. His breath was hot against Laurel’s ear, and there was a tinge of wicked amusement in his voice when he spoke again. “But that doesn’t mean you’re in charge.” He dug his fingers into Laurel’s skin, a deep, punishing pressure that sent fiery bursts of pleasure-pain exploding across Laurel’s brain. Then he was rolling them over, pinning Laurel underneath him on the bed.

“So, how would you like to get fucked?” he asked almost conversationally.

Laurel’s face was so hot that he was sure Casey could see it glowing in the dark. He squirmed. “I thought I wasn’t in charge.”

“Ask nicely, and I’ll think about it.”

“I want—” he craned his neck, brushing his lips against Casey’s. “I want whatever you want.”

“Oh yeah?” Casey kissed the sensitive skin behind his ear, then nibbled on Laurel’s lobe, sucking it into his mouth, making his toes clench and his feet shift involuntarily against the bedspread. “Good, because I want to enjoy you.”

Laurel wasn’t really sure who was enjoying who more, just that Casey was everywhere in the dark, his hips pressing him into the mattress, his lips on Laurel’s neck and against his forehead and jaw and eyelids, and his two forefingers were in Laurel’s mouth, pressing down on Laurel’s tongue. He sucked on them dutifully, with no room for embarrassment about the filthy, wet sound it made or the desperate little whimpers escaping from his throat. When Casey took them away, he gasped in protest, but then Casey was kissing him, his tongue relieving the absence where his fingers had been, and his hand was between Laurel’s legs, playing with his ass, opening him up and making him shiver and beg.

He was still tender there, and he couldn’t help but wince as Casey’s finger fully penetrated him, but part of him wanted it, craved the discomfort. Some dark, destructive part of him wanted to let everything else fall away and just be used. That didn’t seem to be on Casey’s agenda, though; he must have noticed Laurel tensing up, because he murmured apologies against his hairline and broke away for a moment, fumbling on the bedside table, and when his fingers returned, they were slick with the lubricant that had come with the condoms, and the initial pain Laurel had felt melted into silky luxuriance. He let himself dissolve into it, lost to Casey’s touch, his mind a smear of heat and light, his heels digging into the bedspread and the muscles in his calves tensing and his dick, somehow, hard and leaking even after everything that had already happened that night. Sparklers were going off behind his eyelids, a groan locked in his throat. Casey kissed his forehead, his chest, his lower belly, before dropping a soft, lingering kiss on the head of his cock. His breath was warm against Laurel’s skin, and he was whispering sugar-sweet, worshipful things between each kiss. Laurel let out a shuddery curse, stroking the side of Casey’s face. He thought he might have meant it earlier, when he said he was in love with him. No one else had ever made him feel this way, this natural and unselfconscious and free.

An almost unbearable pause happened while Casey put on the condom; Laurel was no help, not even sure he remembered how to use his hands. Then he was above him again, and they were face-to-face, and Casey’s hand was cupping his hip, getting the angle just right, and then he was sliding fully into him, as deep as he could go. Laurel’s head fell back, his mouth open, unable to make a sound, unable to do anything but absorb the pleasure of it, lost here in the dark with Casey. It was slow and sweet and inevitable this time, Casey going slow, like he had promised, until time had no meaning and the night dropped off over the horizon and the two of them were all that existed. He found himself wishing he could see Casey’s face as he moved above him, but he settled for running his hands over his features, tracing his expressions. He had been right that he couldn’t finish, but it was alright, locked here in this pocket of heat with Casey moving inside of him, the pleasure dilating and stretching out without end, relishing every slow, aching inch and hearing every soft little gasp he made. Laurel held him after he finally came, feeling the quickness of Casey’s breaths, the trembling of his limbs.

“God,” Casey breathed against his shoulder. “You’re okay?”

“I’m great,” Laurel said, kissing his sweaty forehead. “Don’t worry.”

“So about that cafe in Venice.”

“Oh yeah?” Laurel smiled. His legs were still wrapped around him, and he kind of never wanted to let him go.

“Yeah.” Casey cuddled up into the crook of his neck. Laurel could feel his eyelids flutter, lashes brushing his skin. “When do we go?”