Hush (19 page)

He hopes he’ll get to spend a lot more time cataloging the shifts in Wren’s eyes.

“You know I’m not,” Wren responds softly.

“I know what you want, now; is that evidence?”

“What do I want, Cam?” Wren tilts his head. Cam lets him­self smile. Moves slowly but deliberately until he’s straddling Wren’s lap without putting too much weight on his legs. He snakes his fingers through Wren’s hair. Their lips are so close when he whispers it.

“
Me
.”

Wren kisses and kisses Cam.
Kisses him dozens of ways. He stretches his legs out and feels the seeping cold of the floor begin to warm, coaxes Cam closer until their bodies are crowded together and Cam is a heavy weight in his lap.

When he tries to ease his hands into the back of Cam’s pants, Cam pulls away from his mouth with a gasp.

“Don’t,” he whispers.

“Don’t what?” Wren tries for playful but he sounds more con­fused. “Don’t touch you? Don’t you want it?”

“I want you to kiss me,” Cam’s eyes are serious and earnest.

“I will.” Wren pushes the hem of Cam’s shirt up farther until his hands meet warm skin. Wren urges him closer and closer until they are rocking against each other, imperfectly building pleasure into something aching.

And all through it, the delicious ascent and the brilliant crest, his lips never leave Cam’s.

“I really like Nora’s friends,”
Maggie says one Friday night. They’ve become weekend regulars at The Cat. Every Friday they meet and gather at the same booth. It’s comforting to have a rou­tine, and Cam comes to know who else hangs out here to take advan­tage of the warm atmosphere. Everything about this bar feels soothing, like the walls, paneled deep brown at the bottom and painted a deep peach at the top, featuring art from local artists for sale. The booths are a bit small for Cam; the seats are lower than most, which makes it a bit awkward at his height, but he knows Maggie and Nora very much appreciate it. Cam usually sits at the end of the booth with his legs stretching out to the side.

Shae, who is almost always their waitress, comes to know them by name. The first two times she waits on them, Cam quietly watches for the tells that lie in the smallest details. She never writes down their order, although the first few times they come in she pretends to. She pulls her hair back in an artfully messy knot—at the end of her shift, he’s seen her by the service station tak­ing it down and massaging her scalp. Shae probably doesn’t wear her hair up when she’s not required to at work. Her apron acquires more and more stains and splashes as the night carries on, but it’s always pristine the next time they see her. The other waitresses favor low-cut black tops and darker eye makeup; Shae always looks natural and approachable.

The third time they come in, Cam speaks to her for the first time about something other than what he’s ordered.

“Why do you pretend to write down our orders?” he asks. Shae smiles. Her teeth are slightly crooked.

“It’s a rule,” she explains. “Management rules.”

“That’s why you wear your hair up, right?”

She gives him a look; he must seem odd to her. “Yes, we have to wear it up.”

“I just like to watch people,” he says, and then realizes that this probably doesn’t make him seem any less strange. “Not in a creepy way—”

“I get it,” she interrupts his rushed explanation with a laugh. “I try to do that too—read my tables and customers. I prob­ably don’t do it the same way you do, though.” She casts a quick look around, scanning her tables to see if she’s needed.

“Go,” he says when he sees another table trying to get her attention.

“We’ll chat more later,” she promises, pocketing her useless pad in her apron.

* * *

“Does it bother you,
that
I kind of shoehorned everyone into this group?” Maggie asks one day. Nora is here with them, but for the moment they’re alone in their booth, sharing a plate of cheap appetizers.

“No. Not really. I enjoy it all.”

“You know it’s not just me matchmaking, right? I really like Nora.”

“We hang out with them enough, yes, I got that sense. Plus a little bird told me you’ve been shopping with her,” Cam jokes around a mouthful of potato skins. “The mark of deep love, for you.”

“Manners, Cam,” Maggie says, only a little severely. He oblig­ingly chews before they continue their conversation. “Which little bird?”

“Christine,” Cam says.

“Jealous, a little? I know you’ve been my shopping partner—”

“A little relieved, actually,” he jokes. “My budget can’t take that many hits. Who needs that much clothing? Now I can save my money for this wasteland of debauchery.”

“Sweetie,” Maggie says condescendingly, “two or three drinks on a night out don’t count as debauchery.”

Cam just barely bites back his retort. Sex in bathrooms and dark­ened streets are definitely his definition of debauched behav­ior. The secrecy of those moments feels like intimacy: the press of necessary silence, the rough possession, the frenetic rush of orgasm, his body Wren’s to manipulate and take and take from.

Instead, he smiles at her and turns the subject back. “So you’ve become friends with her beyond transparent plots to hook me up with Wren?”

“I’ve sort of given up on that,” she admits, sipping her Tequila Sunrise and wincing. Every time they go out she tries something new. She’d told him she’s on a quest for a signature beverage—and in so doing, is working her way through every mixed drink she can think of. She’s depended on Cam to remember the ones she likes.

“Oh good,” he says absently. Nora is at the bar rail—she’d gone to order a drink, because Shae has been bogged down at a table of rowdy guys. There’s a guy at the bar, too, who has approached Nora. She’s smiling in the friendly way she has and twirling a lock of her hair. She’s changed her colors to a darker blonde with purple tips and streaks. It’s a look Cam likes on her.

There’s something about this guy’s body language Cam isn’t sure of. He’s only half-listening to Maggie.

“I still maintain he’s perfect for you. You just have to get to know him more. You guys never talk, really.”

“Oh don’t we?” Something is definitely off. Cam starts to scoot out of the booth, but Nora must suddenly notice it too. With a neutral smile, she says something and starts to turn away. The guy puts a hand on her arm to stop her and says something else, and now Cam is standing because Nora is definitely not welcoming that touch.

But Wren is at her side before Cam can take a step. He says something—his face is a little fierce and his hand is on the small of Nora’s back. Nameless guy backs off quickly and turns; he says something Cam knows must be deprecating to the guys at his table, and they all laugh.

When he looks back, Wren has one hand on Nora’s arm while the other brushes her hair behind her ear. He’s saying something quietly to her, looking into her eyes. He takes a breath and con­tinues to look at her steadily. She breathes too, until her body sags and relaxes a little.

He seems to be compelling comfort, and so sweetly; there is a look of ten­der concentration Cam’s never seen on his face as he strokes the skin of Nora’s forearm gently with his thumb. Nora’s body is settled into her usual posture when he finally breaks eye contact, and the hug they share is long and familiar.

* * *

Wren gets better at sensing
when Nora is going to spring Cam on him, and he wises up to Brokk’s involvement as well. He retreats into the comfort of his room, the womblike warmth of his bed and desk and deep blue and gray walls. It’s impossible not to sense Cam’s feelings when they’re together now, no matter what Wren does.

He calls Cam to him only when he can’t help it anymore. They don’t speak; Wren makes sure of it, compelling Cam into stunned, pleasure-soaked silence. He never allows their eyes to meet unless he has Cam in careful submission. Coming and going erratically, he allows for longer stretches of time between encounters and never indicates when they will be. And they’re as fast and impersonal as he can make them—which is not very, not when his idiot need for Cam makes him want to soak in Cam’s every molecule.

Cam comes for him, over and over, and more and more often with confusion, sometimes reticence. He wants Wren, it’s clear. Wren is careful to always listen to the call of Cam’s will. But he’s straining for more, reaching for something Wren cannot give him.

* * *

Summer waxes halcyon and warm
around them, and with free­dom from school, only the gravity of jobs pulling them, they all have more time to spend together. Wren doesn’t mind anymore. He’s settled himself into a shell he puts on when Cam is with them. This group has come together in a tapestry that he
knows
makes sense, a tapestry he understands would be complete if he didn’t work so hard to keep himself away from Cam.

In July, Maggie decides she wants to go to Somewhere O’Clock and try trivia with teams. Wren has a great time with her, espe­cially; he’s always wanted to try competitive trivia.

“Do
not
try to be stealthy and manipulate things so I am on his team,” he warns Nora when they’re getting ready that night. They’re both fiddling in front of the mirror in their small bathroom.

“Here,” Nora says, turning away from her reflection for a moment and bat­ting his hands from his hair, “you’re doing it all wrong.” Her fingers are sure against his scalp, and, even though he’s not certain he trusts her to do his hair any better than he can, the easy, affectionate touch feels lovely.

“There.” He looks at himself. She’s done his hair completely differently that he would. It’s less messy, shaped differently and swept to one side, with some volume. “It would be even better if you let me put some color in again—”

“Nora, we don’t have time for that. And the last time you did it faded and turned pink.”

“What’s wrong with pink?” Nora says defensively and plucks at her top, which he just now notices is a lovely shade of fuchsia.

“Nothing. I love pink,” he says dryly. “I just didn’t want it in my hair at that point in time.”

“Well.” She picks her eyeliner back up and pretends to touch up her eyes, even though her makeup is finished. “The green looked great.”

There’s an edge to her voice he wishes he could pacify. She’s been a little grumpy and high-strung lately, and has been joking about being single for so long. It’s incredibly hard for her to find guys to date, because as soon as she thinks she’s interested, she reads their auras; after what happened with Matt—trusting him enough to ignore things she’d seen and then realizing how much he’d manipulated and pressured her—her fear has lingered. Nora’s a deeply monogamous girl, but rarely finds men whose initial inter­est isn’t just sexual.

“You look beautiful, honey,” Wren tugs at her shirt. “Come on, we’ll be late.”

“Teams?” Nora asks
as soon
as they are settled.

“I call Maggie,” Wren says immediately. He’s surprised when Cam smiles widely.

“Excellent.” Cam nudges Nora with his shoulder. ”I have a good feeling about you, kid.”

“Of course you do.” Nora tosses her hair back over her shoulder. She’s been growing it out; the length gives her waves an at-the-beach, natural beauty. Cam whispers something in her ear, and Wren doesn’t try not to stare. Cam is wearing a short-sleeved black shirt with a cowl-neck collar. His skin is dull bronze against it; the winged meeting of his collarbones is visible. Desire cascades through Wren’s body.

“I guess that leaves us,” Christine says with a laugh. Brokk kisses her cheek.

“We are the only couple,” he points out with a completely trans­parent look at Wren. Wren kicks him under the table, hoping it’s discreet enough that Cam won’t notice. He’ never promised Cam that
he
won’t say anything about their arrangement—secrecy only applies to Cam. But he would never have revealed Cam’s name had they never met him. If only his friends weren’t so fucking nosy. Well, and if only Nora could control her gift.

Cam moves his stool so he’s closer to Nora. Wren doesn’t miss the look he sends Brokk and Christine; there’s a longing in it that feels like needles in Wren’s heart. There is no hiding how much Cam wants Wren and loves what they do. But it’s also clear how much Cam has come to want more. From Wren, and for his life.

Wren doesn’t have this to offer, but he can’t stop what he’s doing because he wants it too, wants anything he will let himself have from Cam. It’s ridiculous and fucked up and out of control.

“We’re gonna wipe the floor with you, Allister,” Nora taunts Wren, and Cam high-fives her. Wren can’t even wrest his smile under control.

There is nothing like trivia
nights,
because there’s no other time Cam gets to see Wren so completely himself. It’s nothing like when they’re at the bar; a tension underlines those interactions. Plus, they’re good at existing at the fringes of a circle of friends.

Here, though, it’s so
easy
and becomes so familiar. Wren laughs loudly and makes bawdy jokes whenever a faintly sugges­tive ques­tion comes up. He’s more competitive than the rest of them com­bined, and he and Maggie are a deadly team. It turns out that Mag­gie is a font of useless facts and a complete secret weapon when it comes to trivia nights.

Cam holds images of Wren close when he goes to sleep at night: Wren’s eyes scrunching with laughter as they all banter and trade friendly barbs at the table. Wren mindlessly playing with the plugs in his ears as they talk. The way he fiddles with his drink straw, twirling it clumsily, dropping it so often he steals someone else’s. These small things endear him to Cam even further.

Cam is so close to what might be love that by the time he is aware of it, he feels the same way he did after Wren first kissed him—a flash illuminating a room full of familiar objects Cam hadn’t realized were there the whole time.

“Stop,” Wren pants against Cam’s
lips.
Cam stills the undu­lating movement of his hips and opens his eyes. It’s so dark he can barely see Wren’s face; his eyes are the smallest glitter of light in the room. Cam doesn’t move, lets himself give in more and relaxes his body against the mattress when Wren presses down harder on his wrists, which are stretched above his head against a pillow. Wren’s thighs bracket Cam’s and it’s so hot they’re both sweating. It’s wonderful like this, surrounded and overtaken by Wren’s body.

“What’s wrong?” he manages.

“Stop,
stop
,” Wren moans.

“I have,” Cam points out, confused. “I can’t stop any more when you’re holding me down.”

“I don’t mean that,” Wren says.

“What?” Cam squints, as if it will somehow make Wren’s image clearer.

“I can’t—” Wren’s voice breaks, “do this.” He untangles their fingers and starts to climb off of him.

“No, no.” Cam puts his hands around Wren’s biceps and pulls him back down. Wren’s arms are wiry, very strong, but Wren is so much smaller Cam can almost wrap his hand all the way around his arm. “Tell me what I’m doing and I’ll stop.”

Wren shifts and flicks on the bedside light. His face is red; his eyes are skittish and too round. He puts an open palm on Cam’s heart, swallows hard before trying to speak and then shakes his head.

“What?” Cam puts his hand over Wren’s, and Wren flinches and jerks it away.

“Learn to pull that back or this is over,” Wren says between gritted teeth. His eyes are too bright, and Cam wonders for a moment if he’s about to cry. He knows now what Wren is say­ing. It’s been harder and harder to hold it in, this huge surge of tender yearn­ing he has for Wren.