The ETA From You to Me (12 page)

Shit.

Why did Clayton have to be beautiful and brainy?

“Uh,” Grant responded intelligently, struggling to come up with some sort of explanation, “Billy’s busy.” Great job, Grant, you’d pass a lie detector test in a heartbeat.

“Doing what?”

“Sleeping?” Which could have meant that Billy had a run early in the morning, if Clayton didn’t as-

“When did he get in?”

Grant scrambled for the dispatch sheet, eyes landing on where the paper informed him that Billy hadn’t actually gone on any runs after midnight. “Yo no say.”

Clayton didn’t know Spanish, did he? Whether or not he did, Grant would never know, because he was given a painfully long moment of silence as Clayton seemed to mull over Grant's lack of an actual response. Grant tensed when Clayton finally cleared his throat, face breaking into a silly grin as Clayton mumbled, “thanks, Grant.”

“No problem, dude.” Grant chirped, wiggling back and forth in his seat as Clayton muttered a soft goodbye and hung up. It was the best feeling in the world, that Clayton had actually thanked Grant for making sure to give him a long haul. All drivers loved towing things out of the county, it meant they were paid for the long hours spent driving in an air conditioned truck, instead of running around the city for the same amount of money. Grant dropped the phone onto the hook, falling back against his seat and flailing his legs.

“Oh yeah! Who is awesome? This guy!” Grant whooped, flinging his arms up and down because he was way too happy to stop himself from acting like an excited walrus. The computer honked a second later, making Grant yelp and fling himself forward to read the screen. It was a battery call, luckily, so he clicked around before grabbing the phone to dial Elliot.

With how much his cheeks were aching from all the smiling he was doing, Grant had a pretty good idea of how a botox patient felt after surgery.

It was a little over a half hour before Clayton paged Grant to say he was in tow, and Grant acknowledged him before grabbing the phone to punch in Clayton’s cell number.

“What did you need?” Clayton answered.

“Did you like the toy?” Grant winced at how overzealous he sounded, stabbing himself in the bottom lip with his pen on accident and dropping it with a soft curse. Clayton didn’t answer, and Grant tensed up because shit, what if he’d actually just thrown the toy away entirely because he couldn’t bear to look at Grant's face by returning it?

“I could take it back? Or I could give you the receipt, if you want. Actually, no, I already chucked it, but--”

“It’s… realistic.” Clayton said quietly.

Grant jumped on it like Bruno Mars on a grenade. “I know, right? It took me forever to find one that wasn’t lame or itchy or made with that creepy crushed velvet stuff. I think it’s actual wolf fur--”

“Rabbit fur.”

‘--r something. What?” Did Clayton actually know what kind of animal fur was on the wolf? How did you even identify animal fur? Did he have a degree in creature pelt 101?

“It’s rabbit fur. Wolf fur is more wiry. Rabbit fur is softer and their pelts are easier to come by.” Clayton elaborated in a quiet mutter.

Grant looked around for a second before realizing he didn‘t have the receipt or anything about the stuffed animal, turning back to rest his elbows on the desk. “Oh. How did you know that?”

Clayton paused, taking a deep breath though his nose and exhaling slowly with a murmur of, “I read the tag.”

Which, actually, would have made sense. Except that Grant had spent twenty minutes sitting in the office reading every single tag on that wolf plushie to try and find what it had been made of out and finding nothing, nil, zilch, nada thing about the actual animal fur of origin. He was half a second from telling Clayton this when he realized it was probably one of those awkward situations where Clayton didn’t want to admit that, at some point, he’d cuddled with enough bunny rabbits to be able to identify the texture of their fur from memory.

Unable to fully cope with the mere mental image, Grant released a strangled, “oh…. of course,” and bit down on the side of his tongue to stifle the desire to coo at Clayton like a woman around babies.

“Was there something you needed?” Clayton grunted, possibly in an attempt to assert his masculinity. Grant grinned, pushing away from the desk to spin in a circle and yelping when the chord wrenched the phone base across the desk. He jerked forward, fumbling to push it back.

“Besides you?” He blurted, knocking over the pen holder in an epic fit of clumsiness. He was momentarily glad that Clayton couldn’t see him flailing around like an high-strung octopus.

“Grant.” Clayton growled.

“No, it’s just slow and I was calling to see what’s up.” Grant elaborated, attempting to sound as innocent as possible.

“Are you-”

“I’m not doing anything! I can’t just chat with one of my coworkers?” Grant kind of knew he'd been caught, if only because he was well aware of the fact that he was a terrible liar.

“Grant…”

“So when you get back, I was thinking about ordering a pizza or something. You game?”

“….”

“I’ll get mega meat lovers?” Grant reached for the phone book, snagging it as Clayton released an aggrieved sigh that sounded more amused than actually annoyed.

“Fine.”

It was like being punched in the stomach by a magical gorilla that brought nothing but suffocating happiness, and Grant released a soft sigh of relief before he instantly thought of something to talk about. “Okay so, my dad said they’ve got Mike in custody, I was thinking about talking to Tucker about getting a copy of the security camera to help prosecute him. I mean, I’m sure my dad will ask, but I could let him know beforehand.”

“There’s a camera in the garage, probably should look at that too.” Clayton mumbled.

Mother of God, he was right.

Grant shot up in his seat, smiling wide. “You’re brilliant,“ he breathed, “I could kiss you right now.”

Clayton made a pained noise that sounded like it was squeezed from the back of his throat before it started to form into a warning growl. Grant decided to nip that one in the bud, adding, “You can’t tell me you don’t want a piece of this.”

Foot, meet mouth.

Grant tensed up the second the words left his mouth, grimacing and throwing a hand up like he could somehow stop the repercussions of his cockiness (with a depressing lack of actual cock) when Clayton huffed softly. Grant was instantly talking again, trying to smooth over his words with a bit of exaggerated flair. “I mean, I totally am the--”

“I want a piece.”

“sexiest-- what?” Grant choked. Is this real life? Is this just fantasy?

“--of pizza. When I get back.“ Clayton finished slowly, sounding so smug that Grant kind of wished he could Stretch Armstrong his fist through the phone and into Clayton’s face. “Save me some.” Clayton added, hanging up before Grant could even say anything.

Grant stared at his phone for a long second, mouth gaping open and his face flushing hot for no apparent reason at all. He didn't regain his composure until Billy paged through asking Grant a question about his current job.

  Chapter 7

Grant was halfway through finishing his closing paperwork when Clayton pulled into the garage. There was still a few slices of pizza left from lunch, which had been an afternoon Grant would absolutely need to write into his nonexistent sparkly diary all about Clayton.

Dear Diary, today Clayton smiled at me. And stole pizza from my hand. I think we have a connection.

Brilliance.

Clayton stepped into the office once he was done fueling his truck up, eyes glancing longingly at the pizza box. It was kind of endearing, the way Grant could practically see the guy’s stomach lurch in one of those moments Grant knew very well. (He liked to call them the ’I was really hungry but then I forgot I was hungry until I was reminded of how hungry I was' look.) Grant was out of his seat before he could think about what he was doing, opening the box and shimmying over to the microwave. For good measure, he made sure to bend at the torso and not his shoulders or knees when he went to reheat the pizza, glancing at the reflective door of the microwave to see the reflection of Clayton staring blatantly at his ass.

Grant's heart had a momentary spasm, wrenching up into his throat and then stuttering for a beat as he stood up and turned. Much to Grant's everlasting amusement, Clayton was peering innocently at some of the paperwork on the desk. He was about as subtle as a box of fireworks.

“Been busy?” Clayton asked gruffly. Grant smothered a grin, shrugging his shoulders.

“Enough that I could smoke ten cigarettes and still feel stressed out,” he muttered, trying to block out the image from earlier that day. Brian the creeper had been working all morning, and when he came into the office to pick up a call, he’d thrown up on himself in the middle of talking and had tried to play it off like nothing had happened. Grant had barely been able to silence his dry heaving as Brian hacked and spat into the bathroom toilet while asking Grant information about the run.

Clayton scowled, eyebrows pinching in confusion together. It should have been unnerving, or at least intimidating, but Grant was a sadist and found it nothing but utterly adorable. “You smoke?”

“No,” Grant sighed, flopping down into the office chair, “but I’m starting to seriously consider picking it up.”

“Don’t,” Clayton blurted, jaw flexing, “Don’t start.” It sounded like he was actually concerned at the idea of Grant getting into a habit that was surprisingly common. Intrigued, Grant rested his arms on the desk, fiddling with his pen. All he needed now was a desk lamp to shine into Clayton’s eyes--maybe a pair of handcuffs to add to the effect.

“What?
You
smoke.” Grant pointed out, gesturing to where a crumpled pack of Camel Lights sat in the breast pocket of Clayton’s uniform. Clayton reflexively brought a hand up to press it against the pack, his scowl deepening.

“Which is why you shouldn’t,” Clayton shot back. Grant scoffed, a grin pulling at his mouth as he bobbed his head with a shrug of his shoulders, peering up at Clayton through his eyelashes.

“Aww, I didn’t know you cared.” Grant didn’t understand how Clayton could say and do things that made him utterly endearing, and then look all grumpy when Grant called him out on it. 

The microwave beeped before Clayton could even try to protest, and Grant pushed himself out of his seat. He opened the microwave, pulling out the reheated pizza and hearing Clayton instinctively sniff the air. 

Grant brought him the food, handing over the paper plate and smiling when Clayton’s eyes went wide for just a fraction of a second before he took the food like a homeless man being offered free beer.

Grant was pretty sure he was grinning like mad, because Clayton quickly schooled his expression and grunted out his thanks so he could sit down and eat. Grant reached out, wanting to fluff Clayton’s hair in revenge for all the times he’d gotten his head rubbed, but Clayton growled and swatted his hand away before he’d even brushed his fingertips against their silky brown puffs. Grant was fascinated to see the back of Clayton’s neck and ears were turning pink--and not from being out in the sun.

It took all of Grant's self control not to just slap the pizza out of Clayton’s hands and hop on his lap so he could ride the man like a Brokeback Mountain throwback--minus the angst.

Instead, Grant returned to his closing duties, switching out the trash bags and tying up the old one to set by the door. By the time everything was shut down and Grant was clocked out, Clayton was using a paper towel to wipe pizza from the edge of his mouth--which had become stained red from the sauce. Oh, how Grant wished he could just pretend his life was an awful Twilight fan fiction and lick and suck the stains straight from Clayton’s lips without getting his ass thrown out the door for his efforts.

“Okay soooo, I’mma have to shoo you out, now, since we‘re closed and I can‘t be in here after hours,” just to make sure Clayton understood what he meant (and because Grant was horribly awkward when it came to kicking people out of the office), Grant made a shoo’ing motion with his hands before he bent down to grab the trash bag. Clayton stood, nodding and brushing by Grant with the empty paper plate folded in one hand.

He stepped out of the office, turning and holding the door open for Grant to come outside. Grant hit the light switch, stepping outside and shutting the door so he could lock it. Once the keys were safely tucked back into his pocket, he turned and totally did not yelp when he bumped into Clayton’s chest.

“Woah, hey… my, what a firm chest you have,” Grant breathed, eyes going wider by the second as Clayton began to lean in. Oh my god, oh my god, yes, yes yes. Just yes. This was -yes.

Clayton snagged the trash bag from Grant's hand, leaning in to brush his nose along the curve of Grant's ear. Grant was pretty sure he was going to go into cardiac arrest, his entire body flaring up in anticipation, a shudder echoing straight down his spine and pooling in the base of his tailbone when Clayton drew in a slow breath through his nose.

“I’ll throw the trash out,” he muttered, voice a low rasp. Grant was going to vibrate out of his skin if Clayton didn’t do something soon. Preferably something sexy. “Goodnight, Grant.”