Chapter Eight
Simon stood on Elliott’s porch wearing the same clothing as earlier in the night but with messier hair and a cloud of tiny moths wheeling and dipping around his head. He carried a paper grocery bag.
“Hi,” he said when Elliott opened the door. He smiled and then looked away.
“Hi.” Elliott tried to keep his expression neutral, but he suspected some of his surprise leaked through.
“Am I disturbing you?”
“No,” Elliott said. Well, yes, but not by showing up unannounced—that part was actually lovely. When it came right down to it, Simon had been haunting Elliott since they’d met.
“I came to apologize.”
“For what?” Before Simon could answer, Elliott waved his hand. “Want to come in?” The moths were annoying, and Elliott had the impression Simon’s leg hurt when he stood still.
Simon entered but stopped in the little entryway. “Here.” He held out the bag. “Peace offering.”
“I didn’t realize we were at war.” Elliott took the bag, which proved to contain a six-pack of Heineken bottles.
“Not war. Just . . . Shit.”
Simon looked utterly exhausted and defeated, and Elliott wished he could gather him in his arms before leading him to bed. Not for sex—although that wouldn’t be awful either—but mainly for a good, long rest. Hell, Elliott could use one of those too.
Instead, they walked into the living room where Simon collapsed onto the couch. “Right back,” Elliott said. He fetched a bottle opener from the kitchen, using that minute or so to try to compose himself. He wasn’t sure why Simon felt the need to apologize, and that meant he couldn’t prepare himself to react. Not for the first time, he wished life came with a playbook or—even better—a script. Extemporizing was hard.
Back in the living room, he uncapped two bottles, leaving the others in the bag on the floor. Instead of his usual armchair, he chose the couch, allowing a wide no-man’s-land between him and Simon. Not that it helped much. Simon was still within reach, big and handsome and tempting. Somehow more real than anything else in the house.
“I’m a mess,” Simon said after swallowing some beer.
“Yeah, we went over that already. Neither of us is a model of functionality at the moment.”
“I hate being like this.”
“Oh, not me. I love being a basket case.”
Simon rolled his eyes as skillfully as a teenager. “I’ve always tried to keep myself . . . together. Do what’s expected. Not make waves.”
“That sounds safe,” Elliott said thoughtfully. “But doesn’t that mean your life remains small?”
“Yeah. One of my criminal justice profs used to go on about how most CJ policy is a balance between safety and freedom. More of one means less of the other. She must’ve told us that a dozen times. Now I’m thinking that it applies to more than just law enforcement strategies, you know?”
Although he had no idea where Simon was heading with this conversation, Elliott gave a small smile. “I bet she’d be happy to know you remember her lectures.”
“Maybe I should write her an email. You think she’d give me a helpful lecture on my personal life too?”
“That was a quagmire I studiously avoided. I’d help my students with their studies and with deciding what to be when they grew up, but no way was I going to play Ann Landers.” He’d kept a box of tissues in his office, though. For the kids facing unexpected pregnancies, deaths in the family, mental health crises, and all the other difficult predicaments young people faced. Because Elliott was open about being gay—even if not about his partner—quite a few students came to him for help in dealing with their sexuality. Mostly he referred those students to the counseling center or LGBT resource center, but he gave them a little pep talk too: his version of It Gets Better.
When Simon was momentarily silent, Elliott tried not to fidget. He was happy to follow along on Simon’s tangents, but it was clear Simon hadn’t come over to talk about his college days. His actual intentions remained opaque, which made Elliott nervous. Yet Elliott didn’t want to rush him.
Simon drained a good portion of his bottle in one long go. “Another of my profs, his mantra was how important clear and consistent communication is for police. ‘If you don’t tell people what you want them to do, they can’t do it.’”
“Sounds like good advice.”
“Yeah. But I’m not really following it, am I? That’s why I came here—to tell you I’m sorry. I haven’t been at all clear with you. I’m not trying to be an asshole, I promise.”
“Maybe you haven’t been clear because you’re not sure what you want. There’s a lot of that going around.” Elliott raised his bottle in a mock toast before taking a swig. The beer was cold, its slightly sour bitterness calming to his nerves.
“How about if I tell you what I do know?”
Elliott wasn’t sure he wanted to hear this, but he nodded. “Sounds good.”
Before speaking, Simon drained his beer, then took a second one with a grateful nod. Instead of drinking it, he twisted it gently between his palms. His good leg jiggled as he bobbed his foot, and he scrunched his face like a man expecting a blow. “I want you,” he said softly. “Have since the first time I saw you. Do you remember? You were out running.”
“I remember.”
“Yeah, well, you look really good when you run. You look really good all of the time.” Simon gave a crooked grin.
“I noticed you too.”
Simon patted his stomach. “I’m hard to miss.”
“You keep acting like there’s something wrong with how you look.” Elliott shook his head. “Believe me, there is not.”
“Yeah?” Simon appeared shyly pleased.
“Yeah.”
“Okay then. So we’re clear on that—I want to get into your pants and you’re not disgusted by that idea.”
Elliott felt the polar opposite of disgust. Even those words—get into your pants—made his skin heat and his brain leap to places involving a lot of nudity.
Simon wasn’t finished, however. “It’s not only how you look. You . . . Your head turns me on. You’re one of the smartest people I’ve met, but you’re not stuffy about it. You’re funny. You’re good just to hang out with.”
That was new. John used to tell Elliott how sexy he was, a refrain repeated by some of Elliott’s hookups. But none of them seemed all that interested in him except in bed. Even John fancied his role as Elliott’s mentor more than his role as a friend.
“Thank you,” Elliott said.
“I want to have sex with you. I want to simply spend time with you. I want to hear about all your books and the stuff you teach and . . . everything. I want to know you. Um, assuming you want to know me too.”
Although these words made Elliott slightly giddy, he kept his hand steady as he reached over and set it on Simon’s good knee. “I do.”
Simon’s breath came out in a shudder. “It’s like you said—you don’t deserve to be forced to skulk. I’m shitty at that kind of thing anyway. But I don’t think I’m ready to do the big reveal to Mom and Dad.”
“They really don’t know you’re gay?”
“They . . . It’s like Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, family style. I’m careful about what I say, and they skip around the subject. I think avoiding difficult issues is an Odisho trait.”
“Plus you don’t want to alienate them.”
Simon shook his head slowly. “I love them. They have faults, but so do I. We all do. I don’t want to hurt them.”
It was a difficult situation, one filled with potential for heartbreak and disappointment, and it wasn’t Simon’s fault he was stuck in the middle of it. Elliott appreciated his honesty. They didn’t really know each other that well, but already Simon seemed more trustworthy than John.
As Simon toyed with his bottle, Elliott stood and slowly paced the living room. He held his beer in one hand but didn’t drink it. Simon silently let him move from place to place. Sometimes Elliott stroked a book cover or even picked up a volume, but he didn’t register any of the printed words. Far too much going on in his head. When he returned to the couch, he broached the no-man’s-land, sitting close enough to feel Simon’s body heat.
“How about if we take this slowly?” Elliott offered. “See if there really is an us. There’s no point in straining things with your family if you and I . . .”
“Fizzle out?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re willing to do that? Take me on a trial basis even if I can’t be open about us yet?”
Elliott considered those questions carefully. God knew he didn’t want to make another monumental mistake. But choosing Simon—even on a limited basis—didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt right, as if some gear in his heart was finally clicking into place.
“I’d like to try us out,” Elliott answered.
A kiss seemed an obvious way to seal the deal. It should have been awkward, with each of them still clutching a Heineken. In fact, Simon’s cane, which had been propped against the couch, toppled to the floor. But none of that mattered when their lips made contact, when Simon’s beard bristled against Elliott’s cheek, when Elliott buried his fingers in the hair at Simon’s nape.
Breathless, they put the bottles on an end table so they’d have both hands free. That turned out to be a good decision, since it meant they could stroke at will. Elliott wasn’t sure which he liked more—being the groper or the gropee—and Simon seemed equally enthusiastic about his roles. Simon’s hands were big, his fingers broad and hot on Elliott’s skin.
As they made out, they slowly repositioned their bodies so eventually Elliott lay flat on the couch, Simon fully blanketing him. Simon was beautifully heavy and solid. Almost larger than life, he reminded Elliott of a Hellenistic statue of a mighty deity, except Simon wasn’t cold marble or unyielding bronze. He was soft flesh and hot blood, and he writhed and moaned in an entirely lively and lifelike way.
Elliott managed to squeeze his hands under Simon’s waistbands and grab palmfuls of his firm ass. Simon couldn’t quite return the favor, but he cupped Elliott’s face, which was also very nice. Meanwhile, they pressed their groins together. Even through several layers of clothing, Elliott felt Simon’s hard cock against his own. For the first time since college, Elliott was in very real danger of coming in his pants.
Suddenly Simon went still and then propped himself on his elbows above Elliott. His face was flushed, his hair hanging down in a soft curtain. “Are we supposed to be doing this?”
“Supposed to?”
“First date?”
Elliott tried to clear his head. “I don’t think it counts as a first date anymore. I dropped you off, and then you came over later.”
Simon’s laugh made Elliott’s body vibrate. “Fair enough. What about the ‘going slow’ part?”
“Oh. That.” It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that Simon was on top of him . . . Okay. It was probably still a good idea.
Shifting carefully, Simon moved off Elliott. They ended up seated next to each other, this time with their thighs pressed together. Elliott’s sweats were embarrassingly tented. But then, he was probably more physically comfortable than Simon, who sported an impressive bulge in his jeans. “I didn’t want to stop,” Simon said. “Just so you know.”
“Me either.”
“But we probably should, huh?”
Should. It was a heavy word, crammed with meaning, open to a wide variety of interpretations. “I think,” Elliott said after a moment of contemplation, “I want us to forget about what we think we ought to be doing. Forget about whatever arbitrary rules we think might apply. I want us to do . . . what we want. What’s best for us.” He gave Simon’s beard a quick pet. “Let’s be selfish, okay?”
“Throw out the rules, huh? I’m usually pretty good about following rules.”
“Cop.”
Simon chuckled. “Yeah, but even before that. I was one of those kids who practically broke out in hives just thinking about disobeying adults.” He allowed himself to topple to the side so his head rested on Elliott’s shoulder.
“Are you going to have a rash now? I have allergy meds.”
“No. I think I can handle it.” Simon gently rubbed Elliott’s leg. “You know something I really want to do?”
“What?”
“Sleep with you. And I don’t mean that as a euphemism. I want to snuggle up with you in bed and fall asleep listening to you breathe, and I want to wake up in the morning and see you all bleary-eyed. Is that weird?”
Elliott’s response came out slightly choked because, God, he wanted that too. “No.” He settled his hand atop Simon’s, trapping it on his thigh. “Do you want to sleep over tonight?”
“Yes. But I won’t.”
“Why not?”
“C’mon, Prof. If we go to bed together, what are the odds we won’t screw?”
“I’m not a statistician,” Elliott said.
“Me either. But the odds are pretty close to zero, don’t you think?”
Elliott sighed. “Yeah.”
“And maybe . . . sometimes gratification is bigger when it’s delayed, you know?”
“More wisdom from your professors?”
A grin flashed across Simon’s face. “Yeah. I took a psych class once.” Then his expression turned serious. “I want this—us—to be great. Not just good. So let’s hold off a little.”
“Okay.”
They sat silently for a minute or two, Simon seeming as unwilling as Elliott to break contact. Then Simon shifted. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. That means a big family dinner, and I don’t know whether Ashur’s had a chance to rat us out yet. I better get some good sleep, just in case. What are your plans?”
“Dunno. I have stuff to grade. I usually skip my run on Sundays and do some weights instead.”
“Hmm.” Simon rubbed a palm over his mouth as he thought. “Are you free Friday? I’d suggest earlier, but I’ve got a mess of doctor appointments and PT this week.”
“Friday’s good.” Elliott’s pulse quickened at the thought of a future with Simon, even if it was only a very near future.
“Good. I have an idea. Second date with very little chance of relatives interrupting. I’ll pick you up Friday morning at eight. Dress for outdoors.”
“Yeah? What will we do?”
Simon winked at him. “Surprise.”
It had been a long time since anyone had surprised Elliott—pleasantly, at least. John’s embezzlement and subsequent imprisonment had certainly been unexpected.
Their plans settled, Simon collected his cane, stood, and drank the last of his beer. With Elliott trailing, he walked to the door. Elliott thought Simon was favoring his bad leg more than usual. “Want a ride home?” he offered.
“No, thanks. Walking is good for me, remember? And I guess I believe it now, since that’s how I met you.”
Elliott nodded and smiled, then reached for the doorknob. He stopped as a thought occurred to him. “Hang on.” He raced into the bedroom, grabbed a volume from one of the bookshelves, and hurried back. “Borrow this one,” he said, handing it to Simon.
“The Massive Book of Gay Erotica?” Simon hefted the book and leered. “It’s, um, big. Impressive. Are you trying to give me ideas, Professor?”
“I thought you had those ideas already. This is just nourishing them.”
Simon leaned forward and kissed Elliott’s cheek. “I think I’ll enjoy this book a lot. See you Friday.”
After Simon was gone, Elliott put the rest of the beers in the fridge, then rinsed the empty bottles and dumped them in the recycling bin. He’d intended to complete his interrupted shopping but found he was no longer in the mood. Instead, he shut the laptop down and wandered into his bedroom, where he stood staring for a long time at the new gap on the bookshelf. Then, smiling, he got ready for bed.