Talker (8 page)

Brian made another helpless sound. He wondered what it had been like for the others—did this have the same effect on someone who didn’t know that the boy of his dreams was attached to the dreamy, throaty voice on the other side of the stal ?

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“G ood… I’m going to cup your bal s. I like the feel of them.

They’re soft and furry….” Sudden uncertainty. “Unless… you don’t wax, do you?”

“No.” His first full word—and it was so gruff that Tate wouldn’t have recognized it if they’d been in their apartment together.

“G ood.” Talker sounded honest. “I like natural, you know? At least where I can touch. I’ll jiggle them a little, ’til they’re nice and hard and round, and then open my mouth and take them in. How’s that sound?”

“Mmmm.” Brian tried not to let his head thunk too hard when he rested it against the side of the stall.

“So glad you like,” Tate said dryly, and Brian knew Talker was laughing at him. That was okay. He was an idiot. He needed a good laugh at his own expense. “Because once they’re good and hard, I’m going to take your cock deep into my mouth. I practice with bananas, you know”—Brian did know—he hadn’t eaten a banana or a cucumber since they’d moved in together, at least not without suspicion—“and I can take the biggest prick al the way down. How big are you?”

Brian had no idea. “Big enough,” he growled. He certainly felt big enough, hard and aching and trapped in the damned golf pants.

With a little desperation he unfastened the hook and eye at the top of his pants, and lowered the zipper, giving a sensual sigh when he had some room.

“Wel , you feel pretty big to your dream guy,” Talker said with encouragement, and Brian rolled his eyes. Jesus, couldn’t the guy not be sweet to the stranger getting personal-non-phone-phone-sex in the stal next door? “You feel big enough that I’m going to need two hands to pump you off, how’s that? O r would you rather I snuck one of them between your legs, to your asshole—would you like that?”

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Brian whimpered. He honest-to-god whimpered.

Tate’s voice got sweeter. “O h yeah, you do like that, don’t you? I’m going to do that, then. Lots of spit, so it’s good for you, okay? I’l take you so deep in my throat, and I’l pump you so good, and I’ll slip right inside you, and stretch and make it burn… you like that burn, right?”

Brian had no idea if he did or not, but he must have made another affirmative sound because there wasn’t a force on the planet that could stop Talker now.

“So there I’l be, down on my knees in front of you, your cock so far down the back of my throat I’d better learn to swal ow or sneeze come, and my fingers wiggling around in your ass, and my hand pumping you hard and fast and faster and faster and…”

O h fuck. F uck fuck fuck fuck…. Brian groaned and tried to get hold of himself, because Talker was real y going to make him come.

“G ive in to it, brother,” Tate said, his voice so low and whiskey-smooth it sent more shivers up Brian’s spine. “Just take it out and stroke it, and imagine me, the boy of your dreams, my face al wet with pre-come, my fist slick and strong on your prick. You gonna come yet? ’C ause if you are, warn me… I wanna swallow.…”

“Not yet….” Brian rasped, his eyes closed. He was grinding his crotch—stil covered by pants and underwear—into his own hand and trying to keep his harsh breaths to himself.

“What are you waiting for, buddy?” Tate sounded surprised.

“Man, I’m right here… gulping in the back of my throat to keep your monster down, adding another finger to the one in your ass, squeezing the base of your dick enough to make my hand cramp.…”

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“G waaaaahhhh.…” Brian hadn’t wanted to. He hadn’t. He’d had a whole other agenda planned, and Talker had derailed it with his secret dreams, spil ed out into the air between them like Brian’s come had spil ed out into his pants.

O n the other side of the stall, Tate made a satisfied sound. He hadn’t come—but he sighed and it sounded happy. A small part of himself had obviously been gratified by making an anonymous stranger happy in a way no one had ever done for him.

“How you doing, brother?” Tate asked. “Because, not to rush you, but I’m thinking someone else is going to want to use that stall.”

“We’re not through yet,” Brian managed, his vision stil black from his orgasm. He pulled fruitlessly at his shirt—it might be able to cover the front of his pants, but he wasn’t going to want to go anywhere else but his car.

“I don’t need any—”

“No.” He found a part of him was angry—that was good. It kept his voice rough, and Tate hadn’t recognized it yet.

“But I don’t want to—”

“It’s my turn, dammit!” Brian snapped. “I listened to you—now you need to listen to me!”

“Brian?”

Shit. “So my dream boy has just made me come in his mouth, and I’m flying high, right?”

“Seriously, man—is that you?”

“But no one has taken care of him yet, and that’s my job.”

“Jesus, Brian, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Because he’s my dream boy, and I keep him safe. He’s told me that, right? That I keep him safe? Wel , how am I going to keep Talker |
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him safe if I just leave him there, on his knees like that? So I pull him up, and I wipe his mouth on my sleeve, and I kiss him.”

Tate’s voice suddenly broke a little, like Brian had crushed the last strong part of him. “Brian, this isn’t fucking funny.…”

“No, Tate, you’re right. I’m totally fucking serious. Now I’ve been tel ing you this for months, and you haven’t wanted to listen, but dammit, you’re going to listen to me now, okay? I sat in here and I heard you.…” And now Brian’s voice broke. “I heard you tel things to someone you thought was a total stranger, and it was shit I’ve been dying to hear you say to me… to do to me, and now you’re going to get that back, you hear me?”

“Brian.…”

O h G od. He sounded so lost, so sad. Brian had to make this right. He had to make this right. If he never had the words again in his life, he had to make this right.

“So, I was kissing him,” Brian said, remembering where he left off. “I’m kissing him, and his eyes are open, because he can’t believe how tender I am, how badly I want to kiss him, and my hands are shaking and I put them on his cheeks, frame his face, and I make him stay there and feel my mouth and my tongue, and when he closes his eyes… then I know I’ve got his fucking attention.”

He paused then and took a breath. “Are your eyes closed, Tate?”

“Just go away.…”

“F uck you. No. I’m staying. Because my dream boy’s eyes are closed, and he’s final y fucking listening to me. And oh G od… it’s everything I’ve been dreaming of. I’ve kissed other boys, trying to see if I wanted them as much as I wanted my dream boy, and they were nice and all, but they weren’t him. I just want him.”

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“O ther boys?” Tate sounded faintly indignant, and Brian took a little heart—you couldn’t be broken beyond repair if you were a little bit jealous, right?

“But all I did with them was kiss them,” Brian soothed. “I’ve never gone as far with a boy as I’m going to with my dream boy.

You know what I’m going to do with my dream boy?”

“I have no idea.” And Tate didn’t. He was completely in the dark; Brian could tell by his voice. Well, maybe a little light was going on in his brain. That would be nice, after al this trouble, wouldn’t it?

“I’m going to pull away and kiss the corner of his mouth, where his tattoo meets his skin, and I’m going to keep on kissing. I’m going to kiss the line down his chin, and down his neck, down his shoulder, down his chest, down to the crease of his thigh, and if it wasn’t so fucking awkward, I’d kiss al the way back up the other side—as it is, I’m just going to lay him down and roll him over and do it everywhere. I’m going to take that line, where he’s marked the places of himself he doesn’t want anyone to see, and I’m going to erase it completely. You know why?”

“I’m clueless.” And now he just sounded exhausted. O h G od.

C ’mon, Tate, let me see you. Let me hold you. Let me bear you up when you can’t take the weight anymore.

“Because there is no part of my dream boy I don’t want to see.

I’ve seen him broken… I’ve seen him strong. I’ve seen him go looking for love time and time again, and always come back with such… such optimism. Such heart. E ven this.…” Brian tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. F ailed. “E ven this bullshit—it’s still optimism. It’s giving. My dream boy—he gives everything. He listens to music and it touches him, and he tries to share that with the world. He watches shows and they move him, and he loves that, and he wants the rest of us to feel that way too. He goes to the Talker |
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soup kitchen with me because he’s a good guy—and people love him when he’s there, because giving… talking… it’s just so natural to him, they can tel that… he’s just goodness. They want to be closer to him, just to feel it come off his skin.

“But he’s my dream boy. Mine. And I want to be the only one close enough to him to feel it up close and personal. So when I’m done kissing that line away, I’m going to wrap my arms up under his and pul him close, kiss the back of his neck, kiss his spine, kiss down the length of his back… right up to the place he doesn’t want anybody to touch, and I’m going to kiss that too. I’ll lick him down there, I’l suck anything he wants in my mouth, I’l fucking worship him. I keep him safe. I promised. So he’s going to be safe. He’s going to be so safe in my hands and my mouth… he’s going to come, any way he wants to, and I’m going to make him, any way he wants me to, and when I’m done, and he’s done, and we’re sweating and panting, I’m going to kiss him again. I’m going to tell him that I lo—”

“Don’t say it.” Tate’s voice grew firm, grew angry, and Brian had had enough. He opened the door to the suddenly claustrophobic blue-walled stall and spoke to the seam of Tate’s door, trying with al his wil to make out Tate’s features. He was huddled back behind the toilet, his arms wrapped around his body.

E ven through the seam of the wall, Brian could tell he was shaking.

“I love y—”

“Don’t say it!” Tate yelled, and Brian yelled back at him.

“You don’t want me to say it, you come out here and stop me, dammit!”

And he’d done it. He’d made Tate mad enough to throw back the bolt on the door.

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“Don’t say—”

O h yeah—Tate was surprised, that was for sure. “Jesus, Brian, what the hel happened to your hair?”

“I cut it,” Brian told him shortly. Tate’s arms dropped to his sides, and he stared at Brian with absolute puzzlement. His guyliner was smeared all over his face, and Brian lifted his hands and used his thumbs to wipe it away. Tears replaced the mess, so Brian wiped his hands on his pants and wiped those away too.

“Why?” Tate asked, his voice choked.

“Because I love you, Talker. I’ve been trying to tel you forever.

I love you exactly the way you wanted me to—but I’m too stupid to be Prince C harming. You’re going to have to settle for me.”

And now Brian felt naked. Just bare and exposed and vulnerable. F air’s fair, he thought painfully. This was how Tate went through life. If he was going to earn Tate Walker, he had to be brave enough to risk being naked and foolish and hurt.

Tate sniffled. “You’re not stupid,” he whispered, and Brian’s heart actually started to beat for the first time since he’d come into this horrid little restroom.

“Then let me be Prince C harming,” Brian whispered back. He was one, maybe two inches tal er than Tate—just tal enough for it to mean something when he framed that made-up, decorated face with his sturdy palms and angled Tate’s mouth for a kiss.

Tate’s mouth opened up under his, and it was… so sweet. His lips were firm, and male, and Brian could feel the stubble and the angles of Tate’s chin under his palms, and Tate opened that hot mouth, bitter with the taste of tears and makeup, and just let Brian in. Brian invaded, and he was firm, and strong, and tender, and everything he wanted Tate to know was in Brian’s heart, it was right there, like the song said, in his kiss.

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He kissed harder and deeper, and Tate whimpered and gave way back to the divider of the bathroom, and then Jed stuck his head in and said, “Are you two about done here? There’s a line of a bil ion people who got to pee!”

Tate pulled up and said, “Shit!” and Brian flushed.

“Let’s go home, ’kay? We’ve got shit to talk about, and—”

Tate nodded. “And we’ve got to fix your hair,” he said woefully, running his hands up the shaved sides, feeling the buzzcut under his fingertips.

“It’ll grow back,” Brian said softly. “I’d shave myself bald, if that’s what it took to get you to look at me.”

“I am looking at you,” Tate said, and their chests were touching, and Brian felt such a wave of want wash through his body that it was al he could do not to just take Talker into the big bathroom and do everything he fantasized about right there.

But Jed cleared his throat, and Brian remembered that he was good for Talker because he was safe, and he wiped Tate’s cheeks one more time with his thumb.

“C ’mon, baby. Let’s go home.”

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P a rt IX

E very Heartbeat Screams Your Name HO ME was so normal, echoing loudly of keys and heavy treads under yellow lights and yellowing walls. The only thing different was Brian’s hand in the smal of Tate’s back as they went inside.

“I’m going to take off my boots, and shower,” Brian grunted—

he was pretty sure he had blisters. “Meet on the couch or meet in your room?”

“Meet in the shower,” Tate told him, rolling his eyes. “I need to get that crap out of your hair like now.”

“That crap out of my hair?” Brian frowned. “You do this shit to your hair all the time.”

Tate shrugged. “Yeah—but that’s me. It’s not you.”