What He Left Behind (9 page)

Michael fidgets beside me. “What was it that tipped you off?”

Nausea creeps up my throat at the memory. “When you spilled your wine on him at the reception.”

He shudders hard. I lace my fingers between his and squeeze gently.

That moment plays through my mind like it’s being projected right onto the bedroom ceiling above us. We’d all been having a great time at the reception, even if Michael had been exhausted from—I thought—studying nonstop and his boyfriend had been a little irritable. Michael had just topped off his red wine, and he and Steve had exchanged a few terse words about it. What Steve’s problem was, I’ll never know. Unlike that jerk, Michael’s never been a problem drinker, and if he gets drunk, he gets giggly. He isn’t even loud. He just thinks everything is funny—Michael drunk is like me stoned, and I’ve always thought it was pretty cute.

He wasn’t silly or giggly that night. I’m not even sure how much he’d had by that point, but he was still steady on his feet.

His aunt, however, couldn’t hold her liquor or walk in high heels. While Michael and Steve stood with Ian and me, she went tottering past, stumbled and crashed into Ian. He and Michael instinctively tried to stop her from falling, and they succeeded, but Michael’s wineglass went tumbling out of his hand, bounced off Steve’s arm and splashed across his shirt.

And Michael went
white
.

Ian helped the drunk aunt to her feet, but Michael’s gaze stayed fixed on Steve, and something in the pit of my stomach had turned to ice as Steve’s narrow eyes slid toward Michael.

I’d seen Michael scared before. I’d seen him nervous before plays, terrified before he came out to his parents, shaking as he waited to find out if a knee injury had ended his baseball career. The way he was looking at Steve, shrinking back and pale—I’d never seen him like that before.

Oh God,
I remember thinking.
What the hell is going on?

For the rest of the night, I’d tried to get Michael alone for a minute or two, but Steve was on him like the wine on his shirt. Then I turned around and they were gone, and Michael’s mother said they’d taken off because Steve wasn’t feeling well. It was two days before I heard from Michael again, and he insisted everything was fine.

“You don’t have to answer this,” I say cautiously, “But what happened that night? After you guys left?”

Michael rubs his hand over his face, and I can’t remember when he started trembling. “After we left, he managed to make me feel two inches tall because of a spilled glass of wine, and…” He squirms uncomfortably. “Remember when I said I encouraged him to drink because drunk and violent was better than the alternative?”

A sick feeling coils in my stomach, and I nod.

“He was designated driver that night. It was the first time he ever got violent with me without the booze.” Michael closes his eyes and shudders. “And of course, after he’d calmed down, he was still sober enough for makeup sex.”

The sick feeling lurches upward, and I force it back down. “Was that make-up sex consensual?”

Michael swallows, and when he speaks, he’s barely whispering: “Not with three cracked ribs, it wasn’t.”

My jaw falls open. “Holy shit.”

He shakes himself and clears his throat. “I mean, technically I consented, but only because in that kind of pain, giving in hurt less—physically—than trying to fight him off.”

“My God. No wonder this has all been such a battle for you.”

He nods. Then he turns his head toward me. “To tell you the truth, all of this is why I got hooked on hanging out in the hot tub with you and Ian. It was just nice to relax and talk, and be as close as I could get to anyone since Steve.”

I cringe inwardly. I can’t imagine five years of never getting closer to a man than sharing the same hot tub. “We’ll fix this,” I whisper. “Even if it takes another five years.”

“I know.” He lifts his head and kisses me lightly. “And I know it’s not like that with every guy. Or even most guys. I know it was a fluke. I won the horrible abusive boyfriend lottery, and that lightning probably won’t strike twice.” He gulps, meeting my eyes. “But no matter how much I tell myself that, when my brain inexplicably decides it’s going to happen again…” He shakes his head.

“I understand.” I stroke his cheek. “And I can definitely understand why it’s taken you so long to even look this thing in the eye.” I pause, then cautiously ask, “When did
you
know?”

“That’s a complicated question.” He blows out a breath. “Sometimes, looking back on what I thought about things back then, it’s like I’m looking into someone else’s thoughts. I would never have accepted the shit he did, and I never would have made excuses for his bullshit. It was like it was me, but someone else was steering.”

“Someone else
was
steering, Michael.” I kiss him softly.

“Yeah, he was.” Michael holds me closer. “He’s gone now, but he left a lot behind. It’s going to take a while to work through it all.”

“I know it will. But we’ll take all the time you need. I promise.”

“Thank you,” he whispers, and finds my lips again. He makes no effort to break the kiss, so I don’t either. I clasp his hand between our chests, and we just lie there for a while, kissing lazily and holding onto each other, and it reminds me so much of those afternoons when we were teenagers. When we had nowhere go and nothing to do, and we could tangle up together and kiss like we had all the time in the world. In high school, we were always at least partially dressed, but this time, even completely naked—even with my wedding band sitting on the nightstand behind me—it feels just as innocent as it did back then. We’re both in our thirties, and yet it feels like we’re two cautious teenagers all over again—exploring, experimenting, gradually working up the courage to go further.

Maybe that’s how it should be. Michael’s confidence was high when we started tonight, but maybe we should’ve held back anyway. Crawl before we walk and all of that.

I will if you will.

Then the lightbulb comes on.

I draw back enough to meet his gaze. “Do you still have that massage oil?”

Michael nods.

I push myself up onto my elbow and trail my other hand over his chest. “Maybe I could give you one this time.”

He smiles. “I’m not going to say no to that.”

I smile back.

He gets up to retrieve the oil, and I sit up too.

My first thought is to have him on his stomach, the same way he massaged me the first time, but as tense as he’s been this evening, I want to tread carefully here. The first night, I was pretty sure Michael wanted to give me a massage because the position I was in meant I was completely passive. That may not be such a good idea with him, so as he comes back to the bed, I get up on my knees.

“Instead of lying facedown,” I say, “sit on the edge of the bed.”

He shoots me a puzzled look but hands me the bottle of oil and does as I suggested.

I kneel behind him. “This way, you still have some control.” I pour oil into my hands and start warming it up. “If want me to stop, you can just say so, but you can also get up quickly and easily.”

He turns so his face is visible in profile. “I was going to say I can’t imagine ever wanting to get away from you like that.” He faces forward again, though not before some color rushes into his cheeks. “But I guess after earlier…”

“That’s why we’re doing this. And I know it’s not me you’re trying to get away from.”

“It never is,” he whispers.

I rest my hands on his shoulders. He inhales sharply, and I don’t move. The muscles beneath my palms gradually relax. I still don’t move. Not until his breathing slows down and evens out.

I only move my thumbs at first. Down slowly. Up just as slowly. Drawing long arcs on either side of his spine. He releases a breath, and more of that tension melts away. Not much, but enough that I can feel it. I’ll take it.

He rolls his shoulders beneath my palms, and more tension disappears. I cautiously start moving, making small circles with my hands, gradually making them bigger until I’m touching all over his back.

Little by little, Michael’s spine liquefies. When I push against him, he nearly slumps forward, so I tug his shoulders back to steady him. When I do, Michael leans against me. Then a little harder, pressing my cock just right to make my breath catch.

“Fuck!”

“Someone’s getting turned on.”

“Of course I am.” I kiss his feverish, stubbled cheek. “My hands are on you.”

“Yeah. They are.” He tilts his head back and turns toward me, and our lips meet. Instantly, whatever I’m doing with my fingers becomes priority nothing. He reaches back, sliding his hand around the back of my neck.

His kiss is gentle but not the least bit hesitant. I can’t rub his back or shoulders in this position, so I wrap my arms around him, and he twists toward me. Parting his lips, he nudges mine apart, and when I slide the tip of my tongue under his, he shivers.

Michael gently grasps my wrist and guides my hand lower. He closes my hand around his cock, taking in a sharp breath as he does, and encourages me into a slow, steady stroking motion. As if I
need
any encouragement. His kiss, his body, his rejuvenated confidence—there’s nothing I won’t do for him right now.

His neck has got to be cramping, but he makes no move to change position. Sitting back like this, he can’t rock his hips, can’t thrust—all he can do is stay like that and let me do everything. Let me have absolute control. And still, he doesn’t try to rearrange a thing.

Michael breaks the kiss, and his head falls back against me. “Oh God. Don’t…” He whimpers and grabs onto my leg. “Don’t stop.”

I keep pumping his cock. He screws his eyes shut. His whole body tenses, and he holds his breath. His cock gets even thicker in my hand.

He’s so still, so tense.

Please, please, don’t panic. Let yourself go, Michael.

He holds his breath. Every muscle is like steel. He’s braced against me, digging his fingers into my leg, not moving, not breathing, as if he’s gone into suspended animation.

I’ve got you.

Slowly, he’s drawing in a breath.

I promise.

Tense. So tense.

Let go.

So fucking tense.

Michael, I’ve got—

And then he lets go.

Of his breath. Of my shoulder. Of all that tension.

Hot semen coats my hand and my wrist, and I keep stroking him as he gasps for air and he tries to thrust into my fist. Relief surges through me as if I’m the one who’s coming—
yes! Yes, you made it! We can fucking
do
this.

Michael sighs and sags against me. “Holy shit.”

I hold him, kissing his neck and letting him enjoy the aftershocks for a moment.

“You’re awesome,” he slurs. “That was…”

I kiss beneath his jaw. “If you think I’m going to get impatient doing things like this, touching you and feeling you come, please allow me to liberate you of that notion.”

Michael laughs and turns to me. Our eyes meet, and for a moment, we just gaze at each other. Then he tilts his head back for a kiss.

Eventually, we separate. I grab some tissues off the nightstand, and once we’ve cleaned off the semen and some of the massage oil, we lie back on the pillows.

I prop myself up on my arm beside him. “How do you feel?”

“A lot better.” He reaches up and brushes a few strand of hair off my forehead. “About everything, oddly enough.” He pauses, then quickly adds, “But you’re probably right about taking things slower. So I don’t freak the fuck out.”

“You still might.” I stroke his cheek. “If you do, we’ll just do like we did tonight—step back, catch our breath and start again.”

He flinches. “I think…” He closes his eyes. “I
know
you’ll never get impatient with me, but part of me is still afraid you will.” Before I can get defensive, he meets my gaze. “It’s like in high school, when people would lose their virginity too soon because they were afraid they’d get dumped if they didn’t put out. We weren’t like that. We never were. But some irrational thing in my brain thinks we are now. Even though…” He sighs, shaking his head. “It doesn’t make any sense, does it?”

“Probably more than you think. I mean, when we slept together years ago, all we were up against was inexperience.” I take his hand and kiss the backs of his fingers. “You’ve got a lot more to work through now. I’m sure there’s plenty of irrational crap that he put into your head, and we’ll just have to face it as we come to it.”

Michael searches my eyes. “I have no idea how much there is or how long it’ll take to work through.”

“Neither do I. But I’m not going anywhere.”

“But there’s also…” He chews his lip. “Look, you’re going out on a limb for me, Josh. Every night you’re with me takes away from time you could be with your husband.” His eyebrows pinch together. “I guess, in a way, I want to get through this faster to minimize the impact on your marriage.”

My lips part. “Michael, my God. I’m not in any—”

“I know. Up here”—he taps his temple—“I know. But it’s not rational. So this will probably come up again.”

“Then we’ll deal with it when it does. As for everything else, you’re calling the shots. Please,
please
, don’t push yourself too hard for my benefit.

Avoiding my eyes, he nods. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I press my lips to his. “The only one who needs to apologize for anything is—”

He kisses me before I can utter his ex’s name, and we both let it linger for a long, long moment. As he draws away, he says, “I hope Ian knows how lucky he is to have you.”

I slide my hand into his hair and kiss him again but don’t speak.

Because nights like this, as I learn how dangerous and devastating his relationship with Steve really was, I think Ian and I are the lucky ones.

Because as battered as he is, Michael is still with us.

Chapter Nine

After that, we take it a little slower. Massages, making out, hand jobs—it’s slow enough to frustrate Michael, but it also seems to keep his demons at bay most of the time. I’m happy to stay in safer territory while he finds his equilibrium, even though part of me is itching to go farther. I’d never dream of pushing him, but I want him to be back to as close to normal as he can get.

And who am I kidding? I want him. This is about him, not me, but the desire definitely exists. I’m only human, and he’s one of the most gorgeous human beings I’ve ever encountered. When he’s ready to take things further, he’ll hardly need to twist my arm.

Slow and steady, though.

A couple of weeks go by. Another hot tub Sunday rolls around, and I have a few errands to run before Michael comes over to hang out. Ian and I always take turns handling drudgery on the weekends—dry cleaning, grocery shopping and all that other shit that inevitably falls by the wayside during the work week. Especially since lately, my evenings have been a bit…full.

By the time I get home, Ian’s car is already in the driveway. I park in the garage, pop the trunk and grab some grocery bags. When I let myself in, Ariel comes thundering and barking to the door as always.

“Careful, baby.” I hold up the grocery bags so she doesn’t knock them out of my hands. “Down.”

She whines a little but stops jumping. As she calms down and follows me toward the kitchen, I can hear Michael and Ian talking.

“…might have a shot, but their bullpen is a fucking disaster.”

“Ugh. It is. I’ve seen stronger Little League pitchers.”

“
I
was a stronger pitcher.” Michael clicks his tongue, and I can just imagine him rolling his eyes. “I probably still am, and my team was last in the division.”

I chuckle as I step into the kitchen, where Michael’s leaning against the counter and Ian’s pulling some glasses down from the cabinet.

“Are you two still hung up on all this sportsball nonsense?” I ask with a grin and hoist the grocery bags onto the table.

Ian laughs. “It’s only nonsense to heathens who don’t pay attention.”

“Uh-huh.” I put my hand on his back and kiss him lightly. “At least it’s not football season.”

“Not yet,” Michael says. “The preseason starts soon.”

I groan, and it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Okay, fine. Baseball. Carry on. At least that game makes sense.”

“I don’t see how football doesn’t make sense to you.” Michael shrugs. “I mean, even if you don’t understand the rules and the plays, it’s a bunch of guys in tight, shiny pants throwing each other around. What’s not to love?”

“The fact that the refs keep interrupting right when the throwing-each-other-around part starts getting good?”

They both pause, glance at each other and shrug.

“He does have a point,” Ian says.

Michael nods. “Can’t argue.”

I arch an eyebrow. “But this isn’t going to put an end to all your conversations about scrimmage and passing games and—”

“Not a chance,” they say in unison.

I sigh dramatically. “Damn it.”

Ian nods past me. “Need a hand with groceries?”

“Yes, please.”

Michael comes too, and between the three of us, the trunk is empty in one trip, even with the giant bag of dog food and two boxes of cat litter. Of course, the minute we start unpacking everything and putting it all away, Michael and Ian are back to analyzing the bullpen and the…the…whatever the hell baseball fanatics analyze. The minute they’re on that topic, my eyes glaze over and I tune them out, because
oh my God yawn
.

As much as sports bore me to tears, though, it’s good to see the two of them talking like nothing’s changed. They’re bantering and debating—holy shit, I will never understand how there is so much to discuss about sports—as if we’re back to the days before Ian suggested I sleep with Michael.

Maybe nothing
has
changed.

Ian puts a few plates of munchies out on the table beside the tub, along with a couple of bottles of wine. Then he and I run up to the bedroom to put on our swim trunks while Michael changes clothes in the downstairs bathroom.

And finally, it’s time to relax for the evening as our weekend winds to a close.

“You boys know the rules.” I lower myself into the water. “Sports are banned from the tub.”

“
Fine
.” Michael slides in across from me. “No sports.”

Ian settles beside me. “Eh, that’s okay. It was getting depressing anyway.”

Michael grunts in agreement. “Fucking team.”

“Right?”

I clear my throat.

“Sorry,” they both mutter.

I chuckle. “What can I say? There isn’t enough wine in the world to make that topic interesting.”

Michael grins. “Well, there’s always the new season of The Walk—”

“No.” Ian glares at him. “Absolutely not.”

Snickering, I pat his arm. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“Besides the fact that it’s a stupid show that needs to be erased from human history?”

I shrug. “Well, yeah.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Wine?”

“Absolutely,” I say.

“Definitely,” Michael replies. “I need a drink after listening to such heresy.”

Ian mutters something and starts pouring the wine. After he’s distributed the glasses, he says, “To Friday getting here as soon as fucking possible.”

“Cheers.”

We clink glasses and then settle back against our respective sides of the tub.

Ian starts to take a drink but winces and lowers his glass. “Dammit,” he mutters, reaching under the water and grimacing.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Feet.”

“Still?”

“Yeah. It was a
long
week, and they will not let me forget it.”

“Huh?” Michael cocks his head. “What’s wrong with your feet?”

Ian scowls. “They’ve apparently decided that standing in front of my classes a few hours a day is bullshit.” He brings one foot up and rests it on his other knee so he can rub it gingerly. “The last few months, they’re sore as fuck by Friday, and lately, they’re still aching by Sunday.”

“Why don’t you sit while you lecture?” I ask. “I know it’s not your favorite way to do things, but it might be easier on your feet.”

“Yeah, maybe. I might have to for a little while, just until this stops.”

Michael clears his throat. “I could, um…” His eyes dart toward me. “If it’s not too weird, I give decent foot massages.”

Ian’s eyebrows shoot up. I damn near drop my glass in the water.

Michael recoils a little. “Or not. Like I said, if it’s too weird, I—”

“No, no. Not at all.” Ian sets his glass on the edge. “I was just surprised. You haven’t been big on touching people for a while.”

I hold my breath.

Michael chews his lip, and some color blooms in his cheeks. “Well, maybe this can help both of us, then.”

Ian glances at me. I shrug. To Michael, he says, “If you’re sure, yeah, that’d be great.”

They both put their glasses aside. Ian leans back, spreading his arms across the edge. Michael scoots to—I assume—the edge of the bench. With the jets running, it’s hard to see much below the surface.

He reaches down but hesitates. “Are you ticklish?”

“Not really.”

“Okay. Some people are, and I’d just as soon not get kicked by accident.”

“No kicking. Promise.”

Michael chuckles and then reaches down again.

Ian closes his eyes. He slowly releases his breath. “Wow.”

“This okay?”

“Yeah. That’s more than okay.”

I watch them over my wineglass. The tub’s bubbling surface obscures what’s going on below, but I can put the pieces together. I’ve had a foot massage from Michael before, and I’ve given them to Ian. I know what Michael’s hands feel like, sliding over skin and gently working tension out of muscles and tendons. I know how Ian’s toes curl, how his other foot won’t be able to hold still while the first is getting attention.

Eyes still closed, Ian brings his arm forward and wraps it around my shoulders instead of resting it across the tub’s edge. His skin is cool but warms up quickly, and his fingers absently knead my arm, as if mimicking what Michael is doing.

After a while, Michael says, “Other foot?”

They both shift, Michael sitting up for a sip of wine while Ian lowers one foot and brings up the other. When Michael starts again, Ian lets his head fall back.

“Why the hell are you not a massage therapist?” The words are barely more than a groan. But then Ian’s eyes snap open, and he tenses, as if he realizes what he’s said. “Um, I mean—”

Michael laughs. “You know I don’t work with people.”

Ian glances at me, and we both relax.

“Fine. Fine,” Ian says. “Get your license for animals.” He squirms, squeezing his eyes shut. “As long as you’ll work on us.”

“Yeah, we’ll see.” Michael glances at me and shrugs, smiling sheepishly. “Maybe I missed my calling.”

“You
so
did.”

I chuckle, but Michael’s words throw me for a loop. We all know he
did
miss his calling, thanks to he-who-doesn’t-need-to-be-named, but the fact that he can make an offhand comment about it is…good? And he didn’t bat an eye at Ian’s comment about being a massage therapist despite the fact that massaging means touching. Which he’s doing right now. Without any issue that I can see.

Ian glances at me, and that look sends a jolt straight to my balls. It’s just as well the jets are still going, because if I know that smoldering gaze, Ian is hard as a
rock
right now. We always keep the tub a few degrees cooler than normal for that very reason, so we can fool around if we want to, but I’m wondering now if that wasn’t a good idea.

Except he’d never let on and make Michael uncomfortable. I know my husband, though—I know what we’ll be doing when we’re alone later tonight.

He grins and squeezes my shoulder, then closes his eyes and lets his head rest on the side again.

Michael laughs. “If I keep doing this, we can probably talk about The Walking Dead and he’ll never notice.”

“Talk about whatever you want,” Ian says, almost groaning. “Long as you keep rubbing my feet.”

“I’ll have to remember that when the new season starts.” Michael releases Ian’s foot. “There. Better?”

“Holy shit, yes.” Ian pulls his legs back and sits up. “I’m serious when I say you would be an amazing massage therapist.”

“I think I prefer being an amateur.” Michael rolls his shoulders, as if he’s stiff from leaning forward, and reaches for his wine. “But any time either of you need it, just say the word.”

“And it’s okay for you?” Ian’s brow furrows. “I mean, with touching?”

Michael swirls his wine. A smile slowly comes to life. He meets my eyes, then Ian’s, and he nods. “Yeah. I think it is. So”—he raises his glass—“thank you both.”

“You’re welcome,” Ian says.

I smile. “You’re definitely welcome.”

Michael meets my gaze as he sips his wine, and my heart flutters.

Maybe he’s already come further than either of us thought.