Angel Box Set

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

In the space between slumber and waking, Dean shifted, aware of the bed sheets knotting. He grabbed fabric, nails digging in, bunching the thick wad in his fist. As sleep set up a destructive campaign, the bundle became an arm, he clutching. Dean recalled…

Jay. A sound. Whimpering. Tugging the other man against him, dipping his head, swallowing a cry as he used his mouth to force Jay’s lips apart, to accept his tongue, his invasion, and his betrayal of a friendship that meant so much more to him than a single bright burst of…

Pleasure.

Dean awoke, his body jerking, eyes flashing wide, reality sharp. He swallowed, throat clicking, closing, completion of the movement almost painful, the most illuminating concept one of enjoyment.

Jay.

Kissing.

Kissing.

Jay.

Not the first time, which hardly counted, but the second, in an alley out back of the garage, Jay’s apple-scented shampoo masking the maturing stink from the bins. Dean had taken a perverse delight in the experience though unsure why. s*x had something to do with it, but so too did power. He’d taken advantage to demonstrate a stupid point in a selfish and conceited way. Jay would never speak to him again.

The possibility acted like coolant.

Dean rolled on his back taking the gathered sheet with him. Next, the duvet. Beneath the covers, he shivered, grateful for as simple a thing as the blank expanse of the ceiling. With luck, the unmarked canvas would help him to empty his mind.

No chance. Unwelcome thoughts slunk rat-like through back routes until they surfaced under a brutal light.

Why did he do things without thinking them through? Would he always act on impulse? What had he been trying to prove?

He still clung to the bedclothes, gripping, wringing the material as if able to throttle life from it. The white cloth provided him with something to squeeze without causing damage, an item to absorb his wrath that would survive unless he decided to shred the fabric.

The same way he’d ripped a special friendship to pieces.

How to find a way back from this?

Why hadn’t he stopped? Why did he not apologise the moment he came to his senses? Even at the end, he made it all about him, accusing Jay of causing the kiss. How f*****g sick was he?

Ah hell!

Dean threw back the sheet. If only it were possible to loosen his grip on his self-anger and hatred. He swung his legs over the side and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, fingers clawing into his scalp.

The kiss. Using his tongue, their teeth clashing. He recalled it all.

Dean ran his tongue along his upper lip and there, left side, a slight swelling where Jay’s teeth had caught him. Did Jay carry any such marks? Why did Dean like the idea?

Straight men do not go around kissing their friends.

Dean slammed that door. He liked women. Always had. Always would. If true, how could he have feelings for Jay? Confused? An inadequate word if ever one existed.

Dean lowered his hands, clasped them together, and took a breath, holding it until his lungs protested.

Kissing his friend had been…fine. More than okay. Nice. Pleasant. He still couldn’t believe it happened. Or why. He rebuked advances from men. He had what he wanted. A good job. Women chasing him.

Through the thin curtains—chosen to help him rise in the mornings—contrasting shades of shadow and light crept across the sky. Dawn approaching. Too soon to rise, for him to even open his eyes. Where he often groaned at the idea of dragging his sorry arse out of bed, what remained of the night stretched ahead too long lasting. Sleep would bring unwanted dreams. The recollection of kissing Jay must be guilt surfacing, but the explicit aspect for the first time bothered him. His dreams—the erotic ones—tended to include both men and women, often nameless, even faceless. The sight of a naked man never made him flinch, which watching porn kind of necessitated even when the focus was female. He never questioned. Dreams were strange things, unaccountable, blameless.

This fantasy by itself meant nothing since some basis existed for it, but the intensity shattered him. He’d experienced dreams extreme, seldom questioning any catalyst that aroused him. The ability to blame his vivid imagination on being a writer helped, but the emotions this particular dream left in its wake were too vibrant. His heartbeat was steady but exaggerated. Every thump within his chest threatened to pry apart his rib cage.

He’d dreamed. Of Jay. He sat, semi-hard, nerve-endings anticipating orgasm. Never going to happen. He wasn’t interested despite the things he’d done—and seen—watched others take part in.

Dean swallowed, unwilling to deal with this. Any of it—not his experiences, his thoughts, or his emotions. Only one thing was certain—he’d hurt a friend.

Dean lay back, naked on the bed, morning wood chopped down by shame, or guilt, or a soup of emotions too unsavoury to sample.

Why did he push? Jay was a fixture, but even the most permanent feature of his life could break.

“I’ve destroyed our friendship,” Dean spoke aloud, testing the words and his reaction to them. The notion of Jay gone refused to compute. A barrier existed between him and the possibility.

“No.” So many years of friendship could not be over. If grovelling was required, so be it. Dean fought his natural inclination not to appear weak. An apology required strength. If he needed to prostrate himself in front of Jay, he could. Would. Probably. Possibly. He might have to. If all else failed. If Jay rejected his apology without a little arse kissing.