Page 51 of Mr. Frosty Pants
“Goodbyes suck. Let’s just skip that part.”
“A see-you-later kiss, then.”
Joel’s crooked smile broke across his face. “You’re demanding as hell.”
“Or maybe kissing you makes me happy.”
“Maybe so. But you won’t be happy for long,” Joel said.
“Meaning?”
“You’re going to have to explain to your parents why you spent the night with me.”
Casey’s stomach soured, but he lifted his chin. “It’s not their business what I do with you.”
“They won’t see it that way.”
“Kiss me.”
Joel rolled his eyes. But when Casey wrapped his arms around Joel and lifted his chin up, he saw the anxiety written on Joel’s face.
“Don’t worry about my parents,” Casey whispered as he bent his head to take the kiss. “I don’t anymore.”
Joel whimpered softly, relaxing against Casey’s body and clinging to his coat lapels. His soft lips opened, and Casey slipped his tongue inside, gently probing and tasting, teasing Joel sweetly.
Joel trembled as his hips jerked forward, pushing his hard cock against Casey’s thigh. Casey smiled into the kiss, happiness bubbling up in him and arousal thickening his own dick in response.
“Gotta go,” Joel said roughly, pulling away and turning his back on Casey. He climbed into his truck without another word.
Casey jammed his hands into his coat pockets and smiled after the Chevy dreamily as Joel pulled out from his hint of gravel drive onto the dew-damp street.
“See you later,” he whispered, solid determination filling him.
He’d tasted heaven, and he wasn’t going to let it get away. No matter how skittish Joel could be. And no matter what it cost him with his folks. Joel would have to get used to being loved, and Casey’s parents would have to get used to Joel.
Speaking of his folks, Joel was right about one thing. It was time to face the music.
Chapter Fifteen
“Hey, Pop,” Joelsaid, rattling the McDonald’s bag as he strolled into his father’s room. “I brought your favorite.”
“Where the hell were you yesterday?”
Pop sat in a chair by the window, gazing down at the cars whizzing by on the road below. The bald spot on the back of his head reflected the florescent lights of his room, and the gray fringe near his ears was mussed, like no one had come in to deal with him yet this morning.
“I was late. Sorry. Shit happens.”
“Lack of discipline happened,” Pop shot back, turning to glare at him with hard, blue eyes. “That’s what you really mean, son. Isn’t it?”
One of the things Joel had alway hated about his pop was the way he tried to get him to agree with his bullshit. It was one thing to have to listen to it, to endure it without reply, but it was another to be verbally prompted to agree with whatever nonsense his father was spouting on any given day.
“The line was short this morning,” he said, ignoring the accusation entirely. “Hopefully the McMuffin is fresh.” Joel pressed the bag into his father’s hand before grabbing the comb from the nightstand by the bed. His pop sat stiffly, not opening the bag as Joel tamed the tufts of hair above his father’s ears.
“If you’re not going to come, you should call me. At least let me know that I’ll have to eat the slop they serve here for breakfast.”
“I left the bag on the bed.”
“It was ice cold by the time I got back from physical therapy.” His father somehow made his words sound like whips, shredding and violent, though he simply stated a fact.
