Page 5 of The Last Guy On Earth
“Don’t worry. I got this. Doesn’t have to be anything special.” He throws the diced vegetables into the pan with the sizzling meat, and Jethro’s stomach growls.
In his experience, eating pasta means pouring some sauce from a jar over whichever spaghetti was on super sale. It never smells like what Clay’s cooking.
Clay has a jar of pasta sauce on the counter, which he eventually adds to the beef. But he also adds some expensive looking olives, and… heavy cream? His new roommate is some kind of cooking-show guru. It would be more amusing if Jethro wasn’t stressed about how to pay this guy back for sharing his food.
A colander that Jethro didn’t know they had has appeared in Clay’s hands. “Okay, I’ll drain this, and we’ll eat.” He turns off the heat under the pot.
Jethro gets up and joins him in the kitchen space, which is awkward because there’s barely enough room to turn around. Clay serves up two giant plates of pasta and then spoons generous portions of meaty sauce all over them.
“Hold up,” Clay says when Jethro tries to take his. “Don’t forget the cheese.” He grabs a small container and sprinkles its contents heavily all over the plate. “Okay, you’re good to go.”
Their dining set is a shaky card table and folding chairs. They sit down together, and when Jethro takes a tentative bite, he has to hold back a moan. It’s just sogood. Meaty and flavorful and hot. Even the penne is better than he’s used to. The flavor is almost nutty.
“Uh, thank you for this,” he says. “Kinda great.”
“De nada.” Clay attacks his own plate, but the wrinkle of worry in his tanned forehead hasn’t eased.
And who’s tan inNovember?
“The team might turn around,” Jethro offers, feeling he owes his roommate a little conversation while he chows down on this amazing food.
“It has to,” Clay says. “Otherwise, we’ll be stuck in this backwater forever, on this weird-ass team.”
Whatever. Jethro’s life is already complicated, and he’s getting paid actual money to play hockey, even if it’s barelya living wage. Besides—it’s only been two weeks. Things could look up.
In the meantime, he clears his plate.
Clay does the same. Then he puts his elbows on the table and rubs his temples. “I got a headache coming on. This fucking team.”
Jethro gets up to put away Clay’s leftovers and scrub both pans. It’s the least he can do. But when he’s done, Clay is still sitting there, looking miserable. For a charming, rich guy, he’s seriously anxious. “You get a lot of headaches?” Jethro hears himself ask.
“Sometimes,” Clay mutters.
“Drop your head,” he says, tapping Clay between the shoulder blades.
Clay obeys without asking why, a sign of trust that strikes Jethro as both unusual and possibly stupid. They don’t even know each other.
Jethro puts a hand at the base of Clay’s skull and digs his thumb into the muscle there.
“Damn,” Clay whispers. “Harder.”
A shiver runs down Jethro’s spine, but he couldn’t have said why. He massages Clay’s muscular neck, using his other hand to grip the crown of his head where Clay’s hair is softer than he’d imagined. “My, uh, mom used to get a lot of headaches. She hated the meds, so we tried massage. Just to release the neck and shoulder muscles. Like this.” He moves his hands down to the juncture of Clay’s neck and shoulders and applies an even pressure.
Clay groans.
“Drop your shoulders,” Jethro orders, working his hands into the tight muscle. This dude seriously needs to relax.
“Trying to,” Clay mumbles.
Jethro leans in, willing Clay’s muscles to release. He’s solid under his palms. Sturdy.
Then Clay lets out a sudden moan, and Jethro feels lighter inside. Like he’s been useful. “Usually works,” he says unnecessarily. But it’s true—a man’s body is far more predictable than his temper.
Clay sighs. “Your mom’s headaches got better? Without meds?”
“Yeah,” he lies. Because they could have. If she hadn’t driven drunk into a telephone pole and died.
Clay sags happily onto the table. “Thanks, man.”
