Page 93 of The Last Guy On Earth
It’s nice.Reallynice. “Why are you out here, anyway?” I ask.
“I did a big grocery shop. But somebody took my parking place, so I dropped the food off at home and parked in the back lot. How didyouend up out here?”
“Hmm.” I think it over. “Well, my sister is having twins.”
He stops walking abruptly, which means I do as well. “Tonight?”
“No,” I say quickly. Or at least I say it as quickly as my mouth will move, which is not that fast. My lips feel weirdly heavy. “In Sheptember.”
“Ah,” he says “Sheptember. Makes perfect sense why you’d be on your back on the cold, hard ground. It’s going to be, like, thirty tonight.” He nudges me forward, like an equestrian encouraging a horse.
“I had some whisky,” I explain as we walk. “And I wanted to do some pullups. I really just needed to get out of my house.”
“Right. But why?”
“It’s really quiet there. All the time. I don’t have friends. And now my sister is having twins and probably marrying Raul and I’ll never see her again.”
He’s quiet for a second. “You have lots of friends.”
“No. No. Nope. Coaches don’t have friends. People hate them or fear them or kiss their asses. But they doesn’t have friends.” I burp. “They usually have a family, but I skipped that part.”
“You’re just stressed out because the playoffs are coming,” he says.
“Maybe,” I admit. “I used to yell at you for drinking to calm yourself down. You drank to have sex with me.”
He groans. “We aren’t talking about that.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s against the rules. I wouldn’t need whisky to have sex with you, though. Just saying. Stone sober works great. Or drunk, honestly. I could still suck you off like a champion.”
“Maybe think about keeping your voice down.”
“Sure. Whatever. I can’t remember why that matters.”
“You’ll remember in the morning, trust me.” He wraps his arm a little more tightly around me. “Okay, time to do a few stairs. Ready?”
“Yeah.”
He half drags, half carries me up the steps to my building. Then he frisks me for my keys.
“I like you handsy. Do that again.”
Sighing, he opens the door and ushers me inside. “Dude, your kitchen is a mess.”
“Lasagna.”
“Ah. Did you put the pesto and zucchini in it?”
“Yes!” I exclaim. “Great memory.”
“It’s not hard remembering all the things you did for me. I’ll never forget that shit. Now let’s get you to bed. Is that upstairs? You’re going to need some water and Advil.”
“It’s too early to go to bed,” I argue.
“Clay, you can hardly stand up,” he says, tightening his grip around my shoulders.
I lean into his sturdy frame and bury my nose in his flannel shirt-jacket. He looks so buff in it, but also cuddly. “Why would I want to? You feel so good.”
Another grunt of irritation. Then strong arms maneuver me up the stairs. “Come on. Into bed you go.”
