Page 64 of We Could Be So Good
“Don’t.” Andy doesn’t even look at him.
Nick isn’t sure what exactly about his story has Andy all riled up, but supposes Andy can take his pick from any number of good reasons. Nobody likes when their friends keep secrets, especially secrets that might blow up in everybody’s faces. If anyone finds out about Nick’s arrest, they might start talking about Andy.
Nick should have told Andy about the arrest already, although he doesn’t know when. Before asking Andy to stay indefinitely, at least. But he hates to talk about that night at the Navy Yard. It was the worst night of his life—a flashlight in his eyes, cuffs snapping around his wrists, his fly still unbuttoned. It had been humiliating and terrifying, and—worst of all—it’s shaped the rest of his life.
It isn’t so much that he’s prudent to the point of paranoia when it comes to meeting men—he’s hardly the only one always looking over his shoulder. The real difference between then and nowis that he doesn’t allow himself to get comfortable. Not anywhere, not with anyone. He’s perpetually, constantly afraid.
Somehow, the fact that there are men like him who manage not to hide only makes it worse. He thinks of Ted, the museum curator. He’s in the art world, though, and rules there are different. But then Nick thinks of that man Andy mentioned, the associate of Dr.King. He must have FBI agents following him around seven days a week. How in hell does he manage to even live a life? Is the real problem that Nick is a coward?
“We’re here,” Andy says. Nick looks out the rain-streaked window and sees that the cab has stopped in front of their apartment building. He reaches for his wallet, but Andy is already passing a five-dollar bill up to the cabbie, then waving away the change.
It’s pouring now, just a godawful deluge of frigid rain. Nick nearly dried off in the bar, but now he’s drenched again. With half-numb hands, he tries to take out his keys, but Andy already has the front door unlocked and is shepherding Nick inside.
All the way up four flights of stairs, Andy doesn’t say a word. Nick can practically see the fury rising off him like steam from a subway grate. Well, at least Andy is going to be mad at Nick while they’re together. He isn’t leaving Nick alone and going off somewhere else to fume. That’s probably a good sign?
Andy has the apartment door open now and Nick steps mutely through. He tries to toe his shoes off, but he’s too cold and wet to manage it. He leans against the wall and starts in on his coat buttons, but they aren’t budging, either.
“Let me.” Andy’s voice is as near to a snarl as Nick has ever heard it. He unbuttons Nick’s coat, pulls it off his shoulders, and throws it onto the radiator before dropping to his knees and untying Nick’s shoes.
“I’m sorry,” Nick says.
“I don’t know why you keep saying that. Lift your foot.”
“Because I upset you. You’re... mad.”
Andy gets to his feet. “Youdidn’t upset me.” He takes Nick’s face in his hands and kisses him. “I’m furious. I’m—fucking irate.” Another kiss, then another that’s more teeth than anything else. “When I think about what happened to you, I want to hurt someone. I want to burn down the courthouse and throw that cop into the river.”
Oh.Only then does Nick understand what Andy is talking about. Andy is angryforNick, not at him.
“I can’t think of you in a jail cell. At eighteen! I couldn’t even make toast at eighteen.”
Nick doesn’t know why Andy is loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt, but likes that Andy’s hands are on him. “You still can’t make toast.”
Andy laughs, but it sounds a little damp. He shoves Nick’s shirt off his shoulders. “I want you to be safe. Ineedyou to be safe, Nick. I can’t function in a world that won’t let you be safe.”
And that’s too bad, because Nick has never heard of that world, but Andy looks so earnest and lovely and righteous that Nick has to kiss him.
“You still have on your coat,” Nick says into the soft place under Andy’s jaw.
“Just wanna touch you.” Andy kisses Nick’s exposed shoulder, then moves the neck of his undershirt aside to kiss his collarbone.
“Clothes,” Nick says, plucking at Andy’s wet coat.
“In a minute.” He kisses Nick again, hungry and impatient, taking hold of Nick’s loosened collar and pressing him into the door. Andy is apparently bad at listening today, so Nick begins tugging Andy’s coat off, and—okay, that’s probably a hundred-dollar coat sitting in a puddle on Nick’s floor, and nobody cares.All that matters is the grip of Andy’s hands, the slide of his mouth over Nick’s jaw, the press of his hips.
“Beautiful,” Andy says, pulling back a little. “Could look at you all day.” But he’s a liar, because the first thing he does is shut his eyes and kiss Nick again. Nick isn’t complaining, though. Nick isn’t complaining at all. The warmth of wanting and being wanted start to push away some of the fear and sadness.
One of Andy’s hands slides to Nick’s belt and they both catch their breath, pulling back a little to stare at one another.
“Bed?” Nick asks. Leaning against the door is fine, but Andy on his sheets, in his bed, would be better. Andy is looking at him like words aren’t getting into his brain anymore, and that’s such an improvement over him looking furious that Nick has to kiss him some more. “Bed, come on. I want you in my bed.”
They stumble down the hall, Nick pulling Andy’s shirt over his head, Andy pushing Nick’s undershirt up, Andy almost concussing himself on the doorjamb when he tries to take his pants off without getting rid of his shoes first.
Nick pushes Andy onto the bed because he probably can’t hurt himself there, and starts working on his own pants. Andy props himself up on his elbows to watch. Nick hooks his thumbs into his shorts and pulls them down, too, hoping he hasn’t badly misread the situation. Andy is staring. Nick strokes himself, just once.
“Bring that over here,” Andy says, his eyes wide and his voice rough.
Nick does as he’s told.
