Page 9 of Counterpoint
Adrian rose and shook his arms out. “There’s nothing to tell, Jack. Not yet.”
A deep laugh. “Bullshit. But you can tell yourself that if you want.” He grinned. “You ready?”
“To run? Never.” Adrian gestured at the track, though, and Jackson loped out into the outer lane. Adrian followed, and they looped a few times at a nice, gentle jog before Jackson smirked at him and took off. Adrian groaned and followed, picking up speed to match his friend’s pace.
They ran and ran and ran some more, beyond when Adrian wanted to stop and faster than he liked. At the end, when Jackson finally had pity on him, Adrian was drenched with sweat, exhausted—and the thoughts of Dominic and the dinner date he’d pried from the man still lingered in his mind.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Shit.”
He didn’t get hung up on dates.
Adrian grabbed his water bottle and drank down half in one gulp.
“You hook up with someone on the trip that has you rattled?” Jackson toweled his face off and took a swig of water from his own bottle.
Adrian blew out a breath and shook his head. Jackson wasn’t even winded, which used to bother him, but when he’d started to see the results of all these runs and squats and the weight lifting Jackson put him through, he figured he didn’t get to whine, not even in his head.
“No.” He wiped his face with the bottom of his T-shirt. “Guy I met last night at Poet and Whiskey.”
Jackson raised an eyebrow, then nodded toward the weight room. “Time to lift.”
God, this workout was gonna kill him. But he made his way to the weights and let Jackson put him through a torturous routine until his muscles were just about to protest loudly.
And still Dominic was there in his head. That blush, the shyness mixed with the snappy comebacks and flirting. Contradictions. Intelligence. He nearly dropped the fifty-pound free weights on the way to putting them back in the rack.
“Hell, Adi. This guy have a magic cock or something? I’ve never seen you strung out over a piece of ass before.”
Adrian leaned back on the weight rack to catch his breath. “Haven’t fucked him yet. Just had dinner next to him. Flirted. Made a date for this Wednesday.”
Oh, he’d shocked Jackson, given the wide eyes and skeptical look. “Adate?” His voice pitched higher.
“Yeah, you know. That thing people do sometimes when they think maybe they want more than a fling?”
Jackson rolled his eyes. “How do you feel about burpees?”
He fucking hated every single moment of them, and the damn word, too. “You know how I feel.”
Oh, that wicked, wide smile. “Give me three sets of twenty, then tell me about thisdate.”
Adrian bit back the groan and did as told, his body burning in that way he actually enjoyed but would never, ever tell Jackson. Working out was horrible and wonderful, and he was stronger and more toned at thirty-six than he’d been at twenty-five.
Dominic was twenty-seven. Fuck. He pushed through the rest of the damn reps until he finished then collapsed onto the mat. “I hate you.”
Above him, Jackson smiled down, a dark-eyed angel of pain. “That’s not what you said the last time I was buried in you.”
No, those hadn’t been the words. Hell, he probably hadn’t been able to form words at that moment. They’d fucked on and off through their entire friendship, but ultimately they were decidedly not a match. Jackson wanted to find a husband and have kids. Adrian had never wanted kids, and was a bit too kinky for Jackson’s tastes in the long run. Jackson didn’t do bondage or submission, and that wasn’t something Adrian could simply throw away.
But after the last time they’d fucked, Adrian had run his hands through the short curls of Jackson’s hair and murmured, “You know, you’re my best friend.”
Jackson had pushed him away, but there’d been affection in his retort. “Don’t get sappy on me, Irish boy.”
Adrian sighed but didn’t move from the puddle he’d formed on the mat. “He’s a local, Jack. Cute. Wears glasses and a bowtie. Plays guitar. Reads nineteenth century gay erotica while eating dinner.”
Laughter poured out of Jackson, and he offered Adrian a hand up. “You sure someone’s not setting you up? ’Cause if there ever were a person who would make your head snap around, it would be a bowtie-wearing artist with a penchant for gay lit. Like someone read out a line from the ‘Adrian Doran Dream Fucks’ catalog.”
He grunted as Jackson pulled him to standing. “I really do hate you.” His cheeks were red, but that description? Yeah. On the fucking nose. “He’s also twenty-seven.”
That got him a roll of the eyes. “So? That’s never been an issue for you. Older. Younger. Whatever gender. You like what you like.”
