Jilted Page 14

  “Oh, hi.” Carter shifts his cupcake container to one arm when Meredith gives him a side hug. “Good to see you.”

  “You aren’t leaving, are you?” Meredith says, moving close to be heard over the noise. She’s wearing a ruffled bohemian skirt; it has tiny bells that jingle with every slight movement. The invitation for the party said to dress “boho festive.” Carter bought a polo shirt printed with pineapples, which was clearly off the mark, as he so often is.

  Carter looks around for an excuse to leave. “I have a headache,” he says. It sounds like a question. Meredith, of course, has aspirin in her purse. Carter swallows them dry; one lodges painfully in his throat. “Thanks,” he croaks.

  “Isn’t this just a blast?” Meredith says. “Paige is so wild. I love her.”

  Carter lifts his head in a sort-of nod. He has no response for that. “I, um. I’m gonna set these down somewhere. Be right back?” He juggles the container to touch her shoulder in a way that’s meant to be friendly and polite. She flutters her eyelashes and grabs his wrist.

  “Uh,” Carter says.

  “Don’t be a stranger tonight,” Meredith says, releasing him with a wink and a smile.

  Carter stumbles, walking into the churning belly of the festivities and then to the sidelines after he almost walks right into a fire spinner. There’s an open bar, as Paige promised, but no food table. Carter has completely misjudged the parameters of this party. He finds a back door and ducks inside the warehouse to locate a garbage can and chuck his embarrassing cupcakes. It’s nearly pitch-black inside, still noisy, but muted. Carter hasn’t been to the warehouse enough to have memorized where the trash cans are, but he’s hoping there’s one in that back office. Leaning a hand on the wall to guide him, he makes his way.

  He bumps into stairs. At the top, the door to Link’s loft is open; the doorway is lit with soft yellow. Link certainly will have a trash can. Carter will just pop in and pop out, and it’s not invasive and creepy because the door is open. He climbs the stairs and steps into Link’s home, feeling creepy and invasive.

  Swallowing hard, Carter quickly crosses the loft to the kitchen. The aspirin in his dry throat scratches like a thorn. Quickly getting a glass of water is probably okay. Carter places the cupcakes on the kitchen table, drinks a glass of water, and closes his eyes with relief.

  “Hello?”

  Carter jumps and yelps, dropping the glass. Fortunately, he was still standing over the sink, so it clatters loudly against the metal but doesn’t break. Less fortunately, Link is standing in the kitchen now. Carter rushes to explain why he’s in Link’s kitchen, in Link’s house, in the dark all by himself. Link doesn’t want him here, that has been made very clear. What he says is, “I, uh, brought cupcakes. Sorry.”

  Link’s eyes narrow and they flip on the kitchen lights. Carter blinks against the brightness, and, once his vision adjusts, he can see that Link is wearing glittery blue eyeliner to match glittery blue nails, short cutoffs, and one of those tight half-shirts. Carter stares down at the floor with heat creeping up his neck. He’s embarrassed and ashamed and turned on.

  “Sorry,” he says again.

  “Carter,” Link says, sighing. “Why are you apologizing for cupcakes?”

  Instead of replying that he doesn’t know, or that he’s really apologizing for crossing boundaries because he’s uncomfortable and out of place at this party, and in this city, and also in Link’s life, Carter stares at the floor and blurts out, “Do you not like me anymore?”

  Link sighs again, and, from the corner of his eyes, Carter can see them twist their hair up in a bun, then let it fall loosely. “No, Carter. The opposite, actually.”

  Carter looks up as far as Link’s leanly muscled legs. So much leg. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s embarrassing,” Link says.

  It can’t possibly be more embarrassing than the pulse of heat in Carter’s groin when he takes in the shift of Link’s thighs. “Okay,” Carter says, not wanting to push and struggling to form coherent thoughts. He looks up to the exposed skin of Link’s stomach, then quickly away.

  “Okay. No.” Link’s feet shuffle across the floor, closer. “Honestly? It’s because I can’t trust myself around you. I’m trying to take things slow, but it’s so difficult, and you have no idea how much I want to kiss you, and more, right now.”

  Carter’s eyes drag up, up, to Link’s elegant neck and those wide, full lips. “I probably do,” Carter says, voice strained. Link is beautiful and sexy and cool and interesting, and Carter can’t imagine what about his own boring self could possibly be so appealing.

  “Is there anything I can do? To be less… um, kissable,” Carter asks.

  “I doubt it,” Link says with a long sigh. “I mean, you just called yourself kissable for one. And you brought cupcakes that you probably made yourself. And, oh, I just realized your shirt has little pineapples on it.”

  Carter plucks at the fabric. “It’s festive.”

  Link’s eyes close. “You’re killing me.”

  Carter can’t help it, he smiles. Outside the party rages on, but here with Link he’s finally enjoying himself a little. He shouldn’t need someone else to anchor him, he knows; he should find his own port in his own sea. But it’s different than how it always was with Matthew, when he needed Matt to feel worthy. No, he needed Matthew to decide if he was worthy. When he’s with Link, Carter feels as if he matters all on his own, just as he is.

  “Do you want one? They’re fresh citrus cupcakes with orange buttercream.”

  Link groans obscenely. “Fuck yes, I want one.”

  Twenty-nine

  They both eat one cupcake, then Link reaches for another. Carter scrapes little bits of orange buttercream frosting off the paper wrapper and licks it from his fingers. He’s relieved that Link doesn’t hate him and want him to go away, and maybe a tiny bit pleased at the reason for Link’s distance.

  “So, what are you doing up here?” Carter asks. “I mean, I know this is your home, but don’t you want to get back to the party?”

  Link is taking their time with the second cupcake. “Eh. I swear these gatherings get more elaborate every time. I love a good soirée, don’t get me wrong, but I heard someone talking about getting a live elephant for their next party, I mean really. I just needed a break.”

  The noise of drums and jubilant partygoers, and the colors of stage lights and swirls of fire seep in from the darkened windows. In the right state of mind, Carter enjoys a good soirée himself. He’d much rather be with Link in this quiet space. “Do you want to watch TV or something?” Carter asks, trying to create the boundaries that he badly needs, as he stares at Link’s throat swallowing the last bites of cupcake, and Link stares at Carter’s frosting-tipped fingers moving in and out of his mouth.

  “Yeah, sure. Well.” Link’s head swivels toward the center of the loft, where the bed waits, ready. “The television is in the bedroom. That might be, uh—”

  “Right,” Carter says. Climbing into bed together hasn’t exactly kept things platonic in the past. “Do you have cards? We could play cards.”

  Link hunts down a pack of playing cards, and they both sit cross-legged on the couch, facing each other. “What are you in the mood for?” Links asks, shuffling the cards. “I mean, game-wise.”

  Carter adjusts more comfortably against an arm rest. “Whatever you want.”

  Link’s eyebrows raise and fall, briefly. “Okay.” They deal the cards and explain the rules for crazy eights, which Carter has heard of but never played. Link nods for him to go first. Carter plays a king of hearts. After two rounds that Link wins, Carter challenges them to a double-or-nothing final round. Outside, there’s a pop and then the sky suddenly bursts with colorful lights. Carter oohs and Link tuts, “Of course there’s fireworks.”

  The last time he and Link played cards there was rain outside the hotel r
oom, rather than showers of sparks outside Link’s loft, but the way Carter felt, as if he and Link existed together in some sort of bubble, some deeper connection he couldn’t understand, he still feels that way. He’s still trying to understand it.

  “Link?” Carter says. Link hums, flicking down the three of spades. Carter nudges it neatly into place on the stack. “How would you explain art?”

  Link’s eyes narrow. “As in, explain all of art? How long do you expect this game to last, Carter Jacob?”

  “No, I guess…” Carter plays the three of diamonds. “You make art that serves a purpose. It makes sense. But what about art that doesn’t?”

  Link’s eyes carefully scan Carter’s face; in the low light they look darker, the soft brown of cedarwood. “You mean that sincerely, don’t you?” Carter isn’t sure how to take that question, but Link’s gaze is soft, their mouth upturned in a sweet smile. “All right, well. Isn’t architecture a form of art? You find art in wrought iron gabling or those balustrade railings, right?”

  It tugs in Carter’s chest; the fact that Link not only actually did care about Carter’s ramblings but remembered them. “Yes,” Carter concedes. “But architecture necessitates function. Ornamentation is secondary and requires an underlying syntactical relationship to the building’s primary function.”

  Link inhales sharply, eyes fluttering. “So then, I guess art sometimes is the opposite. The art itself conveys meaning. Or, the art is the meaning.”

  Carter plays a card. Art is the purpose or the purpose is art. It exists for itself and, because of that, has an inherent meaning. It’s a compelling thought. “I suppose if one were to differentiate between ornamentation and decora—” Link’s mouth crashes against Carter’s, interrupting his upcoming monologue. Link scrambles closer. Cards scatter across the couch and the floor; Carter’s last few fall from his hand. He cups Link’s face, kisses back, and moves his legs so Link can settle in his lap. He pulls away just to ask, even though he really, really doesn’t want to.

  “Are you sure you want this?”

  Link hovers over him, hair falling like a curtain, thumbs stroking down Carter’s neck, eyes so dark and intense Carter has to look down and watch Link’s mouth. “So sure,” Link says, straddling Carter’s lap and ducking back in for another kiss, then stopping to ask, “Wait, do you want to?”

  Carter pretends to contemplate the question. “No, I’d rather talk about balustrades. Of course I want to.”

  Link takes another sharp breath and murmurs against Carter’s lips, “God, say balustrades again.” Carter does. Link moans and writhes against him.

  There’s so much warm, smooth skin available to Carter’s roving hands already, with Link’s cutoff shorts and T-shirt. His fingers travel up Link’s spine, the curve of their back, up the length of Link’s strong thighs and slide beneath the jagged cut of their shorts, first the top, then around to the back to skim the curve of their ass. Link gasps, hips shifting. Carter’s index finger slips in farther, finding hot, yielding skin.

  “Yes,” Link says, voice airy and trembling, head tilting back. “I want that, yes.”

  Carter can’t do much with his hand twisted to reach inside the leg of Link’s shorts, just lets Link kiss him and move against him as Carter’s body yearns for more. Link grinds forward against Carter’s groin, then back against his fingers, mouth falling open. “What do you want?” Link’s head tilts to the side so Carter can mouth along the line of it. Carter’s distracted reply, “Whatever you want,” is apparently insufficient.

  Link stands. Carter blinks and babbles. “What—why—what—”

  “I can’t deal with you sometimes,” Link says, but it’s with a fond smile. “Carter, sweetie. Consider this a… what was it? Syntactic relationship.”

  “Syntactical,” Carter corrects. “It means—”

  Link flutters a hand at him. “I love your explanations, but there’s a time and place. If I’m not comfortable with something, I’ll say so. And you should too. Now, what do you want?”

  Carter takes a few breaths to clear his head, wipes damp palms on his legs, and has to look down at his lap when he replies, “I want to be inside of you.”

  Thirty

  Carter has certainly bulldozed right through any and all boundaries with that confession and is even more convinced of this when Link holds up one finger and disappears into the bathroom. Alone on the couch, lust haze clearing, Carter becomes aware again of the party still carrying on, loud and bright, outside. Has anyone noticed he’s gone? Paige, probably not. Meredith, likely. He feels momentarily bad for Meredith; she’s had a bad run.

  Link is taking a while. Should he leave?

  “Take your pants off!” Link calls out from the bathroom. Carter complies and sits back on the couch in his underwear. He can’t go very far without pants, so he’s probably safe staying put. Link finally emerges from the bathroom in only snug, silky, black underwear hemmed in a thin strip of lace. It’s definitely a different pair and Carter is definitely not going anywhere.

  Link slinks into the room, switches the light off, then resumes their earlier position straddling Carter’s lap. There’s even more skin for Carter to touch. His kisses are harder, the urgency higher. Carter reaches blindly to Link’s stomach, up to pinch the hardened nubs of their nipples. Link whines, hips bucking against Carter’s, and moves back across Carter’s knees, tugs Carter’s underwear down, and rolls a condom onto him. Link’s underwear comes off, too, flung away carelessly, somewhere behind the couch. “Still good?”

  “Yes,” Carter says, as Link shuffles forward again, lifted so Carter can kick his briefs off the rest of the way. “Are you?”

  Still lifted, Link takes Carter’s hand, guiding his fingers back to where Carter had been teasing at pushing inside before, now slick and yielding. “I am very ready,” Link says, voice husky, body moving against Carter’s, lining up; ready.

  Carter holds himself steady as Link sinks slowly. His throat goes dry at the intense, tight heat. He wants to be less passive as Link wants, but he lets Link take charge, can’t help it, closes his eyes and gives himself over completely.

  Link lifts and falls, slowly at first, pecking Carter’s lips and grasping his shoulders. Then the pace picks up, and Link’s hands move to twist in Carter’s hair, their legs spreading wider so Carter is buried deep inside. Link groans, lifts up, and Carter’s hips buck helplessly, slamming into Link as they come back down.

  “Carter,” Link moans. “Carter, Carter.”

  Outside, presumably, the party is still going. For Carter, nothing exists right now outside of Link. He no longer cares to understand it or quantify it or figure it out. He’s tried pretending they were something else, he’s tried a clean break, he’s tried keeping a friendly distance. Nothing makes sense except the way Carter feels when he’s with Link.

  Link shifts forward, rubbing against Carter’s stomach, torso twisting as they lift and fall at a fast, uncoordinated pace. Carter thrusts up hard, and Link arches, head thrown back, lost to pleasure. Carter pumps inside one last time and comes. He presses his face into Link’s neck, breathing raggedly as he cools down, lips and tongue working absently. Link goes still, then shakes and sighs and trembles.

  “We’re art, not architecture,” Carter says, with Link draped limply beside him.

  “Hmm?” Link replies, slow and sluggish.

  Carter smiles. He doesn’t need Link to understand; he said it for himself. It’s enough, to know that Link desires him, that things are as they have always been between them, even if he’s unable to say exactly what that is. It doesn’t matter. Carter has spent too much of his life worrying about the practical functions of things instead of the irrational beauty of them. They both clean up and dress.

  “I got a job offer,” Carter says, stepping into his pants.

  “That’s great.” Link is still hunting down their underwear behind
the couch.

  “Check the office area,” Carter says, helpfully. “I don’t know if I’m going to take it, though. The job, I mean. Not your underwear.” Carter watches Link’s naked backside walk into the bedroom. They seem to give up on the search and open a dresser drawer for new ones.

  “Why not?” Link calls.

  Carter pulls his pineapple shirt over his head. “Well, Paige thinks that I should do something different, like she is. In the name of not coming all this way to make the same mistakes, or something.” It’s easy for her to say, though, she’s personable and plucky; he’s weird and difficult. He also doesn’t know what else he’d do.

  Link comes back, fully dressed in comfy-looking pajamas. “Well, Paige is, let’s say, free with her opinions, but that doesn’t mean she’s always right.”

  “I know.” Boy, does he know. “But maybe she’s right in a way.” With all his time alone lately, he’s hoping to at least come out of it as a better version of himself, perhaps slightly more self-aware. Why else has he gone through all of this if not for a tiny bit of growth? But then, he can’t picture himself doing anything else, really. Architecture is the only thing he’s ever gotten right. His whole life he’s been on the outside, needing other people as guideposts for where he belongs. The only time he doesn’t is when he’s drawing up workable plans for someone’s unreasonable and incongruous desire for a traditional colonial with Romanesque interior archways and a Monterey double wraparound porch.

  “Do you think I’m making the same mistakes?”

  Link’s face is drawn, mouth flat. “You’re the only person who can answer that, Carter.”

  Carter frowns.

  Link’s face softens. “Look, I’m trying to work out the same thing, you know. Where the hell do I go from here?”

  Lost together, then. Carter doesn’t have answers for Link’s future any more than he does for his own. But a small step forward, one week ahead in time, that’s not too much. “We could go out?” Carter offers. “Dinner Friday night.”