Don't Read in the Closet: GayRomLit Retreat 2011 Special Edition Page 3

  Especially considering Owen wasn’t even gay.

  Or so Rory had believed.

  Rory’s mental engine had stuttered and coughed as the ignition fought to fire. Coherent thought and speech danced just beyond his reach and left him sitting there, staring at Owen like he was from another planet, speaking a foreign language. Frozen with the overwhelming desire that what he was hearing was true, and paralyzed with the fear that he’d had a few too many tequila shots and imagined his friend’s declaration.

  But Owen, always quick to conclusion, took his silence as rejection. I’m sorry, he said as his beautiful brown eyes began to glitter with moisture. I am so sorry, he repeated before he turned and ran from the sports bar.

  When Rory’s motor finally kicked in and spurred him into action, he raced through the front doors and spilled out onto a near-deserted Pearl Street. Owen was gone.

  I love you.

  Rory braced his hands on either side of the window frame and leaned his forehead against the glass. Almost twenty years they’d known each other. Almost twenty years they’d been inseparable. Ever since the cute little brunet with the big puppy-dog eyes moved in two doors down and they became instant best friends. They did everything and went everywhere together. They finished each other’s sentences, and had learned that innate ability of silent communication generally reserved for old married couples.

  Then puberty hit Rory like a semi-truck, and he started to notice things about Owen he was pretty sure most boys didn’t notice about other boys. Things like how long and thick his best friend’s eyelashes were, or the high cheekbones they fanned. The guileless brown eyes flecked with gold, and the burning red that shimmered in fine threads through rich tawny hair when the summer sun fingered the shaggy locks. Long fingers that graced strong hands -- hands he’d spent far too much time imagining what they would feel like caressing his bare skin. And for the next four years, Rory walked around in a constant state of arousal.

  He’d so badly wanted to tell Owen what was going on with him, the feelings raging inside, but he was terrified of losing his best friend. Owen was his other half. The thought of losing him, losing the friendship they shared, that effortless connection, was unbearable. That they both played offense on the high school football team -- a team racked with testosterone-overdosed he-men, where Rory Ballard was the star quarterback and Owen the star wide receiver -- also had the potential to put both their scholarships at risk.

  There was no way he could come out to the one person in the world he should have been able to. So he mastered the art of denial. Almost believed it himself.

  Until college.

  Sharing a dorm room like they’d always planned had quickly become a living hell. Owen had added another four inches to his height and filled out, putting him just an inch taller than Rory’s six feet three, and twenty pounds of solid muscle heavier. He was the most beautiful man Rory had ever seen. That long, lithe body was a sculptor’s dream. And because Rory wasn’t the sculptor, and never would be, he began to pull away.

  Sensing something wasn’t right, Owen tried to understand, tried to help, but every time he asked what was wrong, Rory said he was just tired. College life, studies and the football team were a lot to keep up with. Every concerned touch that followed -- a hand on his back, an arm over his shoulder, a smack on the ass at practice -- became a stick poking a hornet’s nest. Until finally, Owen sitting beside him on his bed, rubbing slow circles on Rory’s back with that big strong hand, the two of them wearing nothing more than workout shorts, bare thighs touching, had snapped the bounds of Rory’s rapidly thinning resolve.

  He saw himself pushing his best friend back on the bed, straddling his hips and sinking into that hard, pliant body. And right on the heels of that image, the deafening rattle of walls when the door slammed behind Owen’s retreating back, leaving Rory in the dust with a hole in his chest that would never heal.

  He’d shot off the bed like he’d been stuck with a cattle prod, and made the most heartbreaking decision of his entire life -- he moved out of the dorm he shared with his best friend, and pushed the only person who meant anything in his whole life further away.

  I love you.

  Sudden anger welled up inside Rory with frightening intensity. Owen knew him better than that. Should have known no matter what he said, Rory wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t turn away from him. Rory promptly shut down the little voice in the back of his mind that tried point out the obvious. He didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to face the fact that while Owen should have known better, he should have too.

  It was a bitter dish. He wasn’t hungry.

  “Fuck this,” Rory said in a muted voice. He grabbed his black and gold Colorado Buffaloes jersey with Ballard and the number fifteen on the back in white stenciled letters, off the back of his desk chair. He punched his legs into a pair of jeans he’d retrieved from the floor, slipped his feet into a pair of running shoes, grabbed his wallet and keys, and stormed out of the apartment.

  THE TEMPERATURE WAS still comfortable in the early morning light, the world still in peaceful repose when he started walking. When walking quickly proved not enough to ebb his anger he started to jog, accelerated into run, and kicked it up another gear into a full-out sprint. Breath wheezed harsh and loud through his throat, lungs heaved in desperation to meet the demands for increased oxygen. Thighs burned and threatened to give out with every bone-jarring strike against the unforgiving pavement. Sweat flooded from his pores, drying into salty crystals on his skin as the arid climate sucked the fluids from his body almost as fast as he expelled it. His gritty eyes watered and vision doubled.

  But he was not crying. Rory Ballard did not cry.

  He passed through the gates of Folsom Field and collapsed on his back on the twenty-yard line. He hadn’t intended to go to the field, didn’t want to. But his feet led him there regardless, just as the sun had begun to stretch out over the horizon. Cool, dew-tipped grass molded to his frame and cradled him, while his chest heaved and strained muscles twitched from the intense morning exertion. He kicked off his shoes and socks so his sweaty feet could breathe, but didn’t have the energy to sit up and take his jersey off.

  If Owen had only stayed at the bar, if only he’d answered his phone the million times Rory had called last night, this could all be settled in one sentence.

  Rory lost track of how long he laid there on the field, distantly aware that the sun had risen higher and the surface temperature of his skin increased. Familiar sounds of the world waking around him danced on the edge of his eardrums -- morning birds chatted their merry tune, insects buzzed, the oscillating hum of vehicles moving to and fro. His gaze followed an arcing contrail as it faded into a gossamer brush stroke across a canvas of fathomless deep blue.

  Something hard struck his elbow, giving his heart a start. He turned his head to find a football rocking to a halt by his side. He reached for the ball and turned it in his hands, then cradled it to his chest and let a long breath whistle through his teeth. He raised his gaze in the direction the ball had come from, and collided with a pair of sorrel-colored eyes. The same eyes that looked at him with love and desire in every single dream that had featured the only man he ever longed for.

  Owen stood near the benches wearing a Buffs team T-shirt, stretched tight across a chiseled, broad chest and solid biceps. Dark blue sweatpants hung low on a narrow waist. Red diamond highlights sparkled in spiky dark hair. Rory’s heart stuttered for a whole different reason.

  Gaze unwavering, Owen moved silently into position thirty yards away. He planted his feet shoulder-width apart on the fifty-yard line, arms deceivingly relaxed at his side, and waited.

  It had been their private ritual, started after their first home game when they played for the Rocky Mountain Lobos in high school. The morning after every game since, they’d meet on the field to toss the ball before the daily demands of life came calling -- reliving the previous night’s game, shooting the shit, talking about anything and ever
ything that came to mind. Just the two of them cocooned in an empty, 50,000-seat stadium -- the world beyond its concrete walls non-existent.

  “I’m an idiot,” Rory mumbled to himself. He looked back to the cerulean heavens for contradiction. The sky returned a mocking stare at him, as if to say, Like that's a news flash?

  Suddenly, it all became crystal clear, like he’d been wandering around having forgotten to take the protective plastic off the lens of his vision. All the times Owen had reached out for Rory, all the subtle ways he’d tried to say through touch what he couldn’t say with words. But Rory was so dead set on denial he’d missed every single signal. He mistook the caress of a hopeful lover as nothing more than the kindness of a good friend. How many years had they danced around each other? How many times had he misread Owen’s friendship and pushed him further and further way, afraid he couldn’t control his desires -- not realizing Owen had wanted the same thing all along?

  You’re an idiot and a chickenshit, Rory Ballard. No disagreement from above.

  With a self-depreciating huff, Rory heaved his complaining body off the ground and shook the grass from the back of his jersey. He cradled the ball in his hands a moment, watching Owen, the tension radiating off his tall body a tangible thing. Rory cupped the pointed end of the ball in his right hand, angled his shoulder back, and let the ball fly. Owen deftly caught it. His honed, naturally athletic form moved with the effortless, enviable grace that made him a highlight reel darling, and returned the toss.

  For the next half hour, the only sound was that of a leather ball whistling through the air as it volleyed back and forth, and the steady beat of a sunlit heart.

  They’d paused only once by unspoken mutual agreement, to pull their shirts overhead and toss them aside as the morning temperature continued its relentless march toward the century mark.

  Finally, Rory tucked the ball under an arm instead of returning the toss, and wiped the heel of his hand across his forehead. “You’re my best friend, Owen.”

  Owen looked down, seemingly finding something intriguing about his running shoes. “I’m so sorry, Ror.” He glanced up briefly, afraid to hold contact. “You’re my best friend too, and I-- I miss you.”

  Rory took a step forward. “You got nothing to be sorry for.”

  “No. I was drunk and feeling sorry for myself and didn’t know what I was saying,” his best friend pleaded, eyes downcast, shoulders rolled forward. “You know I-- I do…love you. But you know, like brothers.”

  Rory’s next step faltered. A hairline crack zigzagged over the surface of his heart and threatened to split it open. “Brothers?”

  Owen nodded and flashed a quick, anxious glance over Rory’s shoulder; hands shoved deep into the pockets of his sweatpants. He was lying. Rory knew it to the core of his soul. Owen meant it.

  “You’re such a dumb-ass,” Rory yelled across the open space between them, making sure the smile in his voice was clear. Owen twitched but didn’t raise his gaze. “Don’t you think I know when you’re lying? Did you ever think I might feel the same?”

  Owen’s head shot up, and a comet of hope streaked across his dark eyes. “You aren’t gay.”

  “Neither are you.” Rory started walking again when Owen snorted in response, determined and confident as he crossed the thirty-yard line. “What if I told you that I loved you? What if I told you that I wanted you?”

  “Do you?” Owen’s voice cut and shook like he’d veered off the side of the highway and hit a rumble strip. His gaze dropped back to the ground.

  “I do,” Rory said, willing Owen to hear his heart in his voice. He stepped over the forty-yard line. “More than anything in this world.”

  Two more strides, the distance closed rapidly. “What do you want, Owen?”

  Owen’s chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths. Skin glistened burnished gold in the late morning sun. Around his neck, a carved greenstone pendant in the shape of a triple twisted figure eight hung by a thin strip of black suede, reflected brightly. The pendant rested just below the hollow of his neck, and matched the one Rory wore. They’d gotten the necklaces when they’d taken a trip to New Zealand after high school, to celebrate their football scholarships. The path of life, it was called, the Maori symbol meaning two people bonded for life by friendship and loyalty.

  Distance closed. Rory stood on one side of the fifty-yard line, Owen on the other. The narrow chalk-white line separated their bodies by mere inches. Tension sizzled in the heavy air between them, and still Owen didn’t raise his gaze when he began, “I want…”

  “What?”

  Owen mumbled; his words lost on a rising breeze.

  “O…”

  “You.” Owen raised his gaze and locked onto Rory’s. Brown eyes dark and intense, the way Rory had always dreamed Owen would look at him. Owen squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, voice low, strong and sure when he said, “You, Rory. I want you.”

  RORY DIDN’T KNOW who reached for whom first, only knew that Owen’s strong arms wrapped tight around his waist, and his arms wrapped around Owen. Their bodies clapped together with enough force to push the air from their lungs, and just before their lips met, Owen froze.

  Breaths rapid and harsh mingled in the sliver that separated them from complete head-to-toe contact. The sharp scent of mint and arousing scent of male, of Owen, gusted over Rory’s cheek and teased his senses. The heated press of Owen’s bare chest against his, seared through skin and tissue and muscle and bone, setting fire to the marrow within. Electric tingles raced the length of Rory’s tall frame and blood began its instinctive descent south. Rory moved a hand to cradle the back of Owen’s head, tunneled his fingers into the silky locks, damp with sweat, and tentatively pressed his mouth to Owen’s. He waited for Owen to respond, and barely a heartbeat later, Owen leaned into the kiss.

  The first kiss. The kiss he’d dreamed of since he was thirteen years old. Owen’s lips were soft as satin, hot as caramel on apple pie, and tasted just as mouth-wateringly sweet. They moved gently across his own -- tasting, testing, teasing -- and when they parted Rory didn’t hesitate to accept the invitation. He swept his tongue inside and slid it against Owen’s. He reveled in the subtle, rough texture on the surface and smooth underside as they twined around one another. A ragged moan rose up between them. Rory wasn’t sure which of them it had emanated from, but it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was Owen in his arms. That lean muscular body pressed to his, every angle and ridge of bone and muscle fit into place as though it were made for only him.

  Owen’s large hands burned a path up and down the expanse of Rory’s back from the base of his neck to the rise of his ass. Scissoring hands in either direction, Owen held the back of Rory’s head, slanting their angle to deepen the kiss that had yet to break -- breathing be damned -- and cupped one butt cheek with the other, squeezing hard as he rocked his hips into Rory. The rigid, unyielding length of Owen’s erection rode against Rory’s and a guttural growl that seemed to come from the very ground beneath them, vibrated against Rory’s skin as it surged up through Owen’s chest.

  And then Owen forced his hands between them. The heel of one hand followed the outline of Rory’s cock through the thin denim, while the other frantically worked at releasing the button. Rory rolled his pelvis back only far enough to give Owen the room he needed to complete the task. He wanted the material that separated the last of their bodies gone. He wanted Owen to take him in hand and wrench every day of the last seven longing years from his body.

  Owen tucked his hands beneath the waistband of Rory’s briefs, and pushed them and his jeans down together. Hot sun attacked his bare ass and he shivered. His cock sprang free of its constrictive confines and reached for Owen instinctively. The rough heat of Owen’s hand wrapped around his shaft and Rory jerked forward, a heartbeat away from coming right then and there.

  Rory broke the kiss for the first time and between gasping pants, said on a hoarse voice, “Holy. Fuck. Owen.” He clampe
d his hands around Owen’s wrists, hooked a heel behind Owen’s knee, and with a quick push-pull, tackled his dazed best friend to the ground before he had a chance to register what was happening.

  Owen’s big body hit the forgiving turf with a startled grunt as Rory landed on top of him, still gripping tightly to Owen’s wrists. Rory pushed Owen’s legs apart with his knees and settled into the welcoming space between them. Owen looked up at Rory, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded with lust, his breath coming in shallow puffs, his heart pounding powerfully against Rory’s chest. “I’ve wanted this so long,” Owen whispered, his deep reedy voice dripping with desire. He clenched his hands into fists against Rory’s unyielding hold. “Kiss me, Ror.”

  And Rory did. This time it wasn’t a gentle exploration. This was a frantic, mindless, desperate claiming. This was the release of too many years being denied; too many years of swallowing back what he craved most. Rory devoured Owen’s mouth, sucked and swirled the length of his tongue, scraped and ground their teeth together. Lips swollen and hypersensitive pulsed with the rapid bass drum beat of his heart. Rory felt like he was trying to climb inside and still it wasn’t close enough.

  He rocked his hips into Owen, who bucked to meet each thrust in equal measure. Owen tried again to free his hands from Rory’s hold, but Rory kept him pinned tight to the ground while he had his way with that beautiful mouth. Too long he’d wanted. Too long he’d needed. Now that he had Owen right where he wanted him, there was no way in hell he was letting go.

  With a rumbling growl, Owen arched his body up off the ground and forcibly flipped them over, but instead of straddling Rory, he yanked him by the hands and hauled him to his feet. Rory swayed for a brief second while his equilibrium balanced itself, and then Owen was dragging him toward the locker rooms.