Home and Away (12 page)

Callum couldn’t get into the elevator and to their room fast enough. He thought about that stupid wink all the way down the long hallway and while they were getting settled in their absurdly fancy suite. He wanted to pace, but told himself he couldn’t. He wanted to sit, but was pretty sure he’d shatter that Louis-something-or-other chair if he tried.

He tried to keep up with Rupert through the phone calls to agents and lawyers, or, at the very least, keep Oliver occupied while the agenda for tomorrow was set, but he felt fairly useless. He was already worried about going back downstairs. Crossing the lobby together. Who else they might bump into.

It shouldn’t matter. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. Hell, he wouldn’t be doing anything fucking wrong even if he and Rupert were lovers.

Except he’d
lied.
Not today, really, but so many times before. His carefully constructed bullshit life was a yoke around his neck—some days choking off his air, others a comforting weight he understood and remembered the reasons for. The latter, though, were increasingly rare. Now, whole weeks passed when he couldn’t recall why he’d gone down this road. Why he’d willingly, sensibly—he’d thought at the time—tucked his heart, his whole life, in the very back of the fucking closet.

Because every single damn day, it was lonely. Other than his family, only Michaela, and now Rupert, knew the truth. And that was the same number of people he’d count as his friends.

He looked up at Rupert, standing by the desk while Callum and Oliver played on the floor. He was, as always,
just so
. Shoes polished. Not a hair out of place. His suit impeccable, the jacket a constant presence, Callum suspected, to hide that amazing ass. His cheeks were flushed, eyes focused as he took notes on whatever he was listening to, and, not for the first time, Callum felt helplessly drawn to him.

Rupert was so confident. Honest.
Out.

Callum knew what courage that took. Rupert made it seem easy. He didn’t hesitate. Accepted it as part of who he was, no one’s business but his own, even while he didn’t care who knew and who didn’t. Rupert was afraid of a lot of things, but in spite of that, he was open. He never
lied.

And he never once, in spite of Callum’s admittedly confusing assertions that he was gay and yet wasn’t, made Callum feel ashamed. But really, if he wasn’t with anyone, ever, he wasn’t anything. Straight. Gay. It made no difference.

What he was—what he’d always been—was
alone
.

Callum was uncharacteristically quiet during dinner. They took Markus Jergeson’s suggestion and went to a little place around the corner from the hotel. Oliver surprised them by electing to have crepes, once Rupert had explained what they were. Rupert grinned at Callum, only to find him staring back, an unreadable look on his face.

He’d been like this since they’d bumped into Jergeson in the lobby, and Rupert could guess why. It was entirely possible that several people had thought that Rupert and Callum were together. And that, quite clearly, upset Callum. A lot.

Rupert, too, was quieter than usual by the time they returned to the hotel. Oliver seemed to be picking up on their moods, and was particularly good during his bedtime routine, curling up against Callum’s chest while he read Oliver a story, patting the big man’s arm while his deep voice eased him into sleep.

Rupert would usually be sitting on the end of the bed listening, or doing something nearby as an excuse to be close to them, but tonight he worked at the coffee table in the living room, listening to Callum through the open door.

He heard “the end”, then some quiet murmuring as the light went out.

Rupert went into the bedroom as Callum kissed Oliver goodnight. It had taken Rupert aback the first time he’d done it, even more so when Callum had informed Rupert it was his turn to do the same. Now kissing Oliver’s cheek was second nature, as was gently running his hand over Oliver’s soft hair and wishing him sweet dreams.

Oliver had just begun to allow them to leave the room once he was tucked in, but only if they left the door wide open. One time, Rupert and Callum had fallen silent, the TV off, and Oliver had come running into the living room. Now they made sure there was some noise, some evidence of their presence in the living room, until Oliver was well and truly asleep. Even then, he still came out to check on them if he woke, but was willing to be coaxed back into bed with little fuss once he’d confirmed they were still there.

Tonight, neither of them turned on the television. Rupert tried to get some work done, but Callum couldn’t sit still. His book lay discarded on the end table. His laptop on the desk. He fidgeted with the lamps, read the fire escape routes on the back of the door, and generally made a nuisance of himself.

“Do you need to go for a walk or something?” Rupert finally asked, exasperated. It was a risk, of course. If Oliver woke up to find either one of them missing, it might freak him out. But it would probably be better than finding Rupert standing over Callum’s dead body, so…

“No, I’m fine,” Callum said. He didn’t sound angry. Or even tired. Maybe the restlessness had more to do with being cooped up with Rupert and Oliver for days.

“You can go out. There’s a nice bar in the lobby, if you want a drink. And, obviously, tons of clubs. Bars.”

“I know.”

“Rue Sainte-Catherine is only a short walk from here,” Rupert said, as innocently as he could.

Callum finally stopped moving to hover in the middle of the room. “What are you suggesting?”

“You seem restless.”

“And partying is the cure?”

“No,” Rupert said, “but maybe getting out and meeting some nice people would be good for you.”

Callum stared at him. Hard. “Rupert, are you trying to get me laid?”

Rupert’s stomach soured. He really wasn’t. In hindsight, he could admit that what he’d been trying to do was push Callum’s buttons.

“Maybe it would help,” he managed to choke out.

“No.”

“It wouldn’t help?”

Callum let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t do…that. I can’t go to some club and pick up a—” He threw his hands up. “Just
no
.”

Rupert eyed Callum consideringly. “Can I ask you something?”

Callum sighed and slumped against the desk. “Sure,” he told his feet.

“How is it that no one knows you’re gay?”

Callum looked at him. “What do you mean? You know. And Michaela and my family know.”

“And your lovers,” Rupert prompted.

“What?”

“Your lovers, Callum. The men you’ve been with in the past. Lovers. Boyfriends?”

“I don’t have any of those.”

“Boyfriends, you mean?”

Callum nodded. “Those, too. I’ve never actually dated anyone.”

“
Ever?
” Rupert asked, wishing he’d tried to hide his incredulity when Callum grimaced.

“Ever.”

Rupert’s mind reeled. “Callum, are you—have you ever…are you a virgin?” Rupert asked, cringing at how bloody juvenile it sounded.

“What? No! I-I’ve done stuff. In the past.” Callum waved his hand vaguely.

“With women?”

Callum almost laughed. “
No.
No, I’ve known I was gay since I was a kid. Maybe twelve? Maybe younger.”

“That’s hardly stopped a lot of men from trying to be with a woman.”

“I guess,” Callum said with a shrug. “I didn’t think I’d be able to fake it, and I was worried it would get back to the guys that I’d…you know. Not been able to deliver, or whatever. And I didn’t want to do that to some poor woman.”

“Get back to the guys?”

“Yeah, well, I moved up here to Quebec when I was sixteen. Juniors. Basically, I moved in with my first team then, even if I actually lived with a very nice, very Catholic family not far from here. Which is how,” he continued with a narrowed gaze at Rupert, “I know about Rue Sainte-Catherine and the Village. You’re not very subtle.”

Rupert grinned. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Well, it wasn’t.” Callum scowled, but Rupert didn’t think his heart was in it.

“Because you don’t pick up men in clubs.”

Callum looked back down at his feet. “Not anymore,” he said.

“Anymore?”

“Yeah, I used to…you know.”

Rupert thought he might, so he didn’t press. “So there are others that know you’re gay.”

Callum frowned. “Not really. Those men, they didn’t know my name. Who I was. They didn’t know
me.
”

Rupert felt unaccountably sad. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t do it that often. A handful of times. Just when the pressure got bad and we’d travel somewhere no one would know me. Recognize me. I never left with them. Not further than some alley out back, maybe. It wasn’t great. It was—actually, it was really bad,” he said quietly, pausing to swallow and lick his lips. “I’m not making any excuses. But, you know, I’m also not going anywhere. Tonight or any other night. You’ll just have to put up with me.”

Rupert’s imagination filled in some possibilities for “really bad” that made his blood curdle in his veins. And even if it wasn’t any of those things, Rupert could guess the sum of Callum’s sexual experiences if they’d all happened in some club bathroom or back alley. Quick, furtive servicings. Without affection. Without intimacy. Without love.

Callum didn’t offer any more details. He just stared at the floor, the tips of his ears red.

Callum tried to not to appear as ashamed as he felt. The memories of what he’d done haunted him. Particularly the last time he’d gone out to a club.

He was startled when Rupert’s shiny wingtips came into view beside his beat-up sneakers. He dragged his eyes up Rupert’s long legs, past dark gray slacks that hung perfectly from his lean hips, a trim waist, and the blue cotton broadcloth shirt that would make Rupert’s blue eyes brighter.

At last, he met Rupert’s steady gaze.

Callum flinched when Rupert’s long fingers cupping his jaw, his fingertips brushing just behind Callum’s ear. He searched Callum’s face.

Callum forced himself not to squirm. He felt itchy and hot, embarrassed by his confessions even as something he couldn’t describe as anything other than
want
grew beneath his skin.

Callum swallowed, his mouth dry. Another lie, one he’d told countless times through omission and deflection, and sometimes spoken outright, hovered on the tip of his tongue. Instead he told Rupert the painful and embarrassing truth, his cheeks burning as hot as his shame.

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.”

Rupert’s brows drew in with what might have been sadness. Or disbelief. Though not, thank god, pity. Then his eyes narrowed and he looked…
determined.

Callum’s heart thudded in his chest, his ears. He’d wanted to kiss Rupert since the very first time he’d laid eyes on him in his office, with his flushed cheeks and proper accent and allthatfire in his eyes.

Then Rupert
was
kissing him, and Callum couldn’t remember to breathe, let alone think.

His eyes slid closed, purely on instinct, leaving him to focus only on their lips brushing, each press a little firmer. Fuller. Each touch almost chaste, but still like a drug, making him crave another and more. He didn’t know how to ask for that, though. Didn’t know how to tell Rupert what he wanted,
how much
he wanted. How it built in him, alarmingly, until he felt ready to burst at the seams. He felt foolish and frustrated by his lack of experience, knowing that for most people their age, this was nothing.

But not for him.

This.
This was what he’d been missing. He’d spent more time than any fully grown man should wondering what this would be like, and it was better and stranger than he’d ever imagined. Almost hypnotic.

Rupert’s palm pressed against his jaw and Callum tilted his chin higher, his breath shuddering from him as Rupert’s fingertips tickled along his neck, behind his ear, and against his scalp. How could so small a touch, so gentle that he could barely feel it, send shivers down his spine? He should probably be mortified that he was so obvious, so totally incapable of disguising his reaction.

Rupert cupped the back of his head in his warm palm and Callum leaned into that comfort. He clung to Rupert’s lips when he drew back, only to be flooded with relief when Rupert ducked in again. Callum put his hands on Rupert’s waist, tentative but desperate for something to ground him as the blood rushed in his head, roared in his ears. He felt hot and dizzy, unsteady, as if his feet no longer touched the ground, as if Rupert had turned his world upside down.

Callum gasped when the tip of Rupert’s tongue traced the seam of his lips, letting him in without thought. His hands slid to Rupert’s hips and pulled him closer, groaning as Rupert’s tongue slid over his and his thighs wedged between Callum’s.

He shuddered and clutched at blue broadcloth and grey flannel, embarrassed by the sounds slipping from his throat, well outside his control. His cock ached in his snug jeans and he shifted his hips, squirming against its urgent press. Rupert slid closer, forcing Callum to spread his knees until Rupert’s thigh jammed against Callum’s balls. He groaned, rocking without thought, without plan, against that pressure.

Rupert kissed him thoroughly, carefully, and it didn’t take more than a sample of one to know he was really fucking good at it. He cradled Callum’s head in both hands, making long, slow sweeps of his tongue, then retreating until just their lips touched. Kissed. Then back again to tangle together once more.

Callum hung from Rupert’s grasp, from his lips, and felt safe. Sure. He thought he could spend the whole night like this, even as he was becoming increasingly desperate to do something, anything, to ease the ache in his belly. The tension curling up his spine. He shifted against the desk, pulling Rupert closer, his arms curling around Rupert’s back and clutching at his waist, his tongue making its first foray into Rupert’s mouth. And another
.

He let out a noise horrifyingly like a whine when Rupert broke their kiss.

“Easy,” Rupert gasped. “Breathing is still required. Sadly.”

Callum wanted to die as he was cast out of heaven to faceplant in whatever version of hell was reserved for really shitty kissers. He leaned back, looking for some escape.