Painting Fire on the Air by J.P. Barnaby

Author:J.P. Barnaby [Barnaby, J.P.]
Language: eng
Format: epub

Eight

“DO YOU want to talk about last night?” Ben asked the following morning as Jude sat him up at the couch with a tray of oatmeal, toast, and coffee balanced over his legs. He didn’t pick up his spoon or even take a drink of the coffee. Instead, Jude could feel Ben’s stare as he set up a bowl at the breakfast bar. He didn’t want to talk about it. Talking about it would shatter the illusion that Ben wanted to be with him.

“Dude, we got off, guys do that all the time. No big,” Jude replied, not turning around, and prayed silently that would be the end of it. He was sorely disappointed.

“I just don’t want shit to get awkward again.”

Jude’s felt physical pain in his chest at Ben’s statement. I just don’t want shit to get awkward. I don’t want you to think it meant something. You were convenient. The dark voice in the back of his head filled in the blanks Ben left like gaping holes in Jude’s heart. It took him less than a minute to scrape his untouched oatmeal into the trash. Ben tried to call him back, but the safety and solace of his room called far louder.

He closed the door behind him with a sharp snap, muffling Ben’s voice. Grabbing the closet door, he flung it open and ruffled through his perfectly pressed shirts and crisply hung pants to find something for work. His life seemed to mock him from every corner of his room. Such a fucking geek, no wonder Ben didn’t want him. The collection of replica lightsabers hung over his dresser didn’t exactly mesh with the tattooed auto mechanic who liked Harleys and big guys in leather. Several shirts fell as he ripped a blue button-down from one of the hangers. He didn’t bother to pick them up. He just didn’t care. Though, he was more careful as he pulled out a pair of khaki pants to go with it. Fisting the hangers in one hand, he rifled through his drawer with the other and found underwear and socks. With an exasperated breath at his own naivety, he headed for the door so he could shower and escape to his office.

He opened it to see Ben swaying on his good leg, half supported by the wall next to Jude’s bedroom door. Face flushed with the exertion of getting from the couch to Jude’s room, his body was covered in a light mist of sweat. It was virile, male, and made Jude want to bury his face in the curve of Ben’s neck. Instead, he took a step backward.

“I know I took advantage of our friendship last night, and I’m sorry,” Ben confided with a slight tremor in his voice, an emotional response Jude rarely saw in his friend. His face colored as he continued. “It didn’t occur to me that you could hear me, or that you’d feel you had to help me with that. It crossed the line. I

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