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Chapter Four



Jaymie

Despite how anxious to get home for his present, I could tell something was bothering Nick. There was just something about his body language, something about the way his eyes looked. But I’d asked him once and he’d said he was fine, so I wasn’t going to push it. That was one of our rules. We had one chance to ask each other if there was something wrong and if the other one said no, then we were to believe them. Or at least respect the boundary that was being set. Because, we’d decided, there should be a line that boys and girls just know not to cross. And that was where we’d drawn it.

But that didn’t make me stop wondering.

Kind of like driving by an accident. You don’t want to see it, but some sick, curious part of you really does kind of want to see it, even though you know once you do you’ll regret it.

When we pulled into the circular driveway and I parked by the house, Nick stared up at the house, a smile spreading across his face. “Christ, I wasn’t so sure I’d see it again for awhile there,” he muttered, and he pushed open the door and climbed out even before the car had come completely to a stop. I turned it off and got out. He was already at the door of the house, unlocking it. He turned back as I was opening the trunk to get his bags. “We’ll get’em later,” he said, “I want my present.” He grinned and disappeared into the house.

I shrugged a couple of the bags onto my shoulders (and, of course, Nacho in his pet taxi) anyways before slamming the trunk shut and following him inside.

The hallway of the house is about seven times larger than the apartment over his garage, which I rent from him. Well, rent is kind of a loose term. It’s kind of part of our agreement. Not that I’m, like, a hooker or anything. It’s just that it’s easier for me to be there for him at any given moment if I’m nearby. And there aren’t exactly affordable apartments near his house in Malibu. It was just easier - a convenience for him, really - that I take the room above his garage, which he converted into a studio apartment, bathroom and all. But when he’s on tour, I have to babysit the house. And the cat.

Mr. Mulder was licking himself on the fifth step of the stairwell, his bald leg extended out, looking like it was one of those turkey legs that kings eat at the round table. “Mulder!” Nick said, excited, and the cat looked up from his preening as I put the pet taxi containing Nacho down in the hallway. Nacho growled under his breath in the taxi and Mulder stood up, arching his back slightly before Nick scooped him off the carpeted steps into his arms. The cat’s legs flayed as he was flipped onto his back and Nick grinned down at him, “Shit Mulder, I wouldda missed you if I died over there, you ugly bastard.”

Ugly Bastard was a good term for that cat, I thought, letting the bags slide over my cat-scratched arms to the floor. Nick came over, and after he tapped Mulder's nose to his own, he let the cat down, who hissed at Nacho’s taxi door, then sped off to places unknown as Nacho pressed his face flat against the taxi grate. Nick was standing right in front of me now, his eyes intense. He reached for my hips and pulled me into him so we were stomach to stomach, chest to chest. I stared up at him. “So, uh, can I unwrap my present now?” he asked in a thick voice.

“I didn’t wrap it,” I said in a hushed, sexy tone.

He blinked, “I meant your clothes. Can I take your clothes off now?”

“Please. You just had a heart attack,” I said, batting him off me. “Like you’d know what to do with me without clothes on right now.” I shook my head, “Crazy ass.” I pulled away and reached down and let Nacho free. He sped off in hunt of Mr. Mulder. Then I led the way into the den.

Nick followed, looking slightly deflated, “Wait. So my present isn’t sex?”

“No,” I said. I shook my head as he trailed after me, “You know, I read on the internet that most guys are afraid of having sex after they’ve had a heart attack.”

“Afraid of having sex?” Nick’s voice was incredulous.

“Yeah, like, they think they’d die during having it and stuff,” I sat down in the chair by the couch and crossed my legs, staring up at him as he stood there dumbly in front of me. “But you’ve apparently missed that train.”

Nick blinked at me for several long minutes, “So wait. Wait. You’re serious? My present isn’t your boobs?”

I laughed. “No, Nick, your present isn’t my boobs.”

“You said I could have your boobs when I got home, though.”

“And then I looked it up on the internet and you have to wait a couple weeks.”

Nick eyeballed me. I had a feeling he’d veto out that announcement later, using the cause that I was getting too involved and personal for our relationship rules, and then subsequently talk me into having sex, whatever WebMD might recommend be damned. But for that instant, he let it go and changed channels, “So then what the hell is my present, if it’s not your boobs?” he looked thoroughly confused.

I waved my hand at the table. On it, I’d splayed out all his favorite movies. From Alien to Ghostbusters to Almost Famous to all eight seasons of Breaking Bad. I’d put down popcorn and a 24-pack of bottled water. He stared at the collection of stuff. “You,” I said, “Need to relax. And we’re going to relax. Watching every one of your most favorite movies and shows. Binge watching them, even,” I explained.

Nick licked his lips. I could tell the way he did it that he was excited about this prospect, but a little bit sad that the present hadn’t been sex. It took a moment for him to let go of what he’d thought he’d had coming before he could allow himself to be excited about what he actually did have coming.

“Awesome,” he said, and he dropped onto the couch, “This is going to be great.” He grinned and grabbed hold of the box for the final season of Breaking Bad, flipping the box over and staring down at the blurb and the pictures. “I have just one question,” he said.

“Hmm?” I asked.

“Does a blow job count as sex?”

“Yes.”

“No sex for -- for how many weeks?”

“A couple weeks.”

“Two weeks?”

I nodded.

He sighed and looked around the coffee table. “Well shit, if your goal here is to distract me, then you’re gonna need a lot more movies than this to keep me busy.”

I laughed, “I’ll keep that in mind.”




Nick

We didn’t start the movies immediately, obviously, I’d just gotten home from overseas. I took a shower first and while I was in there Jaymie made some food and then we settled into the movie marathon, with a couple plates of veggie-pasta and the waters. Just to keep me from getting too excited, she said, she’d sat in the easy chair, her body a U as her legs hung over the arm rest and the plate of food balanced in the gap between her chest and legs.

I kept stealing glances at her, trying to figure out how to plausibly use my nothing personal veto against her no sex rule without appearing like a sex-obsessed, suicidal maniac for even suggesting it.

But here’s the thing: I knew the heart attack wasn’t from hypertension caused by over-activity on stage. I knew performing wouldn’t cause another one - be it on stage or on the bed. This is why I wasn’t afraid of having sex or anything else for that matter. The heart attack wasn’t a mystery to me, like it was to everyone else. I knew that the hypertension that had caused the heart attack was really just a side effect. And, whatever anyone said, having sex wouldn’t kill me.

So about halfway through Ghostbusters 2, I looked cleared my throat. “Jaymie,” I said thickly. She looked over her shoulder at me. “I don’t think that - that sex would - you know - kill me.” She stared at me. I was about to launch into my second part of my speech (the part where I explained what could kill me instead), but before I could Jaymie had put the plate onto the floor and sprung to my side on the couch, our mouths finding each other like magnets.

“Shit,” she gasped as we struggled with clothes, peeling them off quickly between kisses, each working on our own the way couples that had been together a hundred thousand times before might. She struggled with the tiny hooks on her bra and I slid my pants onto the carpet and we fell backward onto the cushion, our skins touching. “I missed you so fucking much,” she gasped.

I pressed my mouth against her neck as she straddled me, her knees on either side of my waist. Then she was leaning into me and slowly, I was laid back until I was prostrate against the sofa’s seat cushions, Jaymie looming over me. She stared into my eyes, then said, in a thick, low voice, “You promised Kevin you’d relax…” A grin curled across her face. “So hold still.”

And good God was what came next amazing.

It always was with Jaymie.

But here’s the thing:

I had really wanted to be the one in control. I’d really wanted to lean over her, feel my palms pressed into the cushion… I’d wanted to be the one moving my hips in strokes that would make her contort her face and gasp and beg for more. I’d wanted that power of slowing down and speeding up and putting my hands on her and my mouth on her and I’d wanted to be the one making her moan and scream and writhe.

Instead, she set herself upon me and, as hot as it was, something was lost for me, and try as I might to stay in the moment… I couldn’t.

Which made me nervous for more reasons than just the one.