Boys in Season (Boys In... Book 2) (5 page)

“Ask me out,” I said.

“Without waiting for the end of term?”

I rolled my eyes. “I can find time for fun as well as work, you know.” At least, I would from now on.

“Andy, will you go out with me again? Tomorrow? The next day? All—”

“Hey, one step at a time.” But I kissed him again, whispering “yes” into his mouth.

His eyes flickered now with something I’d have called lasciviousness, though I’d never have asked even 6A to spell it. “You didn’t do it on purpose, did you? Locking us in. It’s a bloody cliché you know.”

I laughed. “Good God, no.” But maybe my clumsiness had finally paid its dividend. I ran my hand through his hair and gently pushed his head downwards. “About that grovelling…?”

Greg shifted about quickly, his head dipping down into my lap, his hands clumsy on the zip of my trousers. “Shit, Andy, but you’re something else. When you let go.”

So I let go again. Or let him take hold.

Whatever you wanted to call it.

***

We were rescued early the next morning when everyone arrived to make last-minute preparations for the fair, but we’d still had to sleep there the night. Mostly sleep, that is. We’d made good use of the wipes, and were dressed decently by the time someone opened the door. A clutch of teachers looked in on us, including Elvira, and plenty of children trying to peer around the adults. I grimaced, not sure I was ready for pupil paparazzi.

I stumbled out of the room, blinked in the bright light and let someone pass me a hot coffee and some buttered toast. The staffroom was obviously already up and running, even though the Fair wasn’t due to start until midday. There was also a lot of fussing and shocked gasps and apologies, even from Elvira, though everything she said had that overtone of “without prejudice”. I glanced over at Greg, who was getting similarly spoiled, and he winked at me. No, I wouldn’t be making a formal complaint.

A bunch of 2C pupils clustered around us. “You’ve got glitter on your nose, Mr Canbury.”

“You, too, Mr Jackson,” Amy said, accusingly. “All over the front of your trousers.” She turned to Greg. “There’s a red stain on your shirt that smells, Uncle Greg. And you look all… ruffled.”

Charlie grinned at me. “Your flies are undone, Mr J.”

Greg moved swiftly to stand in front of me and my flushed face, just as Charlie was dragged to one side by a fellow teacher, the boy still protesting “It was a joke, Miss, honest!”

My project team scattered as Elvira came over to us. She seemed as calm as ever but her eyes crinkled at the edges as if she was trying not to laugh. “The caretaker is fixing the lock as we speak. You two will need to freshen up, but I’d understand if you think the event today will be too strenuous for you.”

I turned and looked over the hall. Teachers and helpers were pulling off the dustsheets, someone turned on the Christmas music, another person switched on the tree lights. It all looked splendid. And glancing over to the Foods of the World stall, I saw the Pyrenees had finally been created, albeit a little wobbly on the far slopes, the sushi had been rescued, and the plastic beef joint stuck on a barbecue fork looked almost convincing. Poppy, Eddy, Benedict and several others stood beside the table, faces pink with excited triumph. A swell of happiness filled my chest.

“Of course it won’t be too strenuous,” I said. “I’m looking forward to it!”

The Sophies gave a whoop of delight, and the other children grinned even more broadly. Elvira nodded, as if were only what she expected from someone who could singe his hair on a hand-held sparkler at Firework Night.

“You are therefore back on duty, Mr Jackson. But I hope you can ensure that the remainder of the day passes without any more such…” Her gaze flickered between us. “… adventures.” She moved on without waiting for an answer, which was probably just as well.

“I could do with more,” Greg whispered in my ear.

“Duty?”

“
Adventures
. Back to mine after the Fair?”

I nodded happily. I wanted to put my arm around him but thought discretion might be a better strategy, just for now. Amy appeared at my side and stared up with a self-satisfied expression on her face. “I said you were a good couple,” she said. Her tone brooked no comment.

I stopped myself ruffling her hair just in time. It wasn’t the sort of thing she liked. “You shouldn’t just copy what the teachers say, Amy. You don’t always understand the context, and besides, it’s rude.”

She wrinkled her nose in that gesture I was beginning to learn well. “You should tell Mrs Warren that, then. She’s the one copied it from
me
.”

It was like High Noon on the domestic front.

“Jamie, I
know
it was you.” Seb leaned over the counter in the middle of the small kitchen, one arm braced on the worktop, the other brandishing a wooden spoon. There were various pans and utensils scattered on the surface around him, but no evidence of any cooking. The only lingering aroma in the room was one of fruit punch and the hint of roasted coffee with a cinnamon twist: certainly nothing to suggest the two men in the room were there to cook, rather than just glare at each other.

“Nonsense. It was
you
, and you’re just not man enough to admit to it,” Jamie snapped back from the other side of the counter. “You’re trying to shift the blame on to me.”

“Hey, I don’t play childish tricks like this—”

“Of course you do! All the bloody time.”

“And you
don’t
?”

“At least I own up—”

“When you’re caught out,” Seb growled.

Jamie shrugged. “Just admit it, Seb. It’s a stupid joke that’s missed its mark.”

“Says you, because you’re embarrassed I didn’t fall for it.”

“The hell I am! You were the one played all the practical jokes this Halloween. Remember the pumpkin head at the bathroom window? The blood smears on the milk bottle? The false teeth embedded in the butter?”

“That was different.”

“Why? Because it’s you?” Jamie hissed through clenched teeth. “Don’t deal it out if you can’t take it in return.”

“So this
was
your idea?”

“No way!” Jamie almost yelled.

Seb scowled, feeling his face twist. “This is fucking ridiculous. It must have been you.”

“If the cap fits…” Jamie was shaking his head.

Seb knew if he caught sight of himself in the polished fridge door, he’d see eyes dark with anger. His voice was too loud, too—it’d easily be overheard in the living room, even though the kitchen door was closed—but what the hell did he care? He’d never been accused of holding back his emotions. Everyone knew he spoke his mind, and forcefully. His long, dark hair flopped forward over his forehead but he was too distracted to push it back out of the way. He realised he was embracing this argument with some kind of glee, savouring the escalating bitterness.

Jamie glared back at him, just as angry and—more unusually—not backing down. He was blond and pale, not only a contrast physically to Seb’s more swarthy looks, but in temperament too. At least, he usually was. Right now his lips were pursed and his face flushed, and it looked like it was taking all his self-control to keep calm. He was much more cautious than Seb; he was so often the one to step away first, to change the subject. But not tonight. Seb could recognise anger similar to his, if nothing else. And at this very moment, Jamie was sorely tempted to let rip.

They were well matched when it came to arguing. After all, they’d had enough practice: they fought almost all the time. Not major, fists raised, wrestling kind of arguing, but a constant, bickering banter. If Seb ever stopped to think about it, he reckoned it was a kind of trademark for them. They disagreed about movies, about clothes, about cars, about celebrities. What one said, the other contradicted, sometimes just for the hell of it. That wasn’t to say they
couldn’t
get on. Sometimes, they discussed football games quite civilly and played Xbox together, and laughed at the same jokes. And what was even weirder, Seb called up Jamie most days on the phone—or Jamie messaged him online first—and they often talked for an hour or more about all kinds of stuff. But they still argued.

Yeah, very weird. Seb didn’t like to think about it any deeper than that, it confused him. And whatever fun they had when they were in truce mode, it was never very long before they were back to sniping. In the past, their friends had laughed off their habitual animosity, then attempted to mediate. They quickly learned that meant they got caught in the crossfire. Now they just stepped away from it.

Which was exactly what had happened tonight. The kitchen door was firmly closed behind Jamie, acting as a barrier between him and Seb and what was meant to have been a pleasant evening’s Christmas celebration with a group of good friends.

“You have to admit I’m justified,” he said to Jamie. “It wouldn’t be the first time you’d tried to convert me.”

“That’s rubbish,” Jamie replied, spiritedly. “Not any more. No sense, no feeling where you’re concerned. And on that basis, my suspicions are just as valid. You’ve mocked my lifestyle often enough in return.”

“Your lifestyle? That’s no more than a pale imitation—”

“—of the excessive and sordid life
you
lead?”

Seb glared at him, Jamie glared back. “But
I
didn’t buy it,” they both said, almost simultaneously, then fell into a confused silence.

“So what’s going on here?” Seb lifted up the item in question, a brand new cookbook, its pages flapping as he swung it through the air like some kind of paper seagull. The cover of the book was illustrated in vibrant greens and yellows. “I mean, this really
is
a stupid joke.”

“Why the hell are you asking
me
?” Jamie’s cool demeanor was obviously slipping. “I’ve got the same problem, haven’t I?” He held a similar cookbook in his right hand, though this one had a different coloured cover, full of dark reds and browns. “No one’s admitting they got them for us. Both of them wrapped up under the tree in the same kind of paper, same unfamiliar, anonymous handwriting on the label, with nothing different between them except for our name.”

Seb stared at him. Was it true? Was Jamie as much in the dark as he was? “It’s Harry’s flat, Harry’s dinner invitation, Harry’s
tree
. So, can’t we assume…?” 

Jamie laid his book down and leaned back against the counter. “I don’t think so. Harry denied it very convincingly, and you know what a poor liar he is at the best of times. He kept up that pathetic charade about them being gifts from
Secret Santa
.”

“Yeah. He told me the same.” Seb ran his hand through his hair, but it just flopped forward again. Hell, he’d given up a couple of party invites to come along this evening. Invitations to plenty of free drink and food and probably more than a few, no-strings-attached, young men who’d enjoy Seb’s brand of sexy humour. This kind of corny, present-giving evening was uncomfortable, not that he didn’t think his friends were great. Just… Christmas sucked at the best of times. Commercial greed, pseudo-religious ritual—that’s all it was. He couldn’t remember ever enjoying the festivities, at least not since he was small kid and Mum had been around. It was a holiday to be struggled through. And he’d always somehow believed Jamie felt the same way. Eventually, they’d have a good laugh about tonight, he was sure. Then he glanced back over at the other man, and remembered they were meant to be arguing.

Jamie looked so coolly sanctimonious in the face of Seb’s own outrage, all tight-lipped with disapproval, picking his words so bloody carefully, like he always did, even in the middle of all this crap. Lounging against the counter with that slender, athletic body of his, his long, strong legs crossed at the ankles and his arms folded firmly across his chest, pulling his shirt tight across well-developed pecs…

He’s cute
. When had Seb started to notice that? When
hadn’t
he noticed it? The unbidden thought startled him at the same time as sending a gentle shiver through his body. He really should’ve gone to one of those parties instead. Now was not the time to recognise elements of the erotic—and bloody uncomfortable—dreams he’d been having over the last few months. He cleared his throat. “So what the hell
is
this Secret Santa thing?”

***

Jamie sighed. It was common knowledge Seb had never enjoyed the Christmas season, apart from the excuse to party even more and even harder, but Jamie would have thought most people had heard the term. “It’s a kind of game,” he said. “A rather daft tradition, where you give a surprise present to an unsuspecting friend, and mark it from an anonymous source. Sounds like a recipe for a disaster if ever I saw one.” He caught Seb’s eye, and for a second, there was a flicker of shared amusement between them.

“No pun intended, right?” Seb grinned.

Jamie frowned. “Obviously.” Seb’s irritation had apparently melted away as quickly as it arrived. It was something Jamie admired, at the same time as it drove him mad. Jamie was still angry, the strong emotion shaking him inside. He usually coped perfectly well with the familiar repartee between him and Seb, but for some unknown reason, tonight was different. He needed to calm the disturbance; regain control of himself. “Harry says it’s all the fashion at work, and he thought it’d be fun for us tonight.”

“Fun.” Seb put enough horror into the word to imply he’d rather be tortured with thumbscrews.

Jamie couldn’t help wanting to smile. “It’s okay, I happen to agree with you on that topic. I don’t really have the time myself to play games.” He glanced at his watch. He’d been looking forward to meeting up with everyone, but he had work to finish tonight, papers waiting for him at home at the end of the evening. It may well be the start of the Christmas holidays, but he couldn’t afford to let things slide. The new promotion relied on his commitment, one hundred percent, and then more. He didn’t really welcome distraction, but that’s what Christmas always was. And so was this evening. And… he glanced over the counter again.

So is Seb
.

“You don’t really believe Harry, do you?” Seb was still waving the cookbook in the air.

“He says he has no idea who left them. They just appeared under the tree, overnight.”

“Yeah, right.”

Jamie watched the rueful grin spread over Seb’s face, brightening his eyes, crinkling the skin at the edges of his eyes. At least Seb seemed to have given up accusing Jamie, and not before time. But that was Seb’s way, wasn’t it? He leapt into every argument, every controversy without a moment’s hesitation, with all gears engaged. Seb was always volatile, always… passionate. Even when he was patently wrong.

It annoyed the hell out of Jamie, but he also found it fascinating. Their behavior was so different, but they never doubted they were friends. It just seemed Seb was a human recipe for disaster, all on his own, and there was always a crisis or romantic fiasco going on. He just reacted, then had to back off or apologise accordingly for his bad behavior. Or not, as the case may be.

Jamie allowed himself a rueful, hidden smile of his own. He rarely leaped in anywhere, let alone big feet first. He thought things through, debated the wisdom of a move, then stepped carefully. Dammit. It sounded like someone twice his twenty three years. And yet he’d protest he enjoyed his life, was pleased with what he’d achieved, with the calm routine he’d built up, with everything in its place…

Funny how Seb had such an effect on him. How he made Jamie question what he did, how he felt, what he really wanted in life. Funny how that time Seb’s car broke down in the fast lane of the motorway, or the Sunday when his washing machine collapsed in a flood of soapy water all over the kitchen floor, or that very dark night when one of the unsavoury men Seb sometimes picked up at the club turned hateful and aggressive, and Seb had needed to get out of the man’s flat fast… Jamie was the first person he called. 

And Jamie always went to help out. Sure, they argued about it afterwards, and Jamie moaned about the inconvenience, and Seb snapped how he wouldn’t bother calling him up next time there was a crisis.

But he did.

Jamie couldn’t shake off the disturbed feelings tonight, even if his anger was easing. What was wrong with him? It wasn’t drink; he’d only sipped at the wine Harry opened for an early seasonal toast. They’d all had to wait for Seb to arrive to decide on where to eat, which was the usual scenario, because Seb always had something else going on and forgot the time. Tonight he’d burst into the flat an hour late, with a too-loud laugh and ludicrous excuses, and Jamie had almost immediately started complaining. He didn’t know why he’d been even swifter than usual to anger; maybe the loud, crass sound of Seb in the same room, the sweaty, musky smell of his clothes when he passed by, the clumsy, over-familiar grip of his hands when he grasped Jamie by the shoulders and swung him around just to get his attention.

Now Seb was staring at him and Jamie felt himself blush.
Whatever I’ve been feeling recently, it’s inappropriate.
He looked back at Seb, keeping his gaze steady.
And impossible.
“There’s no point going on about it, Seb. It’s just a joke, that’s all.”

Seb grimaced and stabbed the book forward under Jamie’s nose. “You can say that again!
Veritable Vegetarianism
. What kind of humour is that?”

“I might say the same about mine.
Mouthwatering Meats
?”

It was ironic, really. Jamie had been a committed vegetarian since he was old enough to express a choice, but Seb was a shamelessly enthusiastic carnivore. They’d tolerated each other’s tastes for all these years with a mixture of amusement and scorn and separate menus whenever they ate out.