The ETA From You to Me (10 page)

“Stop that, you’re going to let all the cold air out,” dad said, voice light with amusement.

“You don’t understand my pain, dad,” Grant whimpered, slowly dragging himself back out of the freezer so that he could close the door. His father’s chuckle was like the mocking laughter of demon children, digging into Grant's wounded pride like a blunted butter knife. Grant dragged his feet, treading back towards the stairs with his shoulders slumped in shame.

It took three hours of moping in his room before Grant could get around to grabbing his phone and staring at Clayton’s number in his contacts list. What could he even say? It wasn’t like they were dating; it wasn’t even like Clayton was actually interested in him, right?

He pulled up a text to Clayton, typing in
‘thanks for fixing the jeep’
and sending it before his balls shot back up into his body and he lost the courage to do so. He slumped in his desk chair, rocking it left and right for a few minutes in hopes that Clayton would give him a prompt reply--until he realized that Clayton was probably working anyway.

This in mind, Grant flopped across his desk, lazily logging onto his computer with the intention of entertaining himself until Clayton texted him back.

He wasn’t pining.

Teenagers pined.

Grant didn’t pine.

Ten minutes and twenty six deaths into Robot Unicorn later, Grant's phone went off with a text message. He scrambled to open the message, biting back the burst of anxiety in his chest when he read Clayton’s simple,
‘you're welcome, but we need to talk’
staring back at him.

That kind of sentence only served to make a hundred thousand questions spring up in Grant's head. They weren't together, and at this point Grant didn't even know if they had that kind of possibility. Was Clayton going to try to let him down gently, or was he just going to lecture Grant some more?

Grant fiddled with his phone, texting back
‘Sure. When?’
and resuming his game with a defeated sigh.

‘I’m off at 5.’
Clayton texted a few minutes later.

Grant gave the message a blank stare before he slowly answered,
‘…okay?’

‘Come over when i get off work. It's not rocket science.’

Grant squinted, checking the contact number to make sure it was actually Clayton he was talking to. What if Clayton wanted to secretly murder him?

‘…that sounds really creepy.’

‘so is your face. Especially when you're thinking about something.’

Normally, Grant would be a little miffed but generally amused that Clayton was willing to banter with him. Right now, though, he wasn't really in the mood when battling a hangover and conflicting emotions. Sighing, he responded to Clayton’s text with, ’
okay asshole’
and then returned to his computer.

By the time five o’clock rolled around, Grant was on the brink of an anxiety attack. He’d jerked off, showered, changed three times, and even organized and re-organized his laptop bag. As soon as the clock struck five, he grabbed his phone to text Clayton with,
’on my way,’
and stare forlornly at his phone like Clayton’s response would come back in the beat of a geriatric heart.

He’d already grabbed his keys by the time Clayton answered, face falling when he read
‘no. wait 15 minutes.’

It was going to take him that long to get there, which meant he was waiting, right? It was fifteen minutes either way. Clayton must have meant that he wasn’t going to be home for fifteen more minutes, in which Grant would get there around the same time that Clayton did.

If he didn’t leave now, Grant was going to crawl out of his own skin with anticipation, anyway. He hopped into his jeep, making sure to stay within the speed limit just to buy some extra time for Clayton to get home. The only reason he knew where Clayton lived was because the GPS on the computer at work listed everyone’s addresses when they were at home, and Grant may have possibly used google to see if he really was on Clayton’s way to work those days Clayton had given him a ride to the office.

He wasn’t. Which was why Grant was at least 60% sure Clayton wanted in his pants at least a little bit.

Pulling into the parking lot for Clayton’s apartment, Grant caught sight of Clayton’s truck sitting in front of a parking block labeled B2. He grinned, locking his jeep up and making his way to the second floor, knocking loudly on the apartment door of B2.

It took a long moment for Clayton to answer, and when he did, he cracked the door open and glared through the small bit of space to growl, “I said wait fifteen minutes, you dweeb,” in a low and irritated voice. Really, that voice shouldn’t have made Grant's dick twitch the way it did, but what can you do?

Grant offered Clayton his sweetest, most ignorant grin. “It’s been that long since you told me to wait.”

Clayton clenched his jaw, huffing an annoyed sigh through his nose and pursing his lips. “When I said wait, I meant wait to
leave
. I just got off work, you couldn't give me some time to get home?”

Oh, so Grant maybe had jumped to conclusions just the tiniest bit. It wasn‘t like he could Marty McFly himself right back to 5 o‘clock, now, right?

Grant couldn’t help it if his face fell just the tiniest bit, shrugging absently. “Oh… well. I’m here now.”

“Hang on.” Clayton shut the door in Grant's face, the sound of movement coming from the other side. Grant panicked--what if Clayton had a lover over? A booty call? Clayton could probably get all the booty calls he wanted with those abs. Was he trying to hide his aforementioned call of the booty from Grant? That wouldn’t do, not if they were supposed to have a talk. Grant needed everything out in the open.

“Fuck it.” Chest tight, he grabbed the handle and twisted, preparing himself for epic disappointment when he pushed the door open. He expected to see Clayton half naked, maybe a girl or guy struggling to get their things together, or possibly even Clayton trying to clean up his apartment.

What he didn’t expect was to catch Clayton walking by the door with an armful of toys or something, making a beeline for the hallway closet that was stuffed with posters and other random junk.

Clayton froze the second he heard the door open, head snapping to stare at Grant like a deer in the headlights with eyes widened to the point where it was unnaturally comical. That’s when Grant actually took note of what was in his arms when a deer plushie fell out of his hold and hit the ground.

Tons of animal figurines.

He looked over to the closet, where a half-folded poster of a wolf pack was shoved in with three different realistic looking plush toys of various wildlife. Clayton looked like he was about to have an aneurysm, which would have been adorable if it weren’t for the fact that Grant was trying to get on his good side. Seriously, though, how much cute and fluffy paraphernalia from a third grade girl's closet could one man have?

Grant slowly stepped back out of the doorway and into the hall, shutting the door again after one final glance at Clayton’s petrified expression.

Pressing his forehead against the door, Grant couldn’t help but grin like a madman, barking out a laugh and then smothering it with his hand. Grant didn’t want to laugh, he really didn’t, because laughing at Clayton would seriously set back the progress they might be making.

Instead, Grant smacked at his cheeks to try and use pain as a means of getting rid of the idiotic grin he knew was plastered all over his face. He’d barely gotten himself under control when the door opened and Clayton’s mortified expression almost set him off again. Grant bit down violently, oh so violently, on the inside of his cheek, chomping off a good hunk of skin and filling his mouth with blood as Clayton stepped aside to let him into the apartment.

“Uh,” Grant ventured, offering Clayton a tentative grin that he hoped didn’t look too terribly amused, “So… you like animals?”

If looks could kill, Clayton’s expression would have stabbed Grant through the gut and wrenched his entrails out across the floor.

Grant took a step back just to make sure Clayton didn’t want to bite his throat out (there were only two possible ways that throat biting could not be intimidating, and Clayton didn’t look like he was in the mood for either of those) and glanced around the room. The shelves were relatively barren, save for a few trophies and some photos of people Grant had never met before.

“Uh, so… you wanted to talk?”

“There‘s nothing wrong with having a hobby,” Clayton blurted, though it sounded more like a bark that commanded Grant to agree with him. Taken aback, Grant couldn’t stop himself from releasing a startled laugh, nervously shifting towards the couch.

“Yeah, man. I play video games.”

Clayton scoffed so loudly that Grant legitimately felt offended. He sat on the couch--even though Clayton hadn’t actually told him to--and crossed his arms. “Excuse you; I am honing my skills to prepare for the onset of a zombie outbreak, you know.”

“Oh seriously?“ Clayton scoffed, “You have to know that we’re going to suffer a market crash and complete anarchy before something like zombies ever happened.,” Clayton shot back vehemently, shutting the door and crossing over to loom by the couch with his arms crossed, “I mean, you can‘t tell me Live Free or Die Hard was less plausible than Zombieland.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’ve had this discussion before?” Grant ventured, ignoring the desire to lunge across the room and smother Clayton’s flushed cheeks in baby kisses and coo about how precious he was when in the heat of debate. It was with relative certainty that Clayton would probably defenestrate him if he tried.

“Once or twice.” Clayton admitted begrudgingly, turning and heading into the small kitchen attached to the living room. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Water’s fine.”

The small apartment was filled with the sounds of Clayton fussing about in the kitchen as Grant examined the living room. “So, where’s Elliot?”

“Went to live with his aunt.”

“Ah…”

Clayton returned with a mug of water, handing it to Grant. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Grant doubted Clayton could read it
‘I want to touch your body with my mouth’
expression, and probably mistook it for something less provocative. Miffed, Grant took a sip of water. “Like what?”

“Like I’m crazy.”

Grant laughed, because--seriously? Clayton would be upset at the idea of Grant thinking HE was crazy? Everyone thought Grant had completely gone off of his rocker since his first dose of Adderall back in 5th grade.

“You’re not crazy. You should get me drunk and ask me about zombies sometime; I could beat your argument into the ground,” Grant pointed out, “but I am really bad at staying on topic and there‘s totally a reason for me to be here. You said we needed to talk.”

Clayton looked disgruntled, crossing his arms and saying, “that’s talking, isn’t it? That’s a thing people do; they talk. I was under the impression that the sounds I was making were words.”

“Hah,” Grant said dryly, “not that don’t love talking, you’re just freaking me out a little, you know? Normally you kind of pull off that whole ‘dark and mysterious’ crap and just make fun of me. Gotta give me some credit for not wondering why you’d bother wanting to talk to me in the first place.”

Clayton stiffened, his jaw flexing and his focus sliding to stare blankly at the small television mounted on an old entertainment center. “I don’t talk to people I don’t trust,” he said quietly, much more like the stoic Clayton that Grant sometimes saw on particularly bad days, and not the passionate man he’d seen just seconds before.

It was still confusing as hell, though. Did that mean Clayton trusted him? HIM? Grant Giannotti? The spastic kid who always tweaked out on Adderall in high school and scared everyone off except for Adam and Jessica?

“So wait,” Grant scowled in confusion, “You’re talking to me, now… so what does that mean? Well… I mean we‘re
going
to talk, right?” At this point, the word ‘talk’ was actually starting to lose meaning with how much Grant was thinking it and saying it.

Clayton turned to face Grant, his expression falling into a very familiar stare of utter disgruntled bitchiness. “Would you like more water?” he asked evasively.

Grant squinted, resisting the urge to mutter, ‘not sure if angry, or just emotionally constipated,’ under his breath. Instead, he pursed his lips and attempted to lay on the old Giannotti charm by blurting out, “I could do with something a little…
harder
.”

It was almost disturbing how Clayton was able to stare back at Grant without blinking once. “I have beer,” he said slowly, cautiously.

Grant narrowed his eyes, echoing the tone of Clayton’s voice, “…harder.”

“.... pudding?" Clayton ventured, as if pudding was actually a viable option when Grant was demanding something harder than beer. In actuality, Grant had no idea what either of them was talking about anymore, because all he really wanted to do was to have Clayton shove him up against the nearest hard surface and fuck him raw.

"What?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Grant." Clayton said in exasperation, shrugging dismissively.