The ETA From You to Me (9 page)

Jesus, Grant felt like crying by the time he finally hung up the phone for the last time. The last time Grant had felt so utterly drained, he’d gone three days on no-sleep and had been running on Adderall and energy drinks before crashing in a glorious display that consisted of passing out in the shower. That one had sucked, because his dad had come home and ended up dragging his ass into bed.

Seriously, when your parents tell you ‘I used to change your diapers, it’s nothing I haven’t seen’, it doesn’t really make you feel any better. As a matter of fact, there was distinct difference between the penis of baby Grant and teenage Grant. 

A.
Very
. Distinct. Difference.

It was a few minutes before Grant could really register that everything was finally under control. He set his arms on the desk, burying his face into them and sighing. He was so exhausted that he didn’t even bother to look up when the door to the office opened. There was a rustle of paper packaging, the smell of hot food, and then a firm hand pressing into his back.

Starved for the comfort, Grant exhaled and moaned softly in despair. Clayton had some seriously magic fingers, or a knack for knowing exactly what was going to drive Grant's crazy. The weight of his palm was gentle, but with enough pressure that it sent tingles of relief through Grant's entire nervous system.

Clayton started to move his hand, rubbing along Grant's shoulders and down his spine, massaging out the knots of tense muscles that had bunched up over the past few hours. It was better than ice cream, better than weed, better than that time Grant had gotten a free blow job from some random guy at a party.

“I just want to crawl into bed and sleep forever,” Grant groaned softly, whimpering when Clayton’s nails dragged along his skin just the tiniest bit.

“No you don’t.” Clayton said softly, fingers rising to pinch slow circles into the back of Grant's neck. If Grant wasn’t so drained, he was pretty sure he’d have already creamed his pants by now. This was it, there was no way Clayton wasn’t interested in him, not if he was touching Grant like this, rubbing his back and being ridiculously nice.

“Dude, I totally do.” Grant muttered absently, because he couldn’t just out and ask Clayton on a date. He needed to come up with a good segue into it, had to build up to the moment, or maybe even just muster the balls to say anything.

Clayton snorted, reaching up and scratching the back of Grant's skull before drawing back completely. Grant groaned at the loss, lifting his head from his arms to see Clayton moving to grab the bag of fast food. “If you slept forever, you wouldn’t be able to eat this food.”

Grant sniffed deeply, mouth watering at the scent of delicious fried things that would clog his arteries. “… food is good.”

“Food is very good, unless it's after midnight and you're a gremlin..." Clayton paused, grinning crookedly and watching Grant for a long moment. "Actually, you might just be," he teased, laughing at Grant's glower and then reaching into the bag to distribute the food. Grant grumbled under his breath, sitting up and rubbing his eyes tiredly. He nearly squealed like a delighted three year old whenever Clayton handed him a burger and an extra large carton of curly fries.

“Have my babies,” Grant blurted, dragging the fries and the burger towards himself. Clayton snorted, unwrapping his food and shaking his head.

“You realize that can‘t actually happen, right?” Clayton asked dryly, eyebrow rising up slowly in a way that shouldn’t have made Grant want to lunge over the desk and kiss his face.

“Shhh,” Grant hushed, far too pleased with the delicious foodstuffs before him to even muster a witty comeback. He dug into his food with gusto, stomach aching upon remembering that he hadn’t eaten since the night prior.

Halfway through finishing off the last of his fries, the computer honked with another run that was right down the road from the office. Given that Clayton was the only one who wasn’t busy, Grant had to hold back a huff of disappointment when he grabbed the reference paper to fill out for Clayton. Luckily, Clayton didn’t really have to leave for a good fifteen minutes since it was so close by.

He ripped the paper off once the information was filed out, handing it over to Clayton. “It’s down the road, so you’re good for at least fifteen minutes.”

Clayton took the slip, folding it and stuffing it in the breast pocket of his uniform. He sat back, eyes locked on Grant with such an intensity that Grant could feel the hair on the back of his neck rising.

“What?” Grant brought a hand up, wiping at his face almost obsessively because having ketchup smeared in the corners of your mouth was completely unattractive. His hands came away clean and he frowned at Clayton, head jerking in confusion.

“Elliot told me what you did; standing up for him,” Clayton finally said, fingers twitching on the arm rests of his chair. Grant had no idea where he was going with that sentence, so he clicked his pen and shrugged.

“Okay?”

“Pretty ballsy for someone who claims to spend all of his time behind a computer screen.”

Taken aback, Grant couldn‘t help but give Clayton a sly, crooked grin and wiggle his eyebrows suggestively. “You'd be amazed what someone can learn on a forum at three in the morning.”

Clayton scoffed, shaking his head. “He could have kicked your ass. Then where would we be? Down a dispatcher. A driver is one thing, but you're a little harder to replace. No offense, but that was a stupid thing to do.”

“Dude, cameras,” Grant gestured to the corners of the office for good measure. It was a godsend and a curse at the same time, especially after that awkward afternoon that their manager had apparently been watching Grant blasting music and gyrating around the office while cleaning it.

That had been an extremely agonizing phone conversation.

“He still would have done it, and you
still
would have gotten hurt,” now Clayton was starting to sound angry, voice getting flatter by the second as his eyebrows lowered and his lips thinned out, “so what the hell is the point of the cameras then? What would have happened if I hadn't come in here? You could have been hospitalized.”

“Yeah, but he wouldn’t get away with it.”

Clayton sat up sharply, face clouding over and growling low in his chest. “That is the most idiotic argument I’ve ever heard; and trust me, I‘ve heard some real stupid shit in this line of work,” angry Clayton was actually kind of sexy, though Grant would have rather the anger not be directed at himself when he hadn’t even done anything wrong. Seriously, it wasn’t like he was even telling any dead baby jokes like Adam used to back in middle school.

“Dude, chill out. No one got hurt that bad.”

Clayton stood up, tossing out his trash and approaching Grant. “Don’t do stupid shit like that again. It isn’t your job to save people.”

“It’s my dad’s job. Call it osmosis.” Grant shrugged, clicking his pen compulsively and scribbling a stick figure onto some scrap paper.

“Grant.”

“Clayton.” Grant sniped back. Okay, maybe he was acting like a weenie about this, but he was 23 years old, he didn’t need other people trying to parent him when he’d been doing it on his own since his mother died ten years ago.

The sound that escaped Clayton could only be called an animalistic sigh, hands fisted at his sides before he slowly unclenched them and shook his head. “Somehow I get the feeling this wouldn’t have been the first time someone tried to beat your ass for the crap that comes out of your mouth.”

Stiffening, Grant felt a burst of irritation shoot through him. “I don’t need you to save me.”

“That isn’t what--”

It was like all of the stress from the entire day came out in one huge explosion, Grant's mouth moving before he could even think about what he was saying. “I’m not some helpless child, okay?” Grant threw his hand out before Clayton could protest, shaking his head. “I’ve taken way worse beatings than from some geriatric asshole who thinks it’s okay to knock his kid around. I’d rather fight for something I believe in than have it be over something stupid--like getting my ass kicked for being gay.”

Clayton’s eyes went wide, but Grant was already talking again, “I wasn’t doing anything and they just beat the crap out of me because they could! Elliot goes through that shit
every day
, from his dad! So if I can stop one guy from hurting his kid, I’m going to do it--whether or not you’re there to help me.
Help.
Not save.”

Already, Grant was wishing he could have controlled his mouth, that he could take back the words he'd spewed so that Clayton was never forced to hear that part of his life. It was too late now, though, and Grant was left heaving and biting the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything else.

Clayton’s jaw was twitching from how hard he was clenching it. If the air conditioner wasn’t so loud, Grant was pretty sure he would have been able to hear the sound of grinding teeth. Clayton had this expression as if he wanted to punch his fist through the wall--or maybe Grant's face--hands twitching angrily at his hips.

Dread filled Grant's gut the longer the silence went on, until he was ready to grab the boxcutter that Stacy the Crackhead had left there after she’d gotten fired--just to have a means of self-defense. Grant turned, fingers itching to open the drawer because he was suddenly, unrealistically, terrified that Clayton was going to harm him.

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“What?” Grant jerked his head up, eyes going wide. Hope shot through him in the beat of a heart, clutching to that single sentence like a lifeline. This was it, right? This was when things came to a head and Clayton expressed his true feelings for Grant and then kiss him roughly and passionately--it had to be.

Clayton looked like he suffering kidney failure or something, shoulders tightening and an irritated huff escaping through his nose. “I’ve seen enough kids like you get hurt because they think they can take on the world… so just…don’t do it, okay?”

Grant felt like he’d been punched in the gut, bitterness rising up in him like a boiling volcano, “oh…yeah…a kid,” of course Clayton only saw Grant as a kid--he was a good five years younger than the guy, if not more. Grant hadn't actually looked up Clayton's birth date on his company records, but it was entirely likely that he was well into his thirties and looking young. If that was the case, no wonder Clayton saw him as nothing more than a stupid child. It was humiliating to even think that Clayton might have been interested, might have talked to Grant for any reason other than to humor him.

“Grant.” Clayton sighed. “That’s not what I--”

“Hey, look, you don’t want to be late for that call, do you? You’ve got ten minutes left, better get to driving,” Grant butted in, trying to hold back that knife-edge of hurt that wanted to make it’s way into his words. Clayton opened his mouth, like he wanted to say more, but Grant couldn’t even bear to maintain eye contact. He clicked his pen a few times and turned back to his paperwork to fill in some of the empty time slots.

“Whatever.”

Clayton left, the door falling shut behind him as if he’d never been there.

Chapter 5

Four days later, Grant woke up with a hangover that was violent enough to rival his 21st birthday. It was probably worse, if only because it reminded him that he'd gone over to Adam's place to drink away his sorrows after having spent the entire week completely out of contact with Clayton. At least before they had occasionally exchanged a text or two.

He groaned, covering his face with a pillow before mustering the courage to roll out of bed when his bladder started to voice complaints.

The blinds did little to protect his delicate eyes, and Grant stopped at his desk to grab a pair of sunglasses, slipping them over his aching face and then shuffling down the hall to the bathroom. He felt like one of the zombies from a Romero film, groaning and bumping into the wall every few feet.

When Grant finally made it downstairs, his father was sitting at the kitchen table, nibbling on a piece of toast slathered in jam and filling out paperwork. His dad barely glanced up at Grant for a second before laughing softly under his breath and shaking his head.

“Fighting with your boyfriend?”

“Huh?” Grant asked stupidly, wobbling his way to the fridge and then pressing his forehead against it and begging his stomach to stay stationary. What the hell did Grant's nonexistent boyfriend have to do with being hungover? Seriously; no correlation. Nope. Not at all.

“He showed up about an hour ago to drop your jeep off and left.”

What.

Wait--what?

Grant jerked his head up, wincing at the way it spun with vertigo and then staring at his father. “He what?” Clayton had been here? Clayton had come by the house and pointedly ignored the fact that Grant was upstairs? Not even a hello?

“You heard me.”

“Oh my God,” Grant groaned, opening the freezer to shove his face into it, the cold air blasting across his flushed cheeks and making the throb in his head die down just the tiniest bit.

This was so depressing, he didn’t even want to try and initiate an epic battle with his hangover and attempt to eat something for breakfast. Instead, Grant thudded his forehead into the ice maker and whined to it, as if the freezer could understand his turmoil.