Wesley (4 page)

He stood for a moment, making sure he was steady on his feet before taking another napkin and wetting it in the sink. That one was used to wipe down the toilet seat again. One more time, with a dry napkin, and he was done. Armando washed his penis off carefully, wincing at how sensitive he still was. He tucked his cock away and took care of cleaning his hands. Just when Armando thought he was stable enough to leave the restroom, his stomach heaved and he spun, dropping to his knees by the toilet.

Retching, his head pounding like a gong sounding an alarm, he moaned and gagged, grabbing onto the rim to keep himself from tipping head first into the bowl. Spots in various shades of brown and white bloomed behind his closed lids as he tried to keep from crying out. The agony was almost unbearable, the intensity more severe than Armando could recall a migraine being before.

Someone knocked, or banged, on the door but Armando was too busy puking his stomach lining up to speak. He was vaguely aware of hearing a voice, and he had the thought that he’d be embarrassed as hell later, but Armando couldn’t focus on anything other than his own misery just then.

Once he was able to breathe without dry heaving, Armando cautiously opened his eyes. “God damn it,” he grumbled when he saw his sunglasses in the mess in the toilet. “Gross. Ugh!”

“Do you need some help?”

Armando recognised that deep voice even though he’d never spoken with Wes. He’d heard him talking to others, and, just as it had then, Wes’ voice seemed to slither down his spine and start the arousal spreading through Armando’s groin all over again.

“Gloves,” Armando said, totally outing himself as a dork. He would have rolled his eyes but any such movement would have resulted in too much pain to deal with. “Rubber ones, please.” That request ought to ensure that Wes avoided him from here on out. No one would want to hang around someone they associated with a mess like this one.

Armando listened as Wes’ footsteps squeaked away, the tennis shoes he wore making that god-awful sound on the tiles that only tennis shoes seemed to do. He braced an arm across the toilet and rested his head on it until the scent threatened to make him ill all over again.

“Armando?” A light tap on the door, and a voice he recognised well. Alisa, one of the other volunteers at the shelter, and one of his closer friends. “Do you need your meds?”

“Yes, please,” he told her, slowly lifting his head. “And rubber gloves. My sunglasses landed in the toilet when—”

“I get the picture. Wes was going after the gloves, but do you want me to bring them?”

He didn’t need enhanced hearing like shifters had in order to pick up on the curiosity in her voice. She was a sharp person and likely was already considering how embarrassed he’d be to have Wes see him sick and weak like he was.

“Yes, please.” Well, Armando didn’t want anyone to see him like that, but especially not a handsome shifter he planned to vigorously avoid. Better to have a friend see him when he was so screwed up, because Alisa at least knew he was, generally, a healthy, strong man.

A few minutes later, there was another tap on the door. “Just a sec.” Armando thought he was able to stand without keeling over, though a wave of dizziness washed over him when he rose to his feet. With one hand on his head, as if holding it on, he unlocked the bathroom door.

Even though his vision was blurry, he saw Wes standing behind Alisa. Armando jerked his gaze to Alisa, not wanting to know what expression was on Wes’ face. Pity was something he couldn’t handle, although maybe there’d only have been disgust. Armando had to reek, especially to a shifter. The odour neutralisers given to him wouldn’t cover what had just gone down—or come up—in the restroom.

“You look awful. Here.” Alisa pressed his pills to his lips. “Open.”

If Armando wasn’t feeling like death warmed over, he would have batted her hand away and snarled. He hated feeling as if he were incapable of doing anything. Making a fuss would only result in more pain, and embarrassment, so Armando opened and took the bottle of water Alisa handed him.

“I’ll clean the bathroom,” Wes offered, and Armando almost spat the water and medicine back out. Instead he gulped, and coughed, and sputtered, bending at the waist and grabbing at his head as he totally humiliated himself.

“Come on, let’s get you to the office. You can lie down on the couch there and give the medicine some time to work.”

Armando couldn’t even protest as Alisa led him away. She looped an arm around his waist and he was half tugged along. He had that sensation of being watched, the one that made the hair on his nape stand up and the skin between his shoulder blades itch. Armando refused to look behind him, though. He was doing good to stay upright and that manoeuvre might just cost him what little of his pride remained.

Alisa opened the office door and turned the light off immediately. “Here you go. Just stay here and I won’t let anyone bother you.” She helped him get settled then she pushed a chunk of hair back from his forehead. “Sleep, if you can. It always seems to help when I get a migraine. I’ll close the blind so the sunlight doesn’t make it worse.”

Armando grunted and worked on calming his breathing, relaxing his body. Tense muscles only made it all worse. He was vaguely aware of Alisa leaving, of her closing the door quietly. Usually he envisioned fields of flowers and peaceful seashores when he did his relaxation exercises, but today it wasn’t happening. He kept seeing Wes, and that wasn’t calming him down any. Armando huffed and pressed on his eyelids, making weird colours pop behind them and causing a dull ache to his eyeballs. As a distraction, it worked for a moment, but as soon as he let up, his mind went right back to one sexy shifter who seemed to have revived Armando’s libido.

And that just pissed Armando off. He didn’t want to have sex ever again…or did he? Armando ran a hand down his body to his once more erect cock. He palmed it through his jeans and moaned softly. Maybe it was time for him to get past his fear of sex. He shivered, dread clenching his organs when he thought of being penetrated.

Well, who said he had to bottom, or that there even had to be anal if he seduced Wes? Armando would be amenable to having Wes suck him dry. That idea didn’t scare him, much. As long as he maintained control—but could anyone ever control a shifter, other than another shifter? And who said Wes would want him, anyway?

Armando snorted and left off fondling himself. He wasn’t the sexy young thing he’d once been. Granted, he wasn’t old, but he was…different. Someone like Wes probably had his pick of guys to fuck. Armando wouldn’t even be on his radar.

But if he was, well, that was a whole different ball game, and Armando needed to decide if he’d want to play in that scenario. Apparently he wasn’t done with sex after all.

Armando’s mood spun back to the negative. Wes wouldn’t want to mess with him at all after the guy cleaned the restroom. Having to don gloves and clean up someone else’s sick would be a mood-killer, a crush-killer for sure.

Maybe.
A vision of his sunglasses in the midst of that stomach debris flashed through Armando’s mind. He groaned, picturing Wes cleaning them off then returning them. That was a no, he didn’t want it to happen. If he kept the sunglasses, the kids for sure would tease him mercilessly about wearing puke-specs or some other such silly name.

And Wes would know, would think about Armando being sick every time he saw Armando. That didn’t sit well at all, so Armando fired off a text to Alisa even though it made his eyes water. He asked her to have Wes chunk the damned sunglasses, then he turned the phone on silent and tucked it into his pocket. If there were any emergencies, Alisa would come get him.

After half an hour or so, Armando began to feel less like he wanted to die. He cautiously rolled his neck and didn’t feel bolts of pain spearing through his head, which was always a good sign. There were milder pains, what he always thought of as aftershocks, but that was all.

Armando sat up slowly, keeping his eyes almost shut. For some reason it helped him to feel steadier. He lowered his feet to the floor then arched his back before stretching fully. It felt so good, the occasional joint popping making him moan happily.

The light slipping through the blinds assured him that it was still daylight, still time for Armando to be working. He stood and shuffled over to his desk. Despite the faded headache, he didn’t open the blinds or turn the overhead on.

Instead Armando used the small lamp he kept on the desk. The soft light it put out was less likely to hurt his eyes. He wondered if he smelt funky from being ill, so he took out his spray and spritzed the room.

After tucking the bottle back into a draw, Armando checked the papers on his desk. There were forms to fill out, grants to request, and private donors to beg from. Armando had too much to do to lie around feeling like shit. Or to be thinking about lean, auburn-haired men who—

“Stop it,” Armando scolded himself. A knock at his door had him sighing. Apparently he wouldn’t be getting to those forms for a bit. “Come in.”

“Uh, okay.”

Oh, damn him to hell. He should have asked who it was or something, but he’d never acted like a prima donna. Starting now would just have been stupid. But, to hear that voice, and see Wes appear slowly as he opened the door, Armando was afraid he was going to whimper as need coiled in his groin.

“I, uh, just wanted to see how you were feeling,” Wes said as he opened the door wide enough to step inside. “Oh, sorry. I should—” Wes nudged the door shut. “Sorry. I didn’t think about the light.”

“Damn it,” Armando muttered bowing his head slightly as he rubbed his forehead. This bumbling, apologetic Wes was just too cute.

“I can go. I just wanted to bring you—”

Armando jerked his head up. “You didn’t—”

“Your sunglasses,” Wes finished, frowning. “Yeah, I mean, it just took some bleach and water, and they’re good as new. They look like designer sunglasses, and I didn’t know if they were prescription. I guess I could have looked through them, but I didn’t think of that.”

Wes moved closer to the desk, almost creeping along as if Armando might be spooked. He wasn’t far off, Armando mused to himself.

“I’ll just set them here. They really are clean.” Wes hesitated for a second then he coughed and scooted back to the door. “Hope you feel better. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Armando finally shook himself out of his stupor and looked at the clock. “Crap, I didn’t know it was five already.”

Wes bobbed his head. “Yeah, it is, and normally I would hang around later, but I have a…a thing to go…do.”

Armando was intrigued by that, but Wes darted out of the door, and Armando was left to puzzle over his confusing feelings about one cute as a kitten leopard shifter.

Chapter Three

There was something about Armando Gutierrez that just got to Wes. If anyone had told him that he’d find himself attracted to a guy who wasn’t the stereotypical definition of a stud—six-three, two hundred pounds of muscle and Mr All-American smiles—Wes wouldn’t have believed them. He’d beaten off many a time over a picture or video of guys like that. Armando Gutierrez wasn’t short but he wasn’t tall, probably around five nine or ten, and he looked to be slightly overweight.

It was hard to tell since Armando always wore baggy clothes. Wes supposed he could be built like a god under the loose jeans and huge shirts, but he didn’t think so. There was a roundness to Armando’s face that spoke of soft curves rather than sharp angles. Wes was captivated by that possibility. Would Armando’s skin be silky and smooth, or would he have a surprising amount of body hair? Wes tried to envisage Armando’s chest, but somehow couldn’t manage.

Armando’s skin was a warm, brown shade that made Wes’ mouth water. He couldn’t decide if Armando would be the same colour all over, or if his skin would be a paler shade beneath his clothes.

Or maybe just where he wore shorts. Maybe the skin was lighter there, but his dick would be dark, a ruddy brown with an almost plum-coloured head. His balls, too, Wes figured. He’d done some…research online the last few nights, trying to find a porn flick with an actor with the same pretty skin tone Armando had. No one had quite measured up, but Wes had found himself fascinated with the dark dicks and sacs. His own were standard fare, he thought, pink and red when flushed with an erection. Nothing new there.

But Armando—Wes just couldn’t put his finger on what it was about the man. There was a definite wariness in him, and he sure seemed like he didn’t care much for Wes.

And his smell, for the life of him, Wes couldn’t figure that out. There was almost no odour at all to Armando. Even his office had been… Odour-neutral was the only way Wes could think to define it. It was odd. Usually even the store-bought odour neutralisers left behind a chemical scent. Wes decided to ask Remus about it since he was stopping by the shaman’s home in a bit.