Hey friends, I just wanted to give a quick shout out to all of you who are reading this story. I know it's not filled with sex... but sometimes I have to follow the characters in my mind and this is what they tell me. So I appreciate everyone for their patience. I promise that Brice and Clay are going to get this figured out.
I did a few chapters on this Off-The-Rails book this week, but happy news, I also started plotting my next Alien Love book. I can't wait to hit the keyboard.
I hope everyone has a great day and as always, thanks for reading.
~M. From C.M. Moore
*Chapter 11*
(Clay)
After Abdul and Essie left their side, Brice and Clay got onto the elevator. Brice didn't say anything as the door dinged closed, and they started to ascend. The energy between them buzzed with such an overwhelming current of turbulent vibes that Clay didn't dare ask where they were heading. He couldn't think about that anyway. His whole body was cramping from the cold. Ever since the hut, Clay couldn't take the snow well. The chill in his bones ate at him. His wet shirt clung to him like an icy tarp, and his toes squished in his damp boots.
Besides the cold and wet clothing, Clay's legs had become jelly. He was sleepy and hungry, and his brain was ready to shut down. The only thing helping him put one foot in front of the other was the thought that Brice liked him. In fact, Abdul might be right. Brice might love him. His jealously was so loud they all heard the announcement. Abdul would have a bruise or two on his ass from the toss, but in that second, with Brice raging, Clay knew the instructor missed him. Now he just had to get Brice to come to the same realization. Sex would help him see that they should be a couple, but unfortunately, Clay was so tired that even if he convinced Brice to do him, he might fall asleep before they got to it.
Maybe Abdul was right. Clay should lose his man card.
"This way." Brice guided him out of the elevator when the doors opened with a swish.
At the end of a long clean, carpeted hallway, Brice unlocked the white door to his room. Clay recognized this apartment number from the blueprints Abdul had shown him.
Shuffling his feet, Clay trailed Brice into his quarters and glanced around the neatly organized rectangle. Exactly like Essie said, on one side of the room was a wooden crate of weapons of all shapes and sizes. The rifles were stacked in rows. All the handguns were put back in the container.
Beyond the weapons sat a small, spotless gray sofa, a low wooden table, and two huge speakers. There were wires to a black box that Clay figured must be the rebuilt disk player Brice had told him about on their date. Next to the speakers and wires, tall white shelves took up an entire corner. Every space in the corner had little clear plastic cases and books of all sizes.
Brice stepped past Clay while he stood frozen and dripping on his entry rug. The instructor headed to the left side of the room. Opposite the couch was a small kitchen and dining table. When Brice reached his eating area, he shrugged out of his H.S.P.C. jacket with the pocket logo. He tossed the garment over a chair and exhaled like he was getting ready to give a longwinded lecture. Clay didn't care. Brice could talk all he wanted as long as he got warm.
When Brice didn't speak, Clay's eyes glided over the rest of the simple gray and white lodgings. Straight ahead was Brice's colossal bed covered in pristine white blankets and a mountain of giant pillows. The sleeping area looked so soft that Clay had the urge to climb onto the mattress, fully dressed. Brice's bed looked made for kinky sex and hours of restful sleep. Two things Clay wanted more than anything else.
"Lock the door." Brice marched to a light-gray dresser next to his huge mattress. He pulled out clothing and then turned around snapping the drawer back in place. The family photos on the top wobbled with the force.
Clay did as told. The lock clicked into the slot. The thought struck him that maybe he should be concerned about Brice's fury. The man looked like he wanted to strangle him, but Clay wasn't nervous. Brice wouldn't be able to hurt him. He didn't know how he knew that; he just did.
When Clay turned back to the room again, he planned to explain a second time that he never had sex with Abdul. Instead, his eyes strayed to the pillow playland. Clay should be looking at the bed with sex on his mind. He should be jumping for joy that he got Brice alone in his quarters, but right now, all he wanted was to get warm and fall asleep. Explaining about sex could be done later.
"Here." Brice slapped a pair of lightweight black pants and an old worn shirt in his arms. "The bathroom is there." Brice pointed to the door to the right side of the dresser. "Take a shower."
"I thought I had to clean weapons." Clay jerked his head toward the pile of guns and water drops scattered from his hair.
"I cleaned them already. I can't sleep, so I did them while I was up all night thinking about you." Brice stared at the ceiling. A muscle in his jaw flexed as he clenched his teeth. "You're right. I can't sleep or eat or function."
"I—"
"If you say I told you so, I'm going to make you polish all my boots."
"I wasn't going to say that." Clay hugged the clothing to his chest. "I was going to say that I wasn't having sex. Abdul was showing me how to use this tube to clean out my ass. I was trying to get ready to have sex with you."
"Claymore Wicks." Brice's eyes darkened. "If you have questions like that, from now on, you will ask me. Is that clear?"
"Crystal." Clay couldn't help his grin.
"Wipe that smile off your face and shower." Brice pointed to the bathroom door. "Did you get chow?"
"I haven't eaten." As if Clay's stomach wanted to punctuate the sentence, it growled.
"Shower. Start there." Brice turned to the kitchen and began to gather food out of the cabinets.
In an exhausted daze, Clay headed to Brice's bathroom. Once inside the immaculate tiled room, he quickly washed using Brice's soap. Even though Clay wanted to spend extra time in hot water, Clay made his shower short. The idea of dinner with the man he cared about was more seductive than the heat.
After he finished getting clean and warm, Clay put on Brice's shirt and pants. The clothing was bigger than his uniform, so Clay synched the pants' drawstrings to keep them around his waist. When he stepped out of the bathroom, the smell of the food had his mouth-watering.
"I don't cook a lot." Brice didn't turn around from where he stood next to his sink. He'd dried his hair and hung the damp towel over his shoulder. The grader had also changed his clothes. Brice wore plaid pants and a well-used navy sweater. The man looked so at home in his place that Clay felt the stirrings of jealousy. Clay wanted so badly to be a part of Brice's world. He wanted to be a part of Brice's life, like the plates in his hand or his threadbare pajama pants.
Crossing the room, Clay sank into a seat at the table.
"I'm not picky." Clay picked up the glass Brice had set out for him and gulped down the water.
