“Trent, what are you burning in here?” Bishop asked, hanging his coat on the hook.
“Nothing,” Trent said, not bothering to make eye contact with anyone.
“Doesn’t smell that way.”
“I happen to prefer a little char on my meat,” Trent muttered. “Thank you.”
“Since when?” Bishop laughed and waved at Wood on his way to the bathroom.
“Still smells good to me,” Wood said close to Trent’s ear.
“What are you doing?” Trent whispered.
“Anything you want me to do.”
Wood gave Trent some room to breathe right before Bishop came out and joined them. What the hell was he doing? That was a damn good question. Wood took mercy on his roommate and went to put on a shirt before it was time to eat.
“I just thought I’d stop by and make sure you guys hadn’t killed each other.” Bishop dropped down in the dining chair, glancing between them. “How’s it going?”
“Peachy,” Trent answered first.
“Roses,” Wood agreed.
Bishop laughed. “Whatever damage y’all do in here, you’re responsible.”
They ate their sausage like hot dogs, wrapped in a single slice of bread with mustard and ketchup, and plain potato chips. The conversation was mostly dominated by Bishop as he desperately tried to discuss subjects they could all engage in, but Trent sat rigid in his chair with his mouth sealed tight, appearing lost in his own thoughts.
“Wood. Did you finish the sketch for me?” Bishop asked.
“Sure did.” Wood wiped his hands on his pants and reached for his sketch pad. “Take a look.”
“Hell yeah.” Bishop smiled as he scanned the drawing of a tattoo he wanted Wood to do for him. “This represents Eddie perfectly. Oh man, Wood. The camellias are perfect. What’d you say they mean in the art world?”
“Means ‘you’re the flame of my heart.’” Wood made sure not to glance at Trent though he could feel his roommate’s sharp eyes on the side of his face.
“He’s gonna go crazy.” Bishop beamed, still focused on the pad. “When do you think you can do it? Did you get your equipment yet?”
“Not yet,” Wood said somberly. “I’ll let you know when I do.”
“You’re getting a tattoo?” Trent asked abruptly.
“Yeah.” Bishop frowned. “I told you I always wanted one, T, but I didn’t wanna get it in prison for shit’s sake. I wanted something good, done by a professional. And it doesn’t get any better than this man right here.”
Trent eyes went to Bishop’s hand gripping Wood’s shoulder. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“Seriously. Have you seen his ink?”
“You can say that.”
“What about his drawings?”
“Oh those are none of my damn business.” Trent smirked and Wood tossed him a subtle wink that made his cheeks flush red.
“You should take a look. He’s the best, Trent,” Bishop praised.
Wood could appreciate what Bishop was doing, but he didn’t need his friend to make him sound good. If Trent couldn’t see him for him, then he wouldn’t bother. Trent didn’t need to know that Wood had once had a promising future; he’d once had a shop that’d stayed overbooked for months… before he blew it. He wasn’t that man anymore, and he didn’t need Trent wondering where that guy went.
“Well, Wood’s signature is his flowers, so I’m getting one to represent the love of my life.” Bishop cocked his head, his expression suddenly curious. “Is that a problem?”
“Of course not.” Trent got up without another word and put his dishes in the sink, then closed himself inside his bedroom.
They both stared down the empty hallway for a moment, neither of them speaking. Bishop eventually stood and cleaned up his dishes, telling Wood he wanted to get home in time for Edison to read to him. Bishop slung on his heavy coat, and Wood walked him to the door so he could lock up after him.
Bishop faced him and asked, “If you had to, which one of your flowers would you tattoo on Trent?”
“A cactus,” Wood said without thought.
Bishop laughed and told him to hang in there. Wood nodded and gave his friend a one-armed hug before he left. He hadn’t meant what he’d suggested to sound like an insult. The cactus was one of the strongest, most durable plants in the world. And it was Wood’s favorite. A living thing so miraculous that it could grow into something mighty… with very little nurturing.
Chapter Thirteen
The next week went by much like the last as Trent tried to avoid Wood and his relentless seducing as much as possible in their close quarters. Most of the time he came in from work hurried and showered, ate his dinner, then locked himself in his bedroom the rest of the night. But it was starting to get old, and he preferred not to stay closed up too long. Trent’s alarm clock went off for the second time, and instead of hitting snooze again, he tossed his sheet to the side and swung his legs over the bed.
He was about to get up when he heard the shower running in the hall bathroom. Damnit. Wood didn’t have to be at his job until nine; why the hell was he hogging the bathroom so early? Trent ran his hand through the spiky strands of hair on top of his head as the soft flannel cover fall between his spread legs. The material felt good against his morning erection, and he tried his best to ignore it, but he kept listening to that damn shower… and the reason Wood was taking so long in it. What was he doing in there? Trent groaned, not wanting to overthink it. His dick jerked, and he tried to resist the throbbing. Ugggh, fuck.
Trent dropped his chin forward and snaked his hand beneath the covers pooled between his thighs. He gripped himself roughly, almost angry that he couldn’t shake the images behind his closed lids. Mad that no matter what he did, his thoughts went to the man who had made Trent his regular evening amusement. Wood had only ramped up his suggestiveness over the last few days, and anytime Trent tried to call him on it, Wood played dumb as if he had no idea what Trent was talking about. It was so annoying and frustrating! Trent stroked faster, already feeling a sharp tingling in his spine that traveled lower and lower until he absolutely had to prop one heel on the edge of the bed to open himself wider. The cool air felt good on his heated skin as he used his other hand to massage his balls.
He’d be a fucking liar if he said he was thinking about a woman, or breast, or being balls-deep in a warm, wet honey pot. But all he could see standing over him was a tall figure with a chest broader and stronger than his with sexy silver-and-black hair curtaining a wonderland of art. “Ohhh,” Trent moaned, failing to keep the gratification contained. He wasn’t even using his lube, instead letting the friction of his rough palm give him just the right amount of painful pleasure. He should’ve known it would feel this good if he didn’t fight it, if he let his mind indulge in the fantasy it really wanted.
Trent daringly inched his hand lower, using just his middle finger to tease under his balls. He wanted to touch himself there, but he couldn’t… not when he knew what it would do. Not when he knew the eruption of feelings and memories that would resurface if he did. Trent jerked himself from his base to the tip of his head, drawing out the nirvana… and the agony. His thoughts ran away from him as he imagined Wood’s bigger, more experienced fingers stroking him.