Page 48 of The Party Plot

“I do need to get back to Melody.”

“Yeah.” Casey sighed.

“She wants to meet you, you know. Or, re-meet you under better circumstances. Chip does too.”

“Wow, we’re meeting each other’s friends.” Casey steered them onto an entrance ramp, hands tight on the wheel. The tires skidded briefly, water spraying up on either side of them. “So what does that make us?”

“I don’t know,” Laurel admitted. He peered out into the darkness. Only a few other cars were out. Visibility was awful, the lines on the road shimmering in and out of existence. Rain swept across the windshield in sheets, the wipers doing barely anything to displace it. “It was nice to meet Jamie, though. He’s not really who I would picture you being friends with. Or I guess, he is and he isn’t.”

“He’s eccentric,” Casey said. “But we understand each other.”

“I’d say you’re pretty eccentric, too.” Laurel put a hand on Casey’s thigh. Wind buffeted the car, and for a brief, vertiginous instant, it seemed like they would be airborne. He gasped, digging his nails into Casey’s leg. The little Volvo shuddered on the wet pavement, tires squealing and windowpanes rattling. “God. It’s shitty out here.”

“Yeah, I—” Casey swerved suddenly to avoid a branch that had blown into the road, and Laurel was thrown against the window, teeth rattling. “Fuck. I—it’s not that I’m not enjoying talking to you, Laurel. But I think I need to focus on driving.”

“Why don’t we stop somewhere?” Laurel pulled out his phone, looking at the map. “We can wait it out.”

“Are you sure?” Casey looked at him, jaw tense. “I’m fine, I just need to concentrate. And you have to get back to Melody.”

He knew Casey probably could manage. He was from Florida, after all; they had both grown up with weather like this. People here didn’t always take hurricanes seriously, and scoffed at a tropical storm. The general rule stated that if the Waffle House was still open, it was safe to drive. But everything that had happened since he had gotten on the airplane this morning seemed unbearably fragile, and Laurel found himself not wanting to take any chances. Not with Casey precious and alive and actually smiling and laughing with him. “She wouldn’t want us to get into an accident. There’s a hotel two exits away. What do you say?”

*

Under the fluorescent lights of a 7-11 next to the hotel, they threw together a pathetic attempt at dinner: instant noodles, Takis, Bugles, corn nuts, American cheese, and a brightly-colored kool aid pickle. Laurel’s stomach was churning, but Casey looked like a kid given an unlimited candy budget as he loaded more artificially-flavored delights into their basket.

“I don’t usually eat like this,” he said sheepishly, grabbing a crinkly cellophane package of moon pies. “A tropical storm is a special occasion, right?”

“No shame if you do. I love a good kool aid pickle. But do we really need all of it? There’s got to be half the store in—” Laurel rummaged around in the basket, pausing as his hand settled on a sleek, familiar box. Condoms. He felt his face turning red as he said, “Why, Mr. Walker, I do declare.”

Casey shrugged, raising his eyebrows. “Too presumptuous?”

“No,” Laurel said, heart pounding, palms beginning to tingle. “Not at all.”

*

They were soaked through in the short walk from the car to the door of the hotel room, buckets of warm rain dumping onto them, the wind threatening to pull them apart as they clung to each other, to steal away their bags of groceries. They tumbled into the unlit room, the door nearly coming off its hinges after them, yanked by the wind, and they had to wrestle it back into place, panting, fumbling for the lock with slick fingers. Laurel was vaguely aware of the silence, the smell of mildewy carpet and the popping of his ears, and then Casey’s hands were on him, and the bags were on the floor, all the junk food from the corner store scattering across the carpet in a cascade. He thought they might have stepped on some Doritos on the way to the bathroom, but it didn’t matter. The light was on, Laurel blinking against the brightness of it, and he heard the drone of the fan coming on and the sound of the faucet, and Casey was peeling the wet clothes off of him and his whole world was just skin and slickness and the steam from the shower and the hot, sucking kisses Casey was pressing to his neck, his shoulders, his chest.

They stumbled into the tub, and he barked his shin on something and Casey nearly collided with the showerhead, almost too tall for the entire stall, and there was a really worrying crack across the ceiling and a weird little rubber grippy mat sticking to the soles of his feet, but Casey’s lips were on his, his tongue spearing deep into Laurel’s mouth, hot and forceful and consuming, and Laurel let himself be consumed, moaning into the kiss, his hands anchoring in Casey’s hair as his shoulder blades came into contact with the cold wall of the shower. For once, he couldn’t think of anything to say; in fact, it was Casey talking, murmuring against his lips between kisses, curses and compliments and nonsense things. A floral, powdery smell rose from the hotel soap as Casey began to wash him off, his fingers taking every liberty they could, teasing his nipples, shaping the curve of his ass and sliding between his cheeks to play with him there. Laurel startled involuntarily at the touch, throwing his head back and accidentally banging it against the wall, and white spots danced behind his eyes and he almost laughed, feeling stupid and desperate and desperately stupid.

“Ow. Shit.”

“You’re so accident-prone.” Casey chucked, smoothing a strand of hair off his forehead. “Everything okay?”

“Yes. Don’t stop. Never stop.”

Casey gave him a careful kiss on the cheek, then another on the tip of his nose. His pupils were dilated, a heavy, intoxicated look in his eyes. “God,” he said, stroking a hand down Laurel’s chest. “Look at you.”

Laurel looked down at the soapy planes of their bodies, pressed against each other. Somehow he couldn’t get himself to care that his stomach wasn’t as flat as he wanted it to be, or that he had too many freckles and too much chest hair. All he saw was the melding of their hips and the intimate, obscene way Casey’s cock was trapped against his, and he let out a helpless curse and squeezed his eyes shut, slamming his mouth into Casey’s for another deep, devouring kiss, because he knew that if he kept looking, this would all be over too soon.

Casey maneuvered him back under the spray of the shower, water peppering Laurel’s back, his skin hot and already unbearably sensitive. He was turning him around, pressing soft little kisses to his shoulders and the nape of his neck, and Laurel caught his breath as he heard the bathtub creak, Casey sinking to his knees, and then his cheek and his palms were pressed against the humid, steamy fiberglass of the shower wall, holding himself up, and Casey was kissing his spine, his lower back.

“It’s so cute that you have these dimples here,” Casey muttered, running his thumb over one of them. Laurel sighed and relaxed into his touch. His thighs were trembling, and his hands had begun to slip, unable to find purchase, but Casey grabbed a firm hold of his hips, pushing him solidly against the wall, and Laurel let out a sweet, shuddering gasp as Casey nuzzled between his legs, kissing his way down the cleft of his ass.

Laurel lost himself for a moment. Galaxies were spinning in his brain, the tips of his fingers feeling fuzzy and numb, and he wasn’t sure he even knew how to breathe anymore, but he could count every stroke of Casey’s tongue, every wicked movement it made against his skin. There was nothing in his consciousness but the wet, melting sensation of Casey’s mouth and the shivery heat in his thighs and the way his every nerve sizzled as Casey licked into him. It could have been hours, or only seconds; he wasn’t sure. Time had turned glassy and meaningless, and he was barely aware of who he was or what he was doing, his hips moving on their own, thrusting back against Casey’s mouth. When Casey replaced his tongue with—some number of fingers, Laurel had no idea, but it felt just right—stretching him out, filling him up, he started making strange noises, hands squeaking against the wet fiberglass. He wanted more, though how there could be more when everything already felt so good, he wasn’t sure, and he was begging, saying Casey’s name over and over again. He was a shooting star, about to crash through the atmosphere, and he wanted Casey to crash with him.

“Casey. Baby.” God, was that his voice? So raw and needy and shameless? “I want—I want—”

“I know.” Casey was standing, and he kissed Laurel’s neck, and he was leading him out of the bathroom, droplets of water still clinging to both of their bodies, and Laurel had the brief thought that the shower was still going, but then Casey’s hand was on his lower back again, and Laurel was bent over the bed, open and vulnerable and delighted, and he assumed Casey had found the condoms because he heard the crinkle of foil, and God, it had been months, it had been dreams and sweat and fights and frustration and he had been craving this with every particle of his being, and he almost sobbed as Casey slid into him, a little too fast, a little painful and eager at first, taking the air out of his lungs and making him clutch the bedspread.

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