Page 9 of Men in Shorts

“You were, but the Desk-Hog Police didn’t care. They just wanted my bed.”

“So they were really Bed-Hog Police.” Duncan sat at the desk and sipped his coffee. “Oh—did you want tea? You were asleep, else I would’ve offered.”

“No thanks. I’m feeling much better.” Brodie slid out of bed and stood up, stretching his arms toward the ceiling. The frayed hem of his heather-wine Passenger T-shirt—the one he’d worn the night they hooked up—rose to expose an inch of bare stomach. Then he hugged himself, reaching across to scratch his other shoulder beneath his sleeve. This casual, boyish maneuver did Duncan in, reminding him how Brodie’s long arms had wrapped around him and how his slim waist had stirred under his hand.

“You should have a shower,” he blurted.

Brodie stepped back and sniffed his T-shirt collar. “Am I reekin’?”

“Not yet. But you should do it now while you’ve the energy. Otherwise you’ll regret it in forty-eight hours when you’re pure manky but too weak to lift a bar of soap.” He cocked an eyebrow at Brodie. “Unless you’d rather I give you a sponge bath.”

“Oh.” Brodie backed away, bumping into the wardrobe, his face turning scarlet. “Erm, I-I don’t—och.” Without turning his back on Duncan, he opened the wardrobe and quickly retrieved a set of clean clothes. “I’ll be—erm, yeah.”

Duncan tried to return to his chemistry notes, but ionic and covalent bonds were no match for images of Brodie’s wet, naked body. So he went to the kitchen, intending to make tea for the lad who was shattering his equilibrium. There he saw Shu-Fen, who lived in the room next to Brodie’s. She was microwaving something spicy, judging by the smell.

When she saw him, her eyes lit up. “Did you give Brodie glandular fever?”

“Why does everyone assume that?” Duncan switched on the electric kettle. “We’re just mates.”

“Mates can kiss.” Shu-Fen opened the beeping microwave and removed a steaming meat pie. Tapping the top of the crust to check its doneness, she said, “Besides, you’ve been in and out of his room for two days.”

“He needs caring for. Why not me?”

“Mind, romance between flatmates is toxic.” She bumped the microwave door shut with her elbow. “Then again, the year’s almost over, so what have you got to lose?” She winked at him, then bopped out of the kitchen, ponytail swinging smugly behind her.

He pondered her point as he made Brodie’s tea. A month before summer vacation would be the perfect time to start something casual and fun, a diversion to sustain them through exams. But then Brodie would return to his home village until September. Duncan pure sucked at saying goodbye.

Returning to Brodie’s room, Duncan chuckled to himself at Shu-Fen’s glandular-fever accusation. Yesterday he’d Googled the virus’s incubation period and discovered he couldn’t have been the culprit.

But pretending hewasthe culprit gave him an excuse to be here.

* * *

Duncan had barely coveredone page of chemistry when the door opened. Brodie stumbled across the floor, dropping a wet towel and dirty clothes in his wake, then crawled into bed, his hair still wet and his clean T-shirt and pajama trousers spotted with water.

“All right?” Duncan asked.

“Trachled,” Brodie murmured into his pillow.

Duncan smiled at the Doric word for “exhausted.” Brodie tried to minimize his northeast dialect so he could be understood in Glasgow, but when he was tired, drunk, or excited, he still let slip a “Fit like?” (“How are you?”) or called lads and lasses “loons” and “quines.” Other Glaswegians often mocked Brodie’s speech, but Duncan found it charming. Something about the contrast between the harsh, guttural accent and Brodie’s soft, sweet features really did it for him.

Ten minutes later, Duncan gave up studying and just stared through his notes as he listened to the noises from the bed behind him—not snores this time, but whimpers and sighs, accompanied by the shifting of sheets. He remembered those noises all too well, how Brodie’s breath had sounded and felt against his skin that night as they’d kissed and groped. He turned up his music again, but it couldn’t stop the memories that were filling his brain and swelling his cock.

“Am I annoying you?” Brodie asked suddenly, making Duncan jump.

He took out an earphone. “Sorry?” he asked, his voice cracking from the constriction of his jeans.

“I’m so tired I can’t sleep.” Brodie stared at the ceiling, arms spread, fingers draping melodramatically over the edge of the mattress. “I can’t read my notes. I can’t even think. I’m basically a useless person.”

I should go. But he needs me. But I should go.

Duncan set down his pen. “I know just what you need.”

“Death?”

“Mindless telly.” He brought up the BBC iPlayer on his tablet. “This calls for a binge ofRiver City.”

“The soap opera? My mum used to watch that. Seemed rubbish to me.”

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