Page 48 of College Town

“Ugh. Not what I meant.” Tommy snorted, and softened. “Okay, you’re good at that, too.”

Lawson lifted his free hand in a limp air punch. “Yessss.”

“What Imeant,” Tommy continued, “is that you’re a really good writer.”

“Oh.” As usual, the praise struck him in a strange, tender place inside his chest that left him feeling breathless and more than a little dizzy. And also like usual, he tried to play it off, tried to be cool about it. “Yeah, well, winning that contest kinda makes that obvious, huh?” He put a teasing lilt on his voice, though Tommy had to feel the quick stutter of his heartbeat, where their chests rested together, their ribs slotted like interlaced fingers.

Tommy didn’t take the bait. He never did. He was wonderful and infuriating in that way. “Shut up,” he said, fondly, and trailed fingertips over Lawson’s side where he knew he was most ticklish. “I’m being serious. You won the contest, and that’s amazing. But, I mean, you’regood. You ought to be an author. Professionally.”

Lawson swallowed with difficulty. “You think?”

Tommy shifted so he could fold his arms over Lawson’s chest and prop his chin on the back of his hand. Met his gaze, face still flushed from sex, but eyes serious. “I know,” he said, with such assurance that, for a moment, Lawson allowed himself to believe him.

It hurt to look at him, so intense and supportive was his expression, so Lawson shifted his gaze to the ceiling. When he blinked a few fast times, Tommy pressed a fingertip to his chin, silent support, rather than comment on the way his eyes welled up.

Tommy gave him a moment, finger tracing back and forth, back and forth, over Lawson’s patchy stubble. He wasn’t trying to grow a beard, but he was too impatient to shave worth a damn each morning. That’s how it had started; Tommy claimed it looked stupid, but found reasons to touch it, over and over, as he was doing now.

When Lawson had blinked his eyes dry, Tommy said, softly, “What are you working on right now?”

Lawson slanted a look down his chest at him, and saw the encouraging curl of his lips, lips whose taste and shape and texture he knew better than his own these days. Love swelled inside him, bright, and overwhelming, and unbearably soft. “It’s a sci-fi epic.”

Tommy’s grin widened, flashed teeth. “That sounds about right.”

“You wanna hear about it?”

“Duh,” his mouth said, but his eyes said,yes, yes, you’re amazing, I love you.

So Lawson told him, his voice filling the car as the fog on the windows slowly faded.

21

Over the years, Lawson’s written science fiction, fantasy, and a little navel-gazing litfic when the occasion called for it. He’s never written an organized crime thriller; ironically, because the necessary research might have given him a leg-up on the situation he’s landed himself in.

Correction:hedidn’t land anything. The situation came barreling into his life and wrecked everything.

He slides a for-here latte across the counter and is met by a wrinkled upper lip and disdainful gaze from his customer. “I ordered an espresso,” the guy says.

Lawson’s too wigged and exhausted and preoccupied to be offended. “Sorry. Coming right up.” He takes a slug of the latte for himself and turns back to the machines.

Though it felt like it lasted hours, his drive with Frank Cattaneo took only fifteen minutes. He arrived back at the shop minutes before Kyle, and though Kyle gave him a narrow, suspicious glance when Lawson said the morning had gone “peachy keen” so far, he hadn’t said anything beyond suggesting Lawson go in the bathroom and wipe the sweat off his face. He did, and the reflection that greeted him was hectic with color, sweat gleaming at his throat and temples, hair wild and eyes wilder.

He doesn’t know if he looks any better, now, but a creeping numbness has begun to overtake him, and his face no longer feels so flushed. Doesn’t really feel like anything, actually, the numbness pervasive in the way he can’t seem to scrape up even the barest smile for the customers.

Melissa sidles up to him while he’s pulling the espresso and asks, softly, “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” It’s the least-convincing he’s ever sounded, but doesn’t care to try otherwise. He catches sight of Melissa’s pinched expression of concern as he turns to hand off the espresso, and offers a grimacing pretend-smile to the next customer, and then the next.

He pushes through the rest of the day on autopilot. It’s never been his favorite job, but certainly not the worst. Today, the numbness means he sucks at slinging coffee more than usual, but cares about it less than ever. He spills both a cappuccino and a cold brew on himself and it’s Jen who mops at his shirt with a frown and a tsk. When a woman screams at him about having handed her snot-nosed kid the wrong flavor of cake pop, it’s Melissa who swoops in and saves the day with a fresh cake pop and a cold putdown of the irate customer. Kyle gets involved in that, and for a moment, Lawson worries – hopes – he’ll get fired, but no such luck.

His shift ends at two, and his body drags and cramps as though he’s run a marathon as he shuffles out to his car and all but falls behind the wheel.

He sits for a moment, once the door’s shut, letting the warmth trapped in the car soak into him, through the seat beneath him into his ass, and through the wheel into his palms. The heat’s soothing, and helps him come back to himself. Somewhat. Enough to think logically about what he wants to do now.

Usually, when he gets off at two, he heads to the library for a few hours of quiet writing time, the scent of old book bindings and the one squeaky wheel on the book cart more soothing than the coffeeshop environ he’s just left. He knows there’s not a chance of getting any work done today, though. He starts the car, and heads for Dana’s office.

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